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
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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...
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...
Friday, May 7, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 30, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 23, 2010
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.
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