Resuming the blog

Hello anyone who might actually be reading this. I´ve decided to revive my blog because it gives me a good conduit to express my views in a place where others might gather some foods for thought.

So its been a while since I´ve actually written anything and much has come to pass since my last post - not the least of which was gradumicating from college on a cloudy day in Olympia (like most) which I followed with an unemployed summer of transition and reflection, not to mention plenty of cycling, hiking, and yoga.

In August, Allison and I began a new journey together as leaders for a gap-year company that takes students all over the world in an effort to help them find themselves through traveling and volunteering in the (mostly) developing world. I have to say this work has been my most powerful travel experience (though I´m aware I have also said that about Peru / Bolivia) for a variety of reasons. First and foremost it has given me a clear and meaningful goal for my purpose on this trip which makes it quite exciting and fulfilling. We have been working with 12 17-19 year old students from all over the US and I have to say I have been astounded by their collective maturity and eagerness to grow and push their comfort zones. I guess I imagined a bunch of apathetic, cynical, and precocious kids that would be constantly testing our boundaries and rebelling without a cause - not to mention complaining about the primitive conditions of our homestays. Though that has been the case for some past trips in our company´s history, our particular group has been quite different from this description. Instead they have been remarkably receptive to our travel / group dynamic wisdom and have generally sought us as authorities rather than waiting for us to build dictatorial fences that they could then cut holes in or shake violently, like so many cheap-seat soccer fans. We have encouraged this dynamic through being somewhat hands-off in terms of decision making and travel details, in which we are encouraging them to take the lead roles.

The trip itself has been fantastic as well, with a great diversity of homestay experiences including one with no water or electricity, followed by a three week stay in Quetzaltenango, a city of relative luxury for the students. The mixture of homestays, spanish classes, volunteer work, and visits to amazing tourist destinations has made the trip different every single day - leaving little room for boredom or regression to old behavioral patterns.

I´m feeling pretty great thus far about the work we are doing and look forward to the myriad experiences that await us for the remainder of the trip.

Last Peruvian Photos

Here is a link to my final photographic contribution for now.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=216973&id=642633831&l=eb352be983

Thanks for tuning in.

The last hours

So this trip has almost come to an end - I´m heading to the airport in two hours. This journey has been one of the most mind-blowing of my varied adventures. Leaving myself open to the experience as opposed to narrowing my focus to one topic has been ridiculously educational and rewarding. Working as a volunteer for Threads of Peru brought me to some of the highest pueblos in the region where I was able to interact with the interesting people, got offered to be a godfather for a child there (declined), interviewed folks about how they get water, and got to watch a fascinating yarn-dying workshop. My week in the three villages above Ollantaytambo, Peru was one of my most memorable experiences ever. Then we went to the jungle to meet the Machiguenga tribe in the village of Pullentimari. We headed there with a list of people (friends of a man in Chinchero that we met) that might take us into their home and teach us about their culture. We did not find these people, but did get a first-hand look at how the tribe lives on their small reservation north of Quillabamba. Meeting them was certainly a highly educational betrayal of expectations, as they were not in the traditional dress we expected and showed few superficial differences from the majority of the people we have met here. We found that the reservation they lived on was not unlike those of tribes in North America - both groups having suffered immense oppression and battles for the most basic human rights. We left earlier than we had anticipated, as we felt that we were imposing - having subconsciously counted on our white privilege to spell immediate acceptance into a native community. Our last few days have been spent in dialogue about this place and its people as well as about our upcoming jobs as guides for Carpe Diem - an amazing gap year travel company based in Portland (www.carpediemeducation.org). We are incredibly excited about the opportunity to work for such a reputable and philosophically grounded company and anticipate leaps and bounds of personal growth stemming from our work there. With this excitement about future prospect, it has been somewhat difficult to stay immersed in the moment here, but we have acknowledged this and attempted to focus our attention on our remaining time here.

Now it´s transition time - from South to North and from student to graduate. I can think of no better way to have spent my final quarter at Evergreen and am absolutely grateful for the opportunities I´ve had at this amazing institution. John Dewey has said, "I believe that education, therefore, is a process of living and not a preparation for future living." Having the invaluable option of following my passions, not a prescribed academic track, has made my education at Evergreen a continual process of living and has resulted in my utter engagement with my studies throughout. I cannot thank this college enough for providing me with this gift.

And lastly, I cannot thank all of you enough for your support and love throughout my four years at TESC. I appreciate your readership and look forward to seeing you all soon...

El Puente

Una vida confundida
A veces perdido en la neblina
Mi perspectivo dividido
Una vista distinta
En cada ojo
Uno proviene de la corazón
Con sentimientos sin razón
El otro crece de la mente
Me dice ¨sea analytico puramente¨
Con ojos peleando por sus temas
Grandes de pequeñas se vuelven problemas
Pero intento construir un puente
De conexion para corazón y mente
Ya los dos Adanes andan alejados
Pero con tiempo yo se qu serán juntados
Compartiendo una sola vista
Andaré por la tierra con una gran sonrisa

Back to now...

