"Puma of the Stone in the Before Days"

3 February 2002

We are in the lake, on an island called Amantani. The boat ride here was beautiful. I was reminded of the early years of my childhood in coastal Maine when I spent much time riding in boats – my young comfort in ocean waves replaced by an adult fear of the power of water – a result of too much distance, too much time passed.

The sun was behind and above the clouds for the whole trip, until the last hour. With the sun shining bright blue sky we pulled into port four hours after it began. The island pushing up to a very impressive point at 4110 meters above sea level. There were houses dotting the hillside, more rock walls and paths, terraces. This island was a holy site for the Inca and for many others before and after. We climbed to the top – to the peak called Pachatata that faces the other slightly lower peak of Pachamama. The third piece of this trinity is the lake itself, also referred to in the feminine. Titikaka means “puma of the stone in the before days” according to our guide.

A temple at the top is now blocked off from tourists. Looking from outside through cracks in the walls you can see a square structure made of rock. The corners of this structure line up directly with the four directions – east west north south. There are solstice alignments on June 21 – winter solstice in the southern hemisphere. For those who worship the sun, this shortest day of the year marks the beginning of a new year and the return of the sun.

The two mountains face each other across a field honeycombed with rock walls like those in Cabanaconde. Rocks are piled everywhere. It is said that people still bring 3 stones to the top of the mountain to pay homage – one for Pachamama, one for Pachatata and one for Titikaka.

We stopped at the Uros Islands on the way to Amantani. These are the famous floating islands, made completely of the totora reed. The reeds are piled up on top of each other so they form a squishy, deep and dense mat that is the “island” where people live. The island we visited had kiosk-houses (also made completely of the totora reed) circling the outside edge. It was about 30 - 40 feet in diameter. Inside this circle of houses was a circle of vendors selling trinkets and pottery, and many small gift items. The islands were surrounded by 15 foot long dragon-headed boats also made of the totora reed that were selling rides to boatloads of tourists.

Candlelight and Llama Blankets, A poem

6 February

candlelight and llama blankets
bring memories of the day
the inland sea
vast and blue
stretching for ever
burning rubber of laboring engine
alone in the world
the breeze kisses and bites my neck
like an excited lover
clouds slung low
scraping the water and my skull
the idea of eternity
clearly presents itself
for consideration
and my brain accepts
balancing the eternal
with NOTHING
(libra’s attempt at eternity)
the scale tips sharply
in favor of the neverending
and I open myself wide

the candlelight also illuminates
memories of other times and places
all so far from this bone of mother earth
this mountain birthed in amniotic fluid
of Lago Titikaka
all places and times
converge in a swirl of creation
memories molded to stone
stone molded in memory

I suck into myself at 4110 meters
snap into body myself
clean and cold and wet
a shadow of life eternal
and then
breath caught in my throat
I see the mother before me
she is facing father across a short distance
which is really where they connect
to become two plants
from the same root
lovers and twins
split in half at some important moment
only the rocks can remember
and they do remember
only they are silent
unwilling to give up the secrets
which make them so hard
unwilling to yield
to any but their creator
and the lovers face each other
across the distance
intense in their devotion
desire has cooled to attentiveness
and memories are the blood

I remember then where I am
in the candlelight
in a llama blanket
sounds of native music
in the distance
native music with gringo dancers
haunting and low, beautiful
the sound the rocks would make
if they whispered their secrets
the sound of beauty and knowledge
deep and innocent and sorrowful
in the memories of this night

The Birth of the Inca

5 February

I feel much better. We are in Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca after a sleepless bus ride and hours of hanging out needlessly in the bus station waiting for the hostals to open, trying to sleep but not able to. I was delirious and silly by the end, when I fell asleep at the hostal around noon today. [To anyone who travels to South America: the hostals are never closed no matter how late it is. You never have to wait in the bus station for hours on end until a “decent” hour. This was a ridiculous decision and I can’t for the life of me remember why we thought we couldn’t just go find a place to stay at 3:00 in the morning.]

Puno is a dark, drab town (as much as any of these towns can really be drab with all their colors, people, animals, landscape). There are dirty, narrow streets and even narrower sidewalks. Everything is perpetually wet, especially now in the rainy season.

I led us into the market this morning at the most inopportune place – the meat section. We were greeted by great hunks of every part of the animals; bones, heads, organs, slabs, everything -- and a woman hacking at a body part to separate it from its natural neighbor.

