And so here I am in Valparaiso on a leather chair in a bar with a tall glass of scotch and a brand-new used copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I want to go explore the pier, but something tells me that´s best done by day--so maybe tomorrow eve I´ll head that way. This town certainly has character: an old grizzled sailor could stump around here on a wooden leg with a salty pipe clamped in his teeth and fit right in.
If I had more time, I would stay here and see about securing a position down at the wharf. God but I dream!
The buildings of Valpo are weatherworn and well-used, all stacked up on each other like building blocks in a toddler´s playroom. Cobbled streets show under patchwork asphault repairs, and here and there people add fresh coats of paint to ironwork pitted by salt air.
A stray dog paces at my feet as I sit in a plaza watching the goings-on, offering protection from roving canine gangs in exchange for a morsel of tribute. When he understands that I´m about as poor as he is, he trots off, sniffing at and then pissing on the base of a statue of a sailor with a spyglass.
From behind a semitruck a man whistles with a strong vibrato as he loads crates and other vague cargo. His sweater drapes comfortably over his broad shoulders and a worn spitfire cap perches atop his salt-and-pepper hair. He pauses to rub his whiskers and change his tune before returning to work with vigor.
Up the hill overlooking Valparaiso and the ocean sits Pablo Neruda´s house. Inside is a collage of homey comfort which still looks more like a house than a museum despite innumerable placards and signs saying "Do not sit," "Do not touch," "Do not take photos," and the like. The walls are festooned with paintings, including one of a duchess-type with a neckruff who´s facing a portrait of a man in similar garb. Neruda positioned them that way to make sure neither was lonely.
The study is on top of the house, with big bay windows. Around the desk are various odds and ends collected over years including some petrified wood, a small sculpture from Easter Island, a photo of Walt Whitman, and shelves of books; all bits of material to prompt and inspire, and play with during writer´s block (or so I assume from personal experience).
I forcefully ignore the docents guarding every room, and my fingers itch to touch everything(which I guess is precisely why they´re there), especially the typewriter. This house makes me nearly desperate to build and fill my own, and I dream of a study overlooking the ocean or maybe one of the Great Lakes.
Downstairs is a cozy bar with various fascinating decorations like a framed 19thC patent document, a winekey in the shape of a naked boy (screw this cork, I´m out!), scotch whiskey advertisements, a bathroom with a door made of a sideways stair balustrade (very private!), and a sign that says "Don Pablo est ici." I wish I'd known this guy. Neruda's signature drink was a cocktail of equal parts champagne and cognac plus a splash each of Cointreau and orange juice.
He named his leather armchair (a staple in any man's home) El Nube. It sits beside a window, and I can easily imagine deep musings while gazing over the sparkling harbor as helicopters land on big grey navy vessels, and fishing boats dart hither and thither. I resolve to visit the Great Lakes more, and perhaps see about catching some work out there and eventually purchasing an old lighthouse.
Egad, what a dreamer I am! If I accomplish a mere fraction of the things my head cooks up, I'll lead a very interesting life indeed.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Supper with a local; a funny story recounted
28 Jun 2009
Later in the evening after showering and watching Wall-E, Gero, the trip organizer, picks us up and takes us to his home for supper. Delicious dinner cooked by his lovely pregnant wife. Gero and I chat casually about training me for service as a river guide. As he drives us back to the hostel, he says,
"Today I find out if I am a patient man: I test my limits."
Earlier that afternoon he'd driven four Americans to the Manaus Stadium to see a football game.
"I drop them off, I figure; I leave my car open because it's a short distance."
Two cops saw and suggested he lock his car.
"'No, it's okay,' I tell them, 'There is nothing in there to rob.' Of course I forget my CD player," he laments, pointing to the now-empty stereo display. He came back and drove home before noticing the absence of the removable unit.
"I think, 'Maybe I left it at home or something.'"
When he couldn't find it, he drove back and confronted the police.
'"You didn't see someone steal my CD player? You are bad cops,' I told them, 'What are you doing wearing this uniform?' I tell them those four Americans were coming to see Manaus, to see if it's safe for World Cup. Playing psychological games with their heads," he chuckles remembering. He asked them their full names, to which they replied, "We are the police: we ask you your name. What are you doing turning it around on us?"
"I say to them, 'You think you are the only police in Manaus?' We have local, city, state, federal...They get worried and start looking at each other. I tell them they are going to be in all the newspapers, and they get really worried, begging me, saying they were not looking at my car. 'I am going to fill out a report,' I told them. But I didn't: I went straight home. After all, they had told me, 'Lock your car,' and I said, 'It's okay.' What was I thinking, It's Okay? I learn my lesson."
When we got back to the hostel, we found out Michael Jackson had died while we were on the river. And Billy Mays. What's the world coming to?
Later in the evening after showering and watching Wall-E, Gero, the trip organizer, picks us up and takes us to his home for supper. Delicious dinner cooked by his lovely pregnant wife. Gero and I chat casually about training me for service as a river guide. As he drives us back to the hostel, he says,
"Today I find out if I am a patient man: I test my limits."
Earlier that afternoon he'd driven four Americans to the Manaus Stadium to see a football game.
"I drop them off, I figure; I leave my car open because it's a short distance."
Two cops saw and suggested he lock his car.
"'No, it's okay,' I tell them, 'There is nothing in there to rob.' Of course I forget my CD player," he laments, pointing to the now-empty stereo display. He came back and drove home before noticing the absence of the removable unit.
"I think, 'Maybe I left it at home or something.'"
When he couldn't find it, he drove back and confronted the police.
'"You didn't see someone steal my CD player? You are bad cops,' I told them, 'What are you doing wearing this uniform?' I tell them those four Americans were coming to see Manaus, to see if it's safe for World Cup. Playing psychological games with their heads," he chuckles remembering. He asked them their full names, to which they replied, "We are the police: we ask you your name. What are you doing turning it around on us?"
"I say to them, 'You think you are the only police in Manaus?' We have local, city, state, federal...They get worried and start looking at each other. I tell them they are going to be in all the newspapers, and they get really worried, begging me, saying they were not looking at my car. 'I am going to fill out a report,' I told them. But I didn't: I went straight home. After all, they had told me, 'Lock your car,' and I said, 'It's okay.' What was I thinking, It's Okay? I learn my lesson."
When we got back to the hostel, we found out Michael Jackson had died while we were on the river. And Billy Mays. What's the world coming to?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
River Trip (far too short); Mosquito massacre; Tarzan in pirate garb; rice beans salad and meat; a sloth
25-28 Jun 2009
Day One
Day One
The boat rumbles to life and chugs toward the center current. We've been lounging in hammocks waiting for the crew to finish loading, enjoying the breezy upper deck and the leisure of passage. No hurries here. I pack a pipe of strong cavendish and strike a dashing pose, head pirate-wrapped in a red and white scarf; trousers rolled to the knees; sunglasses donned; shirt long since shucked.
Lunch consists of rice and beans and a stew of the largest fish in the Amazon (whose Portugese moniker eludes me [ed. note: pirarucu]) followed by pineapple slices. Delicious fare.
We cruise along the river for a while, passing numerous nameless (for me) flora. Later when we stop, I change to a swimsuit and leap overboard to escape the stifling noon humidity. Sweat has been dripping through my eyebrows, pooling on my chest as I languished in the hammock trying to read, wishing we could move on if simply to catch some breeze as the crew played dominoes down below, murmuring lyrically in Portugese.
Our guide Tariq wakes us from the sodden slumber of our noon nap saying, "We go in my canoe. Bring bug spray, sandals, camera, water. Ready? Okay."
Paddling stirs my spirit: the sound of blades slicing in and out of calm water mingles with the buzz of the jungle as we float among trees and vines. It becomes a mosquito massacre as they deftly ignore bugspray and crowd each other for sucking space on our feet ankles elbows calves necks knuckles. My head is protected by a pirate bandana, and I soon capitulate and shrug into my T-shirt.
"Can climb," says Tariq, indicating a thick tri-twisted vine stretching from the water into the canopy. "Strangler fig vines."
I've heard about the devious buggers: their seedlings catch in the branches of trees and then extend downward, eventually growing to form a fence around the existing trunk. The fence closes in until it forms a wall of vines, becoming a hollow trunk around the original tree which withers and dies. Creepy. Naturally I leap at the chance, and hand-over-hand my way up, enjoying the view.
A readheaded woodpecker works at a tree, chipping away chunks and dropping them into the water. I'm reminded of Bernard Mickey Wrangle, and fall into some pensive musing about literary inspirations in the most mundane of experiences. The connections...
Many of the trees bear boles, which gets me to thinking about the mythical horrors of bugs who lay eggs subcutaneously. Bastards.
An enormous spider about 3-4 inches across scuttles over the bark of a rubber tree.
"Look," I tell Jessica, "a huge spider." It disappears, but just as she glances over, a leaf falls on her leg, causing her to jump and squeal, and me to die of laughter.
As we ease through a cloud of dragonflies, thankfully assuming they'd replaced a cloud of mosquitoes, we approach a tree in which a male sloth casually climbs, slipping effortlessly from limb to limb. You can tell it's a male, Tariq explains, by the yellow markings on his back. The nearby female--possibly pregnant--has a solid brown coloration.
An iguana sunbathes on a treelimb until we float close, when he suddenly tumbles down into the water and zips away, revealing also the source of the occasional mysterious splashes we've been hearing and guessing were monkeys.
We cut through some undergrowth beneath a bower of orchids, and come out on a lake. We motor across and rendezvous with the main boat to greet a family of Norweigians come to share our adventure. Jess and I swagger aboard like seasoned sailors and question these white folks' preparedness for the rigors of the jungle. They join us in the canoe after a brief restroom break and some introductions, and we set off again.
As we paddle through myriad white egrets, the hump of some leviathon slithers past breaking the surface of the water in a manner oddly similar to the creature on Dagobah just before it eats R2D2.
"Must be one of those fresh-water dolphins," Jess assures. I'm not convinced...
The egrets are joined by blackfaced herons and enormous storks. All around us, the voices of the rainforest have gotten louder and thicker. It's a bit spooky with the approach of twilight, as the Amazon inhabitants hoot, whistle, buzz, howl, sing, and click to welcome the approaching night.
A tiger heron swoops past, followed by a toucan with its absurdly proportioned bill. In a nearby tree, a hawk stirs, perhaps tempted by a goofy jackana. Ants brushed off from passing trees sting my arm as we motor back to the main river branch alongside a pastel sunset.
On the boat, the crew prepares dinner as we wait for dusk to deepen before setting out again in canoes in search of caimans. My stomach grumbles about leaving again before eating, but the prospect of seeing gators offsets the hunger.
As the stars come out, we muck around in an eerie swamp where Tariq scans the shore with his headlamp. The Southern Cross faces off with the Big Dipper, watched over by the broadly grinning dim sphere of the moon.
Suddenly Tariq lunges over the side, coming up with a two-foot juvenile caiman. A second later, he catches another baby, this one just under a foot. He hands the smaller one to me, and we head back to the main boat to play and photo. They're downright adorable, and surprisingly strong strugglers.
We toss them back to freedom and sit down for supper. What a day. I hope to hell our mosquito-netting-draped hammocks keep the bugs out. I optimistically look forward to sleeping afloat.
Day Two
After a delightful sleep in the breezy mosquito-netted hammock, lulled by a symphony of frogs and crickets harmonizing with the baritone throb of the engine, we awake at sunrise to a breakfast of bread, fried eggs, roasted platano, fried banana, papaya, and cheese. I could live like this!
Tying on closed-toe shoes and unrolling pantlegs, we set off into the forest. I once again applaud my choice in footwear, as we hop over creeks and step around muck.
Tariq points out various trees and plants used by the indians. One has a sticky mint-scented resin used for fires.
"Don't slap leaves like this," he warns, "because sometimes bees sit underneath." And don't bump into the trees with spiky bark.
Following the path created by his machete, we move deeper into the jungle, swatting mosquitoes and trying to avoid tripwire vines while taking in the innumerable sights.
"This one here is for water." He shaves off some bark of a thigh-thick vine. "For emergencies if you are lost in the jungle."
Another tree oozes sap which can be collected and boiled like maple syrup, but with analgesic properties. We avoid trees crawling with ants--the tiny critters do not take kindly to trespassers, and are well-equipped to deal with the invasion.
Tariq digs his machete into a mound of earth taller than I am and pulls out some fat termites.
"If you go into houses of the indians, they will have a bowl of these for eating. To say no is considered very rude," he grins. I briefly consider grabbing the sucker and crunching it, but it's still covered in dirt. I decide to wait until I'm offered a clean bowl.
We slog on past armadillo dens and lumber sites until we stop again, and Tariq hacks at a tree, peeling a long strip of fibrous bark. Fighting mosquitoes, we watch as he twists up bracelets for each of us, and then ties a thick belt-sized loop which he carries enigmatically for a while.
Then we stop beside a tall palm-like tree and he says, "Okay, monkey boy, climb," and hands me the belt. He shows me how to wrap it around my shoes while explaining about the tasty bunch of fruit at the top, 70 feet up. After a few embarrassing attempts, I embrace the technique and shimmy up the trunk like a native. Prudence dictates I don't go all the way up to the fruit, though I'd like to, and I slide down after 20 feet, pride-puffed and filthy.
On the ground nearby, Tariq points out a baby jararaca snake, saying our boots protect our feet because if he sensed the body heat, he'd strike. I glance down at the thin canvas of my Chucks, and attribute my safety to luck.
"The babies are more dangerous because they pump all their poison in one strike, since they don't yet know any better." How long would I have to seek help? About ten minutes.
Our shirts cling to our sopping skin in the heavy humidity, but it's not as oppressively hot as the open water. Suddenly I discover the hard way one of the bees we'd been warned about.
Tariq stops in front of a hole at the base of a tree and rustles around the opening with a long blade of grass. I squat beside him, looking for a lizard or snake or some kind of weasel. For a while nothing happens. Then something furry emerges...it's...a huge tarantula! It attacks the grass, clinging with pinky-sized mandibles. I want to pick it up, but it's skittish, and retreats into the hole. Spectacular.
When we finally get back to the canoe, tired and hungry, one more creature makes an appearance. Startled, the Jesus lizard skips across the surface of the creek and disappears behind a stump. What a day.
On the way back to the boat, we see pink dolphins breaking the surface, which discovers the identity of the earlier leviathon (which I'd hoped was an anaconda). After a refreshing swim and dinner, bats come out at dusk, and I reflect on the day with some cavendish and a few chapters of my book. Tomorrow, Tariq says, weather depending, we'll visit a family of locals--as long as they're home and not out visiting for religious festivals. I can already tell this trip will be several lifetimes too short.
Day Three
Pedro Mendes' house is usually invisible from the water. Now, though, the level of the river has brought it to the edge of the bank, drowning the trees whose foliage served as a screen. A sunken canoe sits at the edge with an air of waiting; waiting for repairs or waiting for rot or waiting to be chopped to firewood.
He greets us with a gap-toothed grin and a wave, once-taut chest sagging slightly with age like time-softened leather. We hop out of our canoe and mill about awkwardly for a moment before he extends a bony hand.
"Bom dia," he says in a gruff sawmill voice. He escorts us to a workshop area under a roof of palm fronds where a series of machinery is used to make a rice-like staple from the cassava root. In the corner is a press into which he spears a section of sugar cane and directs me to turn the crank. I oblige with gusto. The juice is sweet and refreshing, like Down South iced tea. I could drink it all day.
Pedro and Tariq lead us through the farm under clotheslines flying various sizes of flowery panties; past a pig pen featuring a sprawling sow; around a tree bearing the crown and horns of a goat with bits of flesh and fur filled with flies, and shows us banana trees and cassava plants. Then Tariq cracks open a Brazil nut with his machete and cleans off the sweet white meat which tastes much better fresh than salted and dried. Almost like a macademia.
Tariq explains that most men living out here are fishermen who are subsidized for the four-month off-season. The government also pays for the kids to go to school I picture a big black-and-yellow-painted riverboat.
Afterward we putter away in our canoe into a side channel where we spend some time fishing for piranha. After gradually becoming certain that my poor angling skills would leave me as the only unsuccessful one, I finally feel a tug and yank my line viciously, pulling out a red wriggling piranha hooked through the eye but still chomping at the chunk of raw beef.
Back on the boat, the ladies of the crew gossip and brush each other's hair while the men play dominoes in the bow and I blow my nose noisily. Everyone glances up at the sporadic lightning crackling out from an enormous anvil of a cloud, harmonizing oohs and ahhs. The lightbulbs become an entemologist's dream as we wait for supper to be ready.
Day Four
Can't believe the trip is almost over. We steam steadily toward our origin, keeping to the main branch with time for reading, relaxing, and ruminating. The adventure, as is usually the case, has skipped right on by leaving in its wake a sparkly montage of memories glowing with the ephemeral intensity of the meteor tail I saw last night after waking up to pee over the railing.
Now and then we slow or stop to watch monkeys swinging in the trees, or to swim. The breeze awakened by our quick upriver progress is delightful.
I will miss this crew of seven: the three chattering ladies who cook and clean and smile at my attempts to mingle Portugese and Spanish, and the four men who tend the engine and the wheelhouse, and guide us through side trips when not stretched out on the sunny deck playing dominoes.
The decks and trimmings are all painted green, contrasting nicely with the dirty white walls and beams. Sheltered by the roof, our hammocks are strung on the upper deck beside the cabin which the Norweigians inhabit. Below is the main deck with the dining table, galley, head, and cockpit. A hatch leads down to the engineroom.
At night, the lower deck is crisscrossed with the crew's hammocks, while a myriad bugs flock to every light. At the stern, a faded Brazilian flag flaps in the wind, leading the two canoes towed abaft. Under the clotheslines, unprotected by shade, the upper deck gets scorching hot, which at noon forces a mad hopping dash from ship's ladder to awning shade.
At sunsets, we make our berths tied off to treebranches on floating islands while a holographic picture of the Last Supper tacked to the cabin wall glows under a fluorescent bulb.
The decks are fiberglass; the railings and beams are wood; the coffee carafes are always full. Four old tires dangle from the gunwales as bumpers, and as far as I can see, the boat hs no name--but it must have one, since we've had pretty spectacular luck.
Suddenly we come about, swinging a full 180. It appears one of our canoes slipped its cable to settle and drift in peace for a bit. Everybody laughs; a new rope is rustled up; and we again continue headlong against the current.
I strip down to my knickers and sunglasses, leaning back in a deck chair with my feet up and my pipe clamped in my teeth, enjoying the sun, the breeze, and the scratching of my pen. A water buffalo watches our progress from the shore, lazily chewing his cud. Puffy cumulus clouds pepper the sapphire sky, and all is well.
The boat, I find out, is named Nomura by her Japanese owner. Immediately I begin wondering what it would cost to own such a boat, and a whole web of fantasy weaves itself in my idle mind.
Sunrise this morning was spectacular. We paddled out on a glass-smooth surface broken only by the dorsals of a pair of pink dolphins as the eastern horizon glowed green. Blazing like a matchhead, the sun ignited the billowy clouds as it peeked over the verdant horizon, heralding also our final breakfast on the Amazon. I took full advantage, scarfing eggs, coffeecake, roasted platanos, tapioca pancakes, and washing it down with cups of steaming coffee.
Now sweat streams down every angled surface of my body, pooling on every level plane, but I resolve to stay in the sun as long as I can bear until our lunch-stop swim time. It's a beautiful day.
My mind and pen settle into a mystical groove as I skip around pages jotting notes and musings for my future masterpiece. Based on the tone, you'd never guess it's simply tobacco burning in this pipe.
We pass by a pod of pink dolphins playing, and I long to dive in with them. Later I see a little clearing on the shore stuffed full of crosses and memorials. Personally I'd prefer a weighted sack cast into the center current rather than that sun-baked eternal beach...but to each, his own.
Just as I'm beginning to swelter, Tariq comes up and says, "We go for a boat ride" while lunch is prepared. In the canoe we mosey among the rubber trees and vines which dangle into the water like straws from the canopy.
Tariq spots a sloth up in a tree, and we tie off to the trunk while he climbs up nimbly. Then he drops one end of a string to which our other guide ties a machete. Tariq hacks at the sloth's perch until he falls off, catching himself on a lower limb. Tariq climbs down to try to grab the slow animal which tumbles into the water, and the other guide scoops him up.
The sloth feels like a robot covered in fur, moving slowly and mechanically in search of a branch. He cranes his neck and stares into my eyes with wonder and confusion about this moving tree holding him around the torso out of reach of his three-inch claws. He doesn't fight, and barely squirms more than to reach for the nearby tree. When I let him go, he pulls himself up the trunk nonchalantly but decidedly, heading for safety.
On the boat before lunch, I finally worked up the courage to backflip off the roof, some 20ft above the water. Then we ate one final meal of rice, beans, salad, and meet--this time beef and fried fish--before cruising on toward our dock. I took the opportunity to lounge in the prow, filled with a twinge of regret every time a building hove in sight, each time expecting the end.
Our guide Tariq wakes us from the sodden slumber of our noon nap saying, "We go in my canoe. Bring bug spray, sandals, camera, water. Ready? Okay."
Paddling stirs my spirit: the sound of blades slicing in and out of calm water mingles with the buzz of the jungle as we float among trees and vines. It becomes a mosquito massacre as they deftly ignore bugspray and crowd each other for sucking space on our feet ankles elbows calves necks knuckles. My head is protected by a pirate bandana, and I soon capitulate and shrug into my T-shirt.
"Can climb," says Tariq, indicating a thick tri-twisted vine stretching from the water into the canopy. "Strangler fig vines."
I've heard about the devious buggers: their seedlings catch in the branches of trees and then extend downward, eventually growing to form a fence around the existing trunk. The fence closes in until it forms a wall of vines, becoming a hollow trunk around the original tree which withers and dies. Creepy. Naturally I leap at the chance, and hand-over-hand my way up, enjoying the view.
A readheaded woodpecker works at a tree, chipping away chunks and dropping them into the water. I'm reminded of Bernard Mickey Wrangle, and fall into some pensive musing about literary inspirations in the most mundane of experiences. The connections...
Many of the trees bear boles, which gets me to thinking about the mythical horrors of bugs who lay eggs subcutaneously. Bastards.
An enormous spider about 3-4 inches across scuttles over the bark of a rubber tree.
"Look," I tell Jessica, "a huge spider." It disappears, but just as she glances over, a leaf falls on her leg, causing her to jump and squeal, and me to die of laughter.
As we ease through a cloud of dragonflies, thankfully assuming they'd replaced a cloud of mosquitoes, we approach a tree in which a male sloth casually climbs, slipping effortlessly from limb to limb. You can tell it's a male, Tariq explains, by the yellow markings on his back. The nearby female--possibly pregnant--has a solid brown coloration.
An iguana sunbathes on a treelimb until we float close, when he suddenly tumbles down into the water and zips away, revealing also the source of the occasional mysterious splashes we've been hearing and guessing were monkeys.
We cut through some undergrowth beneath a bower of orchids, and come out on a lake. We motor across and rendezvous with the main boat to greet a family of Norweigians come to share our adventure. Jess and I swagger aboard like seasoned sailors and question these white folks' preparedness for the rigors of the jungle. They join us in the canoe after a brief restroom break and some introductions, and we set off again.
As we paddle through myriad white egrets, the hump of some leviathon slithers past breaking the surface of the water in a manner oddly similar to the creature on Dagobah just before it eats R2D2.
"Must be one of those fresh-water dolphins," Jess assures. I'm not convinced...
The egrets are joined by blackfaced herons and enormous storks. All around us, the voices of the rainforest have gotten louder and thicker. It's a bit spooky with the approach of twilight, as the Amazon inhabitants hoot, whistle, buzz, howl, sing, and click to welcome the approaching night.
A tiger heron swoops past, followed by a toucan with its absurdly proportioned bill. In a nearby tree, a hawk stirs, perhaps tempted by a goofy jackana. Ants brushed off from passing trees sting my arm as we motor back to the main river branch alongside a pastel sunset.
On the boat, the crew prepares dinner as we wait for dusk to deepen before setting out again in canoes in search of caimans. My stomach grumbles about leaving again before eating, but the prospect of seeing gators offsets the hunger.
As the stars come out, we muck around in an eerie swamp where Tariq scans the shore with his headlamp. The Southern Cross faces off with the Big Dipper, watched over by the broadly grinning dim sphere of the moon.
Suddenly Tariq lunges over the side, coming up with a two-foot juvenile caiman. A second later, he catches another baby, this one just under a foot. He hands the smaller one to me, and we head back to the main boat to play and photo. They're downright adorable, and surprisingly strong strugglers.
We toss them back to freedom and sit down for supper. What a day. I hope to hell our mosquito-netting-draped hammocks keep the bugs out. I optimistically look forward to sleeping afloat.
Day Two
After a delightful sleep in the breezy mosquito-netted hammock, lulled by a symphony of frogs and crickets harmonizing with the baritone throb of the engine, we awake at sunrise to a breakfast of bread, fried eggs, roasted platano, fried banana, papaya, and cheese. I could live like this!
Tying on closed-toe shoes and unrolling pantlegs, we set off into the forest. I once again applaud my choice in footwear, as we hop over creeks and step around muck.
Tariq points out various trees and plants used by the indians. One has a sticky mint-scented resin used for fires.
"Don't slap leaves like this," he warns, "because sometimes bees sit underneath." And don't bump into the trees with spiky bark.
Following the path created by his machete, we move deeper into the jungle, swatting mosquitoes and trying to avoid tripwire vines while taking in the innumerable sights.
"This one here is for water." He shaves off some bark of a thigh-thick vine. "For emergencies if you are lost in the jungle."
Another tree oozes sap which can be collected and boiled like maple syrup, but with analgesic properties. We avoid trees crawling with ants--the tiny critters do not take kindly to trespassers, and are well-equipped to deal with the invasion.
Tariq digs his machete into a mound of earth taller than I am and pulls out some fat termites.
"If you go into houses of the indians, they will have a bowl of these for eating. To say no is considered very rude," he grins. I briefly consider grabbing the sucker and crunching it, but it's still covered in dirt. I decide to wait until I'm offered a clean bowl.
We slog on past armadillo dens and lumber sites until we stop again, and Tariq hacks at a tree, peeling a long strip of fibrous bark. Fighting mosquitoes, we watch as he twists up bracelets for each of us, and then ties a thick belt-sized loop which he carries enigmatically for a while.
Then we stop beside a tall palm-like tree and he says, "Okay, monkey boy, climb," and hands me the belt. He shows me how to wrap it around my shoes while explaining about the tasty bunch of fruit at the top, 70 feet up. After a few embarrassing attempts, I embrace the technique and shimmy up the trunk like a native. Prudence dictates I don't go all the way up to the fruit, though I'd like to, and I slide down after 20 feet, pride-puffed and filthy.
On the ground nearby, Tariq points out a baby jararaca snake, saying our boots protect our feet because if he sensed the body heat, he'd strike. I glance down at the thin canvas of my Chucks, and attribute my safety to luck.
"The babies are more dangerous because they pump all their poison in one strike, since they don't yet know any better." How long would I have to seek help? About ten minutes.
Our shirts cling to our sopping skin in the heavy humidity, but it's not as oppressively hot as the open water. Suddenly I discover the hard way one of the bees we'd been warned about.
Tariq stops in front of a hole at the base of a tree and rustles around the opening with a long blade of grass. I squat beside him, looking for a lizard or snake or some kind of weasel. For a while nothing happens. Then something furry emerges...it's...a huge tarantula! It attacks the grass, clinging with pinky-sized mandibles. I want to pick it up, but it's skittish, and retreats into the hole. Spectacular.
When we finally get back to the canoe, tired and hungry, one more creature makes an appearance. Startled, the Jesus lizard skips across the surface of the creek and disappears behind a stump. What a day.
On the way back to the boat, we see pink dolphins breaking the surface, which discovers the identity of the earlier leviathon (which I'd hoped was an anaconda). After a refreshing swim and dinner, bats come out at dusk, and I reflect on the day with some cavendish and a few chapters of my book. Tomorrow, Tariq says, weather depending, we'll visit a family of locals--as long as they're home and not out visiting for religious festivals. I can already tell this trip will be several lifetimes too short.
Day Three
Pedro Mendes' house is usually invisible from the water. Now, though, the level of the river has brought it to the edge of the bank, drowning the trees whose foliage served as a screen. A sunken canoe sits at the edge with an air of waiting; waiting for repairs or waiting for rot or waiting to be chopped to firewood.
He greets us with a gap-toothed grin and a wave, once-taut chest sagging slightly with age like time-softened leather. We hop out of our canoe and mill about awkwardly for a moment before he extends a bony hand.
"Bom dia," he says in a gruff sawmill voice. He escorts us to a workshop area under a roof of palm fronds where a series of machinery is used to make a rice-like staple from the cassava root. In the corner is a press into which he spears a section of sugar cane and directs me to turn the crank. I oblige with gusto. The juice is sweet and refreshing, like Down South iced tea. I could drink it all day.
Pedro and Tariq lead us through the farm under clotheslines flying various sizes of flowery panties; past a pig pen featuring a sprawling sow; around a tree bearing the crown and horns of a goat with bits of flesh and fur filled with flies, and shows us banana trees and cassava plants. Then Tariq cracks open a Brazil nut with his machete and cleans off the sweet white meat which tastes much better fresh than salted and dried. Almost like a macademia.
Tariq explains that most men living out here are fishermen who are subsidized for the four-month off-season. The government also pays for the kids to go to school I picture a big black-and-yellow-painted riverboat.
Afterward we putter away in our canoe into a side channel where we spend some time fishing for piranha. After gradually becoming certain that my poor angling skills would leave me as the only unsuccessful one, I finally feel a tug and yank my line viciously, pulling out a red wriggling piranha hooked through the eye but still chomping at the chunk of raw beef.
Back on the boat, the ladies of the crew gossip and brush each other's hair while the men play dominoes in the bow and I blow my nose noisily. Everyone glances up at the sporadic lightning crackling out from an enormous anvil of a cloud, harmonizing oohs and ahhs. The lightbulbs become an entemologist's dream as we wait for supper to be ready.
Day Four
Can't believe the trip is almost over. We steam steadily toward our origin, keeping to the main branch with time for reading, relaxing, and ruminating. The adventure, as is usually the case, has skipped right on by leaving in its wake a sparkly montage of memories glowing with the ephemeral intensity of the meteor tail I saw last night after waking up to pee over the railing.
Now and then we slow or stop to watch monkeys swinging in the trees, or to swim. The breeze awakened by our quick upriver progress is delightful.
I will miss this crew of seven: the three chattering ladies who cook and clean and smile at my attempts to mingle Portugese and Spanish, and the four men who tend the engine and the wheelhouse, and guide us through side trips when not stretched out on the sunny deck playing dominoes.
The decks and trimmings are all painted green, contrasting nicely with the dirty white walls and beams. Sheltered by the roof, our hammocks are strung on the upper deck beside the cabin which the Norweigians inhabit. Below is the main deck with the dining table, galley, head, and cockpit. A hatch leads down to the engineroom.
At night, the lower deck is crisscrossed with the crew's hammocks, while a myriad bugs flock to every light. At the stern, a faded Brazilian flag flaps in the wind, leading the two canoes towed abaft. Under the clotheslines, unprotected by shade, the upper deck gets scorching hot, which at noon forces a mad hopping dash from ship's ladder to awning shade.
At sunsets, we make our berths tied off to treebranches on floating islands while a holographic picture of the Last Supper tacked to the cabin wall glows under a fluorescent bulb.
The decks are fiberglass; the railings and beams are wood; the coffee carafes are always full. Four old tires dangle from the gunwales as bumpers, and as far as I can see, the boat hs no name--but it must have one, since we've had pretty spectacular luck.
Suddenly we come about, swinging a full 180. It appears one of our canoes slipped its cable to settle and drift in peace for a bit. Everybody laughs; a new rope is rustled up; and we again continue headlong against the current.
I strip down to my knickers and sunglasses, leaning back in a deck chair with my feet up and my pipe clamped in my teeth, enjoying the sun, the breeze, and the scratching of my pen. A water buffalo watches our progress from the shore, lazily chewing his cud. Puffy cumulus clouds pepper the sapphire sky, and all is well.
The boat, I find out, is named Nomura by her Japanese owner. Immediately I begin wondering what it would cost to own such a boat, and a whole web of fantasy weaves itself in my idle mind.
Sunrise this morning was spectacular. We paddled out on a glass-smooth surface broken only by the dorsals of a pair of pink dolphins as the eastern horizon glowed green. Blazing like a matchhead, the sun ignited the billowy clouds as it peeked over the verdant horizon, heralding also our final breakfast on the Amazon. I took full advantage, scarfing eggs, coffeecake, roasted platanos, tapioca pancakes, and washing it down with cups of steaming coffee.
Now sweat streams down every angled surface of my body, pooling on every level plane, but I resolve to stay in the sun as long as I can bear until our lunch-stop swim time. It's a beautiful day.
