Lima in Darkest Peru (Shannon)

We have arrived in the capital (which looks like LA with bigger churches) and eaten some Lima beans. Tomorrow we fly to Cuzco ( 1 hour), where we'll make plans for Macchu Pichu and the jungle. There are some new pictures posted in the usual spot. Still Bali. Hope to catch up images with flight paths before we get to Miami.

Not So Many Rats (Shannon & Jonathan)

We landed in Buenos Aires at 8 am. Everyone was ready for us, with passport stamps and luggage stream and maps, baños and bancos. This hostel was here with high ceilings and staff speaking Spanish, most of which we understand. All of the dogs are wearing coats.

There are wide streets and clean, fast subways, grills of meat meat meat and oozing tubes of dulce de leche for desert, a killer. Once you get on the dulce de leche train, you don´t know whether you´ll get off, like heroin.

This city is like Barcelona/Belfast, heavy on the Belfast. Once-gleaming colonialismo now ashen and ominous, though postwar "safe." All residences, whether art nouveau or boxy modern are covered with political graffiti and symbols of anarchy.

We were walking around here feeling like it´s kinds sorta Barcelona until the night we took in a tango show at BA´s oldest cafe. Now we know where we are: somewhere with all the melancholy of Kurt Weil plus indigenous angst and general diaplaced dignidad. Love the suits. This is the city of cute old men in neat sweater vests who remind me of my dear late Doctor Bendo. And men who get swoony verbose at the rubia on the street. The cold is making us tired but also more romantic. ¡Esto! --SR

27 Julio 2005, Buenos Aires! The steak runs like water and this place is the Niagra Falls of steak waterfalls. Tonight, La Chacra (Small Farm), just a little snack before a movie (Los 4 Fantasticos). I got the T-bone, Shannon got a sirloin--best fries EVER and a dessert that blissed me out more than any drug experience I have ever been on. Custard Cream with caramelized sugar syrup and "milk jam"...OUTRAGEOUS. Not too sweet either.

Buenos Aires is about as homey, accessible and well laid out as a city can be. Avenida Corrientes is a kind of Times Square/Broadway with shows and opera and gallerias. Argentines love to shop and they were doing it today. Saw a good representation of Andy Warhol´s lifeworks at an Art Gallery/Mall. A balanced show with some sketchy execution...beautiful video of his life and times as well. All in a wierd setting in the Borges Cultural Center, Top floor of the Galleria Pacificos--hard to find because of its location in a mall, great place though and very accessible to locals and kids. We could see the kids checking out Andy Warhol, and a Picasso show was right next door. Very cool place for a gallery of significant artists. (jonathan)

Dear Passengers (SR)

As it says in the notes to guests at this hostel.

Can anyone explain why Argentina is still in love with Eva Peron?

Southern Hemisphere (Shannon)

Leaving Bali was sad for me. I missed Jon when I was alone for the last week, but I did a lot of writing and ink drawing. Besides, you're never alone in Bali. The family that adopted us was always around. So was the dog who adopted us, Munkin. Munkin means Maybe.

I had fun with our neighbor, Ibu Gill, a septagenarian South African Grand Dame, who is a successful photojournalist (Gillian Marais). We watched dvds and went to the endless temple ceremonies, which got wilder every night, culminating with Barong running amok when his spirit possessed the dancers. Gill came along when Wayan drove me to the airport. We said we won't say good-bye because I'll be back.

Hong Kong was hot and steamy, a pushy place for gettin' and spendin'. It's the only place I've ever been where the airport has more character than the city. But to prove Ibu Gill wrong ("The Chinese have no sensibilities at all!"), I spent the day in the Hong Kong museum looking at chilly ancient jade and centuries of ink paintings. I watched videos of old men painting in that meditative, decisive style. If you're ever stuck in a yucky foreign city, I recommend the good museum.

LA was shocking, culturally, all that speed and light and cellphone yakking. We had a great time with my sister Carrie and her husband John, eating the fast food and swimming in de pool. Got to hear my soon-to-be niece's heartbeat on ultrasound. It's a jazz show in there.

Now we're in Buenos Aires, a comfy European-feeling city (it's winter!), eating the beef and checking out the tango. Will we dance? More will be revealed.