The markets here are amazing feasts for the eyes (and the belly), magical almost in the potentiality of all the secret corners and dark shadows that are interspersed with bright colors and open air. Coca leaves for sale, bottles of wine and pisco, bags of powders and spices, bags of home-made aji, fruits and veggies in all their colorful glory, all stacked in pyramids, squares, however they will best defy gravity. Each different fruit or vegetable blending into the next stack to create the most beautiful pile of food I’ve ever seen. There are lots of artesanias here as well that sell bags, clothes, rugs, and other local crafts.

It is the feast of the Virgen de la Candelaria here in Puno for the next 2 weeks. The locals say there are big parties on the weekends. This morning at the bus station, I walked out to look at the lake as the sun came up. The bus station sits right on the edge of Lake Titicaca. The lake was huge and I only saw a small bay stretching far into the distance. The city spread out behind me and to the right, rolling partially up the hills surrounding the bay. From a distance the city was beautiful, perfect with its lines and curves, the orange of clay tile roofs, church steeples and the haze of early morning.

This is where the Inca were born according to their creation myth. They were brother and sister birthed in the cold, deep waters of Lake Titicaca so they could rule this land. Father Sun and Mother Lake – a burning sphere and a huge amniotic sack, light and dark, hot and cold. This is the largest lake at this high altitude anywhere in the world.

Tomorrow we go on a tour to the islands of Taquile, Amantani and Uros, organized by our friend Edgar who also runs the hostal we are in. He also operates a new bus service to Cusco, leads tours to the funerary towers of Sillustany and owns a taxi company. He is a man of many interests and talents an much ambition it seems.

This afternoon I woke from a nap dreaming of condors. They were flying very close to where I stood, high in a mountain town. They were almost cartoonish in their hugeness with funny heads and eyes.

Adventures in a Peruvian Hopsital, Arequipa

3 February

The Bones of Arequipa
(a town built of white volcanic rock called sillar)

as if the rock has no memory
as if a city built of volcanic leftovers can ever behave in a
civilized way
the natives got it right
they adorn the mama
bejewel her with her own gems
carefully tattooing her with her own fluids
rocks, water, grass, shifted and used, left to their creator
not rupturing her backbone to build monuments to themselves
but taking her gifts and offering them back
altered in context but not in shape size or essence
their memory stronger by a few 1000 years

later –
life takes on the yellow glow of peaceful conversation
arequipa basks white in her volcanic memories
city pushes close again, crowding, comforting
it’s confinement forcing good relations

We are still in Arequipa and I am still recovering. The bus ride back from Cabanaconde was long but not as miserable as I had expected. With no energy and no appetite, curled up in a window seat wasn’t a bad place to be for 9 hours.

I almost lost it when I got back to Arequipa. The bus driver was speaking so fast, trying to help me get my bag, asking me a question over and over again that I couldn’t understand. I was dehydrated and weak, brain not functioning, and feeling so alone and sick. Tears came to my eyes and I couldn’t speak standing outside the bus with taxi drivers and latino men standing everywhere watching the gringa fumble – I could only grab my bags and find the closest taxi.

The bus ride was beautiful actually. Coming out of Cabanaconde, slowly climbing to Chivay, we followed the canyon the whole way. The landscape was terraced as far as I could see, beautifully altered – jewels of Pachamama. Patches of bright green agriculture defined by these delicate rock walls that didn’t attempt to create geometric shapes, but followed the form and flow of the land. Patches of dry desert and paths stretching out of sight were also defined by the same walls. The walls were more a result of making the rest of the earth walkable than anything else it seems.

Steep mountains shot up on the other side of the canyon. It’s amazing how soft rock can look from a distance. Small villages tucked into canyons and valleys, visible but so remote. Paths lead to cliffs and then around them – walked into the mountainsides by uncountable hooves, feet in rubber sandals and bare. Always here following the river that is the source of the Amazon.

The bus ride from Chivay was desolate. Some packs of llama, alpaca, vicuna, sheep spread out around the wetter areas, which was the only place grass grew at that altitude. Much of this part of the trip was desert-like with some cactus and a type of moss growing that I found out later can be burned as fuel. The highest point on the road is 4800 meters above sea level. This is higher than I have ever been which, in retrospect explains the sickness and passing out on the bus ride in.

The one really memorable thing about the bus ride (besides the Will Smith/Martin Lawrence movie . . .) was that at one of the highest points on the road was a field of rock cairns. As far as I could see, people had made stacks of rocks in all shapes and sizes. There was no other sign of human presence at this altitude except this amazing testament to people’s strength and their ability to create meaning and beauty in the midst of desolation.