The brook hurries downhill
Through fragrant Eucalyptus groves
I refuse to match its pace
Instead admiring swaying shadows
Four-winged gliders flutter
Then dash
Staking their claim
Followed by feathered hunters
Seeking sustenance
Chirps emanate from unseen mouths
In all directions
Still...
The brook hurries downhill

An ancient path
I walk
An unknown destination
I seek
To be submersed in the moment
I desire
Battling ruminations of then
I struggle
To harness my mind
I will
Enjoy my time
I am
On the precipice of transition

The temptation of speculation
Engulfs me
Daydreaming of tomorrow
Forgetting today
But the hummingbirds invite me
To open my eyes
Uncover my ears
Pay attention
For now
I must follow the brook

If you´re not enjoying now
What makes you think you´ll enjoy ¨then¨

Jungle Bus

Allison´s upchuck
Paints the side of the bus
Like a coffee cascade
The rotten chicken
Takes revenge
On her innards

Fish Lake

Alpacas atop sharp ridges
Directed by red figures
On two legs
Bowls strapped to their heads
With beaded bands

Like their houses
They are made of stone
Accustomed to the harshest
Circumstances
Seem beyond their control
Glaciers melt
And water vanishes
Other hemispheres
Culpable
They will never know
These shepherds
Who wrap their offerings
Carefully
For mountainous dieties
To provide potatoes
Keep safe the herd
On the roof of the world
They will persist?

They will persist
Products of extreme
Heights & weather
Resistant to oppressors
Stubbornly maintaining
Language & culture
While seeking contemporary purpose
Stemming from their roots
Weaving the fabric of old & new
Isolated on islands of altitude
They continue to weather
The storm

Coca Psychic

Little did I know it last week, but I was on a collision course with my destiny - and apparently things look grim.

You see, I thought I was headed to Arequipa for the weekend to check out the world´s deepest canyon and spot some Giant Condors, but plans fell through due to love at first sight so I started extending my feelers for other options that wouldn´t involve 24 hours of bussing. My host brother, Carlos, upon hearing my dilemma mentioned that he had been entertaining the idea of heading to a rural village a few hours down the road with which he had recently established a relationship. His propostiion was like gelatto to my ears, as I was itching to get out of Cusco and practice my Quechua with the locals. I was especially excited to try out ¨dove heart¨ on the señoras, because it supposedly charms them beyond belief. Not that I really wanted anything other than friendship (cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye!), I just thought they might get a kick out of the gringo droppin charm bombs in their language - one which has been stigmatized and oppressed so intensely that any foreigner showing interest in it can be quite a shock. During my 2 weeks of class, we had gone to the market a couple of times and the women there were invariably tickled by my broken phrases and surprised by my desire to learn this tongue.

So, bright and early one morning I headed to the village of Urpis, not really knowing what to expect. On the bus, our group was greeted by Pablo, who would be our host for the brief adventure. He was a cheery fellow with dark-brown skin and weathered features that revealed his 40 hard-earned years. The hat atop his head drew the most attention however, as a colorful beaded band encircled it and on the back of it dangled 10 multi-colored smiling fluffballs - apparently symbolizing his married status. He told me that it would be considered quite naughty if he were to go to Cusco without this conspicuous ornament. Once Carlos told him about my interest in Quechua, he quickly tested me by asking me complicated questions, then roared with laughter when I showed my confusion. I figured I better get used to it, so I smiled and kept on saying ¨Riki¨ (of course!).

Once the bus ride had come to an end in the tiny town appropriately named ¨Tinqi,¨ we hopped off and got some breakfast, after which we began our hike to the dinky stallions that would carry us to Pablo´s homestead at the foot of the mighty Ausungate, southern Peru´s largest mountain. Now I´m not the biggest fan of equestians because of some traumatic run-ins in my not so distant past, but I thought, ¨What the hey! This time will be different.¨ I mean the odds of me not getting the crazy horse were in my favor, as there were five of them. But alas, Pablo decided that since I was the most ¨bravo¨out of the group that I´d get the horse who ¨liked to dance.¨ Right when I hopped on, I got to see his first moves, which mostly consisted of standing on two legs and trying to throw me. Unoriginal, I know, but this dance always captures the attention of the tourist. I call it the ¨tourist shimmy,¨ and I have to say I wasn´t impressed - terrified is the more appropriate expression. Nevertheless, I held on tight and said soothing words in quechua for the 1.5 hour journey to Pablo´s house while he walked in front of me with a lead rope to ensure that my horse wouldn´t begin a dance off with one of his compadres.

As we neared Ausungate, I understood why the local populations had long made offereings to it, considering its spirit to be a powerful God who could easily give life or take it away. The craggy, snow-covered peak juts imposingly out of a peaceful green valley with a meandering glacial river where thousands of brown, white, and spotted alpacs graze in stone-walled fields. Upon viewing this scene I felt a powerful sense of serenity, relieved to be away from the noisy tourist mecca from whence I came.

We stopped briefly at Pablo´s house to leave our things, as riding a horse with a large bckpack does not make for the most agreeable experience, especially for the crotch. Pablo´s wife and daughters prepared us some mate de coca while we lazed around their front yard, which was marked by the now familiar stone corral and guarded by a handful of dreaded muts. Beside their cooking hut resided the guinea pigs and bunnies in an enclosure which had a small shelter, but also had tunnels into the hut so the guinea pigs could scour the dirt floor for food scraps. They were rather skittish of us humans and generally responded to any sudden moves with an emphatic squeak which seemed to exclaim ¨CUY!¨ their Quechua-derived name. Their fear was well-founded, as they are a delicacy in this region, not pets, and may find themselves in the oven if they don´t move quickly.