My mind and pen settle into a mystical groove as I skip around pages jotting notes and musings for my future masterpiece. Based on the tone, you'd never guess it's simply tobacco burning in this pipe.
We pass by a pod of pink dolphins playing, and I long to dive in with them. Later I see a little clearing on the shore stuffed full of crosses and memorials. Personally I'd prefer a weighted sack cast into the center current rather than that sun-baked eternal beach...but to each, his own.
Just as I'm beginning to swelter, Tariq comes up and says, "We go for a boat ride" while lunch is prepared. In the canoe we mosey among the rubber trees and vines which dangle into the water like straws from the canopy.
Tariq spots a sloth up in a tree, and we tie off to the trunk while he climbs up nimbly. Then he drops one end of a string to which our other guide ties a machete. Tariq hacks at the sloth's perch until he falls off, catching himself on a lower limb. Tariq climbs down to try to grab the slow animal which tumbles into the water, and the other guide scoops him up.
The sloth feels like a robot covered in fur, moving slowly and mechanically in search of a branch. He cranes his neck and stares into my eyes with wonder and confusion about this moving tree holding him around the torso out of reach of his three-inch claws. He doesn't fight, and barely squirms more than to reach for the nearby tree. When I let him go, he pulls himself up the trunk nonchalantly but decidedly, heading for safety.
On the boat before lunch, I finally worked up the courage to backflip off the roof, some 20ft above the water. Then we ate one final meal of rice, beans, salad, and meet--this time beef and fried fish--before cruising on toward our dock. I took the opportunity to lounge in the prow, filled with a twinge of regret every time a building hove in sight, each time expecting the end.
Amazon approach: River notes
25 Jun 2009
At the juncture of the Rio Negro and Rio Branco they're building a market to organize and make permanent the stalls that cluster clutter the main ingress for goods from the river. The dark water of the Rio Negro meets the yellowish slower water of the Rio Branco in a confluence which, according to legend, never truly mixes. Boats crowd the dock, and we hop aboard a 25ft barebones aluminum craft with a sunroof stuffed with lifevests. It bounces over the surface, crossing from clear dark water to vegetation-floating sediment-filled Rio Branco as we head toward a village across the way.
We get in a van which takes us to our riverboat on another branch somewhere. I'm seized with an immediate need to jot notes:
Big black birds hunch in trees like enormous fruits of the papaya family. The air is thick and heavy, and the sun is strong.
A heron stands out stark white against the green.
Fishermen in long flat boats patrol their aequeous farmland.
The river lifestyle is another version of existence that appeals to me, and I renew my interest in checking out the Mississippi or Missouri rivers for a period of work (and adventure!) Mark Twain style.
The van splashes through segments of river that felt no reason to cow to the might of the road, instead flowing directly over the asphault in a shallow tumult.
Staring fixedly out my window, I wonder how different the view is on the other side of the van. Let's switch sides for the ride back, so I can see your experience! Immediate realization: if we switched sides and directions, I'd see the same thing as before. Lesson learned: unthinking desire to see the other angle forcing experience can merely enforce bias and same-old-lens-looking.
In a field of grass and water, cows pepper the dry spots amid scattered palm trees, ruminating the spongy tufts. How do they not sink on their spindly legs?
A vulture sits on every fencepost idly watching passing traffic. The living scarcely interest them.
Every building has a natural moat. This road is remarkably smooth and well maintained, which makes sense if one considers the amount of shipping coming through here.
Fences, barns, gates all reminiscent of any ranchland, except stuck firmly amid fields of water. A palomino horse grazes on an island of grass beside a big willow. Three boys in a skiff pick fruit with a long pole.
When we pull off the paved road onto a dirt path, the wind stops blowing on my face, and sweat immediately prickles my skin. I want to be barechested with a machete slung over my shoulder and a floppy hat drooping over my ears.
At the juncture of the Rio Negro and Rio Branco they're building a market to organize and make permanent the stalls that cluster clutter the main ingress for goods from the river. The dark water of the Rio Negro meets the yellowish slower water of the Rio Branco in a confluence which, according to legend, never truly mixes. Boats crowd the dock, and we hop aboard a 25ft barebones aluminum craft with a sunroof stuffed with lifevests. It bounces over the surface, crossing from clear dark water to vegetation-floating sediment-filled Rio Branco as we head toward a village across the way.
We get in a van which takes us to our riverboat on another branch somewhere. I'm seized with an immediate need to jot notes:
Big black birds hunch in trees like enormous fruits of the papaya family. The air is thick and heavy, and the sun is strong.
A heron stands out stark white against the green.
Fishermen in long flat boats patrol their aequeous farmland.
The river lifestyle is another version of existence that appeals to me, and I renew my interest in checking out the Mississippi or Missouri rivers for a period of work (and adventure!) Mark Twain style.
The van splashes through segments of river that felt no reason to cow to the might of the road, instead flowing directly over the asphault in a shallow tumult.
Staring fixedly out my window, I wonder how different the view is on the other side of the van. Let's switch sides for the ride back, so I can see your experience! Immediate realization: if we switched sides and directions, I'd see the same thing as before. Lesson learned: unthinking desire to see the other angle forcing experience can merely enforce bias and same-old-lens-looking.
In a field of grass and water, cows pepper the dry spots amid scattered palm trees, ruminating the spongy tufts. How do they not sink on their spindly legs?
A vulture sits on every fencepost idly watching passing traffic. The living scarcely interest them.
Every building has a natural moat. This road is remarkably smooth and well maintained, which makes sense if one considers the amount of shipping coming through here.
Fences, barns, gates all reminiscent of any ranchland, except stuck firmly amid fields of water. A palomino horse grazes on an island of grass beside a big willow. Three boys in a skiff pick fruit with a long pole.
When we pull off the paved road onto a dirt path, the wind stops blowing on my face, and sweat immediately prickles my skin. I want to be barechested with a machete slung over my shoulder and a floppy hat drooping over my ears.
Bom dias; piles of food; danger waves
22-24 Jun 2009
Sucked down the vortex of transit, we've finally arrived in a comfortable spot in Rio. The pounding surf sooths feet and ears, both weary from extended travel. The sea breeze is cool and refreshing, and the lights of the city twinkle on as a few final stragglers finish evening jogs and thought-clearing strolls.
To the north, island mountains resist the tide, majestic and aloof. A freighter skirts a reef, aided by a lighthouse. Far out an oil rig glitters to life, marking the horizon with the glow of industry.
The ocean calls to me; beckons and heralds adventure. More and more my resolve thickens to join a maritime crew for an era. Who knows if I'll ever follow through?
After a night spent on the uncomfortable confines of hard plastic chairs in the terminal--a power-tripping security guard felt the need to wake me up off the floor to enforce his rules--we finally figured out the Portugese cash machines and found a bus to Rio de Janeiro. Portugese is a gorgeous language, mixing the flowers of French with the rigor of Spanish, some Italian charm, a dash of German and the shh of something ancient.
Darkness falls over Copacabana beach backlit by streetlights, and night awakens in Rio. There's a life and vibrancy about port towns that appeals to me, perhaps in a similar vein as the amorphous zeal of academia: the ocean does not allow stagnation. I'm beginning to fall in love with Brazil...
The graceful bulk of Christ the Redeemer statue rises up over Rio with arms extended in welcome. Enormous in proximity, it's an imposing feature atop a sheer hill in the middle of the city. Overlooking the busy beaches and bustling Rues, it's the center of a thriving tourist industry with 30-degree train tracks chugging up through jungle verdure.
Old and young crowd together for a multitude of reasons from pure curiosity to deep religious devotion, and the outspread arms of Jesus envelope all with (we hope) no predispositions. The wind buffets this exposed peak, and far below, Rio spreads peacefully.
It's a city I could grow to adore, with beautiful beaches, gorgeous women, and a lovely language, organized well and lacking much of the hopelessness of many South American cities. People work here; salesfolk let their wares sell themselves; and a greater variety of goods abounds.
Of course, there is still crime, and we were accosted on the beach in the evening by a "jogger" who turned out to be strapped. Fortunately we had been wise enough to bring only flipflops and books, neither of which hold much appeal for such slimy limbless leeches.
If I could find a source of income, I could easily pass many happy days here. I wonder how many times I've written a variation of that sentence in this book.
We head to an all-you-can-eat spot for dinner with some folk from the hostel, which proves to be my best meal yet in SA. Waiters scoot around with skewered meats, stopping by to carve slices. Beef, elk, chicken hearts, sausage, lamb, and various others vie for space with creamy vegetable dishes, cheesy rice, sushi rolls, okra, eggplant, marinated hard-boiled eggs, stews, fried bananas, and more. My mouth waters thinking about the gluttony-appeasing spread, and I long to overindulge myself once again.
On Copacabana beach, Marco of Sweden and I try body-surfing on the large waves until the roiling breakwater deposits me face-first into the hard sand. It looks like I've been punched by a south-paw, and Jess promptly makes fun of me for mirroring BMock. While I stifle a headache, we stroll along toward Ipanema beach, which is not as nice because the buildings are closer to the water.
Marco has a conversation with an Argentinian expat who no longer speaks much Spanish and very little English about buying a sailboat to sail across back to Europe. Rune of Norway talks about finding an apartment in Rio on his next vacation from his job as a money transporter. His charges have self-destructed twice during his career. He's now on his way to a Magic: the Gathering tournament, which after his description sounds like something I should check out again.
Marco convinces me to look into teaching English in South Korea, which he did for four months (and not even a native speaker!). He's perhaps served my salvation from languishing at home either broke or as a waiter, both tail-tucked capitulations. Eff that!
Sucked down the vortex of transit, we've finally arrived in a comfortable spot in Rio. The pounding surf sooths feet and ears, both weary from extended travel. The sea breeze is cool and refreshing, and the lights of the city twinkle on as a few final stragglers finish evening jogs and thought-clearing strolls.
To the north, island mountains resist the tide, majestic and aloof. A freighter skirts a reef, aided by a lighthouse. Far out an oil rig glitters to life, marking the horizon with the glow of industry.
The ocean calls to me; beckons and heralds adventure. More and more my resolve thickens to join a maritime crew for an era. Who knows if I'll ever follow through?
After a night spent on the uncomfortable confines of hard plastic chairs in the terminal--a power-tripping security guard felt the need to wake me up off the floor to enforce his rules--we finally figured out the Portugese cash machines and found a bus to Rio de Janeiro. Portugese is a gorgeous language, mixing the flowers of French with the rigor of Spanish, some Italian charm, a dash of German and the shh of something ancient.
Darkness falls over Copacabana beach backlit by streetlights, and night awakens in Rio. There's a life and vibrancy about port towns that appeals to me, perhaps in a similar vein as the amorphous zeal of academia: the ocean does not allow stagnation. I'm beginning to fall in love with Brazil...
The graceful bulk of Christ the Redeemer statue rises up over Rio with arms extended in welcome. Enormous in proximity, it's an imposing feature atop a sheer hill in the middle of the city. Overlooking the busy beaches and bustling Rues, it's the center of a thriving tourist industry with 30-degree train tracks chugging up through jungle verdure.
Old and young crowd together for a multitude of reasons from pure curiosity to deep religious devotion, and the outspread arms of Jesus envelope all with (we hope) no predispositions. The wind buffets this exposed peak, and far below, Rio spreads peacefully.
It's a city I could grow to adore, with beautiful beaches, gorgeous women, and a lovely language, organized well and lacking much of the hopelessness of many South American cities. People work here; salesfolk let their wares sell themselves; and a greater variety of goods abounds.
Of course, there is still crime, and we were accosted on the beach in the evening by a "jogger" who turned out to be strapped. Fortunately we had been wise enough to bring only flipflops and books, neither of which hold much appeal for such slimy limbless leeches.
If I could find a source of income, I could easily pass many happy days here. I wonder how many times I've written a variation of that sentence in this book.
We head to an all-you-can-eat spot for dinner with some folk from the hostel, which proves to be my best meal yet in SA. Waiters scoot around with skewered meats, stopping by to carve slices. Beef, elk, chicken hearts, sausage, lamb, and various others vie for space with creamy vegetable dishes, cheesy rice, sushi rolls, okra, eggplant, marinated hard-boiled eggs, stews, fried bananas, and more. My mouth waters thinking about the gluttony-appeasing spread, and I long to overindulge myself once again.
On Copacabana beach, Marco of Sweden and I try body-surfing on the large waves until the roiling breakwater deposits me face-first into the hard sand. It looks like I've been punched by a south-paw, and Jess promptly makes fun of me for mirroring BMock. While I stifle a headache, we stroll along toward Ipanema beach, which is not as nice because the buildings are closer to the water.
Marco has a conversation with an Argentinian expat who no longer speaks much Spanish and very little English about buying a sailboat to sail across back to Europe. Rune of Norway talks about finding an apartment in Rio on his next vacation from his job as a money transporter. His charges have self-destructed twice during his career. He's now on his way to a Magic: the Gathering tournament, which after his description sounds like something I should check out again.
Marco convinces me to look into teaching English in South Korea, which he did for four months (and not even a native speaker!). He's perhaps served my salvation from languishing at home either broke or as a waiter, both tail-tucked capitulations. Eff that!
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Arrival in Santiago; dazed and confused; big-city splendor
The city bustles at an unimaginable pace after the languor of a day's worth of hours on a bus. Add to that the fact that I've been in the desert or camping in mountains for the past two weeks, far from the anonymous frenzy of metros and traffic and heads-down hive-dwellers hurrying hither and thither, and you have a pretty good picture of me standing still as the world vibrates around me, trying to read the signs on the wall.
A crumpled slip of note paper serves as my map, and the thin canvas of my Chuck Taylors is already soaking up rainwater. Through glasses spattered with drizzle, I spot the metro line designated as mine, and shuffle toward it. My face feels greasy, and my clothes are dirty. I am well aware of how much I stick out, a grungy nomadic alien in this land of ties and blouses and closet space. And yet nobody looks my way as I penguin-walk in line up to the ticket window and gesture, "Uno." The girl behind the glass makes my change and shoves my ticket through the partition by pure rote, bored numb and longing for the magic hour to strike home.
Over-conscious of my shabby condition, I try to stand with my chest out, confident and proud to be here, though mostly lost and suddenly homesick for a ragged hostel somewhere on the fringe of civilization.
The train lurches, and I double-check the station. Three stops. Hanging from a handle in the ceiling, I catch my reflection in the window. Not too bad after all: just another body in this flood of individuals. At each stop, people get on and off, trading places for a flash in time.
It strikes me that I could be anyone or no one here. Big cities have that quality, blank slates for me to fill in with whatever chalk I choose. With time and inclination and wherewithal, I could thrive in such a place. Thrive, that is, until time gets the best of me, and my heart yearns for flight.
The train is ramarkably smooth and fast, and in a trice, its doors hiss open, and I see on the wall Republica in big bold red letters. I hop to and step onto the tiles as the train zips away behind me down its tunnel. My head on a swivel, I follow the general flow, looking for the proper exit. Another traveler, who I'd mistaken as a local, now seems as lost as I, and I feel a warmth of momentary kinship: I'm not the only one.
Ah, there it is. Into the wet night air, mumuring with honking horns and splashing tires, buzzing neon and muted speech, sirens wailing, dogs barking, doors slamming, songs singing food frying steps falling...all the sounds of humanity echoing in one cacophonic hum; the voice of the city. Mezmerized, I continue walking down the wring street until I recognize my error with a dearth of surprise. Wandering lost without knowing it is, i've come to find, my wont, and I duck into the nearest open store to ask for directions.
Ten minutes later, a newly bought bottle of wine tucked under my arm for my hostess, I'm once again on the right track, and now it's time to wait.
A crumpled slip of note paper serves as my map, and the thin canvas of my Chuck Taylors is already soaking up rainwater. Through glasses spattered with drizzle, I spot the metro line designated as mine, and shuffle toward it. My face feels greasy, and my clothes are dirty. I am well aware of how much I stick out, a grungy nomadic alien in this land of ties and blouses and closet space. And yet nobody looks my way as I penguin-walk in line up to the ticket window and gesture, "Uno." The girl behind the glass makes my change and shoves my ticket through the partition by pure rote, bored numb and longing for the magic hour to strike home.
Over-conscious of my shabby condition, I try to stand with my chest out, confident and proud to be here, though mostly lost and suddenly homesick for a ragged hostel somewhere on the fringe of civilization.
The train lurches, and I double-check the station. Three stops. Hanging from a handle in the ceiling, I catch my reflection in the window. Not too bad after all: just another body in this flood of individuals. At each stop, people get on and off, trading places for a flash in time.
It strikes me that I could be anyone or no one here. Big cities have that quality, blank slates for me to fill in with whatever chalk I choose. With time and inclination and wherewithal, I could thrive in such a place. Thrive, that is, until time gets the best of me, and my heart yearns for flight.
The train is ramarkably smooth and fast, and in a trice, its doors hiss open, and I see on the wall Republica in big bold red letters. I hop to and step onto the tiles as the train zips away behind me down its tunnel. My head on a swivel, I follow the general flow, looking for the proper exit. Another traveler, who I'd mistaken as a local, now seems as lost as I, and I feel a warmth of momentary kinship: I'm not the only one.
Ah, there it is. Into the wet night air, mumuring with honking horns and splashing tires, buzzing neon and muted speech, sirens wailing, dogs barking, doors slamming, songs singing food frying steps falling...all the sounds of humanity echoing in one cacophonic hum; the voice of the city. Mezmerized, I continue walking down the wring street until I recognize my error with a dearth of surprise. Wandering lost without knowing it is, i've come to find, my wont, and I duck into the nearest open store to ask for directions.
Ten minutes later, a newly bought bottle of wine tucked under my arm for my hostess, I'm once again on the right track, and now it's time to wait.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Chile crossing; a friend; bucked by bureaucracy; parting ways
16/6/09 Halfway Day
On the bus internacional at 4am, I saw a kid about my age in whom I recognized the same lost look I expect my own face reveals on a regular basis. Though I did not initially make contact, preferring to stew alone in my border-crossing self-pity, I eventually asked him the date while filling out my immigration card. He told me it was the fifteenth, which he later corrected.
After the bus filled up with women loaded with cartons of cigarettes, we both discovered we´d forgotten to pay the terminal tax. He took my money and ran off to the office to make the purchase, which allowed me to avoid squeezing past the corpulant woman sharing my tiny bus row. He returned with my change and tax ticket.
The cross-border ride was a demonstration of sidestepping bureaucracy. The women handed out cartons of cigarettes to other travelers, since each migrant can only bring two. For some reason the bus waited at the border for at least a half hour while empanada vendors vied for space with people selling sodas and other treats. Finally we made it through to Arica, after I passed through customs with nary a question apart from, "American? What´s up dood?"
In the terminal, I decided to purchase a ticket for San Pedro de Atacama instead of straight to Santiago. Promised mountain biking trails might´ve had something to do with my decision. Lonely Planet helped me figure out what to do in Arica while waiting ten hours for the next (only) available ride to San Pedro, and I strode into the morning sun to look for a coffee house.
At the colectivo busstop, I saw the kid also waiting, so I decided to make more friendly contact.
"Is this where we catch the bus to the plaza?" I asked in Spanish, hoping he knew more than I did.
"No se," he replied, "soy extranjero tambien."
I asked where he was from.
"Peru."
Turned out he had been in Baghdad for two years with the Peruvian marines whose job was security at the embassy and for checkpoints. My curiosity took over as we boarded the colectivo headed for the center of town, and I grilled him about the experience.
"What are you doing in Chile?"
"Looking for work. Any work."
After Iraq, he´d quickly blown his savings in Lima, and now he was on his own. Peru cannot afford pensions. We wandered around town, settling in a likely cafe where I ordered espresso and cake. Luis ordered tea. He told stories of mortars and IEDs, including one US soldier who didn´t hear the warning sirens and took a lethal load of shrapnel because of a pair of little white earbuds.
At his checkpoint post, he worked on his English. He knows Stallone, Schwartzenegger, Segal, and CSI. He told a different version of the Blackwater fiasco which made much more sense than our media-washed drek. Apparently the convoy had been approached from four directions by "civilian" cars, one of which lobbed a grenade under the client's vehicle, while other Iraqis opened up with RPGs, bringing down a Blackwater chopper, killing four.
Now, when he hears a car backfire or a siren sound, he instinctively ducks for cover and laments the loss of comforting weight around his chest and at his hip. He was a pretty good shot, he said, though they only practiced every few weeks. The protein-heavy American food helped him put on muscle--which has since shrunken again to standard Peruvian girth, he laments with a grin. Plus all that equipment was like lifting weights nonstop.
We talked of lost loves and future plans and gorgeous passersby as the bustle on the street increased toward midday. In Peru, he said, it´s common for friends to steal novias during tours of duty. Goddamn leeches, we both agreed. I taught him the word "cunt."
The Peruvian military, I was surprised to learn, also has obligatory post-combat psychological counseling. Luis said he no longer has trouble sleeping. I couldn´t help but wonder if he told the truth.
When he asked what my parents did, I responded with my usual line, but with a heavy twinge of guilt. My mom´s a--como se dice?--a nurse, and my dad is a carpentero. His eyes lit up.
"Maybe someday, if I can save some money, your father can have some work for me in the States?"
"Si, claro," I nodded.
We paid our cafe bill and strode off toward an enormous outcrop of brown rock--El Morro de Arica--where, Luis told me, a famous battle took place in 1880 between Chile and Peru. Apparently a foolhardy Chilean officer rode his horse directly off the cliff while charging a group of Peruvian footsoldiers. We stood at the top overlooking the pier, talking about travel and maritime affairs and the smell of the sea. A small war museum featuring several Maxim machineguns and a few dioramas amid musket displays led to historical topics and more war discussion as the sun began to beat down.
Vultures soared past lazily as we watched boats maneuvering into port so far below they looked like bathtub toys. I expressed my longing to join a crew for a while: an adventure! Then I briefly felt guilty for talking of adventure when most would be eternally grateful for a chance to work. He chuckled politely, and we made our way back down.
"Let´s walk around and see if any stores are hiring," I suggested. We talked about futbol and swimming on the way down.
The first place we checked had a sign asking for guardias. Hell, I figured, he´d been a guard in one of the worst places on Earth. They´d be bound to hire him.
Nope. Need to be bureaucratically licensed.
How much for the classes?
40,000 pesos and two weeks.
Luis shook his head. He couldn´t possibly afford certification. Oh shit, I realized, his purchase at the cafe, though frugal, was probably astronomically frivolous. I briefly imagined fronting his tuition--but I cannot. Instead, I resolved to treat him to dinner at the end of our search.
We checked in at an employment office located on the second floor of a shady building. Closed.
A construction site seemed a likely bet. We sauntered up to the entrance, just beginning to feel the heat and lengthy walk. They sent us to another site, some dusty blocks away. There they told us he´d have trouble as a non-citizen, and he´d have better luck going to the immigration office first.
To give our feet a rest, we rode a colectivo. Then began a wild-goose chase over a span of several back-and-forth kilometers, dozens of directions asked, another taxi ride, misdirection by a lad who mistook "inmigracion" for "investigacion," and more blocks walking on exhausted and famished feet, finally ending up at the local government building only to be told the blasted bureaucracy was closed and he´d have to wait til tomorrow at 8. Meanwhile, Luis couldn´t afford a room, and I was due to depart the city on an evening bus.
"Listen, amigo," I said, "Let´s go eat something--my treat--and then we´ll part ways."
He hesitated.
"Permiteme comprarlo. Next time you´ll be the one with dinero, and I´ll be the one with nothing. Then you can buy me dinner. Bien?"
He laughed and nodded, knowing as well as I did it would never happen. Pay it forward, I said, though I´m not sure his grasp of English was sufficient for the message. We exchanged emails after dinner, and shook hands, promising to write. I caught a taxi and rode off, as he sat on a park bench with his dun-colored backpack.
Buena suerte, amigo. Good luck. It´s a rough world, but you seem to me the sort who can make it. I hate to picture you as one of those fallen characters pasted to a sidewalk squar, hands outstretched with a quiet look of lost longing.
So I won´t.
On the bus internacional at 4am, I saw a kid about my age in whom I recognized the same lost look I expect my own face reveals on a regular basis. Though I did not initially make contact, preferring to stew alone in my border-crossing self-pity, I eventually asked him the date while filling out my immigration card. He told me it was the fifteenth, which he later corrected.
After the bus filled up with women loaded with cartons of cigarettes, we both discovered we´d forgotten to pay the terminal tax. He took my money and ran off to the office to make the purchase, which allowed me to avoid squeezing past the corpulant woman sharing my tiny bus row. He returned with my change and tax ticket.
The cross-border ride was a demonstration of sidestepping bureaucracy. The women handed out cartons of cigarettes to other travelers, since each migrant can only bring two. For some reason the bus waited at the border for at least a half hour while empanada vendors vied for space with people selling sodas and other treats. Finally we made it through to Arica, after I passed through customs with nary a question apart from, "American? What´s up dood?"
In the terminal, I decided to purchase a ticket for San Pedro de Atacama instead of straight to Santiago. Promised mountain biking trails might´ve had something to do with my decision. Lonely Planet helped me figure out what to do in Arica while waiting ten hours for the next (only) available ride to San Pedro, and I strode into the morning sun to look for a coffee house.
At the colectivo busstop, I saw the kid also waiting, so I decided to make more friendly contact.
"Is this where we catch the bus to the plaza?" I asked in Spanish, hoping he knew more than I did.
"No se," he replied, "soy extranjero tambien."
I asked where he was from.
"Peru."
Turned out he had been in Baghdad for two years with the Peruvian marines whose job was security at the embassy and for checkpoints. My curiosity took over as we boarded the colectivo headed for the center of town, and I grilled him about the experience.
"What are you doing in Chile?"
"Looking for work. Any work."
After Iraq, he´d quickly blown his savings in Lima, and now he was on his own. Peru cannot afford pensions. We wandered around town, settling in a likely cafe where I ordered espresso and cake. Luis ordered tea. He told stories of mortars and IEDs, including one US soldier who didn´t hear the warning sirens and took a lethal load of shrapnel because of a pair of little white earbuds.
At his checkpoint post, he worked on his English. He knows Stallone, Schwartzenegger, Segal, and CSI. He told a different version of the Blackwater fiasco which made much more sense than our media-washed drek. Apparently the convoy had been approached from four directions by "civilian" cars, one of which lobbed a grenade under the client's vehicle, while other Iraqis opened up with RPGs, bringing down a Blackwater chopper, killing four.
Now, when he hears a car backfire or a siren sound, he instinctively ducks for cover and laments the loss of comforting weight around his chest and at his hip. He was a pretty good shot, he said, though they only practiced every few weeks. The protein-heavy American food helped him put on muscle--which has since shrunken again to standard Peruvian girth, he laments with a grin. Plus all that equipment was like lifting weights nonstop.
We talked of lost loves and future plans and gorgeous passersby as the bustle on the street increased toward midday. In Peru, he said, it´s common for friends to steal novias during tours of duty. Goddamn leeches, we both agreed. I taught him the word "cunt."
The Peruvian military, I was surprised to learn, also has obligatory post-combat psychological counseling. Luis said he no longer has trouble sleeping. I couldn´t help but wonder if he told the truth.
When he asked what my parents did, I responded with my usual line, but with a heavy twinge of guilt. My mom´s a--como se dice?--a nurse, and my dad is a carpentero. His eyes lit up.
"Maybe someday, if I can save some money, your father can have some work for me in the States?"
"Si, claro," I nodded.
We paid our cafe bill and strode off toward an enormous outcrop of brown rock--El Morro de Arica--where, Luis told me, a famous battle took place in 1880 between Chile and Peru. Apparently a foolhardy Chilean officer rode his horse directly off the cliff while charging a group of Peruvian footsoldiers. We stood at the top overlooking the pier, talking about travel and maritime affairs and the smell of the sea. A small war museum featuring several Maxim machineguns and a few dioramas amid musket displays led to historical topics and more war discussion as the sun began to beat down.
Vultures soared past lazily as we watched boats maneuvering into port so far below they looked like bathtub toys. I expressed my longing to join a crew for a while: an adventure! Then I briefly felt guilty for talking of adventure when most would be eternally grateful for a chance to work. He chuckled politely, and we made our way back down.
"Let´s walk around and see if any stores are hiring," I suggested. We talked about futbol and swimming on the way down.
The first place we checked had a sign asking for guardias. Hell, I figured, he´d been a guard in one of the worst places on Earth. They´d be bound to hire him.
Nope. Need to be bureaucratically licensed.
How much for the classes?
40,000 pesos and two weeks.
Luis shook his head. He couldn´t possibly afford certification. Oh shit, I realized, his purchase at the cafe, though frugal, was probably astronomically frivolous. I briefly imagined fronting his tuition--but I cannot. Instead, I resolved to treat him to dinner at the end of our search.
We checked in at an employment office located on the second floor of a shady building. Closed.
A construction site seemed a likely bet. We sauntered up to the entrance, just beginning to feel the heat and lengthy walk. They sent us to another site, some dusty blocks away. There they told us he´d have trouble as a non-citizen, and he´d have better luck going to the immigration office first.
To give our feet a rest, we rode a colectivo. Then began a wild-goose chase over a span of several back-and-forth kilometers, dozens of directions asked, another taxi ride, misdirection by a lad who mistook "inmigracion" for "investigacion," and more blocks walking on exhausted and famished feet, finally ending up at the local government building only to be told the blasted bureaucracy was closed and he´d have to wait til tomorrow at 8. Meanwhile, Luis couldn´t afford a room, and I was due to depart the city on an evening bus.
"Listen, amigo," I said, "Let´s go eat something--my treat--and then we´ll part ways."
He hesitated.
"Permiteme comprarlo. Next time you´ll be the one with dinero, and I´ll be the one with nothing. Then you can buy me dinner. Bien?"
He laughed and nodded, knowing as well as I did it would never happen. Pay it forward, I said, though I´m not sure his grasp of English was sufficient for the message. We exchanged emails after dinner, and shook hands, promising to write. I caught a taxi and rode off, as he sat on a park bench with his dun-colored backpack.
Buena suerte, amigo. Good luck. It´s a rough world, but you seem to me the sort who can make it. I hate to picture you as one of those fallen characters pasted to a sidewalk squar, hands outstretched with a quiet look of lost longing.
So I won´t.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
A sense of spirit; an ancient pulse; savage longing
11/6/09 Machu Picchu
Looking down on the ruins from atop Wayna Picchu (the conical mountain behind the National Geographic classic photo) as lizards scamper over sun-warmed rocks, I can easily see why the city was considered important. It´s nestled on a shoulder ridge surrounded by the safety of a ring higher mountains like an insurmountable wall. From the lookout tower up here, an attentive sentry can see everything, and easily warn the corresponding tower in the city by way of mirrors and smoke.
Wayna Picchu served as a lookout post replete with its own agricultural terraces and a dwelling. Who lived up here? For how long? Was it onerous or honorable? I can imagine youth learning the position gazing with envy at the bustling city below. And I wonder...is it sacreligous to pee up here?
The overall layout takes perfect advantage of the topography, with terraces cutting down into the forest, and the king´s house--the only one with a private toilet--in the middle below temples to moon, sun, and sacred animals. A main path crosses the terraces and temples at a diagonal, providing a direct route from the Cuzco trail across to the town square--or maybe it´s a sport arena.
Machu Picchu itself vibrates with energy from the perfectly squared stones to the Condor temple with its carved statue whose wings are massive diagonals of natural rock. In its tunnel stomach, offerings of coca leaves, fruit, and money.
The centerpiece, a block carved to show the solstices and representing both geographical and magnetic north, is surrounded by tourists hoping to feel the ancient pulse. Here and there, miniature mountains are carved to represent and symbolize the surrounding mountain altars--and to serve as points of worship for those too old or sick or young or wounded or pregnant or lazy to climb the peaks.
The Inca people clearly cared immensely for this place, perfecting masonry in the important buildings; tending gardens and agricultural terraces; erecting temples to the various sacred creatures and natural gods; bringing a water channel from a spring high in the surrounding peaks; and stayinghidden and unscuffed for centuries--until a white man found the overgrown ruins andopened it for the world´s shutters.
Even as I hop around greedily taking pictures, I feel like a trespasser, exploiting for my edification, exploited for my wallet.
The city is incomplete, with a large granite quarry in the middle, and building blocks still bearing pegs for carrying. They built the architecture right from the bedrock, prying blocks along natural fractures and building around the sources. It must have been quite a process demanding the effort of all the people. I wonder how much worship was possbile amid incessant constructoin. I guess some things never change!
What exists of the city has not yet been fully uncovered, says our guide, who is knowledgeable and worthwhile. He points out the buildings and their likely meanings, hollering to demonstrate the sonic design of the priests´meditation temple. He cautiously mentions San Pedro cactus and ayahuasca, testing the group´s temperament. Facing a blank response, he skips past, but i can imagine the spiritual glory of psychoactivity in this holy place. How I long to be here alone with myself, far from the clatter of cameras and murmur of people who´ve traveled so far for this. When I close my eyes and feel the breeze, i can almost imagine it.
