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 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!
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?
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