After admiring these squeaky little morsels, we began the walk to the mountain to make an offering and take a dip in the hot springs. Neither of these intentions were realized due to our glacial pace, but the walk was still quite stunning, and eventually found me napping next to a river in full view of the monstrous peak. It was one of those uber-power-naps - you know the ones where you wake up and don´t know where you are. Thirty foggy minutes later, my mind had cleared and we descended back to our homebase. The afternoon sun lit up the river and its various offshoots so that they appeared as molten silver flowing down the valley´s curved floor. The alpacas seemed to be standing on a glowing sea with islands of tufted gass from which they took their dinner - temporarily distracted by our approach into their marshy haven.

Upon our return, the women of the house began to prepare our evening meal by first catching the slowest cuy, then handing it to Pablo, who snapped its neck in a flash. As the ladies worked diligently on dinner, I began a soccer shoot out with Frank, the 12 year old son of Pablo. What started well ended tragically, as I toe-balled a laser of a shot that acted as a nose-seeking missile. He spent the next ten minutes crying on the ground as I nursed him back to health with scented toilet paper. As I comforted my victim, Pablo told me it was time for dinner, though I ignored his first two invitations. When Frank had finally calmed down, I joined my tourist pals for potatoes and rodent, but my late arrival meant I was the lucky recipient of roasted guinea pig head. While my compadres munched away on legs or ribs, I tried to figure out what to eat. I was instantly transported back to the anatomy lab I had done last quarter and decided the temporalis and masseters would the most promising muscles to munch. I wasn´t valiant enough to delve into the braincase, thought I`m told its rather tasty.

After finishing dinner, Pablo made an offering to Apu Ausungate for us, which basically consisted of coca, sugar, some seeds, little pieces of shiny paper, candy, and port wine - all wrapped in a paper packet, which he then took to burn in a secret place on the hillside. When he retuned, he offered to gaze into the future with coca leaves. I was the first to accept, eager to have my first fortune teller experience. I guess it started OK, with some counsel about my work future, which is apparently uncertain at the moment and I need to think well about which route I will take. Then my host brother asked about my future love life, without saying that I was married. Apparently I´ve yet to meet my love, but within a couple years I should encounter her.

So, at this point, due to the vagueness and incorrectness of his predictions, I´d become suspicious that I might be riding first class on the bullshit train, but figured I´d see where it took me. After Pablo had repeated the same stuff a couple times, Carlos revealed to him that I was actuallly married. So he started telling me about my relationship - saying ¨you two fight a lot, don´t you?¨ When I told him we didn´t, he didn´t bat an eye, but instead informed me that she was slated for death in an accident, but wouldn´t tell me when that may occur, just that we should be careful. At this point, I had become rather frustrated with this false prophet and took my leave. The two tourists that followed me had luck on their side - fortune love, and travels were written all over their coca-derived futures.

So I guess lady luck is angry at me, but decided that putting too much faith in her is a good way of removing myself from taking responsibility for my own life and how well or badly it goes. Of course, there are many factors beyond our control, but maybe not as many as we´d like to think. For instance, finding one´s soul mate is a popular belief of our culture, but it´s quite easy to blame failed relationships on them not being the one rather than on controllable behavior that was not given sufficient attention before it became poisonous. When we attribute things of the sort to fate, luck, or other factors, we pass the buck to a culturally accepted scapegoat. What if I do have bad luck? Does that legitmate a bad attitude and defeated outlook? Many people are born with so-called bad luck but still seek out ways to better themselves and their plight. And really, their bad luck isn´t acutally a product of God-given circumstances, but is instead derived from an unjust system that concentrates wealth and opportunity in white neighborhoods and businesses. As long as we give too much creedence to luck, we will continue to count on supernatural solutions, rather than rolling up our sleeves and modifying ¨fate.¨ The future is as malleable as we want it to be. No more psychic leaves for me...

Photos / Comments

Instead of posting a bunch of pics on this site, check out my photos at:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=208236&id=642633831&l=c7f3c64310

And by the way, now anyone can post comments, even if you aren´t a member of blogger.com...

kisses,
Adam

Puma city

So, it´s been a while since I arrived in Peru, and much has happened. Cusco, the ruin-strewn capital of the short-lived, but impressive, Incan empire has been an unforgettable cultural experience. I must say it can be as obnoxious as it is beautiful - let´s just say aggressive street vendors are a dime a dozen - and many a friendly conversation can suddenly turn into to an offer for a trek to Machu Pichu. I´ve never been offered so many massages from women on the street in my life. Anyway, the city is fascinating historically and is full of immaculate Incan masonry topped by imposing catholic structures - the conquistadors left the solid foundations for their ornate cathedrals. This city has been bustling since the 1500s and is quite connected to its cultural roots. For instance, last weekend all of the surrounding towns performed their dances in elaborate costumes during the International Worker´s Day parade on the main plaza. It was a true spectacle (pictures to come)...Men covered in dried llama calf corpses wearing bank robber masks with stitched in mustaches and vividly colored woven shirts, skipped exuberantly through the streets as tiny bells jingled on their collars. The fire crackers have continued ever since then, as this parade was preceded and followed by two other parades for other holidays. They´ll parade for anything down here, I swear! Anyway, I´ve also been to the ruins in the surrounding valley since arriving, which were absolutely captivating and beautiful. I´m not one to talk energy too much, but there is some true power in those sacred structures. Man, totally unforgettable. I´ve had countless interesting interactions with the people here - I find it to be a proud and friendly culture that I´ve warmed up to after the traumatic introduction (Borderline article). As for my ¨purpose,¨ well that´s another story...