One always must wonder about the reliability of the information presented--most is guesswork or based on the writings of the Spaniards who arrived as disinterested and indiscriminate conquerers, rather than respectful scholars. But hell, the stories surrounding the place are important in their own truth, no matter factual accuracy.
Most intriguing is what caused the Inca people to abandon this place in the middle of perfecting it. Disease? Invasion? Schism? Aliens?
Assault from without seems highly unlikely, unless the sentries were corrupted. Plus no archaeological evidence of battle has been found. Perhaps the gods simply weren´t pleased.
The Incas must have been in excellent physical shape, racing along paths between here and their capital at Cuzco (ten days' walk), climbing the terraces and the staircases to temples, day-to-day living, building, dreaming.
So in tune with nature and tranquil self-reflection--and yet aggressive and warlike. Humans are so strange in our duality. I do not want to leave. It feels sacred and home-like, and I wonder what sort of connections other people on tour here feel.
Improbably, a storm gathers as i get back down the mountain to Machu Picchu. I take shelter in the shadow of a domecile, watching the clouds roil over the peaks. The rumble of thunder mingles with a distant train whistle. This place is truly magical, once I get past my anticrowd bias (it helps that most of the crowd has already dissipated). For the time being, I´m left alone among those strandsof the past who dwelt here, ate here, lived, loved, and laughed here--and eventually left, abandoning the stones to decay and restoration.
Who gazed off into the peaks 600 years ago? Who watched stormclouds approach from the west? Who rested against this wall after a long day of labor? Who longed to be anywhere but here, in this small-town area, longed to escape the confines of family and expectations? Who first saw this spot in the wild and decided to tame it in the names of the condor, the puma, and the snake? Who was last to leave its spiritual comfort when the time came to uproot--and did he turn back a moment to take it all in and lament its demise?
Really a remarkable place. Though my train time approaches, I desperately want to stay. How much would the people have expanded development? All the way down to the river? So crazy to see the incomplete sections--piles of natural slabs of granite--and envision their transformation to walls and footpaths. So much I want to write and capture, but no time nor mental organization!
Looking down on the ruins from atop Wayna Picchu (the conical mountain behind the National Geographic classic photo) as lizards scamper over sun-warmed rocks, I can easily see why the city was considered important. It´s nestled on a shoulder ridge surrounded by the safety of a ring higher mountains like an insurmountable wall. From the lookout tower up here, an attentive sentry can see everything, and easily warn the corresponding tower in the city by way of mirrors and smoke.
Wayna Picchu served as a lookout post replete with its own agricultural terraces and a dwelling. Who lived up here? For how long? Was it onerous or honorable? I can imagine youth learning the position gazing with envy at the bustling city below. And I wonder...is it sacreligous to pee up here?
The overall layout takes perfect advantage of the topography, with terraces cutting down into the forest, and the king´s house--the only one with a private toilet--in the middle below temples to moon, sun, and sacred animals. A main path crosses the terraces and temples at a diagonal, providing a direct route from the Cuzco trail across to the town square--or maybe it´s a sport arena.
Machu Picchu itself vibrates with energy from the perfectly squared stones to the Condor temple with its carved statue whose wings are massive diagonals of natural rock. In its tunnel stomach, offerings of coca leaves, fruit, and money.
The centerpiece, a block carved to show the solstices and representing both geographical and magnetic north, is surrounded by tourists hoping to feel the ancient pulse. Here and there, miniature mountains are carved to represent and symbolize the surrounding mountain altars--and to serve as points of worship for those too old or sick or young or wounded or pregnant or lazy to climb the peaks.
The Inca people clearly cared immensely for this place, perfecting masonry in the important buildings; tending gardens and agricultural terraces; erecting temples to the various sacred creatures and natural gods; bringing a water channel from a spring high in the surrounding peaks; and stayinghidden and unscuffed for centuries--until a white man found the overgrown ruins andopened it for the world´s shutters.
Even as I hop around greedily taking pictures, I feel like a trespasser, exploiting for my edification, exploited for my wallet.
The city is incomplete, with a large granite quarry in the middle, and building blocks still bearing pegs for carrying. They built the architecture right from the bedrock, prying blocks along natural fractures and building around the sources. It must have been quite a process demanding the effort of all the people. I wonder how much worship was possbile amid incessant constructoin. I guess some things never change!
What exists of the city has not yet been fully uncovered, says our guide, who is knowledgeable and worthwhile. He points out the buildings and their likely meanings, hollering to demonstrate the sonic design of the priests´meditation temple. He cautiously mentions San Pedro cactus and ayahuasca, testing the group´s temperament. Facing a blank response, he skips past, but i can imagine the spiritual glory of psychoactivity in this holy place. How I long to be here alone with myself, far from the clatter of cameras and murmur of people who´ve traveled so far for this. When I close my eyes and feel the breeze, i can almost imagine it.
One always must wonder about the reliability of the information presented--most is guesswork or based on the writings of the Spaniards who arrived as disinterested and indiscriminate conquerers, rather than respectful scholars. But hell, the stories surrounding the place are important in their own truth, no matter factual accuracy.
Most intriguing is what caused the Inca people to abandon this place in the middle of perfecting it. Disease? Invasion? Schism? Aliens?
Assault from without seems highly unlikely, unless the sentries were corrupted. Plus no archaeological evidence of battle has been found. Perhaps the gods simply weren´t pleased.
The Incas must have been in excellent physical shape, racing along paths between here and their capital at Cuzco (ten days' walk), climbing the terraces and the staircases to temples, day-to-day living, building, dreaming.
So in tune with nature and tranquil self-reflection--and yet aggressive and warlike. Humans are so strange in our duality. I do not want to leave. It feels sacred and home-like, and I wonder what sort of connections other people on tour here feel.
Improbably, a storm gathers as i get back down the mountain to Machu Picchu. I take shelter in the shadow of a domecile, watching the clouds roil over the peaks. The rumble of thunder mingles with a distant train whistle. This place is truly magical, once I get past my anticrowd bias (it helps that most of the crowd has already dissipated). For the time being, I´m left alone among those strandsof the past who dwelt here, ate here, lived, loved, and laughed here--and eventually left, abandoning the stones to decay and restoration.
Who gazed off into the peaks 600 years ago? Who watched stormclouds approach from the west? Who rested against this wall after a long day of labor? Who longed to be anywhere but here, in this small-town area, longed to escape the confines of family and expectations? Who first saw this spot in the wild and decided to tame it in the names of the condor, the puma, and the snake? Who was last to leave its spiritual comfort when the time came to uproot--and did he turn back a moment to take it all in and lament its demise?
Really a remarkable place. Though my train time approaches, I desperately want to stay. How much would the people have expanded development? All the way down to the river? So crazy to see the incomplete sections--piles of natural slabs of granite--and envision their transformation to walls and footpaths. So much I want to write and capture, but no time nor mental organization!
A dream
Just awoke from a strange and memorable dream. I´m with my brothers on some beach wth heavy waves, and we´re playing a game--very competitive--which involves diving into the breaking surf to collect floating colonial Lego men (there may also be other Lego bits--perhaps a wrecked Lego cargo ship--but only the white-crossbelted figures count).
At one point, incongruously, my round is interrupted by the danger of a semitruck rolling in with the tide immediately after Dan´s turn--which is momentarily scary as my view of him getting out of the water is blocked by the truck. But it soon vanishes, enabling the game to continue.
The competition is hot,and the tide is intensifying when a kid about our age pproaches, saying something about a beach rule which dictates (oh blast, it´s getting hazy!) something preventing our game--to me it seems an absurd rule which need not be followed--so we´re polite and nod. He goes back about his business.
The rule is some kind ofthing requiring participation in something which should be strictly voluntary, and in my opinion would only be enforced by wankers, but the kid is insistent, continually interrupting our game, which starts to annoy me. He´s one of those rule-sucking holier-than-thou social-antactivists whom I just love.
At some point I realize I´ve been swimming naked.
The kid gets angry, demanding we join the rule-bound whatever, and acts tough as if trying to provoke a fight. So I respond, stepping up saying,
"Alright toughguy, let´s do this. Plant one," I offer my chin, "first one´s on me."
He is ruffled, but not yet surrendering.
"Fuck it, you want some?" I drop my towel and go after him, swinging free. Unprepared as bullies are for any kind of active defense (especially when the opponent is naked), he backs down, dropping level with his cronies.
"You boys want some too?"
They cannot touch us. Even in the unlikely event of a melee, if they got through my front line, I´d simply summon my brothers to the fray and turn it messy.
One guy who reminds me of a kid I know from middle-school actually has the nerve to advance, but I quickly dissuade him, and the situation is over as I wake up nearly laughing.
Aside from the obvious friendly competition and cocksure behavior, I have no clue as to the meaning of this dream. Why was I unable to recognize the absurd circumstance as a dream and become lucid? What does it all mean in Jung/Freud interpretations? Perhaps further thought may shed some ligh, because it was quite vivid and though has, of course, faded, it still sits strikingly in mind. Perhaps you have an interpretation to offer?
At one point, incongruously, my round is interrupted by the danger of a semitruck rolling in with the tide immediately after Dan´s turn--which is momentarily scary as my view of him getting out of the water is blocked by the truck. But it soon vanishes, enabling the game to continue.
The competition is hot,and the tide is intensifying when a kid about our age pproaches, saying something about a beach rule which dictates (oh blast, it´s getting hazy!) something preventing our game--to me it seems an absurd rule which need not be followed--so we´re polite and nod. He goes back about his business.
The rule is some kind ofthing requiring participation in something which should be strictly voluntary, and in my opinion would only be enforced by wankers, but the kid is insistent, continually interrupting our game, which starts to annoy me. He´s one of those rule-sucking holier-than-thou social-antactivists whom I just love.
At some point I realize I´ve been swimming naked.
The kid gets angry, demanding we join the rule-bound whatever, and acts tough as if trying to provoke a fight. So I respond, stepping up saying,
"Alright toughguy, let´s do this. Plant one," I offer my chin, "first one´s on me."
He is ruffled, but not yet surrendering.
"Fuck it, you want some?" I drop my towel and go after him, swinging free. Unprepared as bullies are for any kind of active defense (especially when the opponent is naked), he backs down, dropping level with his cronies.
"You boys want some too?"
They cannot touch us. Even in the unlikely event of a melee, if they got through my front line, I´d simply summon my brothers to the fray and turn it messy.
One guy who reminds me of a kid I know from middle-school actually has the nerve to advance, but I quickly dissuade him, and the situation is over as I wake up nearly laughing.
Aside from the obvious friendly competition and cocksure behavior, I have no clue as to the meaning of this dream. Why was I unable to recognize the absurd circumstance as a dream and become lucid? What does it all mean in Jung/Freud interpretations? Perhaps further thought may shed some ligh, because it was quite vivid and though has, of course, faded, it still sits strikingly in mind. Perhaps you have an interpretation to offer?
tourism; machu picchu anticipation; camera envy
Cuzco has been fun, though overrun with tourists nd the ubiquitous corresponding salesfolk with unbelievably pushy tactics: "Pase, amigo!" Goddamnit, I can see that you have sweaters and socks ad hats and gloves and pipes and paintings and typical Peruvian goods! Now leave me alone while I browse your wares. It´s enough to drive a gringo MAD, though I suppose it´s a fair tradeoff for our incessant intrusion.
I succumbed to a tour agent who took advantage of my lost look upon arrival as I searched for information on Machu Picchu. He succeeded in convincing me to put my faith in their hands, and in truth, I only dropped about $20 extra for the convenience. Not too bad, when you consider I now have all the details in one organized packet including train tickets, bus tickets, entrance tickets, hostel tickets, etc tickets.
Tomorrow morning I wake up at dawn to head out. Hopefully it will be worthwhile and spiritually inspiring. For now, I´ll spend time and money in this tourist trap Agua Calientes, filling up the rest of my gift list and taking part in the gringo throng.
The trainride here reinforced my longing for a nicer camera and the skill to snap sweet shots. I sat across from a French-Canadien photographer with lovely equipment who captured beauty in the most mundane of frames. My measly megapixels, I fear, will serve me poorly in Machu Picchu and especially in the Brazilian rainforest--but hell, I have to say, everytime someone brings up that old axiom about photos vs words, I think about what I can capture in 1000 words, and it beats the hell out of any picture which is restricted by time to a frozen instant in two shadowed dimensions. Show me any picture, and I´ll capture its entire essence and much m ore in less than 1000 words.
I´m sitting here stuffing pizza down my gullet, having been hoodwinked/convinced to eat here by a pretty young sales-savvy lass who made a special enticing offer of the largest-size pizza for 25 soles. When I hesitated, she added a glass of wine to sweeten the deal.
Now I´ve spent 3x what i had intended on food, though the fare is much much better than what i was prepared for. I often wonder, when I haggle, if i´m even achieving any benefit to myself or simply less loss. I´ve become good at it, but i still have a sneaking suspicion I´m still the one coming out on bottom. I spend the rest of the evening chatting with the brothers running the restaurant and watching Peru lose to Colombia before retiring to bed at 9.
I succumbed to a tour agent who took advantage of my lost look upon arrival as I searched for information on Machu Picchu. He succeeded in convincing me to put my faith in their hands, and in truth, I only dropped about $20 extra for the convenience. Not too bad, when you consider I now have all the details in one organized packet including train tickets, bus tickets, entrance tickets, hostel tickets, etc tickets.
Tomorrow morning I wake up at dawn to head out. Hopefully it will be worthwhile and spiritually inspiring. For now, I´ll spend time and money in this tourist trap Agua Calientes, filling up the rest of my gift list and taking part in the gringo throng.
The trainride here reinforced my longing for a nicer camera and the skill to snap sweet shots. I sat across from a French-Canadien photographer with lovely equipment who captured beauty in the most mundane of frames. My measly megapixels, I fear, will serve me poorly in Machu Picchu and especially in the Brazilian rainforest--but hell, I have to say, everytime someone brings up that old axiom about photos vs words, I think about what I can capture in 1000 words, and it beats the hell out of any picture which is restricted by time to a frozen instant in two shadowed dimensions. Show me any picture, and I´ll capture its entire essence and much m ore in less than 1000 words.
I´m sitting here stuffing pizza down my gullet, having been hoodwinked/convinced to eat here by a pretty young sales-savvy lass who made a special enticing offer of the largest-size pizza for 25 soles. When I hesitated, she added a glass of wine to sweeten the deal.
Now I´ve spent 3x what i had intended on food, though the fare is much much better than what i was prepared for. I often wonder, when I haggle, if i´m even achieving any benefit to myself or simply less loss. I´ve become good at it, but i still have a sneaking suspicion I´m still the one coming out on bottom. I spend the rest of the evening chatting with the brothers running the restaurant and watching Peru lose to Colombia before retiring to bed at 9.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Don Donato Palomino loves to tell stories. His brown face crinkles when he talks, a roadmap to what he is saying. With a gnarled knuckle, he rubs the sparse grey stubble on his chin, reminiscing about a French woman and her husband who were robbed at gunpoint in Haraz. She was four-months pregnant. He found out about it, Don Palomino, and paid for them to visit his home in Lima where he teaches bible school--telling stories. There, he and his wife fed the couple and took them to the airport to catch the sad, defeated flight home.
People, says Don Palomino, sometimes come upon hard times, which force them into horrible behavior. No excuses, but instead motivation to work toward a better future.
He pulls a pocketwatch from his fleece sweatpants and shuffles into the house to check on something. Inside is cool and quiet, like a cave. On a careworn table, a map sprawls, held in place by a rock on each corner. Spidery handwriting indicates places and suggestions and riddles for travelers. Earthenware jars full of candies and tea and coffee and sugar line the walls next to dried coca leaves to help travelers with altitude. A National Geographic sits on a shelf near three books and a bible. A straw hat hangs over the heavy blue door. Potatoes dry in the corners on cheesecloth on the concrete floor.
This first house, he says, he and his wife built before they knew how. Chickenwire holds plaster in place over the skeletal 2x4 structure. Here and there, birds nest in the holes where plaster succumbed to the elements. The other house was built properly with stones and concrete.
Vacation homes. Oases for hikers and cash-drained travelers to pitch a tent for free on the front lawn at the foot of the mountains. Lima is six hours to the east. Here is the gateway to Huascarán National Park. Here is a piece of heaven.
A chest-high stone wall protects the garden from roving cattle, behind which Señora Palomino collects eucalyptus for firewood. The houses are set in the hillside facing north. A brook flows across the yard, giggling at all hours.
Years ago, Don Palomino and his wife went to Jerusalem to visit. After that they returned to the Quechua land of their ancestors and set up this haven which they visit on school holidays. Señora Palomino knows where Michigan is: she has a friend living there who comes to visit every couple years.
Don Palomino likes to talk about poetry, about Walt Whitman and Ruyard Kipling. The latter name he barely struggles over. Hojas de Yerba, he mentions with a chuckle. And El Viejo y el Mar--Hemmingway.
He shoos away an inquisitive dog, and stares off toward the peaks. The world is a tough place for some people. Always the good with the bad. Thieves and Saints. He chuckles again. Una pelicula, he says; Lo Bueno, Lo Malo, y Lo Feo.
While here in Pitec, Don Palomino works on his lesson plan and catches up on his reading, far from the chaos of Lima, in this garden of peace and tranquil solitude--interrupted occasionally by passing hikers all with their own stories to tell.
Don Palomino loves to chat.
His eyes squint when he ponders a riddle, corners folding into lines of poetry. Hands in his pockets, he kicks a stone off the stoop.
Asi es el mundo, he agrees, shouldering a knit bag and slowly walking down the valley toward the sunset. That´s the world.
People, says Don Palomino, sometimes come upon hard times, which force them into horrible behavior. No excuses, but instead motivation to work toward a better future.
He pulls a pocketwatch from his fleece sweatpants and shuffles into the house to check on something. Inside is cool and quiet, like a cave. On a careworn table, a map sprawls, held in place by a rock on each corner. Spidery handwriting indicates places and suggestions and riddles for travelers. Earthenware jars full of candies and tea and coffee and sugar line the walls next to dried coca leaves to help travelers with altitude. A National Geographic sits on a shelf near three books and a bible. A straw hat hangs over the heavy blue door. Potatoes dry in the corners on cheesecloth on the concrete floor.
This first house, he says, he and his wife built before they knew how. Chickenwire holds plaster in place over the skeletal 2x4 structure. Here and there, birds nest in the holes where plaster succumbed to the elements. The other house was built properly with stones and concrete.
Vacation homes. Oases for hikers and cash-drained travelers to pitch a tent for free on the front lawn at the foot of the mountains. Lima is six hours to the east. Here is the gateway to Huascarán National Park. Here is a piece of heaven.
A chest-high stone wall protects the garden from roving cattle, behind which Señora Palomino collects eucalyptus for firewood. The houses are set in the hillside facing north. A brook flows across the yard, giggling at all hours.
Years ago, Don Palomino and his wife went to Jerusalem to visit. After that they returned to the Quechua land of their ancestors and set up this haven which they visit on school holidays. Señora Palomino knows where Michigan is: she has a friend living there who comes to visit every couple years.
Don Palomino likes to talk about poetry, about Walt Whitman and Ruyard Kipling. The latter name he barely struggles over. Hojas de Yerba, he mentions with a chuckle. And El Viejo y el Mar--Hemmingway.
He shoos away an inquisitive dog, and stares off toward the peaks. The world is a tough place for some people. Always the good with the bad. Thieves and Saints. He chuckles again. Una pelicula, he says; Lo Bueno, Lo Malo, y Lo Feo.
While here in Pitec, Don Palomino works on his lesson plan and catches up on his reading, far from the chaos of Lima, in this garden of peace and tranquil solitude--interrupted occasionally by passing hikers all with their own stories to tell.
Don Palomino loves to chat.
His eyes squint when he ponders a riddle, corners folding into lines of poetry. Hands in his pockets, he kicks a stone off the stoop.
Asi es el mundo, he agrees, shouldering a knit bag and slowly walking down the valley toward the sunset. That´s the world.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Camping in Huascaran, checkmate, freezing mountain air
3/6/09
Freezing in Huaraz! We step off the bus, dodging taxi drivers and hostel advertizers and sales folk, watching breath fog. Where the hell are we?
The bus has dropped us off inside a brick-walled courtyard at 6am. As we step out onto the street, dodging even more persistent taxi drivers, the first green light of dawn glows over the mountains
Spencer and I each buy a pair of gloves from opportunistic locals making the most of the cold and the arrival of unprepared tourists. Ignoring the more aggrtessive taxi drivers, we walk toward the town square, following the directions of...someone.
"How cold is this?"
"God, I don´t know. Really cold."
"It´s not just not warm. Or cool."
"No. It´s actually goddamn cold."
We sit huddled on a bench in the square waiting for the information office to open at 8. It´s 6:45.
"Is this how it gets in Michigan in the winter?"
I snort.
"No, California boy, it gets much colder. Snow everywhere and all that shit. You´d die."
But it is cold here. The coldest I´ve felt so far in South America (excepting of course, on top of Cotopaxi).
I jump around, putting on all my clothes and trying to stay warm--lamenting the loss of my warm clothes and suddenly realizing I was also without a sleeping bag. Dangerous in this climate. Yet another cost of the theft.
We find a restaurant just beginning to open and sit inside enjoying empanadas, piña juice and soup. Much nicer than shivering on a bench.
Afterward we spend some time grocery shopping and inquiring about Huascarán National Park. Tour groups offer four-day adventures which sound spectacular until we hear the price. Nope.
Just rent me a sleeping bag and we´ll pitch our tent where we can.
We also start playing chess--adres--which Spencer is much better at. It´s a great game, and I wonder why I have not gotten more into it.
The hiking is difficult in the altitude, and the sun has come out in full equatorial thin-atmospheric glory. To top off the sweaty sunburned shuffling, our equipment is hardly up to the task. My Peruvian-knit knapsack has shoulder-slicing straps whose threads seem bound to break at any moment. It´s full to brimming with all my worldly possessions, topped off with cans of food and a rented sleeping pad (oh how I miss my good ThermaRest!) and tied off because the buckle doesn´t reach. Across my chest thumps my shoulderbag with books and other temporarily useless sundries. In my hand is a sleeping bag stuffed in a compression sack weighted down with 5L of water whose nylon straps threaten to cut through my fingers. On my feet, a flat-soled pair of Chuck Taylors. A far cry from the passing hikers decked out in the latest REI fashion with hiking boots and poles.
We eventually stop in a field to pitch our tent and relax for the rest of the afternoon. Locals pass by with mules and cattle, heading for Huaraz. One lady offers us some Quetchua corn. Ignoring paranoia about tresspassing, we set up camp, squatting in this field--owned by someone--surrounded by mountains, fresh air, and eventually, no people.
The next morning finds us waking up at...some time, eating dried fruit, nuts, and yogurt, and breaking camp in a bit of a rush: a farmer has already wandered over to bid us buenos dias (but happily, no more).
We hike on toward Pitec, arriving around 9, according to the camera clock. Pitec, it turns out, is one couple´s vacation dwelling--built and bought, the doña tells me, as a spot for travelers to rest, and as a checkpoint for lost wanderers. She and her husband Donato live in Lima (where he teaches bible school) but traveled to Jerusalem and met many Israelis (who make up a majority of world travelers), so they built their house and we4lcome people to camp out front for free.
Very strange and lovely--an oasis--in a place where even the babies are taught to be opportunistic and seek a dime whenever possible. Something gratis? Have we died and gone to heaven?
The next morning we stow our bags in the Palominos´ house and set off hiking up the mountains toward Laguna Churup. Though tough, the hiking is less strenuous than I expected, perhaps because we were free of the fearsome burden of our detritus, or maybe we just have lots of happy energy after discovering this place.
The sun isn´t too bad on my roasted flesh (I´ve borrowed Spencer´s sunscreen) as it illuminates the green hills and sparkles off the snowcaps. In no kind of rush, we stop every now and then for water and chess--Spencer always wins--and ruminate on some dried coca leaves which help with the altitude and energy. Beats RedBull any day, and tastes more or less like chewing tea. After about an hour:
The lake must be right above that waterfall, we both agree. Our steps get a bit more pepped as we scramble up mossy rocks and around mud puddles.
Finally the lake, surrounded by cliffs and backdropped by a snowy peak. Gorgeous. Crystal-clear, calm, and empty of people. We lunch on soon-stale bread and salami and play more chess.
Checkmate. I win!
For the first time, I´ve caught him. My strategic sense is awakening. All I need is practice. We stretch out in the sun, which eventually gets uncomfortable underneath my alpaca sweater, donned to protect my fair skin, and I decide to swim. Up the hill on the other side of the lake, maybe 300m from where we lie, is a field of alpine snow. The water is likely frigid. But hell, I´ll regret it if I don´t, right? Buy the ticket; take the ride. Plus it´s a lake, my professed favorite geographical feature. I´ve got to dive in.
I inform Spencer of my intentions and strip, handing him my camera. I tiptoe to the rock edge. Three feet below the water glitters, clear and inviting. No dangerous rocks below.
Okay. No hesitation. Here we go.
Step up. Swing my naked arms in the sun. One step forward...this is it...
I reach the point of no return and hover in the air for a split second before crashing through the surface. My muscles seize, my lungs freeze, and then I recover my senses and scramble for shore. Goosebumps prickle and teeth chatter, but I´m so glad I dove in. I drip dry for all of two seconds before deciding to put on my clothes over wet skin. Hell, I´ll dry in the sun. But the breeze kills!
We head back down to Pitec, ready to chill on our last night here, our last night together before Spencer heads home to the States, and I head south to continue the Journey.
Freezing in Huaraz! We step off the bus, dodging taxi drivers and hostel advertizers and sales folk, watching breath fog. Where the hell are we?
The bus has dropped us off inside a brick-walled courtyard at 6am. As we step out onto the street, dodging even more persistent taxi drivers, the first green light of dawn glows over the mountains
Spencer and I each buy a pair of gloves from opportunistic locals making the most of the cold and the arrival of unprepared tourists. Ignoring the more aggrtessive taxi drivers, we walk toward the town square, following the directions of...someone.
"How cold is this?"
"God, I don´t know. Really cold."
"It´s not just not warm. Or cool."
"No. It´s actually goddamn cold."
We sit huddled on a bench in the square waiting for the information office to open at 8. It´s 6:45.
"Is this how it gets in Michigan in the winter?"
I snort.
"No, California boy, it gets much colder. Snow everywhere and all that shit. You´d die."
But it is cold here. The coldest I´ve felt so far in South America (excepting of course, on top of Cotopaxi).
I jump around, putting on all my clothes and trying to stay warm--lamenting the loss of my warm clothes and suddenly realizing I was also without a sleeping bag. Dangerous in this climate. Yet another cost of the theft.
We find a restaurant just beginning to open and sit inside enjoying empanadas, piña juice and soup. Much nicer than shivering on a bench.
Afterward we spend some time grocery shopping and inquiring about Huascarán National Park. Tour groups offer four-day adventures which sound spectacular until we hear the price. Nope.
Just rent me a sleeping bag and we´ll pitch our tent where we can.
We also start playing chess--adres--which Spencer is much better at. It´s a great game, and I wonder why I have not gotten more into it.
The hiking is difficult in the altitude, and the sun has come out in full equatorial thin-atmospheric glory. To top off the sweaty sunburned shuffling, our equipment is hardly up to the task. My Peruvian-knit knapsack has shoulder-slicing straps whose threads seem bound to break at any moment. It´s full to brimming with all my worldly possessions, topped off with cans of food and a rented sleeping pad (oh how I miss my good ThermaRest!) and tied off because the buckle doesn´t reach. Across my chest thumps my shoulderbag with books and other temporarily useless sundries. In my hand is a sleeping bag stuffed in a compression sack weighted down with 5L of water whose nylon straps threaten to cut through my fingers. On my feet, a flat-soled pair of Chuck Taylors. A far cry from the passing hikers decked out in the latest REI fashion with hiking boots and poles.
We eventually stop in a field to pitch our tent and relax for the rest of the afternoon. Locals pass by with mules and cattle, heading for Huaraz. One lady offers us some Quetchua corn. Ignoring paranoia about tresspassing, we set up camp, squatting in this field--owned by someone--surrounded by mountains, fresh air, and eventually, no people.
The next morning finds us waking up at...some time, eating dried fruit, nuts, and yogurt, and breaking camp in a bit of a rush: a farmer has already wandered over to bid us buenos dias (but happily, no more).
We hike on toward Pitec, arriving around 9, according to the camera clock. Pitec, it turns out, is one couple´s vacation dwelling--built and bought, the doña tells me, as a spot for travelers to rest, and as a checkpoint for lost wanderers. She and her husband Donato live in Lima (where he teaches bible school) but traveled to Jerusalem and met many Israelis (who make up a majority of world travelers), so they built their house and we4lcome people to camp out front for free.
Very strange and lovely--an oasis--in a place where even the babies are taught to be opportunistic and seek a dime whenever possible. Something gratis? Have we died and gone to heaven?
The next morning we stow our bags in the Palominos´ house and set off hiking up the mountains toward Laguna Churup. Though tough, the hiking is less strenuous than I expected, perhaps because we were free of the fearsome burden of our detritus, or maybe we just have lots of happy energy after discovering this place.
The sun isn´t too bad on my roasted flesh (I´ve borrowed Spencer´s sunscreen) as it illuminates the green hills and sparkles off the snowcaps. In no kind of rush, we stop every now and then for water and chess--Spencer always wins--and ruminate on some dried coca leaves which help with the altitude and energy. Beats RedBull any day, and tastes more or less like chewing tea. After about an hour:
The lake must be right above that waterfall, we both agree. Our steps get a bit more pepped as we scramble up mossy rocks and around mud puddles.
Finally the lake, surrounded by cliffs and backdropped by a snowy peak. Gorgeous. Crystal-clear, calm, and empty of people. We lunch on soon-stale bread and salami and play more chess.
Checkmate. I win!
For the first time, I´ve caught him. My strategic sense is awakening. All I need is practice. We stretch out in the sun, which eventually gets uncomfortable underneath my alpaca sweater, donned to protect my fair skin, and I decide to swim. Up the hill on the other side of the lake, maybe 300m from where we lie, is a field of alpine snow. The water is likely frigid. But hell, I´ll regret it if I don´t, right? Buy the ticket; take the ride. Plus it´s a lake, my professed favorite geographical feature. I´ve got to dive in.
I inform Spencer of my intentions and strip, handing him my camera. I tiptoe to the rock edge. Three feet below the water glitters, clear and inviting. No dangerous rocks below.
Okay. No hesitation. Here we go.
Step up. Swing my naked arms in the sun. One step forward...this is it...
I reach the point of no return and hover in the air for a split second before crashing through the surface. My muscles seize, my lungs freeze, and then I recover my senses and scramble for shore. Goosebumps prickle and teeth chatter, but I´m so glad I dove in. I drip dry for all of two seconds before deciding to put on my clothes over wet skin. Hell, I´ll dry in the sun. But the breeze kills!
We head back down to Pitec, ready to chill on our last night here, our last night together before Spencer heads home to the States, and I head south to continue the Journey.
June already?
2/6/09
Wow. This month has really flown by, though it seems a lifetime has passed. Lima--or more specifically Miraflores--has rejuvenated my verve and pleasure in this trip after some discouraging experiences in Ecuador and through northern Peru. Goddamn leeches can´t keep me down forever.
The hostel in Mirafloras has been one of my favorites yet, rivalling Platypus as far as fun, accessibility, and atmosphere (and safety). Spencer showed up halfway through, and after hanging out for a while, we headed to Huaraz for some camping. Spending very little cash for a few days sounded pretty good.
I finally tried cuy (guinea pig) which was fun but very boney and did actually taste disappointingly similar to chicken.
Miraflores is a vibrant, youthful-energy town where I would like to spend lots more time if I were able to find a source of income. I took a few days to replace the necessary items--underwear, socks, toothbrush/paste, deodorant, shoes--and I´m now travelling much lighter. It´s liberating, if I don´t dwell on my lost stuff of sentimental (and monetary) value. My new Peruvian-design backpack is a piece of tourist junk compared to my other, and much less comfortble, but it´s also less bulky and awkward when boarding busses and taxis. Everything is at least dual in nature.
In central Lima, after buying our ticket to Huaraz, we were accosted by a fellow with the usual junk for sale. We were just shaking our heads when I spotted a flashlight among the cheap combs, pens, headphones, etc. He pulled it out, clicking it on and off to show us its wonderous capabilities.
How much?
Diez soles.
I said I´d buy it if he threw in three extra batteries. We needed a flashlight for camping since mine were gone (probably being sold elsewhere on the street for far less than their worth).
As we bartered, an older gentleman wandered up to watch. After listening to us for a bit, he asked in Spanish,
"Are you two from Argentina? or Brazil?"
The implications of his question are...