Back in Arequipa, I went to the tourist police who sent a female officer who spoke a little English to the emergencia with me. The hospital was dingy, dark and understaffed. My friend told me that you have to be almost dying before they will see you in this hospital. She had taken me to the cheap one as I had requested. It cost 5 soles ($1.40) for the visit plus 10 soles ($3.00) for my medicine. She told me to act as sick as I could so I would be treated right away. I told her that wouldn’t be difficult because I was still miserable.

After we finally found the lady who was taking the money and paid, we went to wait for the doctor. I had to tell the doctor in Spanish how I felt. They did not take a stool sample, though by this time I could pretty much shit on command, but instead just prescribed me some medicine. They never even told me what I had although they mentioned dysentery.

The pills seem to be helping. I still have little appetite and a funny stomach but I’m finally beginning to feel re-hydrated and more energetic. Jacob came back today and we walked around the city a bit. It was a happy reunion. He told me about his adventures hiking (the town we saw from the lookout point where I turned back ended up being more than a day’s hike – he had to stay with a family who took him in and fed him) and his first long conversation in Spanish with the guy on the bus. I told him of the dark hospital and all the gory details of my sickness and the difficulty of making the decision to finally leave Cabanaconde alone.

Later we ran into each other by accident in the central plaza where we saw a military parade around the Plaza de Armas followed by a half-assed Communist march and even more half-assed attempt at stopping the march by the riot police. Even later, on the sunny balcony of the hostal we had a great conversation about changing the world – education and revolution, ideals and ideas.

A Mind/Body War: Puking and Shitting my way Through the Colca Canyon

31 January

Since the boiling brains we have come via airplane from Tumbes to Lima and finally to Arequipa. Flying in and out, Lima appeared incomprehensibly huge in the middle of this desert – stretching out forever as everything seems to do here in Peru. Tumbes and Lima are both located at sea level in the coastal rain-shadow desert created by the Andes Mountains to their east. Arequipa is at 2300-2600 meters above sea level in the Andes Mountains.

At my urging we took a bus from Arequipa to Cabanaconde and the Colca Canyon after only a day and a half in Arequipa. This trip knocked me out for a few days. We left Arequipa at 2:00 a.m. The bus ride was 7 hours en todo. I threw up the first time at about 5:30 a.m. – in my hat because I wasn’t prepared for this reaction to the altitude – soroche, the locals call it.

I also fainted earlier in the ride. I just lost consciousness in the dark, I don’t know for how long. I woke up clammy and cold with my head pressed against the window and found myself staring out onto a silvery wet desert-scape. This landscape combined with my foggy head gave me the feeling of floating through a dream. I was so alone, the only person on the bus awake and totally unprepared for the effects of 4800 meters above sea level. I puked again at 7:30 a.m., about 30 minutes before we arrived in Cabanaconde. Then again at noon at the hostal Don Pietro.

Then I slept for 20 hours. Aching feet, ankles, legs, back, arms, head, everything. I was also feeling confused, slow, uncoordinated and weak. My aching head and body convinced me I had caught one of the dreaded coastal diseases like malaria, dengue fever or typhoid. Every list of symptoms in my guide book seemed to describe exactly what I was feeling, but I was too exhausted and sick to panic. I was not so exhausted and sick that I was able to laugh off Jacob’s skepticism over my hypochondrimaniacal self-diagnosis. He was right of course, which I figured out pretty quickly once I made it back down to Arequipa.

The hostal owners in Cabanaconde were friendly and concerned for my well-being. (I mean I was really, really sick). They gave me mate de coca, and when that didn’t help, they gave me a pill to dissolve under my tongue called Caramena - glucosa for “improved circulation”. Jacob is on his second hike while I’ve spent all my time in the hostal in bed except for a short attempt at a hike on which I almost passed out. I have to give up the Colca Canyon and seeing the condors that own these high mountains.

From what I’ve seen, it’s beautiful here. It’s dry and sun-baked until the afternoon rains which come daily in the rainy season. All water here rushes straight down into the canyon, very little actually soaking into the soil that nestles in pockets between rocks. There are rock walls and terraces everywhere. Some peaks are so steep that dirt can’t even attempt to cling to the sides – only rock and the occasional cactus.

When I tried to hike today, we came to a lookout point where the canyon stretched to the left and right and the mountains pushed up ahead of us across the deep valley of the Colca Canyon. The town we were going to looked so close on the other side of the valley – a small village nestled in at the root of the mountain, along a cascading stream. The canyon floor invisible from where we stood. As the sun beat hard against the dry earth with no trees or shade in sight my body screamed “no you idiot – you can’t do this!” I’m not used to my body telling me no but this time I had no choice but to listen.