I came here with a vague idea of what kind of volunteer work I would be doing - hoping that something might materialize which would be fulfilling and interesting. Well, thanks to my buddy Vaughn´s connection to Threads of Peru (threadsofperu.com), I have found just that. This organization has been working on a ¨weaving revitalization¨ project in the remote towns of the Sacred Valley, in an attempt to reconnect the people with their traditional weaving methods. By providing workshops from expert traditional weavers and dyers of this area for these communities, they are not only helping to reinvigorate a forgotten tradition, but also enabling the women of the villages to earn an income by marketing their beautiful textiles. The hope is that such income will translate to healthier children, as has been observed in other cultures where women begin to control monetary resources. They have also become active in other community development projects like health, nutrition, and now, where I come in, water systems. Though my original proposal was to conduct a cultural study on the villages to aid in further development efforts, the organizers thought 2 weeks would probably be too little to achieve such a lofty goal, so they asked me if I would conduct a preliminary assessment of the water system in the towns for use by two long-term volunteers in August. OK, so I´m no water engineer, but I do know how to research, and I want to be useful, so I agreed to the proposition. It offers me an opportunity to learn about the management of this precious resource (which is becoming ever more precious everyday), and gives me some assurance that my work will be part of a long-term project addressing this issue - as opposed to it being quickly forgotten after my departure. In lieu of all this, I´ve spent the last week studying Quechua, a wildly difficult language spoken in these villages, and researching water issues in the Andes. The towns are super remote - 4 hours by foot from the closest working road - and are apparently not terribly comfortable (4 days is the record length for a volunteer stay due to this), as they are somewhere around 4500 meters and are constantly full of smoke from cooking fires. Thus, I anticipate adventure. I´ve also been staying with a family in Cuzco since last Monday. They have been quite gracious and fun while offering me window into the life of middle-class ¨Cuzqeños.¨ I will spend a week in the villages starting May 12, then present my findings and head to the jungle, where I hope to volunteer with wildlife research. It has been a wonderful trip thus far and I look forward to the weeks to come. Tupananchiskama.

Confused Savior

In a taxi ride I clarified
My purpose is not to save anyone
From themselves
But to see how we might save each other
Through open hearts and words
Ama llulla, Ama qilla, Ama suwa
Don´t be a liar, a slouch, or a thief
So says the Incan ¨Hello¨
Come with clean heart
Chúyasunqu
And the weathered doors will open
To the lush courtyards and communities therein

I wonder who really needs help
And what that even looks like
Is it OK to go with no agenda?
Outside of meeting new friends
Swapping stories
Comparing worlds
Listening? Understanding
Realizing how little money can buy
On contentment´s path
We travel just to find its trailhead
Usually where wealth is scarcest
Community is rich
Yet we analyze their problems
As if they were worse than our own
Hatching perfect plans
To solve them
But maybe we can help them
And maybe they can help us
And maybe we are they
And maybe we can save each other

Borderline: Judging a book by its cover

Let me be honest. My first impression of Peru was far from favorable. You see, border crossings are notoriously unpleasant, and the one on the shores of Titicaca was no exception. After 8 hours in transit, I finally reached the dirty, hectic border of Bolivia and Peru. Bolivia had treated me splendidly in most respects, so I expected similar things from Peru. I get to the immigration office on the Peru side. The immigration official takes my passport and stamps in it a 60 day visa - while I thought the visa was 90 days. Upon inquiring politely, the official says, oh actually you can have up to 180 days, but you didn´t ask...So, I asked for more time and he said, sorry, its already in the computer - too late. OK, I thought, being an asshole is a desired qualification for border guards, so I won´t let it stain my perception of Peru.

Next, I went to find a bus to Puno to continue my 20 hour journey from Apa Apa to Cusco. I find one for 7 soles and hop on - strategically choosing an aisle seat for the extra leg room. After I take my seat, women with overstuffed bags of merchandise started searching the bus for every last inch of space to cram their goods. During this time, two passengers began bickering heatedly over who would occupy the front seats.

Sorry, the front seat is taken.
There was no indication of that!
Actually our things are in the rack above your head.
That doesn´t mean anything!