Wow. This month has really flown by, though it seems a lifetime has passed. Lima--or more specifically Miraflores--has rejuvenated my verve and pleasure in this trip after some discouraging experiences in Ecuador and through northern Peru. Goddamn leeches can´t keep me down forever.
The hostel in Mirafloras has been one of my favorites yet, rivalling Platypus as far as fun, accessibility, and atmosphere (and safety). Spencer showed up halfway through, and after hanging out for a while, we headed to Huaraz for some camping. Spending very little cash for a few days sounded pretty good.
I finally tried cuy (guinea pig) which was fun but very boney and did actually taste disappointingly similar to chicken.
Miraflores is a vibrant, youthful-energy town where I would like to spend lots more time if I were able to find a source of income. I took a few days to replace the necessary items--underwear, socks, toothbrush/paste, deodorant, shoes--and I´m now travelling much lighter. It´s liberating, if I don´t dwell on my lost stuff of sentimental (and monetary) value. My new Peruvian-design backpack is a piece of tourist junk compared to my other, and much less comfortble, but it´s also less bulky and awkward when boarding busses and taxis. Everything is at least dual in nature.
In central Lima, after buying our ticket to Huaraz, we were accosted by a fellow with the usual junk for sale. We were just shaking our heads when I spotted a flashlight among the cheap combs, pens, headphones, etc. He pulled it out, clicking it on and off to show us its wonderous capabilities.
How much?
Diez soles.
I said I´d buy it if he threw in three extra batteries. We needed a flashlight for camping since mine were gone (probably being sold elsewhere on the street for far less than their worth).
As we bartered, an older gentleman wandered up to watch. After listening to us for a bit, he asked in Spanish,
"Are you two from Argentina? or Brazil?"
The implications of his question are...
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Miraflores. Youthful and bustling. Loving Lima?
In my notes from last night I have written:
"Good choices:
This hostal
Playing pool
Starting up beer pong (jumping the gun to predict)
Buying this extra pen
Buying a bit of weed (though shady and scary as hell)
Knowing Spanish
Coming to Miraflores though mas carro
Learning Krav (though not superlatively happy yet--we´ll see)(Israelis)"
But now I´m a bit leery. It first struck me while people-watching on the balcony how fabulously perfect this place, Miraflores, is. Starting with the row of cars below, including an old white Volkswaggon Beetle, all parked halfway over the line as if by consensus. The streetlights sparkled on the roofs like studio lights. Everything is so brightly and cleanly illuminated, replete with a park full of kids playing, watched over by gossipy guardians--am I on a movie set?
A pisco-sour in hand, I can´t help but enjoy this, relaxing for the first time since...oh, since Cali! Regrouping in Lima--in this moment, I am happy.
But another deja vu strikes me, and another. Here I hear stories of dealers luring innocents to pseudo-police encounters, but with longer-term setups including gradually increasing amounts. Doubly scary because I just this afternoon tempted fate and bought some from a brother/sister duo who promised a good time in the club and a phone number in case of increasing interest. Very pushy and suspicious: I wanted out! Ready to run at a moment´s notice, notwithstanding anything.
After a jaunt on the roof with some Israelis and a McGuiver bong, I released a fair chunk of tension. Later, after absorbing everything a bit, I began to wonder what angle I wasn´t seeing, letting paranoia enter the fray. How can I not be suspicious when everything lately has been so mediocre or downright horrible? It feels like a setup.
Then Hsan enters the scene. A partial owner or manager of the hostel, he´s a suave cat who reminds me of Maxim, making all sorts of outrageous claims along the lines of owning an island on the Amazon, talking about setting up a hostel there on his 358 acres with horseback tours (led, of course, by me)...
We chill up in a room on the roof that resembles a dorm room with unmade bed, Bob Marley posters, disheveled clothes, Men´s Health (in Spanish), which he says is occupied by his brother who helps run the hostel.
He adjusts his cap--Royal Carribean logo now more visible--and I wonder how this can be, this guy who earlier promised to get me a job on a cruise ship. Who now claims to own tons of land.
Then a horrible thought strikes me: am I in a dream?
This is all so absurdly perfect, appealing to your deepest heartstrings, it must come from within, no?
Will I wake up tomorrow in a dark alley, crunching broken glass as I groan in pain? Gradually piecing together moments from reality? Spiked beer in the restaurant: Dealers take all...
Hsan introduces me to his brother, who tries to get me to bet money on pool. An obvious shark attempt. I never play for money. He ends up beating me, but I´m confident he intentionally blew some shots to set me up. Sometimes it all just lines up too perfectly.
Am I dreaming a new reality to compensate for the last few days of savage loathing? What if I can´t get out? Would I start dream-dreaming of reality, how I think it should be?
There is no way I believe any of what these folk are saying. My trust has been used up, I think. Am I just paranoid?
This place gives me the willies...or maybe that´s just the lifesized statues lurking in every corner. It´s just all too perfect. Strange and lulling.
So tonight--what dreams? Horror of stolen articles and exploitation? Get back to the comfortable reality? Finding comfort in similarity, not essence. Familiarity breeds love...along with contempt.
So what happens if I get stuck back again in the blood-drained and discouraged dreamscape, forced to imagine again something different...?
My phases of being/desire alive/to be waver in and out of different levels of reality. <--is the previous a successful representation of simultaneous thoughts? If I am dreaming, can´t I make it so, whether you like it or not? Again, stuck in a dream in a dream in a book, vascillating between, in narrative confusion. Unreliably unreliable.
Near the embassy, this place became my mecca after much exhausted hesitation. The promised pool table might´ve sealed the deal. It took me some time to find it, dodging traffic after an arduous embassy-block tour. But I arrive, grab a cue, and start chatting with the bar tender.
Lima is a beautiful ocean-front city. The conquistadors were smart, mourns the owner of a ceviche restaurant, though hated. He urges me to tell all my friends his place is the best ceviche spot in Miraflores. Easy conversations in Spanish. Things are looking up.
But my mindstream from last night brings up a complicated question: What is real?
"Good choices:
This hostal
Playing pool
Starting up beer pong (jumping the gun to predict)
Buying this extra pen
Buying a bit of weed (though shady and scary as hell)
Knowing Spanish
Coming to Miraflores though mas carro
Learning Krav (though not superlatively happy yet--we´ll see)(Israelis)"
But now I´m a bit leery. It first struck me while people-watching on the balcony how fabulously perfect this place, Miraflores, is. Starting with the row of cars below, including an old white Volkswaggon Beetle, all parked halfway over the line as if by consensus. The streetlights sparkled on the roofs like studio lights. Everything is so brightly and cleanly illuminated, replete with a park full of kids playing, watched over by gossipy guardians--am I on a movie set?
A pisco-sour in hand, I can´t help but enjoy this, relaxing for the first time since...oh, since Cali! Regrouping in Lima--in this moment, I am happy.
But another deja vu strikes me, and another. Here I hear stories of dealers luring innocents to pseudo-police encounters, but with longer-term setups including gradually increasing amounts. Doubly scary because I just this afternoon tempted fate and bought some from a brother/sister duo who promised a good time in the club and a phone number in case of increasing interest. Very pushy and suspicious: I wanted out! Ready to run at a moment´s notice, notwithstanding anything.
After a jaunt on the roof with some Israelis and a McGuiver bong, I released a fair chunk of tension. Later, after absorbing everything a bit, I began to wonder what angle I wasn´t seeing, letting paranoia enter the fray. How can I not be suspicious when everything lately has been so mediocre or downright horrible? It feels like a setup.
Then Hsan enters the scene. A partial owner or manager of the hostel, he´s a suave cat who reminds me of Maxim, making all sorts of outrageous claims along the lines of owning an island on the Amazon, talking about setting up a hostel there on his 358 acres with horseback tours (led, of course, by me)...
We chill up in a room on the roof that resembles a dorm room with unmade bed, Bob Marley posters, disheveled clothes, Men´s Health (in Spanish), which he says is occupied by his brother who helps run the hostel.
He adjusts his cap--Royal Carribean logo now more visible--and I wonder how this can be, this guy who earlier promised to get me a job on a cruise ship. Who now claims to own tons of land.
Then a horrible thought strikes me: am I in a dream?
This is all so absurdly perfect, appealing to your deepest heartstrings, it must come from within, no?
Will I wake up tomorrow in a dark alley, crunching broken glass as I groan in pain? Gradually piecing together moments from reality? Spiked beer in the restaurant: Dealers take all...
Hsan introduces me to his brother, who tries to get me to bet money on pool. An obvious shark attempt. I never play for money. He ends up beating me, but I´m confident he intentionally blew some shots to set me up. Sometimes it all just lines up too perfectly.
Am I dreaming a new reality to compensate for the last few days of savage loathing? What if I can´t get out? Would I start dream-dreaming of reality, how I think it should be?
There is no way I believe any of what these folk are saying. My trust has been used up, I think. Am I just paranoid?
This place gives me the willies...or maybe that´s just the lifesized statues lurking in every corner. It´s just all too perfect. Strange and lulling.
So tonight--what dreams? Horror of stolen articles and exploitation? Get back to the comfortable reality? Finding comfort in similarity, not essence. Familiarity breeds love...along with contempt.
So what happens if I get stuck back again in the blood-drained and discouraged dreamscape, forced to imagine again something different...?
My phases of being/desire alive/to be waver in and out of different levels of reality. <--is the previous a successful representation of simultaneous thoughts? If I am dreaming, can´t I make it so, whether you like it or not? Again, stuck in a dream in a dream in a book, vascillating between, in narrative confusion. Unreliably unreliable.
Near the embassy, this place became my mecca after much exhausted hesitation. The promised pool table might´ve sealed the deal. It took me some time to find it, dodging traffic after an arduous embassy-block tour. But I arrive, grab a cue, and start chatting with the bar tender.
Lima is a beautiful ocean-front city. The conquistadors were smart, mourns the owner of a ceviche restaurant, though hated. He urges me to tell all my friends his place is the best ceviche spot in Miraflores. Easy conversations in Spanish. Things are looking up.
But my mindstream from last night brings up a complicated question: What is real?
My life on a bus. A sour turn. Arrival in Lima
27-05-09
The thing i hate about this place and these people is that they immediately try to exploit anything breathing. No word of welcome; no time to think; no buffer.
The border crossing between Ecuador and Peru is essentially SET UP to fuck travelers. The exit office in Ecuador is a taxi ride from the border where you take another taxi to the entrance office where money changers swarm. Potential robbery everywhere in this sordid no-man´s-land.
And no cash machines near where the bastard took me to an exhorbitantly overpriced bus station which doesn´t even offer night rides to Lima. Where´s the central terminal? Nonextant.
FUCK YOU ALL you fucking savage bloodsucking leeches. Do you really wonder why your countries and your people are looked down upon and shat upon? Maybe grow some decency and hold off on the exploitation and lying to people just because they´re foreigners and might have money. How can you expect to come up in the world constantly dwelling on the bottom sucking scum at every opportunity?
Latin Logic means every man for himself NO MATTER the cost to others nearby or to dignity. That is the reason you shit-swallowing catfish will never make it into the first world. It´s not your skin color, it´s your savage and uncontrollable urge to make a penny at the cost of a dollar.
Fuck Peru. Why would I ever want to stay here and spend my money with a welcome like that?
Shortsighted little fleas. No wonder.
A border crossing in a civilized country is set up thusly:
A bus terminal. An exit office. The border. An entrance office. A bus terminal. Cash machines on both sides, no fucking taxis in between: instead a short walk of 300m MAXIMUM.
That increases security, improves welcome, keeps the maggots out, and overall benefits everyone (except the maggots).
What are they thinking?
They aren´t. Latin Logic, remember?
I never thought I´d long for the Canadian border crossing.
28-05-09
And then to top the motherfucker off, someone swiped my backpack from the cargo hold of the bus after I boarded.
Seriously. These fucking leeches. I want to watch them squirm in salt. I want to believe in hell just so I can imagine them rotting forever, tortured for eternity. I want to bomb this place to oblivion. I want to go home.
Alas, the bastard will probably profit immensely by hawking my poor goods because in this world, the truth is that crime does pay.
At least now I can travel light! And I have a slight financial cushion from the bribe paid me by the luggage handlers to keep from killing them. I should have taken far more than 600 soles ($200) but I didn´t have the heart. After all, I´m still much better off in the world than they are. Stuff can be replaced.
It´s just bewildering the things people are willing to do to each other, as if they can´t realize that we´re all human. How can they be devoid enough of sympathy to steal my stuff when I am obviously out travelling with my life on my back? What kind of twisted mind makes someone willing to take someone´s life--representative as it may be?
The thing i hate about this place and these people is that they immediately try to exploit anything breathing. No word of welcome; no time to think; no buffer.
The border crossing between Ecuador and Peru is essentially SET UP to fuck travelers. The exit office in Ecuador is a taxi ride from the border where you take another taxi to the entrance office where money changers swarm. Potential robbery everywhere in this sordid no-man´s-land.
And no cash machines near where the bastard took me to an exhorbitantly overpriced bus station which doesn´t even offer night rides to Lima. Where´s the central terminal? Nonextant.
FUCK YOU ALL you fucking savage bloodsucking leeches. Do you really wonder why your countries and your people are looked down upon and shat upon? Maybe grow some decency and hold off on the exploitation and lying to people just because they´re foreigners and might have money. How can you expect to come up in the world constantly dwelling on the bottom sucking scum at every opportunity?
Latin Logic means every man for himself NO MATTER the cost to others nearby or to dignity. That is the reason you shit-swallowing catfish will never make it into the first world. It´s not your skin color, it´s your savage and uncontrollable urge to make a penny at the cost of a dollar.
Fuck Peru. Why would I ever want to stay here and spend my money with a welcome like that?
Shortsighted little fleas. No wonder.
A border crossing in a civilized country is set up thusly:
A bus terminal. An exit office. The border. An entrance office. A bus terminal. Cash machines on both sides, no fucking taxis in between: instead a short walk of 300m MAXIMUM.
That increases security, improves welcome, keeps the maggots out, and overall benefits everyone (except the maggots).
What are they thinking?
They aren´t. Latin Logic, remember?
I never thought I´d long for the Canadian border crossing.
28-05-09
And then to top the motherfucker off, someone swiped my backpack from the cargo hold of the bus after I boarded.
Seriously. These fucking leeches. I want to watch them squirm in salt. I want to believe in hell just so I can imagine them rotting forever, tortured for eternity. I want to bomb this place to oblivion. I want to go home.
Alas, the bastard will probably profit immensely by hawking my poor goods because in this world, the truth is that crime does pay.
At least now I can travel light! And I have a slight financial cushion from the bribe paid me by the luggage handlers to keep from killing them. I should have taken far more than 600 soles ($200) but I didn´t have the heart. After all, I´m still much better off in the world than they are. Stuff can be replaced.
It´s just bewildering the things people are willing to do to each other, as if they can´t realize that we´re all human. How can they be devoid enough of sympathy to steal my stuff when I am obviously out travelling with my life on my back? What kind of twisted mind makes someone willing to take someone´s life--representative as it may be?
Mindflow in Latacunga 21/5/09
Loud kids playing in the huallway in the morning inspires grumpy grumbling, but I have to get up soon anyway--and who can blame kids for playing? Surely not I, of all people. Not the kind of hypocrite I want to be.
So I smile instead of frown; listen instead of hug a pillow to my ears, and just like that--my attitude is happier, my morning brighter.
Deep mental control is a funny thing. Like learning to laugh when a toe is stubbed. Such things happen, so why let them be bothersome?
I should again reread Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenence. And I should somehow obtain a motorcycle. And I should let my writing continue for a bit, free of formula. Stream of consciousness as it were.
I´m reminded of a question I had while discussing s.o.c. writing (s.o.c. like Socrates!) with Spencer: how much would what I write control my thought train, and how much would my thought train control what I write?
A balance. Libra.
Damn, but my pen can´t really keep up with my thoughts. Do we think in words? or rather concepts/ideas? How does thought work? I know the awareness of the idea springs well before my mind forms words around it. How to mesh the two?
Like stepping through my shadow of self--Carl Jung (must read more of hiw writing on aenima and conscious).
How do these indigenous folk think? What exactly is Latin Logic? Do they really think so differently in terms of analytical thought processes? Or is their system just so deeply rooted and convoluted (damn! but I would have loved to quick-think a rhyme word with deeply) that it guides their mores and behavior?
What a fucking trip all these folk gathering from all points to sell sell sell their wares--most everything a duplicate, true originality (everywhere) pretty well lacking. A rarity.
Like the people on the bus. Every stop, some vendors with fruit or chips or juice/water or candy, and one person with the heart-throb story about crippled children or blindness or government cruelty or other misfortune, passing out candy or gum or packets of vitamins, hoping to guilt-trip people into handing back bills instead of the item. Memorized speeches, practiced piety (whoops, took a full split second to think of that one), carefully crafted exdpressions of sorrow and pain...
Spare me.
I really ought to practice this straight stream of conscious--perhaps i can learn something of myself.
More cocoa? Or save the cash? What time is it? How much of my thought is questions? How much of a question rut do I get stuck in?
Okay, time to go.
Cotopaxi beckons.
So I smile instead of frown; listen instead of hug a pillow to my ears, and just like that--my attitude is happier, my morning brighter.
Deep mental control is a funny thing. Like learning to laugh when a toe is stubbed. Such things happen, so why let them be bothersome?
I should again reread Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenence. And I should somehow obtain a motorcycle. And I should let my writing continue for a bit, free of formula. Stream of consciousness as it were.
I´m reminded of a question I had while discussing s.o.c. writing (s.o.c. like Socrates!) with Spencer: how much would what I write control my thought train, and how much would my thought train control what I write?
A balance. Libra.
Damn, but my pen can´t really keep up with my thoughts. Do we think in words? or rather concepts/ideas? How does thought work? I know the awareness of the idea springs well before my mind forms words around it. How to mesh the two?
Like stepping through my shadow of self--Carl Jung (must read more of hiw writing on aenima and conscious).
How do these indigenous folk think? What exactly is Latin Logic? Do they really think so differently in terms of analytical thought processes? Or is their system just so deeply rooted and convoluted (damn! but I would have loved to quick-think a rhyme word with deeply) that it guides their mores and behavior?
What a fucking trip all these folk gathering from all points to sell sell sell their wares--most everything a duplicate, true originality (everywhere) pretty well lacking. A rarity.
Like the people on the bus. Every stop, some vendors with fruit or chips or juice/water or candy, and one person with the heart-throb story about crippled children or blindness or government cruelty or other misfortune, passing out candy or gum or packets of vitamins, hoping to guilt-trip people into handing back bills instead of the item. Memorized speeches, practiced piety (whoops, took a full split second to think of that one), carefully crafted exdpressions of sorrow and pain...
Spare me.
I really ought to practice this straight stream of conscious--perhaps i can learn something of myself.
More cocoa? Or save the cash? What time is it? How much of my thought is questions? How much of a question rut do I get stuck in?
Okay, time to go.
Cotopaxi beckons.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Caressing the moon´s neck
I finally decided to go ahead and drop $200 on a guided hike up Volcan Cotopaxi. Though a substantial hunk of my travel funds, to hell with it! No more hemming and hawing. This is big. Buy the ticket; take the ride.
At 5897m (19,347ft), Cotopaxi (meaning Moon´s neck in Quechua) is one of the highest active volcanoes in the world. Apparently its most recent eruption was in 1940.
At the tour office, after watching my stack of 20s disappear into a cashbox, we sort through rental gear, trying on boots, jackets, crampons, snowpants, et cetera mountain gear.
I´m joined by a couple from Holland and two guides, Joaquin and Juan Carlos. We hop in a rickety gas-reeking truck and head out north from Latacunga.
The park is a protected area, but mining companies have gotten around that pretty easily, as Joaquin points out. The soil is dark brown--almost black--and nourishes a thick variegated green carpet--except where more companies have planted pine trees for export to Chinese paper factories. What a world.
Other than the pines, we see cacti, agave, spiky grasses, and hundreds of other plants whose names are unknown to me. Not much fauna, though. Supposedly a few endangered condors make their home here, but we see none.
The road cuts through the volcanic sediment, which is very pretty. Lucky, because clouds obscure the cone, so at least we have something to look at over the rough road.
We get to the main park office to pay. I catch a glimpse of some indigenous women selling clothes. I hop out. How could I resist the opportunity to haggle for an alpaca-wool zip-up hoodie?
The truck labors up to the parking area from where we´ll hike a steep 200 meters to the refuge where we´ll eat, sleep, and then begin the true ascent.
A biting wind souses us with sleet in the parking lot as we struggle into the rest of our gear. Welcome to alpine activity!
Heavy boots with crampon tabs bang the shins and try to gobble socks. Gaiters protect pantlegs from snow. Tucked into the boots, thermal pants under waterproof snowpants. Three shirts (thermal, fleece, alpaca) stuff my pink jacket--hombres ciertos llevan la rosa!--whose pockets hold liner gloves and heavy-duty mittens. My already overheated head is hidden under a hat and two hoods. Hanging over my chest, a pair of sturdy sunglasses. The real gear, crampons and an ice axe, are strapped to my pack along with my sleeping bag and water bottle.
Geared up and good to go.
The ground rises up, heavy sandy gravel. Walking on it reminds me of the dunes back home: walk three steps, slide back two. At some point while watching my feet plodding along left right left right, I pass the cloud into the sun. Blood pounds in my ears, lungs wonder why I´ve given them such thin material to work with.
I stop now and then to take photos and check my progress (but really to catch my breath).
This is a strange landform. It´s more or less flat all around, and then BAM a volcano. None of the gradually ascending foothills I´m used to in continental-rift mountain ranges. The valley below is a deep mottled green. Beautiful.
Plodding, trudging, side-stepping, v-stepping. Ragged breath from my lowland lungs.
Juan Carlos trots past me, and of course, I try to pick up my pace--but to no avail. My blood is languid and sluggish. He soon disappears into the refuge--a yellow-roofed building with smiling windows and a welcoming patio.
Just a few more meters!
Plodding, trudging, side-stepping, v-stepping.
Finally inside. Warmth, rest. Foggy breath and people in winter garb playing cards and telling stories in several languages. Guides in the kitchen preparing food. Homey wooden tables, and a scuffed floor of pine planks. Bright windows and dozens of bunkbeds upstairs.
Outside on the patio, a beautiful view--when not obscured by cloudbanks--of the valley below and the snowcapped cone above. Doesn´t look too hard from here...
Atop the world, and not even there yet.
Back inside for the sweet relief of hot tea, crackers, and spinach soup. My body starts to get used to the altitude as the Dutch couple and I discuss higher education.
After lunch I move around the cabin snapping pictures and feeling very much the tourist--but fuck it: we´re all tourists here.
Naptime.
Can´t sleep.
A spaghetti dinner at six and some instructions in mixed English/Spanish from our guides. The gist: always listen to the guides, and the summit is not the most important aspect of this trip (bullshit!). I nod in agreement and ask very specific questions in spanish.
The sun heads toward retirement, silhouetting enormous purple anvil clouds in the west.
Naptime.
Too excited to sleep!
Eleven p.m. wakeup comes all too soon.
Out of the cozy sleeping bag and into the rented gear! Time to go.
The stars overhead are glorious, swaddled by the MilkyWay. I´ve already seen a shooting star. Not as cold as expected, but I´m grateful for the new alpaca.
Crampons and ice axes in hand, we start up the path toward the snow. Slow going--I long for the bite of crampons in ice.
Finally, the real fun begins. By headlamplight, we strap on our bootblades and scurry up the mountain. Lovely going--fresh legs; delighted demeanor. The snow sparkles like the sugar I scooped into my insta-coffee.
A quick lesson on self-arrest techniques before tying in, I with Juan Carlos, and the Dutch couple with Joaquin. The snow crunches; the stars twinkle. Mars watches our progress over the peak which is visible only as a space devoid of stars.
I´m loving every step.
This is dangerous--not because it´s unsafe, but because I´m quickly realizing that I could be enamored of mountaineering.
JC and I take the lead, stopping (and resting!) every so often to let the others catch up.
I prefer to hike sans headlight, but when JC notices, he scolds me and makes me turn it on. The stars vanish.
A storm rolls over us, blowing sharp snow and coating us with rime. We hunker in a hole and the guides bring up the possibility of turning back due to weather.
NO!
"My vote," I calmly announce, "would be to continue on, but you guys are the experts, and we´ll defer to your judgement."
But goddamnit I didn´t spend a tenth of my budget to almost summit Cotopaxi!
After a solid rest, we climb out and brave the blustery winds, ice axes at the ready and crampons kicking firm.
Turns out we have chosen wisely: the storm blows over, revealing the stars once again.
Oh my god is that...? Is it...? Really...? Yes.
When you see the Southern Cross for the first time...!
Then it´s driven from my mind by the steepest section yet. By this time I´m getting tired. Juan Carlos takes my ice axe as we wait for the others, and pounds it into the snow up to the hilt. Then he hooks me to it with an anchor and begins climbing a vertical section of about 30 meters of frozen snow.
I sit and rest, banging my hands together to get the blood flowing again. Everyone else ascends the fixed line between JC´s anchor above and mine below, and I´m left alone to watch the stars. Down below, the distant lights of Quito look like a lake of lava.
Then it´s my turn.
I expect a tight belay as I hack my way up the face, truly ice climbing! but the rope is a slack loop below me. I´m essentially free climbing ice...
Sweet!
At the top, warm and exhilarated, I hear Juan Carlos say in English, "Twenty meters more."
"Mentiras!" I scold. There must be more than that.
We slog up the final slope as the eastern horizon glows with the rosy promise of dawn. It´s a strenuous twenty meters (more like sixty--crosslingual numbers are difficult) but finally!
We´ve made it.
Hugs all around once the others reach us, and we greet the sun while keeping a weather eye on an approaching cloudbank.
No time to rest atop the world: gotta get down before the snow blows in earnest.
An uneventful and horribly exhausting descent, and home for hot showers and soft hostel beds.
Vale la pena? Claro!
for pictures see: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=48930043&id=2205691#/album.php?aid=2579641&id=2205691
At 5897m (19,347ft), Cotopaxi (meaning Moon´s neck in Quechua) is one of the highest active volcanoes in the world. Apparently its most recent eruption was in 1940.
At the tour office, after watching my stack of 20s disappear into a cashbox, we sort through rental gear, trying on boots, jackets, crampons, snowpants, et cetera mountain gear.
I´m joined by a couple from Holland and two guides, Joaquin and Juan Carlos. We hop in a rickety gas-reeking truck and head out north from Latacunga.
The park is a protected area, but mining companies have gotten around that pretty easily, as Joaquin points out. The soil is dark brown--almost black--and nourishes a thick variegated green carpet--except where more companies have planted pine trees for export to Chinese paper factories. What a world.
Other than the pines, we see cacti, agave, spiky grasses, and hundreds of other plants whose names are unknown to me. Not much fauna, though. Supposedly a few endangered condors make their home here, but we see none.
The road cuts through the volcanic sediment, which is very pretty. Lucky, because clouds obscure the cone, so at least we have something to look at over the rough road.
We get to the main park office to pay. I catch a glimpse of some indigenous women selling clothes. I hop out. How could I resist the opportunity to haggle for an alpaca-wool zip-up hoodie?
The truck labors up to the parking area from where we´ll hike a steep 200 meters to the refuge where we´ll eat, sleep, and then begin the true ascent.
A biting wind souses us with sleet in the parking lot as we struggle into the rest of our gear. Welcome to alpine activity!
Heavy boots with crampon tabs bang the shins and try to gobble socks. Gaiters protect pantlegs from snow. Tucked into the boots, thermal pants under waterproof snowpants. Three shirts (thermal, fleece, alpaca) stuff my pink jacket--hombres ciertos llevan la rosa!--whose pockets hold liner gloves and heavy-duty mittens. My already overheated head is hidden under a hat and two hoods. Hanging over my chest, a pair of sturdy sunglasses. The real gear, crampons and an ice axe, are strapped to my pack along with my sleeping bag and water bottle.
Geared up and good to go.
The ground rises up, heavy sandy gravel. Walking on it reminds me of the dunes back home: walk three steps, slide back two. At some point while watching my feet plodding along left right left right, I pass the cloud into the sun. Blood pounds in my ears, lungs wonder why I´ve given them such thin material to work with.
I stop now and then to take photos and check my progress (but really to catch my breath).
This is a strange landform. It´s more or less flat all around, and then BAM a volcano. None of the gradually ascending foothills I´m used to in continental-rift mountain ranges. The valley below is a deep mottled green. Beautiful.
Plodding, trudging, side-stepping, v-stepping. Ragged breath from my lowland lungs.
Juan Carlos trots past me, and of course, I try to pick up my pace--but to no avail. My blood is languid and sluggish. He soon disappears into the refuge--a yellow-roofed building with smiling windows and a welcoming patio.
Just a few more meters!
Plodding, trudging, side-stepping, v-stepping.
Finally inside. Warmth, rest. Foggy breath and people in winter garb playing cards and telling stories in several languages. Guides in the kitchen preparing food. Homey wooden tables, and a scuffed floor of pine planks. Bright windows and dozens of bunkbeds upstairs.
Outside on the patio, a beautiful view--when not obscured by cloudbanks--of the valley below and the snowcapped cone above. Doesn´t look too hard from here...
Atop the world, and not even there yet.
Back inside for the sweet relief of hot tea, crackers, and spinach soup. My body starts to get used to the altitude as the Dutch couple and I discuss higher education.
After lunch I move around the cabin snapping pictures and feeling very much the tourist--but fuck it: we´re all tourists here.
Naptime.
Can´t sleep.
A spaghetti dinner at six and some instructions in mixed English/Spanish from our guides. The gist: always listen to the guides, and the summit is not the most important aspect of this trip (bullshit!). I nod in agreement and ask very specific questions in spanish.
The sun heads toward retirement, silhouetting enormous purple anvil clouds in the west.
Naptime.
Too excited to sleep!
Eleven p.m. wakeup comes all too soon.
Out of the cozy sleeping bag and into the rented gear! Time to go.
The stars overhead are glorious, swaddled by the MilkyWay. I´ve already seen a shooting star. Not as cold as expected, but I´m grateful for the new alpaca.
Crampons and ice axes in hand, we start up the path toward the snow. Slow going--I long for the bite of crampons in ice.
Finally, the real fun begins. By headlamplight, we strap on our bootblades and scurry up the mountain. Lovely going--fresh legs; delighted demeanor. The snow sparkles like the sugar I scooped into my insta-coffee.
A quick lesson on self-arrest techniques before tying in, I with Juan Carlos, and the Dutch couple with Joaquin. The snow crunches; the stars twinkle. Mars watches our progress over the peak which is visible only as a space devoid of stars.
I´m loving every step.
This is dangerous--not because it´s unsafe, but because I´m quickly realizing that I could be enamored of mountaineering.
JC and I take the lead, stopping (and resting!) every so often to let the others catch up.
I prefer to hike sans headlight, but when JC notices, he scolds me and makes me turn it on. The stars vanish.
A storm rolls over us, blowing sharp snow and coating us with rime. We hunker in a hole and the guides bring up the possibility of turning back due to weather.
NO!
"My vote," I calmly announce, "would be to continue on, but you guys are the experts, and we´ll defer to your judgement."
But goddamnit I didn´t spend a tenth of my budget to almost summit Cotopaxi!
After a solid rest, we climb out and brave the blustery winds, ice axes at the ready and crampons kicking firm.
Turns out we have chosen wisely: the storm blows over, revealing the stars once again.
Oh my god is that...? Is it...? Really...? Yes.
When you see the Southern Cross for the first time...!
Then it´s driven from my mind by the steepest section yet. By this time I´m getting tired. Juan Carlos takes my ice axe as we wait for the others, and pounds it into the snow up to the hilt. Then he hooks me to it with an anchor and begins climbing a vertical section of about 30 meters of frozen snow.
I sit and rest, banging my hands together to get the blood flowing again. Everyone else ascends the fixed line between JC´s anchor above and mine below, and I´m left alone to watch the stars. Down below, the distant lights of Quito look like a lake of lava.
Then it´s my turn.
I expect a tight belay as I hack my way up the face, truly ice climbing! but the rope is a slack loop below me. I´m essentially free climbing ice...
Sweet!
At the top, warm and exhilarated, I hear Juan Carlos say in English, "Twenty meters more."
"Mentiras!" I scold. There must be more than that.
We slog up the final slope as the eastern horizon glows with the rosy promise of dawn. It´s a strenuous twenty meters (more like sixty--crosslingual numbers are difficult) but finally!
We´ve made it.
Hugs all around once the others reach us, and we greet the sun while keeping a weather eye on an approaching cloudbank.
No time to rest atop the world: gotta get down before the snow blows in earnest.
An uneventful and horribly exhausting descent, and home for hot showers and soft hostel beds.
Vale la pena? Claro!
for pictures see: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=48930043&id=2205691#/album.php?aid=2579641&id=2205691
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Having escaped the bloodsucking rotten soulless stereotype-fullfilling evil savages in Cali (what is one to do when the very force hired and endowed to protect people is out helping con-men scam terrified travelers out of their precious and dwindling funds?) I found myself in Popoyán with my friend Spencer.
