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.
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