Awkward...I hadn´t seen anything like it in Bolivia, and let me tell you, I´ve seen these scenes a few times in Peru. Anyway, after that figured itself out with the aid of the bus driver, the company proceeded to overbook the bus until the aisle looked like a sardine can - negating any advantage I would have gleaned from my clever seat choice. So, I grumpily assumed the knees-smashed-into-the-seat-in-front-of-me position and awaited our departure. The man in front of me decided to recline. As I repositioned to accommodate this move, my neighbor noticed my silent discomfort and began yelling at the man in front of me and shaking his seat back and forth telling him to think about the comfort of the gringo. The man remained silently indifferent and didn´t say a word, while his wife began defending his honor to the unrelenting woman who continued to use his seat as a rowing machine. I too remained silent, but more from astonishment at this tyrade rather than indifference. Realizing that nothing but ill will would result from this situation, I calmed the woman down by telling her that I was used to such discomfort on Latin American buses on account of my long, beautiful legs. After things had settled, the woman patriotically assured me that all Peruvians weren´t like that man. I secretly hoped they wouldn´t be like her, though later on the ride we had a stimulating conversation about our respective homes and the double edged sword of wealth.

I later took a bus from Puno to Cusco, and what a hellacious ride it was. Due to gastrointestinal maladies, I became a veritable volcano of noxious gases on that bus ride as my guts tied themselves in knots. The 7 hours without a bathroom stop made the ride quite torturous for myself and my neighbors. When we finally arrived in Cusco at 4 AM, I was quite relieved, and grabbed an overpriced taxi to ¨Hostel Slippery¨ (it sounds better in spanish), to surprise Allison - rousing her from her slumber. It was a sleepy, but heartwarming reunion, for which my bum provided a terrible soundtrack. Such were my first few hours in the great country of Peru.

Water FIGHT!

After Potosí and Sucre, I bussed 20 hours or so to arrive at Apa Apa Forest Reserve outside La Paz, which was an utterly heavenly experience after the hubbub of the tourist track and the cities which lay upon it. Apa Apa is the first ´real forest´(meaning something other than eucalyptus) I´ve encountered in Bolivia – partly because I´ve been above 3500 meters most of the time, but also because everything below that altitude, where forest could theoretically exist, has been cut for farmland. Thus, this reserve is an anomaly, and I´m told it is conserved partly because it contains the headwaters of a sizeable river – in fact it contains upwards of 5 headwaters, which provide this precious resource to the surrounding communities. Despite this fact, local farmers have been attempting to take this land from the Portugal family, claiming that they have no land, and that it is arable, so it should not sit idly while their families suffer. I heard this story three times in my time there from two hacienda owners, and once from a caretaker at the reserve, and it is obvious that this struggle has loomed large in the minds of friends and employees of the reserve.

One man I met – Vladimir, a Czech Bolivian and friend of the reserve´s owners – told me about the greed of those who are attempting to claim the land – how they drive nice trucks and already do fine growing coca in the hills. He says the government of Bolivia, like others in Latin America, generally sides with farmers in land disputes. This is reminiscent of the sad history of the Emberá reservation in Panama´s Darien province, which has been steadily whittled down to a mere 7,000 acres from its original 50,000 by illegal logging and farming, a practice which has been encouraged and facilitated by a government sympathetic to farmers instead of conservation.

It is alarming, yet understandable that the farmers do not see watershed conservation as fundamental to their livelihoods. Though I have noticed that most riparian areas are left with a tiny tract of forest where I´ve been, it´s by no means a constant and it may not be enough to avoid droughts in once rainy regions. Victor, an assistant on the reserve, told me that many of the surrounding communities are experiencing this currently, which he attributes to the rampant deforestation. He claims that many of the rain clouds in this area begin above the reserve and travel no further – deterred by the arid air surrounding it. Apparently, various meetings between the reserve owners and the area communities have remedied the unrest and pressure directed at Apa Apa, through educating them about the function of the reserve performs, but communities uninvited to such meetings continue causing headaches. One pueblo, for instance, attempted to siphon an immense portion of the water supply into a holding tank destined for their ¨future use.¨ Ramiro and his crew had to go destroy the infrastructure so that the supply wouldn´t rapidly dissipate, a fate that would threaten the health of the forest and the humans near it.

I hope that it was simply ignorance and not greed or malice that prompted the actions of this pueblo, but who knows? I´m sure water disputes have played a leading role in conflicts in this region – especially in the high and dry Andes. I think ecology should become a primary subject in the schools here if they are to avert more conflicts and understand how human actions can affect climate on a local and global scale. Even if the latter is more controversial, the former is undeniable, and knowledge about it could lead to wise decisions about water conservation and drought avoidance.

This story serves as a microcosm for many of the political battles that have colored Bolivia´s history. The tension between hacendados (European land owners from colonial times) and indigenous farmers has existed since the 16th century. However useful this reserve (which is a 200 year old hacienda) may be at this point, it still is a symbol of a bloody and hurtful past, and is therefore controversial. More on this later...

From here, I headed to Peru on another 20 hour bus adventure to surprise my lady at 4 A.M.

Cerro Rico

Went to the mines in Potosi the other day. You know the mine that made Spain a most formidable colonial force because it was totally full of silver. You know the one that was discovered by a shepherd who got caught up on the mountain because his llama ran away, so he started a fire to keep warm, then woke up the next morning to find a river of molten silver. You know the one that made Potosi the largest city in the world for a time and where 8 million indigenous workers have met their death. Yeah that one. Went to tour it. Rather wild. A devil statue that the Spanish created named Tio stands at the entrance. His erection sits in his hand and a cigarette still smoking sits in his mouth. Coca leaves cover the ground around his seat, saturated with offerings of sugar cane alcohol - 97%! Apparently, the indigenous folks objected to entering the Earth because of its sacred status. So the Spanish told them about Tio (Dios, actually, but ¨d¨ doesn´t exist in their language, so they named him something pronounceable), who would basically ¨do bad things to them¨ if they didn´t work for free. So, to this day miners make offerings of coca, cigarettes and chicha to try to satisfy Tio in order to keep them safe. Doesn´t work too well. Three still die every month in this fragile mountain that has been tunneled through for upwards of 500 years. It´s hellacious work for little to no reward.