Popoyán is a pretty little town in the southwest quadrant of Colombia where all the white Spanish-style buildings look much the same, which makes orienteering difficult.
We took a room in a hostel with nice dark wood floors, spacious quarters ancient furniture, and (of course) no toilet seats.
The landlady lacked enthusiasm, however.
In the evening, waiting for some friends to show up in a taxi, some Germans who were also staying at the hostel came up nd we all started talking.
An extremely drunk indigo ambled up and mumbled nonsense sounds as though trying to reproduce our English. he babbled and giggled and swayed while we ignored him.
Suddenly someone noticed a growing puddle of dark liquid at his feet, soaking his left shoe as he stood there.
What the hell? What kind of gross...wine? oil? urine? Oh Jesus--blood!
We crowded toward the door, initially hoping to escape without getting infected or attacked, but the German girl insisted we help the guy. She fetched a first-aid kit (replete with gloves) and we cleaned and bandaged a nasty knife wound across the middle two fingers of his left hand. He groaned and yammered in pain when I sprayed disinfectant on the cut, but kept asking for more--he knew what it was for.
He refused a visit to the doctor (drugs and money issues) so we bandaged the poor bloke as best we could.
As the tape was wrapping around his fingers, the taxi showed up with our friends.
They said, once we finished and got in, that most locals (including them) would not have helped the guy and he was lucky to have stumbled upon us. They said it was strange that we were so willing to help.
It´s a weird discrepancy between people here minding strictly their own business yet within an elevated level of community.
A couple days later I saw a bus full of strangers come together to confirm for the police that a boy was old enough to be on the bus without sitting on his mother´s lap.
Latin Logic is a funny thing.
Popoyán is a pretty little town in the southwest quadrant of Colombia where all the white Spanish-style buildings look much the same, which makes orienteering difficult.
We took a room in a hostel with nice dark wood floors, spacious quarters ancient furniture, and (of course) no toilet seats.
The landlady lacked enthusiasm, however.
In the evening, waiting for some friends to show up in a taxi, some Germans who were also staying at the hostel came up nd we all started talking.
An extremely drunk indigo ambled up and mumbled nonsense sounds as though trying to reproduce our English. he babbled and giggled and swayed while we ignored him.
Suddenly someone noticed a growing puddle of dark liquid at his feet, soaking his left shoe as he stood there.
What the hell? What kind of gross...wine? oil? urine? Oh Jesus--blood!
We crowded toward the door, initially hoping to escape without getting infected or attacked, but the German girl insisted we help the guy. She fetched a first-aid kit (replete with gloves) and we cleaned and bandaged a nasty knife wound across the middle two fingers of his left hand. He groaned and yammered in pain when I sprayed disinfectant on the cut, but kept asking for more--he knew what it was for.
He refused a visit to the doctor (drugs and money issues) so we bandaged the poor bloke as best we could.
As the tape was wrapping around his fingers, the taxi showed up with our friends.
They said, once we finished and got in, that most locals (including them) would not have helped the guy and he was lucky to have stumbled upon us. They said it was strange that we were so willing to help.
It´s a weird discrepancy between people here minding strictly their own business yet within an elevated level of community.
A couple days later I saw a bus full of strangers come together to confirm for the police that a boy was old enough to be on the bus without sitting on his mother´s lap.
Latin Logic is a funny thing.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wax palms, a taste of the jungle, and windsurfing behind a jeep
In the town square, we caught a jeep up to Cocora. All the seats were full, so we stood on the rear runningboard holding onto the roof rack.
What a trip!
Driving through the winding roads reminded me of windsurfing, how balance must be fluid and anticipatory as the jeep whipped through curves and sped over broken bits of road.
The road passed through the rolling valley, with Jurrasic Park fields, mountains, and vegetation all around us.
Tall trees lined the road like fenceposts--in fact, barbed wire was strung between the trunks to keep the cows off the road. Majestic wax palms rose up 150 feet and more, the tallest palms in the world.
More thickets of trees in the couloirs, and more cow-terraced slopes.
Dramatic cumulonimbus clouds swept overhead, dropping mists between the peaks.
I expected a stampede of little dinosaurs at any moment.
Before leaving town, women and children approached the busdriver with bags of food--lunch for their loved ones working up in Cocora. He declined payment. Heartwarming and culturally odd to see how community-oriented these folk are.
What a better ride we had than the folk stuffed in the sweaty enclosed interior of the jeep! THe rolling hills were so lush and lovely--so much green grows here.
In Cocora, we dismounted and proceeded on foot toward Acaime. For almost 5km, we walked through the valley floor, mostly through ranchland with fat cows grazing and horse-sign all over the path. THe path itself is likely a rushing creek in the wet season.
At some point, a German Shepard joined our journey. He behaved like our own dog, dashing ahead and returning to the pack, sometimes leading; sometimes following. A quick attachment of loyalty to guard our way.
After about two hours, we entered the jungle, walking along the shallow Rio Quindio through vines and ferns, slippery rocks and mud, waterfalls and stone steps. Cut logs crossed the river as bridges, though the remnants of an old suspension bridge caught my attention.
Farther along, an intact suspension bridge with split-log slats of various size and moorage crossed the river. Moss and lichens decorated every surface, giving it an ancient look despite the concrete pilings.
We left the path for a bit to explor a waterfall. The water was fresh and so sweet, but the rocks were dangerously slippery, and we were on a slight time crunch--last bus back to Salento at 5--so we climbed back to the path and continued up.
I wish I knew all the names of all the flora. Description fails me of the primeval plants and trees. Surprisingly few bugs bothered us.
The path crossed the river over logs several more times before we came upon Acaime. For 3,00 pesos (just over one dollar) travellers can enter the spread of a couple who keep hummingbird feeders and bell-shaped flowers all over their garden. Tiny birds whirred by our heads as we sat at a picnic table and the couple served us a hunk of hard white salty cheese dipped in hot chocolate. Much better than it sounds! especially after the 2.5-hour hike.
The dog waited for us outside the "hidden"mountain home where the couple thrives on the tourist trap.
But the whole was worthwhile, and in the evening, we returned to ride the jeep back into town, sitting on the roof this time, jouncing and jolting and clinging to finger-stiffening roof-rack handles, as twilight settled over the valley.
We picked up several pedestrians on the way--more community thinking--which would never happen in the States where one person sits alone in an SUV with windows up and doors locked.
What a place.
At the entrance to town, we had to get off the roof so as not to attract police attention. I guess cops are more or less the same everywhere.
What a trip!
Driving through the winding roads reminded me of windsurfing, how balance must be fluid and anticipatory as the jeep whipped through curves and sped over broken bits of road.
The road passed through the rolling valley, with Jurrasic Park fields, mountains, and vegetation all around us.
Tall trees lined the road like fenceposts--in fact, barbed wire was strung between the trunks to keep the cows off the road. Majestic wax palms rose up 150 feet and more, the tallest palms in the world.
More thickets of trees in the couloirs, and more cow-terraced slopes.
Dramatic cumulonimbus clouds swept overhead, dropping mists between the peaks.
I expected a stampede of little dinosaurs at any moment.
Before leaving town, women and children approached the busdriver with bags of food--lunch for their loved ones working up in Cocora. He declined payment. Heartwarming and culturally odd to see how community-oriented these folk are.
What a better ride we had than the folk stuffed in the sweaty enclosed interior of the jeep! THe rolling hills were so lush and lovely--so much green grows here.
In Cocora, we dismounted and proceeded on foot toward Acaime. For almost 5km, we walked through the valley floor, mostly through ranchland with fat cows grazing and horse-sign all over the path. THe path itself is likely a rushing creek in the wet season.
At some point, a German Shepard joined our journey. He behaved like our own dog, dashing ahead and returning to the pack, sometimes leading; sometimes following. A quick attachment of loyalty to guard our way.
After about two hours, we entered the jungle, walking along the shallow Rio Quindio through vines and ferns, slippery rocks and mud, waterfalls and stone steps. Cut logs crossed the river as bridges, though the remnants of an old suspension bridge caught my attention.
Farther along, an intact suspension bridge with split-log slats of various size and moorage crossed the river. Moss and lichens decorated every surface, giving it an ancient look despite the concrete pilings.
We left the path for a bit to explor a waterfall. The water was fresh and so sweet, but the rocks were dangerously slippery, and we were on a slight time crunch--last bus back to Salento at 5--so we climbed back to the path and continued up.
I wish I knew all the names of all the flora. Description fails me of the primeval plants and trees. Surprisingly few bugs bothered us.
The path crossed the river over logs several more times before we came upon Acaime. For 3,00 pesos (just over one dollar) travellers can enter the spread of a couple who keep hummingbird feeders and bell-shaped flowers all over their garden. Tiny birds whirred by our heads as we sat at a picnic table and the couple served us a hunk of hard white salty cheese dipped in hot chocolate. Much better than it sounds! especially after the 2.5-hour hike.
The dog waited for us outside the "hidden"mountain home where the couple thrives on the tourist trap.
But the whole was worthwhile, and in the evening, we returned to ride the jeep back into town, sitting on the roof this time, jouncing and jolting and clinging to finger-stiffening roof-rack handles, as twilight settled over the valley.
We picked up several pedestrians on the way--more community thinking--which would never happen in the States where one person sits alone in an SUV with windows up and doors locked.
What a place.
At the entrance to town, we had to get off the roof so as not to attract police attention. I guess cops are more or less the same everywhere.
Coffee plantation domecile, cont.
Darkness falls. The buzz of nocturnal creatures hums over our headphone-blasting speaker setup. Food smells good. Conversation floats hither and thither as the lights of Armenia begin to twinkle and shimmer in the gloom. How far away?
Thirty minutes by bus--twisting and turning up mountain roads past military checkpoints--but maybe five miles or less as the crow flies.
Raw beans, we find out, take approximately ages to cook in chicken-and-mushroom soup broth.
But who's in any kind of hurry?
This is exactly where and when we belong.
What a crazy trip.
Turns out raw coffee beans, when plucked red ripe from the tree, are remarkably sweet and fruity...as long as you don't crunch ém too hard.
Cooking beans and vegetables straight in the can--I'm lovin' it.
We wake up the next morning to COCKADOODLEDOO! repeated several times until the rising sun streams through my eyelids. Fresh mountain air and the smell of woodsmoke from the plantation workers' cooking fire downstairs blend to stir the growling beast in my belly.
A tinge of envy--Spencer and I have four eggs between us to scramble in a tin cup over a little butane burner. With some hotsauce for flavor.
Clouds sit over the mountain, leaking down into the valley, cutting visibility. The breeze rustles the wide banana leaves as the dogs chase chickens around the yard.
The eggs are good, but we'll need some more sustenance before hiring a jeep to Cocora and then hiking a couple hours to see the wax palms.
Juan, the long-haired fellow who first met us here, ascended the stairs as we tied our shoes and adjusted our hats for the hike.
"Tienen cuadros?"
Our experience heretofore has taught us that this means paper. As in rolling paper.
My supply is dwindling, so I hesitate to give him a precious square for his cigarette--but i get a funny feeling, and dig through my stuff to pull one out.
He pokes and digs at his palm for a moment, and just as I realize what he's doing, out pops the fattest one-paper joint I've ever seen.
He sparks it and we sit next to the tent wreathed in smoke, rapping in rapid-fire and slang-filled Spanish about politics, the coming of the trout into the valley, the pros and cons of tourism in the village, Presidente Uribe, colombianas guapas, food, coffee-plantation work...and a hundred other topics which have slipped past me.
How many temporary and instantaneous friends have been made through the simple tradition of burning herbs? Que locura...
Thirty minutes by bus--twisting and turning up mountain roads past military checkpoints--but maybe five miles or less as the crow flies.
Raw beans, we find out, take approximately ages to cook in chicken-and-mushroom soup broth.
But who's in any kind of hurry?
This is exactly where and when we belong.
What a crazy trip.
Turns out raw coffee beans, when plucked red ripe from the tree, are remarkably sweet and fruity...as long as you don't crunch ém too hard.
Cooking beans and vegetables straight in the can--I'm lovin' it.
We wake up the next morning to COCKADOODLEDOO! repeated several times until the rising sun streams through my eyelids. Fresh mountain air and the smell of woodsmoke from the plantation workers' cooking fire downstairs blend to stir the growling beast in my belly.
A tinge of envy--Spencer and I have four eggs between us to scramble in a tin cup over a little butane burner. With some hotsauce for flavor.
Clouds sit over the mountain, leaking down into the valley, cutting visibility. The breeze rustles the wide banana leaves as the dogs chase chickens around the yard.
The eggs are good, but we'll need some more sustenance before hiring a jeep to Cocora and then hiking a couple hours to see the wax palms.
Juan, the long-haired fellow who first met us here, ascended the stairs as we tied our shoes and adjusted our hats for the hike.
"Tienen cuadros?"
Our experience heretofore has taught us that this means paper. As in rolling paper.
My supply is dwindling, so I hesitate to give him a precious square for his cigarette--but i get a funny feeling, and dig through my stuff to pull one out.
He pokes and digs at his palm for a moment, and just as I realize what he's doing, out pops the fattest one-paper joint I've ever seen.
He sparks it and we sit next to the tent wreathed in smoke, rapping in rapid-fire and slang-filled Spanish about politics, the coming of the trout into the valley, the pros and cons of tourism in the village, Presidente Uribe, colombianas guapas, food, coffee-plantation work...and a hundred other topics which have slipped past me.
How many temporary and instantaneous friends have been made through the simple tradition of burning herbs? Que locura...
Coffee Plantation domecile
A corrugated aluminum roof protects us from the spattering rain. To the west, thunder rumbles and lightning flashes into the mountain peaks.
So green and lush--trees grow in the couloirs along the slopes which are covered in grass. So different from the naked red rock of Colorado or the grey granite of Yosemite. Side-stepping cows have grazed de facto terraces into the slopes, which catch the shadows and seem to sing a sad song of almost-nature taken over by people.
A light breeze blows through the bamboo supports of the roof. We have pitched a tent on a raised platform of wood overlooking a coffee plantation owned by a jolly British fellow with a Homer Simpson Valdez T-shirt and a floppy brown felt hat.
After arriving in Salento from Armenia from Bogota, Spencer and I stepped off the bus into the town square. The Lonely Planet Guidebook suggested The Plantation House Hostel--but we planned to find a spot to camp. Cheaper that way.
The owner described two options: a campground down the hill by the river (for only a few pesos less than the hostel) or asking at a farm miles down the road if we could borrow some land.
We slogged our way downhill through a muddy rut full of tree trimmings and horse droppings. At a farm we stopped and asked, but the kid pointed us farther downhill.
By this time, we were hot and sweaty carrying our laden bags in the muggy heat. I just wanted some cool water and perhaps a dip in the river.
We considered just scouting a spot along the river and squatting--but decided against what would likely (in this day and age) be trespassing.
Another few hundred meters down the hill, we came upon another gate in the barbed-wire fence strung along the road.
"Buenas!"we called, entering. "Quien duena?
A tall young guy with long hair and dirty pants tucked into muddy rainboots led us around the corner.
A rotund middle-aged fellow with a short grey beard climbed awkwardly down some steps, blonde hijita in tow.
"Como esta?" we asked.
"Bien, bien."
"Buscamos un sitio para camping." We explained that the hostel owner had sent us down toward the river, but we wanted to make sure before hiking all the way down.
"Ustedes son de francia?"
"Oye no no! Estados Unidos."
"Oh!" he chuckled, gratefully switching to English. "So you guys are looking for a spot to pitch a tent, yes? Hm. Hm. Okay."
We nodded.
With his pleasant British accent, he explained that there wasn't much in the way of flat space--but we'd be welcome to stay up on a platform overlooking the slopes.
His little daughter of about three watched our interaction, now and then chiming in with a charming bit of garbled Spanglish.
"Just have to clear it with my wife first. Um. Hm. Okay. Yes." He scooped up the girl and went inside, leaving us to scope the platform.
A space of about 12'x12' made of 2x6 planks bordered by a railing of bamboo (which grew in a thicket farther down the slope). Like a lookout tower--in fact, we can see for miles in the space between the peaks toward another town (Armenia) in the valley.
Below, banana trees shade and sustain the coffe plants which grow out of the hillside. The main house below us is made of solid brick and plaster with a patio and a big cooking fire.
A machine for separating coffee beans from husks sits on the concrete slab. Crickets and birds chirp as the sun heads for the hills.
This spot is perfect.
A couple of collies trot over to investigate. Tim--the limey--has given us the greenlight. We'll negotiate cost later (not much, hm hm, he says)--and we're left to our own devices. Turns out Tim lives up at the Plantation House (which he also owns with his pretty little colombiana wife).
This spot is not in the guidebook. I am immensely glad we've stumbled upon it. This is the kind of adventure I have looked forward to--crashing in random spots of hospitality. This is the kind of place I'd like to spend time in, but alas--settlement is not on the schedule. Tomorrow we'll hike around looking for the tallest palm trees in the world, and after that--onward to Cali.
So green and lush--trees grow in the couloirs along the slopes which are covered in grass. So different from the naked red rock of Colorado or the grey granite of Yosemite. Side-stepping cows have grazed de facto terraces into the slopes, which catch the shadows and seem to sing a sad song of almost-nature taken over by people.
A light breeze blows through the bamboo supports of the roof. We have pitched a tent on a raised platform of wood overlooking a coffee plantation owned by a jolly British fellow with a Homer Simpson Valdez T-shirt and a floppy brown felt hat.
After arriving in Salento from Armenia from Bogota, Spencer and I stepped off the bus into the town square. The Lonely Planet Guidebook suggested The Plantation House Hostel--but we planned to find a spot to camp. Cheaper that way.
The owner described two options: a campground down the hill by the river (for only a few pesos less than the hostel) or asking at a farm miles down the road if we could borrow some land.
We slogged our way downhill through a muddy rut full of tree trimmings and horse droppings. At a farm we stopped and asked, but the kid pointed us farther downhill.
By this time, we were hot and sweaty carrying our laden bags in the muggy heat. I just wanted some cool water and perhaps a dip in the river.
We considered just scouting a spot along the river and squatting--but decided against what would likely (in this day and age) be trespassing.
Another few hundred meters down the hill, we came upon another gate in the barbed-wire fence strung along the road.
"Buenas!"we called, entering. "Quien duena?
A tall young guy with long hair and dirty pants tucked into muddy rainboots led us around the corner.
A rotund middle-aged fellow with a short grey beard climbed awkwardly down some steps, blonde hijita in tow.
"Como esta?" we asked.
"Bien, bien."
"Buscamos un sitio para camping." We explained that the hostel owner had sent us down toward the river, but we wanted to make sure before hiking all the way down.
"Ustedes son de francia?"
"Oye no no! Estados Unidos."
"Oh!" he chuckled, gratefully switching to English. "So you guys are looking for a spot to pitch a tent, yes? Hm. Hm. Okay."
We nodded.
With his pleasant British accent, he explained that there wasn't much in the way of flat space--but we'd be welcome to stay up on a platform overlooking the slopes.
His little daughter of about three watched our interaction, now and then chiming in with a charming bit of garbled Spanglish.
"Just have to clear it with my wife first. Um. Hm. Okay. Yes." He scooped up the girl and went inside, leaving us to scope the platform.
A space of about 12'x12' made of 2x6 planks bordered by a railing of bamboo (which grew in a thicket farther down the slope). Like a lookout tower--in fact, we can see for miles in the space between the peaks toward another town (Armenia) in the valley.
Below, banana trees shade and sustain the coffe plants which grow out of the hillside. The main house below us is made of solid brick and plaster with a patio and a big cooking fire.
A machine for separating coffee beans from husks sits on the concrete slab. Crickets and birds chirp as the sun heads for the hills.
This spot is perfect.
A couple of collies trot over to investigate. Tim--the limey--has given us the greenlight. We'll negotiate cost later (not much, hm hm, he says)--and we're left to our own devices. Turns out Tim lives up at the Plantation House (which he also owns with his pretty little colombiana wife).
This spot is not in the guidebook. I am immensely glad we've stumbled upon it. This is the kind of adventure I have looked forward to--crashing in random spots of hospitality. This is the kind of place I'd like to spend time in, but alas--settlement is not on the schedule. Tomorrow we'll hike around looking for the tallest palm trees in the world, and after that--onward to Cali.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Steve is almost forty. So I gather from his numb-lip mumbling. Stifling a sigh, I close my book around my index finger and grace him with my attention.
Apparently he´s been in the navy. Benn in the hostel about 30 days. Or so. Or almost.
A grim blond stubble decorates his soft chin, and when the breeze in the courtyard is just right, I catch a whiff of stale booze.
He sparks a Marlboro Rojo.
I ask what he is doing here, hoping to swing the conversation to a quick close.
"Here investing. Spread some money around. Six-fifty a month from the government."
I nod. Steve smokes.
"And free dentist visits. Hundred dollars for groceries. Yeah, it´s pretty great."
The way he smokes, I´d almost call it greedy.
This is not a GI-bill cat. Probably couldn´t even fake a high-school diploma. In a funny sort of way, he looks like Rudy from the movie. Camouflage cargo shorts above greasy black socks protruding from hiking boots.
Hasn´t bothered to learn a lick of Spanish.
Suddenly he starts talking about firewood. How his mind made the connection, I´ll never know.
"Five thousand pesos for all you can carry."
I don´t want to carry anything.
"But only in one trip. So let´s grab a bunch!"
No, goddamnit, I´m trying to read.
"Yeah, alright. I´ll help."
His eyes light up, pleased to have a friend. Turns out we´re from the same town.
In the rare moments when he is not talking, Steve´s lower lip is tucked in in a sad sort of reverse pout. His ruddy cheeks stand in lovely contrast to the hay-colored whiskers.
"I´ve already talked to Germán. He might let me put some money in."
Germán is the hostel owner. I decide not to tell Steve he´s already invested in the hostel. He wouldn´t get it.
"You ever been to Tucson?" Steve´s mumble has an odd breathless quality.
At least he´s animated.
"I haven´t been. I´d like to though..." This last slips out before I can bite my tongue.
"Tucson´s great, man. I can get you acid by the sheet."
Ah ha. Thus explained the mysterious electron-sporatic connections Steve´s mind makes. Psychonautic exploration is fun and healthy--in distinct moderation.
Steve might not know the word.
Outside the clopclop of a horse or mule and the unintelligable babble of Spanish via megaphone.
No one is listening, che. Lo siento.
"Yeah, so how old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
"Yeah, when I was your age I was out in New Mexico searching for peyote."
For the whole year?
"Never found it though. I got a whole book on hallucinogenic plants. Really cool, man."
This is the sort of dude who gives Nixon and his cronies the nearest thing to justification they ever could have had.
From what I´ve heard from some Choctaw friends, peyote buttons reveal themselves only to the worthy.
Sorry, Steve.
At the carpentero´s next door, Steve asks How much for the place.
I translate.
"Tres ciento millones." Por todo? Si, por todo.
A large courtyard full of scraps and unfinished projects. Solid wood and plaster construction. Even concrete floor. Sturdy lumber supports. Unbroken roof tiles. A mahogony table stands drying, waiting for a second coat of varnish. This man, Hernan, is a craftsman.
"That´s outta my price range," grunts Steve.
The courtyard is surrounded by several rooms. A good-sized bit of property.
12,000 U.S. If you can´t afford that, what the hell are you doing here investing? I don´t bother to ask.
Maybe I´ll try to assemble some capital. The place has potential--maybe a restaurant/cantina and some guest rooms.
Dangerous thoughts.
Finally Steve is satisfied, and we return to the hostel where I manage to slip away on some pretext. As I leave, he hunkers in front of the brazier to organize the scraps of fuel. Harmless and happy in his own little world.
Apparently he´s been in the navy. Benn in the hostel about 30 days. Or so. Or almost.
A grim blond stubble decorates his soft chin, and when the breeze in the courtyard is just right, I catch a whiff of stale booze.
He sparks a Marlboro Rojo.
I ask what he is doing here, hoping to swing the conversation to a quick close.
"Here investing. Spread some money around. Six-fifty a month from the government."
I nod. Steve smokes.
"And free dentist visits. Hundred dollars for groceries. Yeah, it´s pretty great."
The way he smokes, I´d almost call it greedy.
This is not a GI-bill cat. Probably couldn´t even fake a high-school diploma. In a funny sort of way, he looks like Rudy from the movie. Camouflage cargo shorts above greasy black socks protruding from hiking boots.
Hasn´t bothered to learn a lick of Spanish.
Suddenly he starts talking about firewood. How his mind made the connection, I´ll never know.
"Five thousand pesos for all you can carry."
I don´t want to carry anything.
"But only in one trip. So let´s grab a bunch!"
No, goddamnit, I´m trying to read.
"Yeah, alright. I´ll help."
His eyes light up, pleased to have a friend. Turns out we´re from the same town.
In the rare moments when he is not talking, Steve´s lower lip is tucked in in a sad sort of reverse pout. His ruddy cheeks stand in lovely contrast to the hay-colored whiskers.
"I´ve already talked to Germán. He might let me put some money in."
Germán is the hostel owner. I decide not to tell Steve he´s already invested in the hostel. He wouldn´t get it.
"You ever been to Tucson?" Steve´s mumble has an odd breathless quality.
At least he´s animated.
"I haven´t been. I´d like to though..." This last slips out before I can bite my tongue.
"Tucson´s great, man. I can get you acid by the sheet."
Ah ha. Thus explained the mysterious electron-sporatic connections Steve´s mind makes. Psychonautic exploration is fun and healthy--in distinct moderation.
Steve might not know the word.
Outside the clopclop of a horse or mule and the unintelligable babble of Spanish via megaphone.
No one is listening, che. Lo siento.
"Yeah, so how old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
"Yeah, when I was your age I was out in New Mexico searching for peyote."
For the whole year?
"Never found it though. I got a whole book on hallucinogenic plants. Really cool, man."
This is the sort of dude who gives Nixon and his cronies the nearest thing to justification they ever could have had.
From what I´ve heard from some Choctaw friends, peyote buttons reveal themselves only to the worthy.
Sorry, Steve.
At the carpentero´s next door, Steve asks How much for the place.
I translate.
"Tres ciento millones." Por todo? Si, por todo.
A large courtyard full of scraps and unfinished projects. Solid wood and plaster construction. Even concrete floor. Sturdy lumber supports. Unbroken roof tiles. A mahogony table stands drying, waiting for a second coat of varnish. This man, Hernan, is a craftsman.
"That´s outta my price range," grunts Steve.
The courtyard is surrounded by several rooms. A good-sized bit of property.
12,000 U.S. If you can´t afford that, what the hell are you doing here investing? I don´t bother to ask.
Maybe I´ll try to assemble some capital. The place has potential--maybe a restaurant/cantina and some guest rooms.
Dangerous thoughts.
Finally Steve is satisfied, and we return to the hostel where I manage to slip away on some pretext. As I leave, he hunkers in front of the brazier to organize the scraps of fuel. Harmless and happy in his own little world.
Friday, May 8, 2009
In the Museo de Oro in Bogota, there are an unimaginable number of ancient pieces of hand-crafted goldwork. The history is very interesting, including videos reproducing techniques for casting gold.
Apparently they used beeswax to design the piece, encapsulated it in soft clay which hardened in the fire (also melting out the wax) and then poured in the molten gold.
We wandered around the museum looking at all the pieces and talking about value and perception and antiquity.
On the third floor, the arrangement is slightly more pointed (and less linear!) talking about the indios cosmology and worldview. I was pleased to discover that they believed the universe consisted of multiple layers coexisting and interacting.
This led us into conversation about how our current (western) ideas are really rather backwards. Though we are technologically advanced, our worldview is quite infantile in that we believe everything we see is everything there is. In fact there are infinite dimensions, and we merely perceive three (though some people think they understand time to be the fourth).
This naturally led to discussions about psychedelics and trances and other transcendental mental processes--the museum also had a couple interesting displays of yopo and yage and coca.
Such mind-bending chemicals enable people to dip deep into our imaginations to see a bit beyond the mundane (even gravel is intensely beautiful with some psilocybic nudging), but the Establishment has always been fearful of such substances (hence Nixon and his drug czars rabidly pursuing LSD and other such substances that actually make people think differently about the world, but more or less ignoring the dangerous drugs that destroy people) because of the threat they pose to people's subservient and sheepish worldview.
Anyway, we wandered around the museum and into a circular room with a low ceiling. Suddenly the lights went out and the automatic doors slithered shut.
Encased in total darkness, we were a bit nervous, but a shamanistic chant emanated from hidden speakers, and a dim glow illuminated (and silhouetted) innumerable gold pieces from behind.
The lights cycled and moved, almost in a slow strobe. Some of the pieces looked like a flock of birds. Others were large discs. Some were arranged in spiral (a la the indigenous view of time).
I quickly lost my awareness of space, entranced as I was by the moving light and low rhythmic murmuring.
When the lights came on again, I felt somewhat dazed, though very calm and content.
I must, I once again resolved, develop some meditation/trance skills.
The sun slipped free of the horizon, chasing the darkness and illuminating a small figure seated cross-legged in the dirt in front of a wall of granite. A modest fire flickered shadows across his face as he peered closely at a bit of shiny metal held lightly in dirt-caked fingers.
Hunched as he was, the smoke from a clay jar between his feet billowed in his nostrils and streamed around his ears. Fragrance. Vision. Transa.
Screened off from the world.
His spirit soared with the smoke and he breathed deeply.
Overhead, beyond human sight, an eagle soared on thermals.
In the distance, muted by a thick grove of trees, the village bustled and hummed.
But the sage and yopo filled his ears.
He flipped the ingot in the air and deftly caught it in his teeth. A flat polished stone sat next to his hip and he shifted his weight so he could lean over it.
With the rhythm of the wind, he began pounding the ingot, spreading it like clay. After a while he gripped it between two clay rods and thrust it into the fire. When it was hot, he pulled it out, dipped it in water, and found his rhythm, rocking and pounding and pounding and rocking. Muscles rippled on his shoulders, and tendons stood out on his arms like vines in the trees.
Again he heated the gold and annealed it.
And again.
Until it was thin as a coca leaf.
He added another coal to the herbs in the clay pot, and squinted at the yellow disc. The sun was a full handswidth above the horizon now, and he held the gold up to compare.
As the thick white smoke filled his senses with fragrance and calm, he picked up a long sharp stone. The tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he scratched a design into the gold.
He positioned the sharp stone and tapped it with a rock.
tik tik tik
tik tik tik
tik tik tik
The sound echoed off the granite, mingling with the crackling fire and the hush of the wind. Briefly he closed his eyes and enjoyed the song. tik tik
A spiral emerged on the disc. He narrowed his eyes and rode the rhythm of the spiral until it joined with the eye and beak of an eagle.
He stopped tapping and glanced skyward. Somewhere, eagle was watching, searching.
When he could not see the bird, he returned to the gold disc.
tik tik
tik
tik
More gently, carefully now. Details. A feather. A nostril.
tik
He raised the disc to the sun again and smiled.
The smoke filled him with calm and soothing heaviness.
His feet had long since fallen asleep, and as he shifted, they were filled with a tingling pain. Momentarily worried, he glanced back at the sun. Angry? Had he made a mistake?
Suddenly the screech of the eagle tore through the stillness and all was well. He punched a hole through the disc, and rubbed the whole with sand til it shone with a splendor of life-giving brotherhood with the sun.
He lay back, stretched his legs, and absorbed the warmth like a lizard.
Hunched as he was, the smoke from a clay jar between his feet billowed in his nostrils and streamed around his ears. Fragrance. Vision. Transa.
Screened off from the world.
His spirit soared with the smoke and he breathed deeply.
Overhead, beyond human sight, an eagle soared on thermals.
In the distance, muted by a thick grove of trees, the village bustled and hummed.
But the sage and yopo filled his ears.
He flipped the ingot in the air and deftly caught it in his teeth. A flat polished stone sat next to his hip and he shifted his weight so he could lean over it.
With the rhythm of the wind, he began pounding the ingot, spreading it like clay. After a while he gripped it between two clay rods and thrust it into the fire. When it was hot, he pulled it out, dipped it in water, and found his rhythm, rocking and pounding and pounding and rocking. Muscles rippled on his shoulders, and tendons stood out on his arms like vines in the trees.
Again he heated the gold and annealed it.
And again.
Until it was thin as a coca leaf.
He added another coal to the herbs in the clay pot, and squinted at the yellow disc. The sun was a full handswidth above the horizon now, and he held the gold up to compare.
As the thick white smoke filled his senses with fragrance and calm, he picked up a long sharp stone. The tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he scratched a design into the gold.
He positioned the sharp stone and tapped it with a rock.
tik tik tik
tik tik tik
tik tik tik
The sound echoed off the granite, mingling with the crackling fire and the hush of the wind. Briefly he closed his eyes and enjoyed the song. tik tik
A spiral emerged on the disc. He narrowed his eyes and rode the rhythm of the spiral until it joined with the eye and beak of an eagle.
