River Trip (far too short); Mosquito massacre; Tarzan in pirate garb; rice beans salad and meat; a sloth

25-28 Jun 2009

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

I lost my hat.

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 of higher mountains like an insurmountable wall. From the lookout tower up here, an attentive sentry can see everything, and can 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 being trained for the position gazing with envy at the bustling city below. And I wonder...is it sacrilegious 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 staying hidden and unscuffed for centuries—until a white man found the overgrown ruins and opened 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 possible amid incessant construction. 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 conquerors, 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 domicile, 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 anti-crowd bias (it helps that most of the crowd has already dissipated). For the time being, I´m left alone among those strands of 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?

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.

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.

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.

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...