A quarter of Potosi´s population still hammers away in the barren mines. They say that the Spanish left the trash after sacking all of the riches (i.e. silver) - the Zinc left is impure and brings little profit. The backbeaking work of hammering away at tiny veins of zince for 12+ hours, then the monumental task of moving that 10 tons from 40 meters below by turning a crank by hand - one potato sack of rubble at a time - then shoveling a ton at a time into a cart whose tracks to the depository rarely acommodate the cart´s wheels. All of this work yields maybe 200 bolivianos ($28) to be split three ways. This is with cooperatives, too. It used to be unpaid work - slavery or indentured servitude - until the 1950s.

The plight of the indigenous communities here is rather heartbreaking in general. Though an indigenous man was recently elected to his second term of presidency, most accounts I´ve heard suggest that he is a puppet, not truly connected to the people. Typical top-down manipulation, oppressed turns into oppressor type stuff (Freire ref). The disparity between rich and poor is stark. Nice houses in La Paz are fortified with 20 foot walls housing guard stations. Some of the Aymara vendors from the market sleep in the streets - their adobe shacks tended by their young children in the hills. You know the story. It´s just amplified here. I´m trying to figure out how to help. I´ll let people know if I figure it out. To be continued...

motorized roulette

So if there´s one thing I´ve learned in Bolivia, its that the motor vehicles are not trustworthy, but that the drivers are aware of this fact. The first indication was when a bus i was on stopped midway in a pullout. i thought it was just a routine stop, but when the driver asked us to vacate the bus and jacked up the back wheel i knew that wasn´t the case...

the back left wheel spins
as the engine idles
the driver´s feet lay next to the wheel
sometimes a greasy hand
visible beneath the bus
the once well-dressed driver
now in a jumpsuit
my fellow passengers and i sit on a dirty hillside
as cars cruise by
and watch the feet
of the driver
and mechanic
anxiously awaiting the second half
of our journey to the city
it´s probably best that we stopped
though the repair in progress
remains a mystery

this resulted in a refund and waving down another bus to la paz. later, at the salt flats, our driver roman, who had been flying through the bumpy desert sands of the area (i think we won a rally race in the process), put on his jumpsuit (sounds like a superhero gimmick in the making) after spotting a dark oily trail behind the 84 toyota landcruiser (shit, i want one of these puppies). he found that our brake fluid was leaking (parenthetical), but didn´t have a screw to stop the leak. so he cut a little leather chunk off his belt and patched it. thank the good lord, it held for the remainder of the 11 hour drive. but later, the truck stalled on an uphill. he immediately guessed it was the gas filter. took it out, blew in it, gas shot out the other side. put it back in, truck starts, we´re on our way. i love the know-how of drivers in this country. you just don´t get that kinda expertise in AAA country! the trip apparently is tough on the trucks judging by the fact that they have to replace the tires every two months, replace the motor every two years, and the shocks probably every week. i tell you what (hope my parents don´t read this) knowing the unpredictable state of motorized things in this here land isn´t very reassuring when your blazing down a road about 20 ft wide thats essentially on a cliff that would turn you into a panqueque if your brake fluid were to leak a little too much. for now, i will trust the mechanic / bus drivers. hey, all part of the adventure! badawwww!!!

Salt

So I went to the Salar de Uyuni and did a three day tour through the ridiculously amazing landscape. It´s a 12,000 square km salt flat peppered with volcanic islands, but that´s just the first day of the tour. We went upwards of 5000m in altitude during the tour of colorful, stunning mountains and flamingo filled lakes in the following two days. As touristy as it was impressive, I had an unforgettable experience in the 900km jeep ride through the deserts of Southwest Bolivia. Interestingly enough, I bought some batteries for my camera before the tour and they were dead - or at least too weak for camera use. What luck? In a desperate attempt to enshrine the experience in eternity - without a camera! - I wrote some poems:

The first is about the most amazing sunset I´ve ever seen. Holy crap. And the thing is, I see em almost every day. But this one was...different.

SALTY SUNSET
Vicuña footprints drew me uphill
Where vivid lime green shrubs glow in contrast
To the red earth below
A startled egret reveals the stream
Thin ribbon of life
Feeding kidney shaped pools
Bustling with jumpy fish
Invisible amphibians chirp to honor the dropping sun
Backlighting angular ridges
Volcanic progeny cutting into
A flat moonscape
Of the purest white
Negating the horizon
Clouds catch fire
Painting the ruins grapefruit
I sit at the pool´s edge and encounter
This sacred place
Uyuni