He stopped tapping and glanced skyward. Somewhere, eagle was watching, searching.
When he could not see the bird, he returned to the gold disc.
tik tik
tik
tik
More gently, carefully now. Details. A feather. A nostril.
tik
He raised the disc to the sun again and smiled.
The smoke filled him with calm and soothing heaviness.
His feet had long since fallen asleep, and as he shifted, they were filled with a tingling pain. Momentarily worried, he glanced back at the sun. Angry? Had he made a mistake?
Suddenly the screech of the eagle tore through the stillness and all was well. He punched a hole through the disc, and rubbed the whole with sand til it shone with a splendor of life-giving brotherhood with the sun.
He lay back, stretched his legs, and absorbed the warmth like a lizard.
5/1/09
almost 4:20 am
Oh my god.
So many memories. Unbelievable in scope and complexity!
Homie, I've had to pull into the old cemetary to have a good cry, man. My eyes brim up, obscuring my vision and making driving impossible.
Goddamn.
Some crazy times, man, from high-school friendly fencing up into an indellible development freshman year and stoop-smoking roommate-meeting before we barely knew each other.
I can't even fathom that I just said goodbye for possibly the last time ever. I hope not, but if there's one thing we've taught and lived by, it's that anything's possible.
Even now, my sorrow overwhelms me. You have been there for me through everything; through triumphs and tribulations, through ups and downs, summits and nadirs, girlfriends and lovers, arrests and graduations, fifths and forties and eighths and pints and quarts and grams and gallons and pussy and passion and sun and sorry and truth and lies and...and...
...everything.
I mean, for Christ's sake, we have traded personalities!
And women.
And bottles.
And clothes.
And loves, hates, cares, victories, defeats.
Man, I cannot believe it might be two years or more until I see feel hear smell sense you again.
Who knows what the future might bring?
We, who know that there is only present and everything else is made up and imagined.
We, who know that nothing is as important, as meaningful, as everything!
We, who have traded souls.
We who have endured both heaven and hell together.
We who have cried together, laughed together, slept together, ate together, fought together--LIVED together.
We.
Remarkable we.
Incomparable we.
Closer that either of us would ever admit.
Shed tears together.
As I am now...alone.
As I imagine you are as well.
Through everything; bros. Homies. Friends. Counterweights. Harmonizing jazz-riffing charm-smiling lady-killing pot-smoking song-singing life-living self-loving world-saving book-reading bar-drinking cavorting goddamn scoundrels!
And then, of course, there's all the crazy shit between all the lines.
My god, chum, we've been inside of the same woman!
Who could ask for more?
I could, dude. I could ask for a hundred--a thousand--more college-chillin' days like the ones we have loved and loathed, prized and passed, imagined and ignored, anticipated and forgotten.
Inseperable to the end.
I can't even remember not being best friends with you. What a weird concept.
Here I am with Dispatch playing in the background many minutes after we reminisced about that miraculous summer long ago when they asked if you'd mind going out on trip with your homeboy.
Oh my god.
They didn't even know.
Dude, it's getting late, and I haven't even begun to describe what you have been for me.
Crying again.
Nothing I could ever put on paper can come close to capturing this string of moments. This crazy trip.
I'm dying, dogg. I have no idea how to lock this shit in my memory. My perception changes so much, how can I keep you close?
Goddamn but I'm getting sentimental.
I hate long goodbyes. I don't do well with them. I need to just get gone, man, disappear. Vanish into the mists for a while.
We both know what I mean.
Listen, there's a whole lot more I'd like to say, but I have to get to sleep before my journey tomorrow.
Peace be the way.
Not all who wander are lost.
Yours in brotherly love,
Paul
almost 4:20 am
Oh my god.
So many memories. Unbelievable in scope and complexity!
Homie, I've had to pull into the old cemetary to have a good cry, man. My eyes brim up, obscuring my vision and making driving impossible.
Goddamn.
Some crazy times, man, from high-school friendly fencing up into an indellible development freshman year and stoop-smoking roommate-meeting before we barely knew each other.
I can't even fathom that I just said goodbye for possibly the last time ever. I hope not, but if there's one thing we've taught and lived by, it's that anything's possible.
Even now, my sorrow overwhelms me. You have been there for me through everything; through triumphs and tribulations, through ups and downs, summits and nadirs, girlfriends and lovers, arrests and graduations, fifths and forties and eighths and pints and quarts and grams and gallons and pussy and passion and sun and sorry and truth and lies and...and...
...everything.
I mean, for Christ's sake, we have traded personalities!
And women.
And bottles.
And clothes.
And loves, hates, cares, victories, defeats.
Man, I cannot believe it might be two years or more until I see feel hear smell sense you again.
Who knows what the future might bring?
We, who know that there is only present and everything else is made up and imagined.
We, who know that nothing is as important, as meaningful, as everything!
We, who have traded souls.
We who have endured both heaven and hell together.
We who have cried together, laughed together, slept together, ate together, fought together--LIVED together.
We.
Remarkable we.
Incomparable we.
Closer that either of us would ever admit.
Shed tears together.
As I am now...alone.
As I imagine you are as well.
Through everything; bros. Homies. Friends. Counterweights. Harmonizing jazz-riffing charm-smiling lady-killing pot-smoking song-singing life-living self-loving world-saving book-reading bar-drinking cavorting goddamn scoundrels!
And then, of course, there's all the crazy shit between all the lines.
My god, chum, we've been inside of the same woman!
Who could ask for more?
I could, dude. I could ask for a hundred--a thousand--more college-chillin' days like the ones we have loved and loathed, prized and passed, imagined and ignored, anticipated and forgotten.
Inseperable to the end.
I can't even remember not being best friends with you. What a weird concept.
Here I am with Dispatch playing in the background many minutes after we reminisced about that miraculous summer long ago when they asked if you'd mind going out on trip with your homeboy.
Oh my god.
They didn't even know.
Dude, it's getting late, and I haven't even begun to describe what you have been for me.
Crying again.
Nothing I could ever put on paper can come close to capturing this string of moments. This crazy trip.
I'm dying, dogg. I have no idea how to lock this shit in my memory. My perception changes so much, how can I keep you close?
Goddamn but I'm getting sentimental.
I hate long goodbyes. I don't do well with them. I need to just get gone, man, disappear. Vanish into the mists for a while.
We both know what I mean.
Listen, there's a whole lot more I'd like to say, but I have to get to sleep before my journey tomorrow.
Peace be the way.
Not all who wander are lost.
Yours in brotherly love,
Paul
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I´m here. Utterly unbelievable.
I felt very much the gringo in the airport, and I lacked the confidence to speak in spanish to anyone (especially because even when anyone addressed me, it was in english) and I began to worry about the future. Cold feet, as it were.
However, after sleeping fitfully through the three.5 hour flight, I stepped down the stairs onto the tarmac into a bus to the terminal and began to worry about finding an ATM.
I tried some spanish with the customs agents, but they grew frustrated and switched to english. It was especially difficult because they all wore surgical masks to protect them from the swine flu menace. I cannot believe people´s capacity to surrender to fear mongering. Probably more than a third of the pasajeros on the airplane wore the masks (I´ve been surprised to see several pedestrians on the bogota streets also wearing masks. how horrible to live under such paranoic conditions).
Having cleared customs, I stood in line to change money and I heard a New Zealander (could tell by his flight-of-the-conchords accent) flailing to communicate about ATMs. I stepped in with him and we walked toward where the vague directions pointed. We talked for a while and then I acted the translator when we had to find taxis to our respective hostels. Suddenly my confianza was back. Though my spanish is still not quite up to par, I´ve been finding that I have more than many of my fellow travelers, and this is quite a relief.
I felt very much the gringo in the airport, and I lacked the confidence to speak in spanish to anyone (especially because even when anyone addressed me, it was in english) and I began to worry about the future. Cold feet, as it were.
However, after sleeping fitfully through the three.5 hour flight, I stepped down the stairs onto the tarmac into a bus to the terminal and began to worry about finding an ATM.
I tried some spanish with the customs agents, but they grew frustrated and switched to english. It was especially difficult because they all wore surgical masks to protect them from the swine flu menace. I cannot believe people´s capacity to surrender to fear mongering. Probably more than a third of the pasajeros on the airplane wore the masks (I´ve been surprised to see several pedestrians on the bogota streets also wearing masks. how horrible to live under such paranoic conditions).
Having cleared customs, I stood in line to change money and I heard a New Zealander (could tell by his flight-of-the-conchords accent) flailing to communicate about ATMs. I stepped in with him and we walked toward where the vague directions pointed. We talked for a while and then I acted the translator when we had to find taxis to our respective hostels. Suddenly my confianza was back. Though my spanish is still not quite up to par, I´ve been finding that I have more than many of my fellow travelers, and this is quite a relief.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Every day recently has been full of "lasts." Last trip to the arb; last day of work; last shit in various toilets around campus; last kisses; last ann arbor adventures. My departure date draws near, rapidly and without hesitation.
Finally moved out and closed up shop--an awfully arduous process spanning a long and tedious weekend of trying to dispose of my domestic detritus (but mostly failing). I still have just as much pack-rat clutter as always. Some things never change.
But at least I'm escaping--for a while anyway. After the wedding I can seek a more long-term escape. Perhaps ranching in Australia. Or fishing in Alaska. Or rangering in a national park. (and I welcome any other sweet suggestions!). Anything goes, really, except this convoluted and washed-out concept of "real life." Please.
As if I could ever handle a rut-setting cubicle-stuffed existence. I've just barely slipped my anchor as it is, goddamnit. What was I thinking putting down roots?
Phew!
Finally out again, with only my whim and luck with bureaucracy to guide me and determine my path.
Relief wells over me at times , but I am not sure it will really hit me until I'm standing on a street somewhere trying to understand what anyone's saying.
But hell, I cannot bloody wait.
Ciao putos!
Finally moved out and closed up shop--an awfully arduous process spanning a long and tedious weekend of trying to dispose of my domestic detritus (but mostly failing). I still have just as much pack-rat clutter as always. Some things never change.
But at least I'm escaping--for a while anyway. After the wedding I can seek a more long-term escape. Perhaps ranching in Australia. Or fishing in Alaska. Or rangering in a national park. (and I welcome any other sweet suggestions!). Anything goes, really, except this convoluted and washed-out concept of "real life." Please.
As if I could ever handle a rut-setting cubicle-stuffed existence. I've just barely slipped my anchor as it is, goddamnit. What was I thinking putting down roots?
Phew!
Finally out again, with only my whim and luck with bureaucracy to guide me and determine my path.
Relief wells over me at times , but I am not sure it will really hit me until I'm standing on a street somewhere trying to understand what anyone's saying.
But hell, I cannot bloody wait.
Ciao putos!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
It's finally settled. I'm going to Colombia. Even now I can scarcely believe it, though every now and then I enjoy a spine-thrilling stomach-fluttering electrical revelation that this is it and I'm actually doing it.
I've been talking about it for months now, never (i'll be honest) really confident that I would back it up and walk the walk. Because that's what it is: a walkabout.
Leaving on Cinco de Mayo--a Mexican holiday with no relevance in South America, but a bit titillating nonetheless--for a solid three months. I'll spend all my money, have a great time, and write nonstop. Then back to the States for Eric's wedding and a few months of work to save up for the next jaunt.
I registered with the U.S. Embassy today.
Purpose of Visit: Escaping the clutches of the hometown to see the world. The plan is to hostel-hop around all the northern South American countries. Return to the US in early August; departure site unknown.
What are the chances someone at the embassy actually reads the Purposes of Visit listed by various excited travelers. That would be a fun job; just read and react to people's reasons. Get some diplomatic interaction going with the disaffected proletariat. Let us in!
Anyway, I'm extremely excited and I plan to use this as a travelogue. Consider this the first entry.
I've been talking about it for months now, never (i'll be honest) really confident that I would back it up and walk the walk. Because that's what it is: a walkabout.
Leaving on Cinco de Mayo--a Mexican holiday with no relevance in South America, but a bit titillating nonetheless--for a solid three months. I'll spend all my money, have a great time, and write nonstop. Then back to the States for Eric's wedding and a few months of work to save up for the next jaunt.
I registered with the U.S. Embassy today.
Purpose of Visit: Escaping the clutches of the hometown to see the world. The plan is to hostel-hop around all the northern South American countries. Return to the US in early August; departure site unknown.
What are the chances someone at the embassy actually reads the Purposes of Visit listed by various excited travelers. That would be a fun job; just read and react to people's reasons. Get some diplomatic interaction going with the disaffected proletariat. Let us in!
Anyway, I'm extremely excited and I plan to use this as a travelogue. Consider this the first entry.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Once upon a time, there was a sapling atop a hill in the middle of a field. The sun shone on the rolling green, and the sapling's leaves stretched to take in the light. They stretched so hard they grew longer and wider, putting forth new stems and shoots.
The warm earth cradled the sapling, nurturing it and sheltering it. A root dug downward.
From out of the blue sky a tiny bird appeared, climbing and diving through the leaves. It paused to rest on an upper branch.
"Bird," said the tree after a while had passed. "Bird, how is it that you sing with such carefree energy? Aren't you horribly frightened not to have the safety of earth?"
"Tree," whistled the bird, "if only you knew what it was to fly."
"But if only you knew what it was to stand firm in the strongest wind--can you truly be happy in the buffeting wind?"
They sat in silence, both dwelling in thought. The bird shifted from foot to foot. Now and then the bird hopped and fluttered. The tree rustled and flexed its limbs.
"I can't imagine being bound to the earth."
"I can't imagine being so small and frail."
"Don't you worry," asked the bird, "that your root will grow so strong and fast that you'll never move? Even an inch?"
"Don't you worry," replied the tree, "that your wings will grow tired and you'll lose your ability to fly? Then what?"
"I hadn't thought about that," said the bird.
"I hadn't thought about that," mused the tree.
The wind blew gently, and the leaves rustled and the feathers ruffled. And still the two sat in pensive silence.
When the sun had moved to a different vantage point, the tree spoke.
"I'm starting to wish this root weren't so strong."
"And I'm starting to wonder about the strength of my wings."
Filled with doubt, the bird hopped to another branch. The tree dropped a few leaves.
"I need to fly away and think about things," it chirped.
"I need to consider this root for a while," the tree murmured.
The wind moaned in the branches as the bird took wing. Years went by. One afternoon, the bird sailed and soared and dipped and dived until its wings gave out and it thudded to the earth at the foot of a thick gnarled trunk.
The warm earth cradled the sapling, nurturing it and sheltering it. A root dug downward.
From out of the blue sky a tiny bird appeared, climbing and diving through the leaves. It paused to rest on an upper branch.
"Bird," said the tree after a while had passed. "Bird, how is it that you sing with such carefree energy? Aren't you horribly frightened not to have the safety of earth?"
"Tree," whistled the bird, "if only you knew what it was to fly."
"But if only you knew what it was to stand firm in the strongest wind--can you truly be happy in the buffeting wind?"
They sat in silence, both dwelling in thought. The bird shifted from foot to foot. Now and then the bird hopped and fluttered. The tree rustled and flexed its limbs.
"I can't imagine being bound to the earth."
"I can't imagine being so small and frail."
"Don't you worry," asked the bird, "that your root will grow so strong and fast that you'll never move? Even an inch?"
"Don't you worry," replied the tree, "that your wings will grow tired and you'll lose your ability to fly? Then what?"
"I hadn't thought about that," said the bird.
"I hadn't thought about that," mused the tree.
The wind blew gently, and the leaves rustled and the feathers ruffled. And still the two sat in pensive silence.
When the sun had moved to a different vantage point, the tree spoke.
"I'm starting to wish this root weren't so strong."
"And I'm starting to wonder about the strength of my wings."
Filled with doubt, the bird hopped to another branch. The tree dropped a few leaves.
"I need to fly away and think about things," it chirped.
"I need to consider this root for a while," the tree murmured.
The wind moaned in the branches as the bird took wing. Years went by. One afternoon, the bird sailed and soared and dipped and dived until its wings gave out and it thudded to the earth at the foot of a thick gnarled trunk.
Friday, October 17, 2008
It's 4 o'clock and all I want to do is write something. On my typewriter. Which is far far too loud for the small hours in a house full of sleeping students. So I bide my time, as I always do. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, as they say--until the last fell notes of the clock in which I believe only because I have to.
It piles up, the amount of brilliance I'm just waiting to unload--waiting for the right time, the right circumstance, the right experience--until I'm fit to burst, and then it's all forgotten. Gone with the sands of time whose fleeting fantasy guides us all.
Tick tock click clack. It calls my name, but I'm unable to answer. My fingers fizzle when they dare brush the keys. Never enough time. Never enough inclination.
And yet I can feel it, somewhere scarcely tangible. Building; growing; evolving. It seems only a matter of when...
It piles up, the amount of brilliance I'm just waiting to unload--waiting for the right time, the right circumstance, the right experience--until I'm fit to burst, and then it's all forgotten. Gone with the sands of time whose fleeting fantasy guides us all.
Tick tock click clack. It calls my name, but I'm unable to answer. My fingers fizzle when they dare brush the keys. Never enough time. Never enough inclination.
And yet I can feel it, somewhere scarcely tangible. Building; growing; evolving. It seems only a matter of when...
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Corona Conceit
There’s an ancient piece of machinery occupying the star spot on my desk. It has a keyboard organized much the same as the newfangled computer next to it, but the keys reach out invitingly; honestly. No hidden functions, no backlit letters, no fickle electronics.
Sheet-metal body, heavy and robust, colored like spilt wine. It exudes an energy of wisdom, experience, and history. Faintly musty like an old leather chair in the far corner of a leather-bound library. How many words has it written? sentences inscribed? paragraphs composed? Like an old violin: how many hands have tickled out a reflection?
A sheet of paper sits waiting––mostly blank––with a few words etched in black ink. Across the page, a black and red ribbon stretches like a banner of literary significance. Below the ribbon, a multitude of metal letters lie ready, poised to strike. A silent story unfolds, before my fingertips even brush the lillypad keys.
And then––no secret writing in the rhythmic clack clack clack––the song of prose grooves to the steady strike of type on paper. No pattern of zeros and ones: all words, all the time. Dancing and skipping across the white expanse like the footprints of fictitious figures in my dreams.
Old and new, side-by-side on my desk, coexist in perfect anachronic harmony. Which will my fingers flit for today? They say a man’s desk is a window to his soul—or maybe they don’t, but perhaps they should…
There’s an ancient piece of machinery occupying the star spot on my desk. It has a keyboard organized much the same as the newfangled computer next to it, but the keys reach out invitingly; honestly. No hidden functions, no backlit letters, no fickle electronics.
Sheet-metal body, heavy and robust, colored like spilt wine. It exudes an energy of wisdom, experience, and history. Faintly musty like an old leather chair in the far corner of a leather-bound library. How many words has it written? sentences inscribed? paragraphs composed? Like an old violin: how many hands have tickled out a reflection?
A sheet of paper sits waiting––mostly blank––with a few words etched in black ink. Across the page, a black and red ribbon stretches like a banner of literary significance. Below the ribbon, a multitude of metal letters lie ready, poised to strike. A silent story unfolds, before my fingertips even brush the lillypad keys.
And then––no secret writing in the rhythmic clack clack clack––the song of prose grooves to the steady strike of type on paper. No pattern of zeros and ones: all words, all the time. Dancing and skipping across the white expanse like the footprints of fictitious figures in my dreams.
Old and new, side-by-side on my desk, coexist in perfect anachronic harmony. Which will my fingers flit for today? They say a man’s desk is a window to his soul—or maybe they don’t, but perhaps they should…
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Looking for excitement? Philosophical conversation? A free beer or six? Grab a good book, hoist a travel mug full of coffee, don a ruggedly handsome face and a thick pair of legs, and saunter on over to Dupont circle when the weather's fair and the breeze is fresh.
I was sitting on a bench when a fellow approached and sat down. Moments later, he apologized for blowing smoke in my face--I hadn't even noticed, due to the cleansing wind--and stood up. Shortly after, he engaged me in conversation--small talk. Sports, girls, marriage, my open book, anything that came to mind.
I was just beginning to lose interest and yearning to get back to my reading when he offered to buy me a beer. I didn't need to look at my watch to know it was hardly beer-thirty, but I acquiesced anyway, despite the warning klaxons screaming in my head.
Shut up, I scolded, there's no way this guy can do anything to you against your will. Better watch out for roofies though, my afterthought added.
I figured I'd go to a bar, sip a drink, and leave to scoop my lovely lady from work. No harm, no foul.
The first bar we entered was an Irish pub where, to my embarrassment (and moderate relief) I discovered I had exchanged my ID for my visitor's pass, and I was without age-verification.
Undeterred, Chuck led the way to the next bar. Same story: No ID, no drink.
Instead, we went to a liquor store, where I picked out an IPA. No sense in wasting a perfectly good opportunity. After all, Chuck instructed me to pick Whatever I Wanted. (In the bar, my first instinct had been to go for Chivas. Chuck had opted for vodka/cranberry--yet another dead giveaway.)
Sixpack in hand, I accompanied Chuck back to the grassy traffic circle where I poured a bottle into my emptied coffee mug and proceeded to drink in public. He told me about his musical career. The conversation was wholesomely bro-ish, and I felt in no way threatened. I guess he just liked to hear philosophy and bullshit from a strapping young straight guy.
As we parted ways--I toward a pair of beautiful bouncy breasts and flowing, herbal-scented hair, and he toward whatever he had planned for the rest of the day--Chuck got a phone call. He said it was a Marine whose Marine wife had just been sent to Iraq. The guy wanted Chuck to pick up some weed and join him for a sordid sodomitic romp in the Pentagon...
I was sitting on a bench when a fellow approached and sat down. Moments later, he apologized for blowing smoke in my face--I hadn't even noticed, due to the cleansing wind--and stood up. Shortly after, he engaged me in conversation--small talk. Sports, girls, marriage, my open book, anything that came to mind.
I was just beginning to lose interest and yearning to get back to my reading when he offered to buy me a beer. I didn't need to look at my watch to know it was hardly beer-thirty, but I acquiesced anyway, despite the warning klaxons screaming in my head.
Shut up, I scolded, there's no way this guy can do anything to you against your will. Better watch out for roofies though, my afterthought added.
I figured I'd go to a bar, sip a drink, and leave to scoop my lovely lady from work. No harm, no foul.
The first bar we entered was an Irish pub where, to my embarrassment (and moderate relief) I discovered I had exchanged my ID for my visitor's pass, and I was without age-verification.
Undeterred, Chuck led the way to the next bar. Same story: No ID, no drink.
Instead, we went to a liquor store, where I picked out an IPA. No sense in wasting a perfectly good opportunity. After all, Chuck instructed me to pick Whatever I Wanted. (In the bar, my first instinct had been to go for Chivas. Chuck had opted for vodka/cranberry--yet another dead giveaway.)
Sixpack in hand, I accompanied Chuck back to the grassy traffic circle where I poured a bottle into my emptied coffee mug and proceeded to drink in public. He told me about his musical career. The conversation was wholesomely bro-ish, and I felt in no way threatened. I guess he just liked to hear philosophy and bullshit from a strapping young straight guy.
As we parted ways--I toward a pair of beautiful bouncy breasts and flowing, herbal-scented hair, and he toward whatever he had planned for the rest of the day--Chuck got a phone call. He said it was a Marine whose Marine wife had just been sent to Iraq. The guy wanted Chuck to pick up some weed and join him for a sordid sodomitic romp in the Pentagon...
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Now and then there comes a time in everyone's life when he finds himself in a position in which he would never wish to be.
Just this weekend, I was in a Metro station when all of a sudden I had an urgent need to unload. Struggling through the turnstile with my bulky bags, I asked the location of the nearest restroom. Perhaps sensing my urgency, the guard slowly responded, "Sure, right there at the end of the hall."
Expecting a run-of-the-mill public facility, I hurried toward what looked like a cross between a '50s concept mobile home and a space shuttle. After I lurched inside, the door hissed shut once I located and thumbed the heat-seeking button.
Convenient metal hooks accepted my luggage, and a sign suggested I press another heat button to access the toilet seat. It slid out from the wall dripping water and smelling faintly of industrial cleanser. At least I would be spared the hassle of wrestling with one of those paper seat covers which invariably stick embarrassingly to ones cheeks. I dropped my shorts and sat.
Across the room, a sign proclaimed, "Time limit: 10 mins. If amber light begins to flash, exit immediately." Below the unlit warning light were the words, "Wash Cycle."
I finished my business and turned to the toilet paper dispenser. It too featured a heat-sensing button, which I pushed. Expecting a quick whir and the appearance of several sheets of toilet tissue, imagine my dismay when nothing happened. I thumbed the button again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
Fighting panic, I glanced at the amber warning light which remained mercifully dark. How much time had elapsed? How many minutes had I left?
Fortunately, being a writer in perpetual possession of paper afforded me an uncomfortable and somewhat chafed out. Scrambling to tear sheets from my notebook, cursing colorfully all the while, I wondered what would happen if I were still seated when the Wash Cycle began. Would I drown? Would I be clean?
Finally I finished and washed my hands several times, lurching out of the box in the nick of time.
For all its technological wonder, the space-age shitter had one fatal flaw: it required a human to refill the toilet paper.
Just this weekend, I was in a Metro station when all of a sudden I had an urgent need to unload. Struggling through the turnstile with my bulky bags, I asked the location of the nearest restroom. Perhaps sensing my urgency, the guard slowly responded, "Sure, right there at the end of the hall."
Expecting a run-of-the-mill public facility, I hurried toward what looked like a cross between a '50s concept mobile home and a space shuttle. After I lurched inside, the door hissed shut once I located and thumbed the heat-seeking button.
Convenient metal hooks accepted my luggage, and a sign suggested I press another heat button to access the toilet seat. It slid out from the wall dripping water and smelling faintly of industrial cleanser. At least I would be spared the hassle of wrestling with one of those paper seat covers which invariably stick embarrassingly to ones cheeks. I dropped my shorts and sat.
Across the room, a sign proclaimed, "Time limit: 10 mins. If amber light begins to flash, exit immediately." Below the unlit warning light were the words, "Wash Cycle."
I finished my business and turned to the toilet paper dispenser. It too featured a heat-sensing button, which I pushed. Expecting a quick whir and the appearance of several sheets of toilet tissue, imagine my dismay when nothing happened. I thumbed the button again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
Fighting panic, I glanced at the amber warning light which remained mercifully dark. How much time had elapsed? How many minutes had I left?
Fortunately, being a writer in perpetual possession of paper afforded me an uncomfortable and somewhat chafed out. Scrambling to tear sheets from my notebook, cursing colorfully all the while, I wondered what would happen if I were still seated when the Wash Cycle began. Would I drown? Would I be clean?
Finally I finished and washed my hands several times, lurching out of the box in the nick of time.
For all its technological wonder, the space-age shitter had one fatal flaw: it required a human to refill the toilet paper.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
What is it with girls? What goes on in those pretty heads of theirs? It really bothers me that their insanity affects me so deeply. I can't quite figure out just why I'm so interested that I'm willing to deal with such back and forth, up and down, twisting spiraling impossible-to-figure-out madness. It seems to me that it should be easy enough to just let go and move on, but I'm somehow stuck.
Women wield a kind of weird power, and it really gives me an appreciation for priests and monks and hermits. Now that I think about it, uninterrupted solitude and disinterest in women might not be a bad way to be.
Women wield a kind of weird power, and it really gives me an appreciation for priests and monks and hermits. Now that I think about it, uninterrupted solitude and disinterest in women might not be a bad way to be.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Egad, has it come to this? Lipstick? Puhleez. I think we've had enough of this smear campaign shit--and I do not mean that as another goddamn lipstick pun. Why can't they just play straight? Why does it have to come down to playground tactics?
Come on! We're gonna go squeeze glue on his seat--want to come along?
Right. Count me out.
Come on! We're gonna go squeeze glue on his seat--want to come along?
Right. Count me out.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
I can't sleep. There's been a lot on my mind today, right from the moment I awoke. The rest of the day passed paradoxically in a stand-still sort of way. It seemed I could no longer convince myself that time existed. I was entirely too aware of the instant and the fact that any sense of time we have is merely a construct of memory, a chain of instants strung together to give a semblance of continuity.
I wonder what causes such days. There are a couple issues I can think of that might have led to the odd feeling of today. But it couldn't be any one thing, right? Or maybe my mind is just too focused on what I'm missing that it suddenly became aware of its fleeting existence and overwhelming insignificance.
Today I floated through the universe, stuck in the instant, and the whole day had a nightmarish quality. Usually I enjoy my awareness of How Things Are, but today, it just seemed downright wrong.
However, I did enjoy myself with a book and a good cigar, so I wasn't unhappy. I just don't have to words to accurately or adequately describe the day. I just hope tomorrow isn't the same. I need a rest from it.
I also feel much farther than normal from the one I love, and I'm wondering if it's already starting to crumble...
I wonder what causes such days. There are a couple issues I can think of that might have led to the odd feeling of today. But it couldn't be any one thing, right? Or maybe my mind is just too focused on what I'm missing that it suddenly became aware of its fleeting existence and overwhelming insignificance.
Today I floated through the universe, stuck in the instant, and the whole day had a nightmarish quality. Usually I enjoy my awareness of How Things Are, but today, it just seemed downright wrong.
However, I did enjoy myself with a book and a good cigar, so I wasn't unhappy. I just don't have to words to accurately or adequately describe the day. I just hope tomorrow isn't the same. I need a rest from it.
I also feel much farther than normal from the one I love, and I'm wondering if it's already starting to crumble...
Sunday, August 31, 2008
First day of practical Palio training. It was hectic and my feet hurt, but I think I'll be able to handle it. I'm looking forward to getting out on my own and not having to shadow someone (and get tips!). I had something brilliant to say, but I plumb forgot. Now I'm cooling my heels and warming my belly with some Chivas Regal--an excellent drink.
Edited: Ah ha! I remembered:
Sauntering into the doors, decked out in my spiffy new all-black outfit (with a three-colored tie), I looked for the manager who'd introduce me to my trainer.
"Oh, you're working outside with David."
"Better get a polo for him," he added as an afterthought. The outside sections aren't air-conditioned.
I donned the polo, realizing at the same time that my tattoo was now visible, and I hadn't put on a watch. I was in violation of the no-tattoos-visible policy. Goddamnit, I thought, seeking a wrist band or BandAid. We found tape. Now, taped up, I looked like an athete. In my eyes, anyway. Badass. Yes.
However, I now find myself in flagrant violation of my primary principles, which include, ironically, never holding a job that disallows bearing a tattoo on my left wrist--commemorated, until recently, by getting a tattoo on my left wrist. And now I have to hide it. Ah, me.
Anyway, once I start making money and rolling in dough--by the way, Palio serves Zingermann's bread--I'll be happy. It seems as though the people working there are pretty cool too, which is good. I guess people are pretty cool wherever you are. As I strode (and sometimes scurried) hither and thither, I recognized the odd and wonderful sensation of being in a completely separate world from the majority. Not a patron is privy, not a guest can guess the esoteric and exclusive existence chillin' in parallel to their own. The staff is completely separated, cordoned off as it were, from the guests--never customers: guests. I can't wait to be a connected member.
Edited: Ah ha! I remembered:
Sauntering into the doors, decked out in my spiffy new all-black outfit (with a three-colored tie), I looked for the manager who'd introduce me to my trainer.
"Oh, you're working outside with David."
"Better get a polo for him," he added as an afterthought. The outside sections aren't air-conditioned.
I donned the polo, realizing at the same time that my tattoo was now visible, and I hadn't put on a watch. I was in violation of the no-tattoos-visible policy. Goddamnit, I thought, seeking a wrist band or BandAid. We found tape. Now, taped up, I looked like an athete. In my eyes, anyway. Badass. Yes.
However, I now find myself in flagrant violation of my primary principles, which include, ironically, never holding a job that disallows bearing a tattoo on my left wrist--commemorated, until recently, by getting a tattoo on my left wrist. And now I have to hide it. Ah, me.
Anyway, once I start making money and rolling in dough--by the way, Palio serves Zingermann's bread--I'll be happy. It seems as though the people working there are pretty cool too, which is good. I guess people are pretty cool wherever you are. As I strode (and sometimes scurried) hither and thither, I recognized the odd and wonderful sensation of being in a completely separate world from the majority. Not a patron is privy, not a guest can guess the esoteric and exclusive existence chillin' in parallel to their own. The staff is completely separated, cordoned off as it were, from the guests--never customers: guests. I can't wait to be a connected member.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Republicans are brilliant. Evilly brilliant. McCain's choice of a woman as his running mate is a huge blow to democrats and anyone who's intelligent enough to understand that republicans do not have the best interests of the people in mind and they're just trying to steal votes.
All those women and feminist supporters who were planning on voting for McCain out of some stupid spite because Obama ousted their choice are poised on a knife edge of change. Hillary grabbed them and swayed them with her speech. But I fear McCain grabbed them all back by picking a woman--regardless of the fact that she's younger than Obama and inexperienced (a friggin MAYOR mostly) when McCain railed against that with his entire force.