Huge, vast, empty spaces of land loomed forever in every direction. The path we would take was clearly visible from where we stood except where it disappeared into the narrow canyon far, far below. My legs were already shaking with dehydration, the sun beating me with sense, my lungs protesting the pack after only 20 minutes of walking. Every cell of my body telling me it’s a bad idea to even think about continuing. Thinking about completing this walk was almost as exhausting as the 30 minutes of walking.

After my body won the war between it and my brain, I returned to the hostal and slept some more. Finally, I returned to Arequipa alone to face whatever monster was rampant in my body.

Cabanaconde

Sun pours down
rain shines on
in the land of dualism
opposites attract and repel
they complement

the heights of cabanaconde make me ill
and I feel alone
lonely to the core
mountains so vast
valley so deep
me so small and weak
my traveling companion
far away physically and literally
emotionally and intellectually
my love of solitude
no match for his love of people
of fitting in by being a freak

Boiling Brains: Welcome to Peru

27 January

Tumbes, Peru

Peru stretches out, huge in scale, next to Ecuador’s tightly packed geography. At the border, the arbitrary political border, the Andes swing to the east, easing their persistent crush on the coast. The coast stretches and flexes here, like a lazy cat, spreading itself out over the landscape in the Pacific coastal haze that is ever-present here. “Garua” the locals call it.

Crossing the border at Huaquillas was a nightmare. Our newfound friend Freddy took us off guard, “helping” us in the right direction for a tip. He did pretty good on me since I had nothing smaller than a $5 bill. We spent $10 a piece for a stupid cab ride we did not want. It’s so hot here I can barely think. Humidity and heat and Tumbenos are all fighting to make me feel constrained.

Despite the bureaucratic nightmare that is crossing the border at Huaquillas, Tumbes, about 20 minutes from the border, is a nice town. It’s kind of grimy and sweaty, gritty and the people are a little more aggressive than they are in the mountains but still friendly. The men are much more “friendly” -- sst sst te amo senorita . . .

We found ourselves in the Plaza de Armas at 8:30 p.m. on a Sunday listening to a concert – big band kind of music with congos. The band was playing in an amphitheater that dominated the far end of this large rectangular park. Earlier in the day we got to see the amphitheater up close. It is an amazing three dimensional sculpture that depicts the clash of the Inca and the conquistadors. At the very top of the huge semi-circular structure was a large sun godhead watching over the violent scene below. Tumbes is the place where Pizarro first landed in Peru. Here, he found the Inca in turmoil – engaged in a bitter civil war – a battle between two brothers who both wanted to claim power of the empire. The prominence of the sun in the amphitheater is a testament to the syncretization of Incan and Spanish culture – the blending of civilizations.

There were people everywhere that Sunday, circling the plaza in a kind of promenade, sitting on benches and enjoying the coolness of evening and the music. We found out that every Sunday there’s a concert in the park. It’s summer here. Kids are out of school. People are hanging out, trying to find relief from the heat.

Later – Frank Sinatra is blaring on the stereo outside the hostal window. This is definitely better than Bon Jovi or Phil Collins, which they favor in Ecuador. I talked to some Mormons in the park while Jacob talked to some kid in a Misfits T-shirt and his much shorter friend. They talked about guns and animals and drugs and other strange things. My friends in the park wanted to know how much money I saved to travel and how long it took me to save it. They wanted to know if there were lots of jobs in America, is life easy there? It’s so hard to explain to people that my choices do not reflect the mainstream of American culture. That saving 1000 dollars was only possible for me because I shop at thrift stores, have no car and buy as little as possible. I mean even my ability to have those choices illustrates a level of privilege that does not exist here. I work a 10 dollar an hour job for nine months and save 1000 dollars to travel. It’s so much to them.

Boiling brains in witches broth of Humboldt current – a stew of heat and water.

The end of Ecuador or Skipping naked in the streets

26 January

Memories already begin to fade.

Skipping naked in the streets
in my dreams
end of time cuts close
slicing up the streets
into slivers like silver
piecing together
the hands of fate
like great puzzles
leaping into puddles
and over rivers
drooling over myself
in some great mystery
of revelation
yellowing stands of truth
grow ancient in the shadows
becoming more than free
in the inadequacy of language
moving slowly between
the doubts and certainties
finding a path
to lead me in
inside my dreams
I am always skipping
naked in the streets