TOOTH CHATTER
As the rough road jostles me
The landscape moves me
As high and dry as can be
A land of colored contours
Of rugged invitation
And photo snapping Europeans
Where blue sky meets iron red
Sulfur-stained peaks slice clouds
Zigzag truck tracks converge at overlooks
Of picturesque geology
Soft and Sharp
The volcanoes sleep
While the tourists jump in feigned elation
In front of natural wonders
The flamingos
In contrast
Scour the salt-crutsed laguna
Now are pink dots in the distance
As Roman calmly guides us
Confident in our direction
Gravel surfing in the ruts
Following the billowing dust
Of other tires
Gliding by a hillside of imposing boulders
Surrounded by sand
A dinosaur graveyard?
As bizarrely beautiful as Dali´s imagination
And also his inspiration
Cursing the dead batteries
Sold to me as new
My camera as dormant as surrounding volcanoes
I came to realize
A feeling
Is worth more than a thousand words

PARTY WAGON
The drunken brit dances exuberantly
Half-time visible in the blinking headlamps
She loses control
And crashes in the sand
Her friends chuckle indifferently

Gerardo

Went on a walk yesterday to the peninsula jutting out from Copacabana - where most gringos don´t venture - and thought about things. It seems to me that I needed some perspective on why the hell I´m here. Sure, it´s a fascinating landscape culturally and geographically, but that doesn´t necessarily mean that it will be an amazing trip, unless I really think about what I want from it. Anyway, the walk was good - I cleared my mind and wrote some things down. Interestingly, I had written that I wanted to interact with locals, but only if they seemed to want to talk to me. I find the people here rather aloof in this regard, and have found initiating these interactions somewhat challenging. So as I walked back along the shores of Titicaca from the temporary haven on the peninsula to the trash strewn waterfront of a post-Semana Santa Copacabana, I encountered a local guy who was fiddling with something on a bike and had two dogs around him. I gave him the usual Buenas Tardes and flashed him a smile, as is my custom with locals, and to my surprise, he responded in Aymara, the local dialect. I don´t remember his words, but he was saying How are you? When I gave him a puzzled look back as I pulled my headphone out (Nina Simone´s Greatest Hits - goes well with the landscape), he switched to Spanish and informed me of his previous Aymara phrase. For the proceeding hour, he accompanied me along the dirt road - walking his bike - teaching me Aymara phrases and interviewing me about my life, then telling me about his. He asked how much it cost me to come here. I didn´t have the heart to tell him - he can´t afford the $1.50 bus trip to La Paz to see his wife and daughter. I diplomatically dodged his query, but told him I thought it was important for us privileged folks to see how others lived, so that we might gain some perspective. We parted ways. I walked back to my hotel on the hill, he rode his bike back to his farm on another hill. The sun set over Titicaca.

Tiptoe Traveling

Is it possible to travel as a relatively affluent person in the developing the world without causing a negative impact? You know all that talk about exploitation, oppression, globalization that is often spoken of in the same breath as tourism. In fact, ironically enough (as a ¨tourist¨), I´ve often commented on tourism´s role in creating boom and bust local economies, fueling the unfair treatment of locals in touristy areas, and have observed blatant dehumanization of the host country´s citizens in tourist mentalities. Bolivia is a very impoverished country by many measures, so it has brought this tourism dynamic to my attention quite strikingly. I´ve thought about tourism´s impact often because I have the travel bug and truly come alive when I encounter people from very different regions and worldviews. Nevertheless, I have this nagging feeling that I´m doing something wrong when I travel in places that have identified themselves as tourist attractions or in places that rarely see a white face, but are seemingly eager to please me, (maybe) because I look like a large dollar bill to them. Of course, it appears that many of the locals view tourism - especially eco- and volun-tourism - as the panacea for poverty (at least in beautiful, relatively ¨pristine¨ regions) and the detrimental aspects of tourism. Obviously, this is the story I get from the locals with whom I interact, and thus my sample is small and likely quite biased because I probably met them in the context of doing something eco-touristy. We, as the privileged class, must acknowledge this desire of the local people and the success many areas have had with such projects, and not decide for ourselves that tourism is wrong because we think it is. This is an oft-neglected, yet integral process, if we intend to enact international development responsibly.

I´ve had many varied experiences in the developing world now, mostly Central America, that demonstrated to me the negative and positive potential for intercultural exchange - especially between two financially disparate cultures. Primarily, I saw how flowing thousands of dollars into a small rural village for a do-gooder scholarship and library fund could cause a controversy among the residents, even with the purest of intentions. Since then, I´ve been much more careful about my financial charity and have thought long and hard about how I can most effectively act as a global citizen and ambassador of my country. I´ve come to the conclusion (far from final) that the best I can do if I intend to spend time in the developing world, is to treat the people like people. This is the problem I see most amongst tourists - not seeking conversations, experience, or interactions with anyone but other tourists - which I believe can cause inadvertent negative impacts on the host country. Mainly, I think it perpetuates the segregation of the classes and emphasizes the untouchable status of the wealthy tourists. Conversely, if I show through my words and actions that I am interested in the people whose place I am visiting, I am demonstrating solidarity with the people there - at least a little bit - and am thus taking a small step towards a more egalitarian world. I have come to acknowledge that having no impact is impossible, so all I can do is attempt to lessen my negative impact and show that I do not view the local people as lesser than me in any sense. I´m sure I am not entirely effective in actualizing this ideal, but it is the energy I try to exude. To be continued.