I think we're screwed. The only bright side is, win or lose, we're getting a minority in office for the first time since Catholic Kennedy.
All those women and feminist supporters who were planning on voting for McCain out of some stupid spite because Obama ousted their choice are poised on a knife edge of change. Hillary grabbed them and swayed them with her speech. But I fear McCain grabbed them all back by picking a woman--regardless of the fact that she's younger than Obama and inexperienced (a friggin MAYOR mostly) when McCain railed against that with his entire force.
I think we're screwed. The only bright side is, win or lose, we're getting a minority in office for the first time since Catholic Kennedy.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
I've been watching the Democratic National Convention off and on. Usually more off than on, but the speeches I've seen have been wildly inspiring. Maybe not quite enough to get me out in the trenches, but certainly enough to get my election juices flowing.
Finally, finally, finally, the democrats have fronted a candidate with some chutzpah, some verve. No more limp biscuit, lame duck, tired old has-beens. This guy is an up-and-comer. I'm really excited. But also really worried and nervous: the republicans are up to their usual evil tricks, and I fear that too many people are too stupid and sheepish to ignore the lies and irrelevant dirt dug up by people with nothing better to do than , and realize that anyone who votes republican and earns less than a quarter-million dollars is being duped.
I'm watching it right now and wishing I'd been watching and blogging throughout like all those people paid to post on the internet
sign: 911 was an inside job
msnbc as liberated
this could be a turning point--excitement builds; my heart starts thumping.
how can one BE a republican?
how can they sell out humanity like that?
Well, I've re-initiated the blog, and I'm hoping for some feedback. Much more to come.
Finally, finally, finally, the democrats have fronted a candidate with some chutzpah, some verve. No more limp biscuit, lame duck, tired old has-beens. This guy is an up-and-comer. I'm really excited. But also really worried and nervous: the republicans are up to their usual evil tricks, and I fear that too many people are too stupid and sheepish to ignore the lies and irrelevant dirt dug up by people with nothing better to do than , and realize that anyone who votes republican and earns less than a quarter-million dollars is being duped.
I'm watching it right now and wishing I'd been watching and blogging throughout like all those people paid to post on the internet
sign: 911 was an inside job
msnbc as liberated
this could be a turning point--excitement builds; my heart starts thumping.
how can one BE a republican?
how can they sell out humanity like that?
Well, I've re-initiated the blog, and I'm hoping for some feedback. Much more to come.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
In this day and age, psychology and psychiatry are in the stage of development equivalent to when surgeries were performed by barbers. Very scary stuff.
Of course, that doesn't at all mean I don't advocate the field. On the contrary, the only way for mind studies to advance to the point of being very helpful is the trial and error method. Psychiatrists and psychologists struggle in a field misunderstood by nearly everyone. Their craft is not supported by those profit-mongering axes of corporate evil, insurance companies. By far some of the least ethical groups of people ever to sanctimoniously step up and "grudgingly" accept our monthly deposits into the corporate coffers.
If you know someone who is considering becoming a psychologist or psychiatrist, offer a crumb of encouragement and steer them away from talking to anyone who might reveal to them the difficulty of in a field disrespected, misunderstood, and feared by most everybody.
I almost wish I had a reason to sit and talk to a psychology person.
Of course, that doesn't at all mean I don't advocate the field. On the contrary, the only way for mind studies to advance to the point of being very helpful is the trial and error method. Psychiatrists and psychologists struggle in a field misunderstood by nearly everyone. Their craft is not supported by those profit-mongering axes of corporate evil, insurance companies. By far some of the least ethical groups of people ever to sanctimoniously step up and "grudgingly" accept our monthly deposits into the corporate coffers.
If you know someone who is considering becoming a psychologist or psychiatrist, offer a crumb of encouragement and steer them away from talking to anyone who might reveal to them the difficulty of in a field disrespected, misunderstood, and feared by most everybody.
I almost wish I had a reason to sit and talk to a psychology person.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
time is such a goddamn confusing thing. there's only an instant. everything else is just a memory or dream. Seeking continuity through REM rearrangement of the neurons. It's just so weird, it freaks me out sometimes when I start to think too deeply about it.
And we barely remember--a hazy idea at best, generally--what came before this one infinite instant (<--how can that even be?). There are methods and materials that can cause the isolation and highlight of that instant. Present. The only one that really exists (our concept of past is very much alike that of the imagined future). Unfortunately, the mainstream has been rather effective in shutting down that portion of humanity. They sort of shot themselves repeatedly in the foot though, by being such poofs.
Maybe that's part of why I'm so interested (but bad at forming habits) in dream activity--specifically achieving on-purpose lucid dreams. And why I spent a good part of my younger college days soaring on the wings of demons.
As far as the past goes, it's not even difficult to completely make up a scenario in one's imagination and place it in the shelves of memories. I've tested it. For real. Eyewitness testimony is a pile of crap. Pure dramatics. The human mind is not so difficult to tap. Psychology is really our weakest science with the greatest potential--but no one pays attention to all that junk.
There are so many saps in the world, it shocks and saddens me. How does one get to be like that? If I were like that, how would I know? Am I a sap?
God I hope not.
And we barely remember--a hazy idea at best, generally--what came before this one infinite instant (<--how can that even be?). There are methods and materials that can cause the isolation and highlight of that instant. Present. The only one that really exists (our concept of past is very much alike that of the imagined future). Unfortunately, the mainstream has been rather effective in shutting down that portion of humanity. They sort of shot themselves repeatedly in the foot though, by being such poofs.
Maybe that's part of why I'm so interested (but bad at forming habits) in dream activity--specifically achieving on-purpose lucid dreams. And why I spent a good part of my younger college days soaring on the wings of demons.
As far as the past goes, it's not even difficult to completely make up a scenario in one's imagination and place it in the shelves of memories. I've tested it. For real. Eyewitness testimony is a pile of crap. Pure dramatics. The human mind is not so difficult to tap. Psychology is really our weakest science with the greatest potential--but no one pays attention to all that junk.
There are so many saps in the world, it shocks and saddens me. How does one get to be like that? If I were like that, how would I know? Am I a sap?
God I hope not.
the 37th annual Mountain Fair opened last night with a some Buddhist monks chanting prayers followed by a sweet drum circle which made me think about Indian powwows where dudes sit around a huge drum thumping away--I want to get that together sometime soon with some homies. It's intense as hell. I got to play a big bass drum, which maybe had something to do with the intensity. BOOM boom boom boom BOOM boom boom boom BOOM boom BOOM BOOM BOOM boom boom boom...hiaalaleellayeleylaalalayelyea!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Siempre digo que quería practicar mas el Español. Siempre. Pero nunca tenía la oportunidad. Hasta ahora. Mis jefes añadieron a unos Mexicanos y ahora puedo hablar. Por primero, no tenía confianza. Siempre tuve en miente las frases y conversaciones, pero siempre vacilé en miedo. No más. Puedo hablar con ellos en tópicos anchos
Me ha ponido casi intérprete entre los Mexicanos y mis jefes--lo comprendí cuando el jefe pide algo y mis amigos me miran para traducir. Pero lo difícil es que no se muchas palabras especificos para los implementos.
Está bien. Gano mucho. Ahora (como siempre) quería irme a un país donde podría hablar solamente en español.
Me ha ponido casi intérprete entre los Mexicanos y mis jefes--lo comprendí cuando el jefe pide algo y mis amigos me miran para traducir. Pero lo difícil es que no se muchas palabras especificos para los implementos.
Está bien. Gano mucho. Ahora (como siempre) quería irme a un país donde podría hablar solamente en español.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The past several days have been completely taken up by a most enjoyable visit. I don't feel like going into all the details--and you probably wouldn't want to hear anyway.
Camped, climbed, fought, loved, saw Girltalk, imbibed, ate, river-bathed, etc in Aspen.
Chilled in Carbondale.
Now it's time to get back to work for a while, until the day I finally return home to my lovely lakes, far-flung forests, sleepy sanddunes, wrecked roads, and wet winters. Gotta make that money.
I'll write something better once I'm back in the swing of things. Tonight: a concert in the park featuring some musicians connected to Grateful Dead. Should be fun.
Camped, climbed, fought, loved, saw Girltalk, imbibed, ate, river-bathed, etc in Aspen.
Chilled in Carbondale.
Now it's time to get back to work for a while, until the day I finally return home to my lovely lakes, far-flung forests, sleepy sanddunes, wrecked roads, and wet winters. Gotta make that money.
I'll write something better once I'm back in the swing of things. Tonight: a concert in the park featuring some musicians connected to Grateful Dead. Should be fun.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Thank God for South Park. Is it okay to say that? Will I be smitten by the nearest lightning bolt? No? Phew! Okay.
Every once in a while, there comes a time when the only solution to a mounting problem is to slap on the closest relevant South Park episode. Today I had to watch Smug Alert (Season 10).
For those of you (meaning mostly me) who've seen the episode, an explanation is unnecessary.
I'm out in Colorado in an area rife with wealth, an area where people can afford to be Progressive and Ecofriendly and 100% Organic. Commercially, of course. Not necessarily morally. They drive their Hybrids; they buy their price-gouged organics; they tout their values--and they are Smug.
Don't get me wrong: I'm all for ecofriendly behavior and progressive attitudes and organic crops. But once such ideas become fads, and once people get lofty dispositions because they buy ONLY organic food, they lose any favorable stance they might have had.
There's a law of Judaism that says that charity must be anonymous: It doesn't count if there's a nametag. I agree with that particular facet. Do good, but don't point out to others that you're doing good. Being ecofriendly, progressive, and organic is good. But don't strut your stuff.
My landlady, God bless her soul, is a prime example of a smugger. She always flaunts her hybrid and her organic-only diet, and claims to embrace eastern religions. However, she hasn't the first foggy fucking clue that her attitudes toward other people don't even touch--aren't even on the horizon of--those mostly-ignored prophets of ALL religions whose culture she and other westerners like her--and other easterners for that matter--try to embrace because it's the cool thing to do.
If someone says they are Buddhist, they are probably lying. Ask them what enlightenment means. If they answer anything other than "enlightenment is realizing there is no enlightenment and that people are people, for better or for worse," they haven't even begun to understand Buddha's teachings--which generally tend toward There Are No Teachings.
The same thing is true of the other religions. Teachings twisted, prophets pushed out. Goddamn, this could turn into quite a rant. Anyway, you know what I mean. Or maybe you don't. It doesn't really matter.
When you're eco-smug, progressive-smug, or organic-smug (or religion-smug), you're no better than the assholes who think only about their own massive bank accounts and private jets when it comes to politics. There's a word that I think a lot of people misunderstand that really applies to Smugness: liberal fascist. Please don't be one.
In other news:
I had a great visit with the family. It was a nice, refreshing break from the doldrums of work. We hit up lots of great beyond-my-budget restaurants, and I took them climbing. Having the dogs stay with me was nice too. Except landlady's attitude toward dogs in the house opened my eyes wider that she's a blesséd hypocrite and far more stiff-necked than she claims.
Every once in a while, there comes a time when the only solution to a mounting problem is to slap on the closest relevant South Park episode. Today I had to watch Smug Alert (Season 10).
For those of you (meaning mostly me) who've seen the episode, an explanation is unnecessary.
I'm out in Colorado in an area rife with wealth, an area where people can afford to be Progressive and Ecofriendly and 100% Organic. Commercially, of course. Not necessarily morally. They drive their Hybrids; they buy their price-gouged organics; they tout their values--and they are Smug.
Don't get me wrong: I'm all for ecofriendly behavior and progressive attitudes and organic crops. But once such ideas become fads, and once people get lofty dispositions because they buy ONLY organic food, they lose any favorable stance they might have had.
There's a law of Judaism that says that charity must be anonymous: It doesn't count if there's a nametag. I agree with that particular facet. Do good, but don't point out to others that you're doing good. Being ecofriendly, progressive, and organic is good. But don't strut your stuff.
My landlady, God bless her soul, is a prime example of a smugger. She always flaunts her hybrid and her organic-only diet, and claims to embrace eastern religions. However, she hasn't the first foggy fucking clue that her attitudes toward other people don't even touch--aren't even on the horizon of--those mostly-ignored prophets of ALL religions whose culture she and other westerners like her--and other easterners for that matter--try to embrace because it's the cool thing to do.
If someone says they are Buddhist, they are probably lying. Ask them what enlightenment means. If they answer anything other than "enlightenment is realizing there is no enlightenment and that people are people, for better or for worse," they haven't even begun to understand Buddha's teachings--which generally tend toward There Are No Teachings.
The same thing is true of the other religions. Teachings twisted, prophets pushed out. Goddamn, this could turn into quite a rant. Anyway, you know what I mean. Or maybe you don't. It doesn't really matter.
When you're eco-smug, progressive-smug, or organic-smug (or religion-smug), you're no better than the assholes who think only about their own massive bank accounts and private jets when it comes to politics. There's a word that I think a lot of people misunderstand that really applies to Smugness: liberal fascist. Please don't be one.
In other news:
I had a great visit with the family. It was a nice, refreshing break from the doldrums of work. We hit up lots of great beyond-my-budget restaurants, and I took them climbing. Having the dogs stay with me was nice too. Except landlady's attitude toward dogs in the house opened my eyes wider that she's a blesséd hypocrite and far more stiff-necked than she claims.
Monday, June 30, 2008
A long time ago, I was browsing the aisles in my local Blockbuster when I espied a movie called The Professional. The cover of the video (this is before the advent of DVDs) was so compelling, I never forgot it. It featured a man's face hidden behind small round sunglasses, wearing a tight knit hat. He was backlit by flames.
As the years went by, I kept seeing that movie in various video rental stores, but never picked it up. I found out it was about a hitman, which made me want to see it even more. It features an all-star cast including Jean Reno, Gary Oldman, Danny Aiello, and a very young Natalie Portman.
Finally, I had Netflix send me a copy which I just now watched. And to my dismay, the movie was rather disappointing. Perhaps some of my disappointment had to do with years of being built up in my mind. Or maybe it just sucked. It had a saccharine 90's flair for stupid side characters and absurd antics beyond the realm of Hollywood foolishness. I know, I know I tend to have too-high expectations for realism that Hollywood usually doesn't provide, but this was just beyond reason. They could have done much better.
The storyline was good. Jean Reno was great. The 90's, however, I'm beginning to believe, were as bad as the 80's. God help us.
As the years went by, I kept seeing that movie in various video rental stores, but never picked it up. I found out it was about a hitman, which made me want to see it even more. It features an all-star cast including Jean Reno, Gary Oldman, Danny Aiello, and a very young Natalie Portman.
Finally, I had Netflix send me a copy which I just now watched. And to my dismay, the movie was rather disappointing. Perhaps some of my disappointment had to do with years of being built up in my mind. Or maybe it just sucked. It had a saccharine 90's flair for stupid side characters and absurd antics beyond the realm of Hollywood foolishness. I know, I know I tend to have too-high expectations for realism that Hollywood usually doesn't provide, but this was just beyond reason. They could have done much better.
The storyline was good. Jean Reno was great. The 90's, however, I'm beginning to believe, were as bad as the 80's. God help us.
Groooaaaaannnnnnnnn I'm so bored. And it's really hot. My family arrives tomorrow evening, which should be a lot of fun. Then after that, Andrea pops in for a visit. The next couple weeks will be quite a treat, and a nice breather from work. I'm excited. But bored.
Hoo wee, yesterday was a helluva day. Started the morning with a nice long sleep-in to catch a few missing zees. Then meandered on over to start my volunteer shift at Lobsterfest, which consisted of sitting in the shade drinking free beer and reading my book. Then, I got to eat a free lobster. I sat with two dudes who'd ridden their bikes from Aspen (30 miles give or take) and ended up going to a bar to play pool with them.
One of them was gay and started hitting on me, which was flattering and awkward. What do you do when a guy says, "You have a really nice ass," or "Judging by your swagger, I'd say your package is thick though not long" ? Just nod and say you're content with your beautiful girlfriend, I suppose.
Today was sweet. I went climbing and ended up finishing the clean-up of my project. I then climbed it, nabbing my first first ascent. I'm calling it Leighway. There's a piece of history for this guy. Score one.
The folks will be in town day after tomorrow! Excited.
One of them was gay and started hitting on me, which was flattering and awkward. What do you do when a guy says, "You have a really nice ass," or "Judging by your swagger, I'd say your package is thick though not long" ? Just nod and say you're content with your beautiful girlfriend, I suppose.
Today was sweet. I went climbing and ended up finishing the clean-up of my project. I then climbed it, nabbing my first first ascent. I'm calling it Leighway. There's a piece of history for this guy. Score one.
The folks will be in town day after tomorrow! Excited.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Shit. I just realized I used almost the same wording to talk about my new climb in two consecutive posts. How lame! My apologies. Here's a lil something a bit more interesting.
A long time ago there lived an old witch. Her ramshackle cottage crouched in a clearing in the woods protected by a strong and ancient magic. The witch had long since given up on luring succulent children, and instead just gathered roots and nuts, and lived out her remaining days in solitude.
But she was very lonely.
One day, a knight errant strolled along a faint path in the woods. As it happens, it was the very path the old hag used to get to her clearing. The knight saw no sign of the magic-hidden clearing, and he continued on his way, head nodding in exhaustion.
The witch, stooped and tired from a morning of gathering, noticed the wandering man-at-arms. Ah ha, she though, here is an opportunity for some company. She shucked her sack of roots and herbs and rubbed her hands together to warm up for a spell. Closing her eyes and muttering, she extended her arms.
Her creature lumbered onto the path, nearly tripping the knight's horse. The stallion reared, and the knight grabbed wildly at the reins, startled from his doze. He dropped his lance as the magical creature growled and slobbered, rows of teeth flashing in the dim forest light. The creature leapt up and dragged the knight from the saddle, clawing and gnashing at his throat. After a struggle, the knight managed to sink his dagger deep into the beast's heart. But he was badly wounded and lay bleeding on the soft forest floor as the beast's body melted into a rancid puddle.
Gasping for breath, the knight tried to remount the horse, but couldn't gain his feet. At that moment, the witch appeared before him.
"Good sir knight," she murmured, "stir not, lest ye worsen the injury."
He groaned.
The witch selected a particular root and chewed it, as she gently untied the knight's breastplate and moved aside his blood-stained tunic. She caught her breath. The creature had caused more damage than she'd planned. A sweat broke out on the knight's forehead and he mumbled incoherently, eyes flickering in febrile heat. The witch cursed her clumsiness and gently stuffed some of the chewed root into each puncture. After a moment, the knight's brow smoothed, and he slept.
The witch used magic to transport the man to her shack and laid him on the bed.
For many days, the witch treated the wounded man as he balanced on the knife edge of death. She constantly berated her over exuberance.
Finally one day, the fever broke. The knight managed to eat solid food. And though he was grateful, he refused to stay, for he had important business to attend to. Saddened and angered, the old witch stalked into the woods. When the knight strode outside, he was unable to find a path leading out of the clearing. His horse was gone. His armour lay against the hut, rusted through.
"Egad! How many weeks have I lain here?"
The witch appeared at his side. "Weeks, bold knight? Ha! Time knows not such boundaries in this place."
"Then you seek to imprison me here?"
A hurt look crossed her face. "Imprison? Nay. Enchant perhaps." She smiled coyly and sidled up to him, holding his gaze. His eyes lost focus, and he suddenly saw her as a beautiful maiden. She grasped his hand and led him inside. Heart aflutter, he let her push him onto the bed. She peeled of her dress and straddled the knight. He stared up at her, utterly lovestruck, as she pulled aside his tunic and eased onto him. Knowing the spell would soon break, she rocked furiously until he could contain himself no more and burst with a soft cry.
She pulled a dagger from the pillow, thrust it into his throat, and dismounted. With a sad sigh, she built up the fire and prepared the spit.
The End.
A long time ago there lived an old witch. Her ramshackle cottage crouched in a clearing in the woods protected by a strong and ancient magic. The witch had long since given up on luring succulent children, and instead just gathered roots and nuts, and lived out her remaining days in solitude.
But she was very lonely.
One day, a knight errant strolled along a faint path in the woods. As it happens, it was the very path the old hag used to get to her clearing. The knight saw no sign of the magic-hidden clearing, and he continued on his way, head nodding in exhaustion.
The witch, stooped and tired from a morning of gathering, noticed the wandering man-at-arms. Ah ha, she though, here is an opportunity for some company. She shucked her sack of roots and herbs and rubbed her hands together to warm up for a spell. Closing her eyes and muttering, she extended her arms.
Her creature lumbered onto the path, nearly tripping the knight's horse. The stallion reared, and the knight grabbed wildly at the reins, startled from his doze. He dropped his lance as the magical creature growled and slobbered, rows of teeth flashing in the dim forest light. The creature leapt up and dragged the knight from the saddle, clawing and gnashing at his throat. After a struggle, the knight managed to sink his dagger deep into the beast's heart. But he was badly wounded and lay bleeding on the soft forest floor as the beast's body melted into a rancid puddle.
Gasping for breath, the knight tried to remount the horse, but couldn't gain his feet. At that moment, the witch appeared before him.
"Good sir knight," she murmured, "stir not, lest ye worsen the injury."
He groaned.
The witch selected a particular root and chewed it, as she gently untied the knight's breastplate and moved aside his blood-stained tunic. She caught her breath. The creature had caused more damage than she'd planned. A sweat broke out on the knight's forehead and he mumbled incoherently, eyes flickering in febrile heat. The witch cursed her clumsiness and gently stuffed some of the chewed root into each puncture. After a moment, the knight's brow smoothed, and he slept.
The witch used magic to transport the man to her shack and laid him on the bed.
For many days, the witch treated the wounded man as he balanced on the knife edge of death. She constantly berated her over exuberance.
Finally one day, the fever broke. The knight managed to eat solid food. And though he was grateful, he refused to stay, for he had important business to attend to. Saddened and angered, the old witch stalked into the woods. When the knight strode outside, he was unable to find a path leading out of the clearing. His horse was gone. His armour lay against the hut, rusted through.
"Egad! How many weeks have I lain here?"
The witch appeared at his side. "Weeks, bold knight? Ha! Time knows not such boundaries in this place."
"Then you seek to imprison me here?"
A hurt look crossed her face. "Imprison? Nay. Enchant perhaps." She smiled coyly and sidled up to him, holding his gaze. His eyes lost focus, and he suddenly saw her as a beautiful maiden. She grasped his hand and led him inside. Heart aflutter, he let her push him onto the bed. She peeled of her dress and straddled the knight. He stared up at her, utterly lovestruck, as she pulled aside his tunic and eased onto him. Knowing the spell would soon break, she rocked furiously until he could contain himself no more and burst with a soft cry.
She pulled a dagger from the pillow, thrust it into his throat, and dismounted. With a sad sigh, she built up the fire and prepared the spit.
The End.
Oh man. Long day at the office. Sometimes I think I've learned just about all I can get out of this internship. Usually I'm just sitting around cruising the net looking for climbing news. Staring at the same old websites day after day can wear on a fellow. On days where nothing happens, I'm bored. To tears.
I wish I could edit more features, but with an issue about to head to publication, there's really not much for me to do. Speaking of the issue, this is the one with my article. Accident Report. The issue should be out in a week or two--but who really knows what goes on here?
It looks like I'm not going to have as many articles in the actual magazine as I'd hoped. Most of my work is just online news. Ho hum. At least I've had a lot of time to read out here. I've ticked more than nine books since I arrived.
I'm working on cleaning up a new route at the crag. Once I get all the dirt and plants out of the crack, I'll get to climb it and name it! Then I'll be in the guidebook as First Ascent. Oh yeah.
Last night I watched No Country for Old Men. That is a hell of a movie. So intense. The acting of the killer is phenomenal! I watched it before bed and had a slew of bad dreams. That's what I call a great flick.
Thanks, Sam, for your comments. You make me feel loved.
I wish I could edit more features, but with an issue about to head to publication, there's really not much for me to do. Speaking of the issue, this is the one with my article. Accident Report. The issue should be out in a week or two--but who really knows what goes on here?
It looks like I'm not going to have as many articles in the actual magazine as I'd hoped. Most of my work is just online news. Ho hum. At least I've had a lot of time to read out here. I've ticked more than nine books since I arrived.
I'm working on cleaning up a new route at the crag. Once I get all the dirt and plants out of the crack, I'll get to climb it and name it! Then I'll be in the guidebook as First Ascent. Oh yeah.
Last night I watched No Country for Old Men. That is a hell of a movie. So intense. The acting of the killer is phenomenal! I watched it before bed and had a slew of bad dreams. That's what I call a great flick.
Thanks, Sam, for your comments. You make me feel loved.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Today is a beautiful day. Above the cloud cover is an expansive azure sky, reaching down and around to embrace the world. I'm leaving the office in an hour to head outside to do some landscaping.
Sometime this week, I'll be heading up to the crag to work on cleaning the new route I'm developing. I have to dig out all the dirt from the crack and clean away the lichen before the line is ready to roll. I'll have my name in the guidebook as the First Ascentionist! And I get to name the route.
I've started writing for this online magazine at www.suite101.com. Go ahead and check it out. Just plug my name in the search. Also, I'd love any suggestions for articles. No one is making use of the comments section of this blog--makes me feel lonely. Is anybody out there??
Next post (barring some big news) will be about sex. Maybe that'll catch your interests.
Sometime this week, I'll be heading up to the crag to work on cleaning the new route I'm developing. I have to dig out all the dirt from the crack and clean away the lichen before the line is ready to roll. I'll have my name in the guidebook as the First Ascentionist! And I get to name the route.
I've started writing for this online magazine at www.suite101.com. Go ahead and check it out. Just plug my name in the search. Also, I'd love any suggestions for articles. No one is making use of the comments section of this blog--makes me feel lonely. Is anybody out there??
Next post (barring some big news) will be about sex. Maybe that'll catch your interests.
Friday, June 13, 2008
This morning I got to move some trees around with the Machine. Big and burly as it is, it didn't come close to filling this empty space, but tons of fun nonetheless. I really hate feeling sorry for myself. What a drag. Landscaping is a welcome distraction, but there really is no escape.
Four hours at the office seemed like forever. Time is really a fickle master. Don't like doing research unless I'm really interested in the subject. At least I'll have a good byline though.
Four hours at the office seemed like forever. Time is really a fickle master. Don't like doing research unless I'm really interested in the subject. At least I'll have a good byline though.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Holy hell, how could I forget? Something momentous happened yesterday while at work landscaping. I got to drive a Caterpillar track loader! Sweet-tooth Jesus was it amazing. Talk about a piece of machinery built from necessity and testosterone!
You sit in the seat and grasp the handles. Buckle in. Like mounting some kind of futuristic war machine. Ease the throttle forward. Disengage the safety features. Feet operate the pneumatics; hands forward moves forward; hands backward moves backward; one hand forward, one hand backward turns. A throaty rumble accompanies every primitive jerking movement. Steep hills and loose dirt bow before your might. I felt like I could drive the thing all day. You've got to try one!
You sit in the seat and grasp the handles. Buckle in. Like mounting some kind of futuristic war machine. Ease the throttle forward. Disengage the safety features. Feet operate the pneumatics; hands forward moves forward; hands backward moves backward; one hand forward, one hand backward turns. A throaty rumble accompanies every primitive jerking movement. Steep hills and loose dirt bow before your might. I felt like I could drive the thing all day. You've got to try one!
Last night I had a dream that I was on El Capitán. The scenery wasn't remotely similar to the real El Cap, but my mind knew it was. I started up top in some kind of cave. More like a clubhouse for the Valley dirtbags. At some point, I lowered down and climbed the top 50 feet or so. Also someone started tossing a rugby ball around. Keep in mind, El Cap is 3000 feet high. All in all, it seemed rather dangerous, though not remotely realistic.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
It's late. Well, not late at all, really, but late considering I'm waking up hellishly early tomorrow to earn $96. It might be a mistake to read On The Road at such a late hour because of the odd frenzied pace. I got the original scroll version which has no breaks--paragraph, chapter, or otherwise--and I think the effect is similar to some sort of benzedrine. So anyway, I think I'll just tell a story to amuse myself and perhaps lull myself into some kind of soon-to-be-not-enough sleep.
Once upon a time, there was a man who became addicted to yawning. He'd worked so hard his entire life, that he never had enough time to sleep. And so he yawned. He yawned and yawned and yawned. While he was working, he yawned. Before he ate and after he ate, he yawned. Eventually, his wife had to stop looking at him because he yawned so much. Every time she looked at him, he yawned, and she--of course--couldn't help but yawn right back. And so it went.
Though tired, yawning helped him get through long days of work. He'd gotten so good at it, in fact, that he was able to fall asleep for the brief second his eyes closed to make room for his expanding jaws. That one instant of rest enabled him to work again for a few minutes until his next yawn.
His boss and his coworkers often wondered why they felt so sleepy at work, though they'd gotten good nights' rests. One afternoon, his boss walked over as the man was mid-yawn, and asked him to finish a project that a recently-resigned coworker had left undone. As he instructed the man, who'd just finished a yawn, the boss felt his ears pop and was unable to resist a cheek-straining, jaw-stretching yawn.
Damn, he though, must get more sleep. He left the man to his project and returned to his boss office, stifling another yawn.
The man worked on the project, stopping every so often to catch a quick wide-mouth snooze.
As time went on, his jaw muscles strengthened and grew thicker. His yawns became wider and more efficient, pulling him into a deeper rest each time. His eyes were constantly red and watery from the strain.
Some time later, he arrived home, greeted by a note from his wife:
Dear yaa-aah-ahhh-aaawwn, it said,
I've gone to stay with my mother. I think I've become infected
by your yaa-aah-aawn constant yawning. It's become such a
problem that I must escape and figure out how to yaa-aaaawwwwn
get more sleep.
The man, of course, yawned several times during the reading of this letter. It didn't mean much to him: because of his continuous mouth-stretching, he hadn't much time or energy to devote to more mundane matters. He went about his chores, doing what he did best, and yawned himself into bed.
A few hours later, he woke up for work. Tying his tie, he yawned so wide, his mouth became stuck open. He couldn't see and he couldn't hear. Knot forgotten, he felt his way to the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
"Emergency operator," came the curt reply.
"Ah yahh haaww. Haaww!"
"Sir, I cannot understand you."
"Haaww. Ah yahh haaww!"
"Sir, where are you? Do you need help?"
"Yaaahh, yaaaahh"
"If this is a prank call, you'll be in trouble, sir."
Exasperated, he slammed the phone into its cradle. Still nearly blinded by his upraised cheeks and almost deafened by his down-turned jawbones, he stumbled out the door.
He hasn't been heard from or seen since. He's probably still yawning to this very day.
The moral of the story, if you missed it, is: get sufficient sleep. Or else you're doomed to wander in dark silence forever. While yawning. Which is a very cumbersome word to write over and over and over. And if you didn't yawn while reading this story, it means either you were sufficiently rested or sufficiently rapt in the intensity of the plot. Either way, I commend you. YAAAAWWWWWWWWWN. Bedtime.
Once upon a time, there was a man who became addicted to yawning. He'd worked so hard his entire life, that he never had enough time to sleep. And so he yawned. He yawned and yawned and yawned. While he was working, he yawned. Before he ate and after he ate, he yawned. Eventually, his wife had to stop looking at him because he yawned so much. Every time she looked at him, he yawned, and she--of course--couldn't help but yawn right back. And so it went.
Though tired, yawning helped him get through long days of work. He'd gotten so good at it, in fact, that he was able to fall asleep for the brief second his eyes closed to make room for his expanding jaws. That one instant of rest enabled him to work again for a few minutes until his next yawn.
His boss and his coworkers often wondered why they felt so sleepy at work, though they'd gotten good nights' rests. One afternoon, his boss walked over as the man was mid-yawn, and asked him to finish a project that a recently-resigned coworker had left undone. As he instructed the man, who'd just finished a yawn, the boss felt his ears pop and was unable to resist a cheek-straining, jaw-stretching yawn.
Damn, he though, must get more sleep. He left the man to his project and returned to his boss office, stifling another yawn.
The man worked on the project, stopping every so often to catch a quick wide-mouth snooze.
As time went on, his jaw muscles strengthened and grew thicker. His yawns became wider and more efficient, pulling him into a deeper rest each time. His eyes were constantly red and watery from the strain.
Some time later, he arrived home, greeted by a note from his wife:
Dear yaa-aah-ahhh-aaawwn, it said,
I've gone to stay with my mother. I think I've become infected
by your yaa-aah-aawn constant yawning. It's become such a
problem that I must escape and figure out how to yaa-aaaawwwwn
get more sleep.
The man, of course, yawned several times during the reading of this letter. It didn't mean much to him: because of his continuous mouth-stretching, he hadn't much time or energy to devote to more mundane matters. He went about his chores, doing what he did best, and yawned himself into bed.