Calle colon

So I don´t know how many of you have experienced traveler´s diarrhea, but let me tell you about it. It´s the type of thing that will always remain a mystery - attributable to nothing but everything. Am I reacting to the ridiculous altitude, the greasy food, the stress of travel, or am I just experiencing some cosmic retaliation from Pacha Mama? I may never know, but what I do know is that shared bathrooms at hostels are not my favorite place to experience such discomfort. Bananas. That´s the answer. This old guy at a hostel in Panama once recounted a dream to me. He had dysentery for a few days and was in dire straits. After spending ample time on ¨Calle colon¨ he had a vivid dream that cut through his hazy mental state. He was being attacked by a black panther (the cat) and right as it was about to bite him, it spoke to him - looked him right in the eyes - and whispered, ¨bananas.¨ True story. And so he took it as a sign, went out and bought a gaggle of bananas, and was cured. Happily ever after. Thanks dream panther!

The Pigeon

The city is a bowl of gazpacho with legos
South of the mirador lies a dried and wrinkled landscape
Grey and red - a rare steak - topped with dashes of herbs
The shadows of bursting clouds interspersed
Create transient masks for valleys and peaks
Crevices appear deeper as the sun travels
Illuminating then masking
The ridges, valleys, streetsides and alleys
Now it spotlights the market
Neverending maze of knockoffs and mystery
Foods and drinks we´ve never seen
Tended by small dark women in bowler hats
Shrouded in rainbows
It is quiet
Peaceful
Despite the crowd
Our aimless wander finds us in an unrecognizable corner of the Peace
A taxi carries us to the viewpoint
Where the clouds are closer
Our location clearer
Allison sketches the scene
The camera in a lockbox at the hostel
We process the moment
Startled by a small multi-colored soccer ball tossed by a playful child
Which hits Allison´s back with a thud
She thought it was a pigeon

Thin Air

Wired webs wind wildly outside my window
The roof´s red tiles are no longer orderly
Consumed by lichen and weathered by 3500 meter tropical sunshine
They crack and dangle precariously over the sidewalk below
Wires connect buildings
Labrynths of half used infrastructure
Walls in vibrant hues reveal their layers - lime forest turquoise burnt peaches
Peppered with graffiti
Post-it notes of angst
Futilely covered in another shade of paint
Enhancing the inadvertent and beautiful mosaic
Now the setting sun saturates the coral buildings of the hillside
Rugged rock carved into livelihoods
The locals saunter along the skinny sidewalks
A bird exotic to me busily tends its nest in the crumbling roof tiles
I wonder where to get my next cup of coca
I´m in no hurry

embracing the journey

So, we got to the airport at 6 AM to catch our first flight. The engine on the plane was leaking something. They called in the mechanics. The mechanics said they needed a part. The part had to come from Chicago. We stood in line for 1.5 hours afterwards to get rescheduled. Our new itenerary: hotel in Seattle for the day, red eye that night, hotel in Dallas for the day, flight to Miami in the afternoon, red eye to La Paz. What luck? we thought as we accepted our new fate and $60 in food vouchers. The hotel was decent, though the toilet didn´t work initially. And the vouchers only worked at one restaurant outside the airport. So we ate two meals there and slept until our red eye to Dallas. On our way back to the airport, I checked my stuff to make sure my passport was there. It wasn´t - and Allison´s had been in the same bag with it. YES! I kicked myself for being such an amateur while Allison remained calm and reassured me that it would be OK. Eventually, I realized it would be OK as well and decided that the debacles of the day were a sign that I needed to (1) Be super careful about passports and (2) Embrace the freaking journey - goods and bads. Isn´t that what travel is all about? Gracefully accepting every experience as a learning opportunity. We got our passports back - I had left them on the leaky plane, and some kind soul had found them. Dodged that bullet, eh? So we took a breath and accepted our new itinerary, which would have us spend the night in Seattle and fly the next day with a more continuous schedule. Seriously, despite the 24 hours of flying / airports yesterday, it was remarkably peaceful - as if it were the day we were supposed to have left. Bolivia is very comfortable and tranquil thus far. Our little hospedaje is great and cheap - so is the food. Í´m currently combatting altitude sickness with coca tea and relaxing. I think I might learn Quechua - it seems interesting. If the past two days were any indication of what´s to come, I think this could be an interesting and educational adventure.

here we freakin go!

So departure time is looming, and here I am in my room, sitting on my yoga ball for the last time for 2.5 months. Wow, this is it. This is the last time I'm going to sit on this yoga ball for a long time. It just hit me. I'm tearing up. I just slept in my bed for the last time. And ate oatmeal out of my own pots and pans for the last time. Oh my God. This is it. Who knows what I'll have to eat for breakfast down there. Probably not oatmeal. Man, this is gonna be tough! And this is the last day that the toilets will drain in the correct direction. I wonder if gravity works the same down there? Do things even drain, or do you have to stuff them down a hole using your hand or a special tool meant for doing such things? Will the people like my mustache? I doubt it, but maybe it will be sufficiently intimidating to prevent kidnappings. Or maybe it will encourage a kidnapping? Oh no! What should I do?! Are three T-shirts really enough? I mean, for 2.5 months that averages out to like 0.05 T-shirts per day! I can't wear just 5 percent of a T-shirt - I'll freeze! AHHHH! Here we freakin go!