A few hours later, he woke up for work. Tying his tie, he yawned so wide, his mouth became stuck open. He couldn't see and he couldn't hear. Knot forgotten, he felt his way to the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
"Emergency operator," came the curt reply.
"Ah yahh haaww. Haaww!"
"Sir, I cannot understand you."
"Haaww. Ah yahh haaww!"
"Sir, where are you? Do you need help?"
"Yaaahh, yaaaahh"
"If this is a prank call, you'll be in trouble, sir."
Exasperated, he slammed the phone into its cradle. Still nearly blinded by his upraised cheeks and almost deafened by his down-turned jawbones, he stumbled out the door.
He hasn't been heard from or seen since. He's probably still yawning to this very day.
The moral of the story, if you missed it, is: get sufficient sleep. Or else you're doomed to wander in dark silence forever. While yawning. Which is a very cumbersome word to write over and over and over. And if you didn't yawn while reading this story, it means either you were sufficiently rested or sufficiently rapt in the intensity of the plot. Either way, I commend you. YAAAAWWWWWWWWWN. Bedtime.
Friday, June 6, 2008
I was in the gym today, doing my part to cut some of the fat from this overweight country when I heard an odd scraping noise over the volume of my headphones. I looked over to ascertain the source of the sound. To my surprise, it was an old man hobbling slowly into the weight room, leaning heavily on his walker. A quick double take assured me I wasn't mistaken. Surely this chap was lost.
However, he sat down and started working his wrinkly biceps, nearly-useless legs dangling beneath him like the empty scrotum of a gelding.
My workout ended, I didn't hang around to see the rest. But I'm baffled, unsure whether to be proud of the fellow or dismayed that he'd neglected his legs in favor of beach biceps. I'll have to get back to you on that one.
However, he sat down and started working his wrinkly biceps, nearly-useless legs dangling beneath him like the empty scrotum of a gelding.
My workout ended, I didn't hang around to see the rest. But I'm baffled, unsure whether to be proud of the fellow or dismayed that he'd neglected his legs in favor of beach biceps. I'll have to get back to you on that one.
My lengthy experience with the unforgiving, uncompromising, unaccommodating, unfailing, unmanning, unflinching, uniform court system has, I think, made me a more forgiving, compassionate person. This is deeply, deeply troubling, because that means the System has succeeded, though in a rather roundabout way.
I'm much more likely, now that I've faced the unwavering Machine, to recognize the individuality of the transgressor, and see that, in a similar circumstance, I might proceed the same way. The very nature (as we have built it) of the Beast does not permit it to take individuality into account. The System is all-encompassing, all-sweeping, all-binding, all-powerful, and we have made it that way. Laws do not treat people as people. Laws treat people as units or cogs in the vast Combine of civilized society. Operated and oiled by a relatively tiny plutocracy, the rest of the flock becomes as un-unique as any sheep in an enormous flock. The sheep knows he is One, but when viewed from above, he's no more than a wool-producing, self-warming blob, just like all the rest.
Laws, so convoluted throughout an entire history of overlapping and overlapping, adding and adding--never taking away, just adding more to countermand--have stripped the majority of people of their rights as individuals. Ironically, our uniquely identifying fingerprints are gobbled up and stored in the blind memory of the Machine.
Sadly, there is no way to fight the System. You can't outsmart omnipotence. All one can do to try to scrape away the wool that they've encouraged us to hide behind is to understand the looming presence of that which we've eagerly helped to build. All one can do is try to avoid capture in the cold, impersonal, mechanized grip of the Combine. And to do that, one must blend into the surrounding foliage and hope the law enforcers--the power-corrupted, trigger-happy, duped minions--don't peer with squinty, dead-serious eyes into your hiding place. Because they will get you. The Indian never wins. The revolutionary always succumbs to the sucking strength of power and becomes the Pig.
I'm much more likely, now that I've faced the unwavering Machine, to recognize the individuality of the transgressor, and see that, in a similar circumstance, I might proceed the same way. The very nature (as we have built it) of the Beast does not permit it to take individuality into account. The System is all-encompassing, all-sweeping, all-binding, all-powerful, and we have made it that way. Laws do not treat people as people. Laws treat people as units or cogs in the vast Combine of civilized society. Operated and oiled by a relatively tiny plutocracy, the rest of the flock becomes as un-unique as any sheep in an enormous flock. The sheep knows he is One, but when viewed from above, he's no more than a wool-producing, self-warming blob, just like all the rest.
Laws, so convoluted throughout an entire history of overlapping and overlapping, adding and adding--never taking away, just adding more to countermand--have stripped the majority of people of their rights as individuals. Ironically, our uniquely identifying fingerprints are gobbled up and stored in the blind memory of the Machine.
Sadly, there is no way to fight the System. You can't outsmart omnipotence. All one can do to try to scrape away the wool that they've encouraged us to hide behind is to understand the looming presence of that which we've eagerly helped to build. All one can do is try to avoid capture in the cold, impersonal, mechanized grip of the Combine. And to do that, one must blend into the surrounding foliage and hope the law enforcers--the power-corrupted, trigger-happy, duped minions--don't peer with squinty, dead-serious eyes into your hiding place. Because they will get you. The Indian never wins. The revolutionary always succumbs to the sucking strength of power and becomes the Pig.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
It was a rainy day in Scotland. William burst in the door of his cabin with a sheep under his arm.
"What are you doing?" his wife asked.
"I want to introduce you to the pig I'm fucking," Willy said.
"Willy, you're drunk. That's a sheep!"
"Woman, I was talking to the sheep."
"What are you doing?" his wife asked.
"I want to introduce you to the pig I'm fucking," Willy said.
"Willy, you're drunk. That's a sheep!"
"Woman, I was talking to the sheep."
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Here from a king's mountain view
Here from the wild dream come true
Feast like a sultan, I do
On treasures and flesh never few
But I would
Wish it all away
If I thought I'd lose you
Just one day
The devil and his had me down
In love with the dark side I'd found
Dabblin' all the way down
Up to my neck, soon to drown.
But you changed that all for me
Lifted me up, turned me round
So I
I would wish this all away
Prayed like a martyr dusk to dawn
Begged like a hooker all night long
Tempted the devil with my song
And got what I wanted all along
But I
I would if I could
I would
Wish it away
Wish it all away
No prize that could
Hold sway
Or justify my giving away
My center
So if I could
I'd wish it all away
If I thought tomorrow
Would take you away.
You, my piece of mind, my all, my center,
just trying to hold on one more day.
Damn my eyes!
Damn my eyes!
If they should compromise the fulcrum:
If wants and needs divide me
Then I might as well be gone.
Shine on forever
Shine on benevolent sun
Shine down upon the broken
Shine until the two become one
Shine on forever
Shine on benevolent sun
Shine down upon the severed
Shine until the two become one
Divided, I'll wither away
Shine down upon the many.
Light our way, benevolent sun.
Breathe in union
So, as one, survive
Another day and season
Silence, legion. Save your poison.
Silence, legion. Stay out of my way.
--Maynard James Keenan
I have a serious need to vent. Everyone out here is so Zen and peaceful, but oftentimes, you can see some pent-up exasperation and anger. Bottled up and disallowed escape.
You can't help it; you're human.
I think, despite all forms of meditation and calming and all that junk, that people need an outlet. A punching bag. A shooting range. A piece of gadgetry to smash. A down pillow. Whatever it be, people need some token violence. It's much worse to pen up anger under the guise of calm. We come from such violent roots--by way of survival--that it's inescapable. Of course, there are those few individuals who are really capable of separating themselves from the chaos of the world. Certain Buddhist monks. Gandhi. Jesus. People in comas. Those of us who can't achieve that enlightenment need something to hit once in a while. And I'm sorely lacking right now.
I'd almost be willing to buy a new Xerox machine for the office just so I could take this perfectly good one out back and treat it to a baseball-bat facelift. Goddamn, can you imagine? Little bits and pieces flying all over the place, ricocheting off your forehead, making such a satisfying sound! The leverage of the bat just bringing destruction like something sent from hell to do god's dirty work. Vicious vibrations with every blow until your hands go numb, and your shoulders ache. Tendons and veins stand out like ropes as you grip tighter, swing faster, hit harder, rage deeper; until anger you didn't even know you had bubbles up to the surface to get its hit on. Fuck you! your mind screams, as your breath becomes ragged, and sweat breaks out at your hairline. Die, worthless lump! Channel, focus, aim all aggression at this one inanimate damnit-doll, this whipping boy, this piece-of-shit technological target that didn't actually do anything to deserve this terrible treatment. Or did it?
Just abandon all reason and give in to that wonderful, instinctive animal ferocity. Let the adrenaline take hold and bellow its unholy mantra of havoc. Faster, faster, faster! Grit your teeth, flare your nostrils, narrow your eyes. Give in; let go; have at it! Growl and howl with each downward arc. Never; never; never stop! Plastic, metal, glass cringes before your might. Again. Again. Again. Again. Shred, stomp, snarl and roar.
And Oh, but it feels good! The mess you've made, the energy expended. Muscles throb, and pulse pounds...
Something suddenly makes you stop swinging. A smile. And perhaps you chuckle a little. Giggle some more. Bark with laughter. Double over, helplessly gasping for breath, ribs aching, stomach tight. Exhausted.
And no longer angry.
You can't help it; you're human.
I think, despite all forms of meditation and calming and all that junk, that people need an outlet. A punching bag. A shooting range. A piece of gadgetry to smash. A down pillow. Whatever it be, people need some token violence. It's much worse to pen up anger under the guise of calm. We come from such violent roots--by way of survival--that it's inescapable. Of course, there are those few individuals who are really capable of separating themselves from the chaos of the world. Certain Buddhist monks. Gandhi. Jesus. People in comas. Those of us who can't achieve that enlightenment need something to hit once in a while. And I'm sorely lacking right now.
I'd almost be willing to buy a new Xerox machine for the office just so I could take this perfectly good one out back and treat it to a baseball-bat facelift. Goddamn, can you imagine? Little bits and pieces flying all over the place, ricocheting off your forehead, making such a satisfying sound! The leverage of the bat just bringing destruction like something sent from hell to do god's dirty work. Vicious vibrations with every blow until your hands go numb, and your shoulders ache. Tendons and veins stand out like ropes as you grip tighter, swing faster, hit harder, rage deeper; until anger you didn't even know you had bubbles up to the surface to get its hit on. Fuck you! your mind screams, as your breath becomes ragged, and sweat breaks out at your hairline. Die, worthless lump! Channel, focus, aim all aggression at this one inanimate damnit-doll, this whipping boy, this piece-of-shit technological target that didn't actually do anything to deserve this terrible treatment. Or did it?
Just abandon all reason and give in to that wonderful, instinctive animal ferocity. Let the adrenaline take hold and bellow its unholy mantra of havoc. Faster, faster, faster! Grit your teeth, flare your nostrils, narrow your eyes. Give in; let go; have at it! Growl and howl with each downward arc. Never; never; never stop! Plastic, metal, glass cringes before your might. Again. Again. Again. Again. Shred, stomp, snarl and roar.
And Oh, but it feels good! The mess you've made, the energy expended. Muscles throb, and pulse pounds...
Something suddenly makes you stop swinging. A smile. And perhaps you chuckle a little. Giggle some more. Bark with laughter. Double over, helplessly gasping for breath, ribs aching, stomach tight. Exhausted.
And no longer angry.
Friday, May 30, 2008
You love climbing. You love the approach. Tie in your safety knot, and take a look at the wall. The grade--tough but well within your range. So you slip into your shoes, and brush your fingers against the rock, getting familiar with the surface, seeking those first few elusive holds. Then you pull up and take that first step off the ground. Don't look back. Don't look down.
The first several holds are a bit awkward as you struggle to get used to the route. As you climb higher, it gets better and better. You're high enough up that you know a fall now won't be fatal. You get a feel for the moves. Goddamn, you think, this line is fuckin' rad! It may be the best route you've ever been on. And you love it.
Hard enough to keep it interesting, you reach each bolt with excitement. Any bit of nervousness dashed as you find that deep hold and reach down to clip your rope. Safe again! Shake 'em out. Stay fresh. You want the line to go on forever. You love this route. Your fingers get so familiar with the intricate crimpers and tiny pockets. It's like it was made just for you. Clipping!
As you get higher, you feel stronger. You start to dream of sending--all the way with no falls. But just as you start to think that, you feel a pump coming on. Ignore it. Continue up. Don't check your rope drag. Don't estimate how far past your last bolt you are. Keep climbing.
Grasp the hold and squeeze! The next bolt is just up there. One more move. Forearms start quaking. Latch your thumb and fingerlock. You can do it. Pull. Look for foot holds. Don't give up. Don't look down. Must clip that bolt! Losing grip. No! Stay on, goddamnit! Fingers start opening of their own accord. Adjust your hold. Slipping--no! It's right there. Oh God, how high up are you? Don't think like that! Go for the hold! Errggghh. Rational thought vanishes. Ahggh. Evvvhh. Stay strong. Ffffff.
Falling! you blurt.
You lose your grip and plummet. Wind whistles in your ears. Hands instinctively flail. As death rushes up at 9.8 m/s, suddenly you're caught up short, and your feet slam against the wall. You look skyward. Fifteen feet up is your bolt, pointed out by your taught rope. Now what? You've lost the onsight. Are you too tired? Will you ever see the route the same again? Try to shake off the defeated feeling.
Climbing! you call. Time to move on.
The first several holds are a bit awkward as you struggle to get used to the route. As you climb higher, it gets better and better. You're high enough up that you know a fall now won't be fatal. You get a feel for the moves. Goddamn, you think, this line is fuckin' rad! It may be the best route you've ever been on. And you love it.
Hard enough to keep it interesting, you reach each bolt with excitement. Any bit of nervousness dashed as you find that deep hold and reach down to clip your rope. Safe again! Shake 'em out. Stay fresh. You want the line to go on forever. You love this route. Your fingers get so familiar with the intricate crimpers and tiny pockets. It's like it was made just for you. Clipping!
As you get higher, you feel stronger. You start to dream of sending--all the way with no falls. But just as you start to think that, you feel a pump coming on. Ignore it. Continue up. Don't check your rope drag. Don't estimate how far past your last bolt you are. Keep climbing.
Grasp the hold and squeeze! The next bolt is just up there. One more move. Forearms start quaking. Latch your thumb and fingerlock. You can do it. Pull. Look for foot holds. Don't give up. Don't look down. Must clip that bolt! Losing grip. No! Stay on, goddamnit! Fingers start opening of their own accord. Adjust your hold. Slipping--no! It's right there. Oh God, how high up are you? Don't think like that! Go for the hold! Errggghh. Rational thought vanishes. Ahggh. Evvvhh. Stay strong. Ffffff.
Falling! you blurt.
You lose your grip and plummet. Wind whistles in your ears. Hands instinctively flail. As death rushes up at 9.8 m/s, suddenly you're caught up short, and your feet slam against the wall. You look skyward. Fifteen feet up is your bolt, pointed out by your taught rope. Now what? You've lost the onsight. Are you too tired? Will you ever see the route the same again? Try to shake off the defeated feeling.
Climbing! you call. Time to move on.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Thank God it's a beautiful day. I started the morning at quarter to seven with an egg and lox on bakery bread. Delicious. Then, I drove out to Sopris Mountain Ranch to start my new job: landscaping.
Spent the morning swinging a pickax, digging irrigation trenches. Enjoyed the sun and the music and seeing my burly image in the enormous mirrored windows of this multi-million dollar house. I went inside to drop a deuce and discovered it's the most beautiful house I've ever been in. With sweeping views of Sopris Mountain from just about anywhere inside. Left some nice streak marks in the new toilet too.
I enjoy the work (so far), but I can really understand, Erik G, why you returned to AA after sophomore summer with rippling muscles and an attitude to match. It's labor-intensive. My hands are still a bit shaky every time I pause my frantic typing.
Music: Disturbed and Avenged Sevenfold
Pay: $60 for four hours.
I can live with that.
Spent the morning swinging a pickax, digging irrigation trenches. Enjoyed the sun and the music and seeing my burly image in the enormous mirrored windows of this multi-million dollar house. I went inside to drop a deuce and discovered it's the most beautiful house I've ever been in. With sweeping views of Sopris Mountain from just about anywhere inside. Left some nice streak marks in the new toilet too.
I enjoy the work (so far), but I can really understand, Erik G, why you returned to AA after sophomore summer with rippling muscles and an attitude to match. It's labor-intensive. My hands are still a bit shaky every time I pause my frantic typing.
Music: Disturbed and Avenged Sevenfold
Pay: $60 for four hours.
I can live with that.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Wow. I'm lucky to be alive. I mean, I guess we all are kind of lucky to be alive just from a philosophical point of view. But I just tempted fate in a major way (as if I don't regularly while hanging off 1/4 inch bolts stuck in a wall 60 feet off the cold, hard ground). I biked over to my friend's house, and about 2 blocks from my home, I realized I hadn't yet fixed my light onto my bike. Fuck it, I thought, I've come too far.
Turns out, my friend lives on a country road about 3 miles from where I stay. It was bright evening daylight when I left. A few hours, three beers, and a large glass of scotch later, it was nearly pitch-black.
I turned on my red rear light, hoping cars on my side of the road would see me with enough time to veer away into the ditch, sparing my selfish, foolish life, and took off into the dark night. Scorpio beckoned me home. I should, at this point, also mention I had taken my right contact out in the morning because it was irritating me. So I'm squinting along the road, trying to follow the faded or nonexistent white line indicating the shoulder. I'm glancing back every so often to check for approaching headlights. The alcohol is making me swerve ever so slightly. Plus, I can barely see the pavement. I turn off the country drive onto a sort-of main road and cross the bridge. Even the reflectors are invisible because I don't have a forward-facing light.
I thought for the briefest moment: Maybe I can hold my cell phone aloft and get some light that way, before realizing that would be stupidly pointless and would cause me to take one of my much-needed hands off the slightly misaligned handlebars (I'd forgotten I hadn't yet adjusted my bike handlebars and gears after getting new grips), so I abandoned the phone idea.
Every so often, I'd have to pull off the road to let a car zip past. They slowed down about two feet from me when they saw me. Did I mention I was wearing a black fleece jacket and no helmet? (Good lord, could I ask Death any more directly to sweep me away?)
Finally up ahead, I saw soft, orange illumination. But lo, it was only one street light before a lengthy stretch of curvy, shoulder-less road. The light served only to whisk away my precious night-vision, cultivated through decayards of perilous pedaling.
After a grim while, I got to the main road which was, thankfully, lighted well enough that I could see the road surface. I was also visible to cars from a good pace back. I finally felt safe. Sort of.
Turns out, my friend lives on a country road about 3 miles from where I stay. It was bright evening daylight when I left. A few hours, three beers, and a large glass of scotch later, it was nearly pitch-black.
I turned on my red rear light, hoping cars on my side of the road would see me with enough time to veer away into the ditch, sparing my selfish, foolish life, and took off into the dark night. Scorpio beckoned me home. I should, at this point, also mention I had taken my right contact out in the morning because it was irritating me. So I'm squinting along the road, trying to follow the faded or nonexistent white line indicating the shoulder. I'm glancing back every so often to check for approaching headlights. The alcohol is making me swerve ever so slightly. Plus, I can barely see the pavement. I turn off the country drive onto a sort-of main road and cross the bridge. Even the reflectors are invisible because I don't have a forward-facing light.
I thought for the briefest moment: Maybe I can hold my cell phone aloft and get some light that way, before realizing that would be stupidly pointless and would cause me to take one of my much-needed hands off the slightly misaligned handlebars (I'd forgotten I hadn't yet adjusted my bike handlebars and gears after getting new grips), so I abandoned the phone idea.
Every so often, I'd have to pull off the road to let a car zip past. They slowed down about two feet from me when they saw me. Did I mention I was wearing a black fleece jacket and no helmet? (Good lord, could I ask Death any more directly to sweep me away?)
Finally up ahead, I saw soft, orange illumination. But lo, it was only one street light before a lengthy stretch of curvy, shoulder-less road. The light served only to whisk away my precious night-vision, cultivated through decayards of perilous pedaling.
After a grim while, I got to the main road which was, thankfully, lighted well enough that I could see the road surface. I was also visible to cars from a good pace back. I finally felt safe. Sort of.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Just got back from a weekend in Rifle. Well, no. That's a lie. Just got back from pizza and beers after showering after getting back from a weekend in Rifle. Rifle's a great canyon 1 hour away of limestone walls and greasy, over-used holds. But it's great. And Daniel, I realized much after the fact that when you asked if I wrote about my climbing experience you meant in the mag, not in my blog. Well, no, I don't write about my own climbing experiences in the mag. I'm not good enough. Yet.
I went there with an editor (Andrew) and his girlfriend (Jen). They climb 5.13. I was a bit intimidated at first by all the regulars there who all know each other. At some point Sunday afternoon, a couple of those regulars were leaving (in an Audi S8--sick car), the passenger jumped out, noticing Andrew was holding a Pabst Blue Ribbon (the original energy drink) and said, "Hey, you guys want some real beers?" Turns out, his friend driving the Audi is Adam Avery who owns Avery Brewing Company in Boulder. Delicious IPA.
We camped out there, and I got to use my new tent which is phenomenal. Except I was cold cuz it's a bit too big for one person alone. The stars were spectacular.
After a while, I was able to get comfortable in the canyon. I'm not used to the type of rock, nor am I at the level of the other people who chill there, but I had a great time nonetheless. They're psyched to see new people out there, and very encouraging. Got on some scary climbs a bit above me (ha) but I was able to struggle up.
Someone said I sound like Keanu Reeves. Good Lord.
The same phenomenon that causes the limestone to get polished also makes it pretty soft on the hands, unlike sandstone. Despite that, I climbed enough to tear hell out of my fingertips. I wonder if that will change my fingerprints? I really don't like having my prints in the system. Goddamn Big Brother.
Anyway, I'm not sure whether I like the Frying Pan (where there are lots of unique routes and plenty of potential first ascents (where I get to name them!) and a much nicer view and much closer to town and breakfast and dinner at Jefe's house with his 1 y/o baby) or Rifle (where there are lots of chill people and challenging routes and camping). For now, I'm going to go with the Pan. We shall see. Stay tuned.
I went there with an editor (Andrew) and his girlfriend (Jen). They climb 5.13. I was a bit intimidated at first by all the regulars there who all know each other. At some point Sunday afternoon, a couple of those regulars were leaving (in an Audi S8--sick car), the passenger jumped out, noticing Andrew was holding a Pabst Blue Ribbon (the original energy drink) and said, "Hey, you guys want some real beers?" Turns out, his friend driving the Audi is Adam Avery who owns Avery Brewing Company in Boulder. Delicious IPA.
We camped out there, and I got to use my new tent which is phenomenal. Except I was cold cuz it's a bit too big for one person alone. The stars were spectacular.
After a while, I was able to get comfortable in the canyon. I'm not used to the type of rock, nor am I at the level of the other people who chill there, but I had a great time nonetheless. They're psyched to see new people out there, and very encouraging. Got on some scary climbs a bit above me (ha) but I was able to struggle up.
Someone said I sound like Keanu Reeves. Good Lord.
The same phenomenon that causes the limestone to get polished also makes it pretty soft on the hands, unlike sandstone. Despite that, I climbed enough to tear hell out of my fingertips. I wonder if that will change my fingerprints? I really don't like having my prints in the system. Goddamn Big Brother.
Anyway, I'm not sure whether I like the Frying Pan (where there are lots of unique routes and plenty of potential first ascents (where I get to name them!) and a much nicer view and much closer to town and breakfast and dinner at Jefe's house with his 1 y/o baby) or Rifle (where there are lots of chill people and challenging routes and camping). For now, I'm going to go with the Pan. We shall see. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
I had a dream this morning about teaching young kids--maybe fifth grade--about representative democracy. I was some sort of student teacher (because the real teacher was sitting against the wall on the side). Apparently my teaching style is to gather the kids close and have an open discussion trying to get them to tell me their understanding of the different words I use to describe political positions. A little girl plopped herself down right in front of me and started using a piece of chalk to color a blackboard eraser. I asked her, "Is there something wrong that you're trying to get my attention like that?" That's when I noticed some brown substance on the floor. Oh damn. This girl just shat her pants. I beckoned the real teacher over, and she took the little girl out of the classroom.
The kids were really getting into the discussion, and I think I made some headway in teaching them about the balance between necessity and screwage in our democratic system.
Overall, the dream was pretty damn sweet, and I kind of want to be a teacher now.
The kids were really getting into the discussion, and I think I made some headway in teaching them about the balance between necessity and screwage in our democratic system.
Overall, the dream was pretty damn sweet, and I kind of want to be a teacher now.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Woke up at 4:30 AM feeling disgusting. Crept to the kitchen for a bite to eat and slunk to the bathroom to take a shower. Felt much better after.
Stopped by the used book sale at the library again today. Picked up another five books--totaling fifteen. Also totaling three dollars.
I had a crazy dream last night. Some sort of dystopian situation. Andrea was there as a major player. I woke up thinking I should write it down, but my lazy ass decided not to.
So sore all day after three consecutives of climbing. Smoked a J in the bathtub like the Dude, and finished Disclosure by Michael Crichton. Great book. All about people abusing positions of power. Great perspectives--based on a true story, like many of his.
Stopped by the used book sale at the library again today. Picked up another five books--totaling fifteen. Also totaling three dollars.
I had a crazy dream last night. Some sort of dystopian situation. Andrea was there as a major player. I woke up thinking I should write it down, but my lazy ass decided not to.
So sore all day after three consecutives of climbing. Smoked a J in the bathtub like the Dude, and finished Disclosure by Michael Crichton. Great book. All about people abusing positions of power. Great perspectives--based on a true story, like many of his.
It's weird to think of the same full moon rising over in MI as it does here. Today we were out at the crag--one of the best days of climbing yet--and the moon just popped out of a pocket of clouds, top half first. That was about when we decided to head down.
Rack of lamb for dinner. Goddamn.
Great sunday tradition we've got going: breakfast early, crags all day (watch out--if you eat only protein bars all day you'll get the shits like whoa) martinis and dinner at 10pm. It's gorgeous out here.
Jefe brought his 1 y/o son out to the crag this morning. Cutest little guy. I fed him 2 jars of baby food--which isn't very tasty, by the way.
Too tired to shower but apparently not too tired to blog. Strenuous weekend. Loved it.
Rack of lamb for dinner. Goddamn.
Great sunday tradition we've got going: breakfast early, crags all day (watch out--if you eat only protein bars all day you'll get the shits like whoa) martinis and dinner at 10pm. It's gorgeous out here.
Jefe brought his 1 y/o son out to the crag this morning. Cutest little guy. I fed him 2 jars of baby food--which isn't very tasty, by the way.
Too tired to shower but apparently not too tired to blog. Strenuous weekend. Loved it.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
As I walked home from work today, I saw a quaking old man struggling out of the driver's seat of his car leaning on a cane. Normally, this wouldn't bother me too much--but then I saw he wore an eyepatch over one eye. Honestly. Driver's seat. Eyepatch.
Look, I love old people: they have great stories. But I'm wondering why there isn't a driver's license reevaluation at a certain age. Not to be age-ist, but there comes a point where someone is just too old to be driving a 3,000-pound Cadillac on the streets. If only our politicians weren't of such an age where a reevaluation would be required, perhaps it would be implemented.
Eyepatch. Driver's seat. Come on.
Look, I love old people: they have great stories. But I'm wondering why there isn't a driver's license reevaluation at a certain age. Not to be age-ist, but there comes a point where someone is just too old to be driving a 3,000-pound Cadillac on the streets. If only our politicians weren't of such an age where a reevaluation would be required, perhaps it would be implemented.
Eyepatch. Driver's seat. Come on.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
When I was climbing yesterday with the boss, an editor named Jefe, we had just finished clearing a path to the new route he'd just put up.
This guy has been climbing more than 30 years. Long hair, aquiline nose, one-year-old kid--funny guy. I'm sitting there having just scrambled down a 80 degree slope with the help of a rope, and he turns to me and says, "Care for some pot?"
So polite, so no-nonsense. Cracked me up. Guess you had to be there.
Going to his house for breakfast tomorrow before heading back up to the crag. I'm not excited for the approach. Loose scree and lots of potential break-neck falls, not to mention the fact that it's 60 degrees uphill for a good half hour or more of constant slogging and my muscles won't fire properly because of the altitude. Not so bad when I'm just standing still though.
You should be here.
This guy has been climbing more than 30 years. Long hair, aquiline nose, one-year-old kid--funny guy. I'm sitting there having just scrambled down a 80 degree slope with the help of a rope, and he turns to me and says, "Care for some pot?"
So polite, so no-nonsense. Cracked me up. Guess you had to be there.
Going to his house for breakfast tomorrow before heading back up to the crag. I'm not excited for the approach. Loose scree and lots of potential break-neck falls, not to mention the fact that it's 60 degrees uphill for a good half hour or more of constant slogging and my muscles won't fire properly because of the altitude. Not so bad when I'm just standing still though.
You should be here.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
The commercials with the turtles talking about how nice and slow DSL internet is--are so true! I hate to admit it, but Comcast is right. DSL sucks. Don't ever get it.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Yesterday I went climbing for the first time out here! We drove about 30 mins and hiked up a near-vertical scree hill to get to the cliff. I was only able to do two climbs (one on lead and one on toprope) but it felt great to get back into it. I also learned this lesson: always bring warm layers and always bring a raincoat.
I don't have a raincoat.
Afterwards I smoked a doob with one of the guys I climbed with. At the end of the month he's taking off for Alaska for three months to be the cook on a fishing boat. Goddamn.
Now that I'm finally meeting some dudes my age, I'm beginning to feel more comfortable in this place. Much to be said for chillin' with people just as broke as you are.
In other news, I just finished 1984, and I finally have a word for the growing illiteracy of our culture! Newspeak! Everyone should read the book before it's too late. Uncommonly brilliant and perceptive, and its message is perhaps more pertinent today than it was even when Orwell wrote it. (And by the way, for anyone who thinks it's about the USSR and China--you're dead wrong. It's about the U.S.A.)
Much love.
I don't have a raincoat.
Afterwards I smoked a doob with one of the guys I climbed with. At the end of the month he's taking off for Alaska for three months to be the cook on a fishing boat. Goddamn.
Now that I'm finally meeting some dudes my age, I'm beginning to feel more comfortable in this place. Much to be said for chillin' with people just as broke as you are.
In other news, I just finished 1984, and I finally have a word for the growing illiteracy of our culture! Newspeak! Everyone should read the book before it's too late. Uncommonly brilliant and perceptive, and its message is perhaps more pertinent today than it was even when Orwell wrote it. (And by the way, for anyone who thinks it's about the USSR and China--you're dead wrong. It's about the U.S.A.)
Much love.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Well, I'm out here in Colorado. The drive was good. Lots of time to think. And only two cop scares! Funny how seeing a cop still sparks that awful feeling in your gut even if you're locked into the exact speed limit with cruise-control.
There was a crazy blizzard in Nebraska and Eastern Colorado with 50 mph winds. I passed at least three wrecked semis. two were jackknifed and one was on its side looking like a beached whale. Scary as hell and strange. I found myself checking the date to make sure it was May.
The town is nestled at the base of Sopris Mountain. Pretty cool. Once I'm acclimated and in good shape I'll hike it.
My landlady, Laurie, is an aging hippie who lived in Aspen when Hunter S. Thompson ran for sheriff on the Freak Power ticket. Everyone out here is pretty cool, but a lot of them are obsessed by "ORGANIC" foods. Why would you pay $30 more for a piece of lettuce just because some savvy businessman stuck the word "organic" on the label? Jesus.
The other night, Laurie had a friend and his date over for dinner. While setting the table, she brought out a vaporizer. The lack of oxygen and a huge hit went straight to my head and I had to duck out for a bit to get a hold of myself.
Work is pretty sweet. Mostly I just cruise the web for climbing news and write it up online. Sometimes I get to edit writers' stories, which is my favorite.
More to come...
There was a crazy blizzard in Nebraska and Eastern Colorado with 50 mph winds. I passed at least three wrecked semis. two were jackknifed and one was on its side looking like a beached whale. Scary as hell and strange. I found myself checking the date to make sure it was May.
The town is nestled at the base of Sopris Mountain. Pretty cool. Once I'm acclimated and in good shape I'll hike it.
My landlady, Laurie, is an aging hippie who lived in Aspen when Hunter S. Thompson ran for sheriff on the Freak Power ticket. Everyone out here is pretty cool, but a lot of them are obsessed by "ORGANIC" foods. Why would you pay $30 more for a piece of lettuce just because some savvy businessman stuck the word "organic" on the label? Jesus.
The other night, Laurie had a friend and his date over for dinner. While setting the table, she brought out a vaporizer. The lack of oxygen and a huge hit went straight to my head and I had to duck out for a bit to get a hold of myself.
Work is pretty sweet. Mostly I just cruise the web for climbing news and write it up online. Sometimes I get to edit writers' stories, which is my favorite.
More to come...
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