Going Home (Jon)

The trip back home for Dad's funeral was amazing, my family is just incredible sometimes and it is so fine to see them and my cousins and all the people who I know loved Peter. Cape Cod is so dramatic at this time of year, the weather is so damn hot and muggy, the people are all crammed onto the peninsula waiting in line for something, and Cape Cod is so beautiful. Going there was a real treat, even after Bali, because I got to get in my brother's boat with his girl and my mom and sister--the whole family together. Being there with them made me feel very lucky indeed.

Now I am in Argentina, in the city of Buenos Aires, thinking about the whole thing, dad's death and my life and how things have played. Shannon and I are so happy, travelling together is such a good reality. My mom bought a house in Florida last month, during the drama of Peter's death (congratulations Barbara!!!) I got to see my cousin Jennifer and her family in Los Angeles, and my fave cousin Beth too (you guys rock). And we stayed at Shannon's sister's house in Long Beach and ate waffles and fried chicken and great mexican food...so good to see Carrie and John and thanks for the place to sleep and a ride to the airport!! I have received many emails of condolence, thanks for that everyone. The most important thing was to get back with family--it doesn't happen often enough and it is good.

Some great things were said at the funeral through me and I wanted to post it here. Between the two posts concerning my father's death (Peter Broderick Flynn) there is a kernel of truth or two that emerges about him, his life and death, and the fabric of our life, as brief as it was, as a family. Many people contributed to this eulogy, my sister Julia, my cousin Susan Gogan, and some of dad's friends including John Hallisey. Here it is:

From Maine to the Carribbean everyone knew Peter, he had friends everywhere. To his friends in the world Peter’s passing is no less than the end of an era. Peter Flynn’s broad shoulders and big bright smile—his effusive and generous nature—his great love of the world and travel and people warmed those who’s lives he touched. If he liked you you felt in the presence of a king who favored you and all that was left to do is hold on for the ride. Man he liked to party! When Peter was on a roll there was this disconnect from reality of which we were all aware. With his belly full of steak and more than a little Dewar’s he would sing and dance for his own pleasure, pleasing those who “Got it”.

Peter had an intuitive and accurate read on life that placed him in the center of its stream. He loved the current to plow around him. He loved the sea and sailed often in the Cayman Islands, Florida and of course on Cape Cod. He didn’t mind blazing the trail as he did in his business life. He truly loved the art of the game in his business dealings. I lived with Dad for a while back in the late ‘70s in Martha’s Vineyard and Sandwich and watched him work. It was tough—winter on the Cape was grueling then and I don’t really know how we got through those times. He and his partners were on the crest of a whole new wave of real estate, forming the first condominiums on Cape Cod, and he loved the challenge of it, the excitement of it, the possibilities in something new. He believed in what he was doing and was very proud of it.

There was a mythological complexity about Peter that made him difficult to understand. He liked to be inscrutable. He was a man’s man, men felt safe loving Peter the way a man feels safe loving Clint Eastwood or the Kennedy boys (or Johnny Cash). He had a kind of masculinity and beauty that inspired such love. He was also a ladies man…do you want to hear what I think is his most memorable line? He had caught the eye of a woman at the Wayside Inn in Chatham one night and instead of chatting her up then and there he decided to add a bit of drama. As he left the bar he walked up to this woman, looked her in the eyes and said “We will meet again” and walked out the door. It worked!

I don’t know what happens when we pass, go back to the earth. I do know that starting in late April and early May I heard my father’s voice in my head almost constantly. During trekking in the foothills of the Himalayas, my partner Shannon and I as sick as dogs, slogging up steep rice terraced hills with heart stopping views of mountains almost 5 miles above sea level, I heard him. He was singing. He was singing this song,

"Down the bay where the nights are gay and the sun shines daily on the mountain top,
I took a trip on a sailing ship and when I reached Jamaica I made a stop, and I 'm

sad to say I'm on my way,
won't be back for many a day.
My heart is down my head is turning around,
I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town.

Down in the market you can hear ladies cry out while on their heads they bear,
'Acky, rice, salt fish are nice'
and the rum is fine any time of year, and I'm

sad to say I'm on my way,
won't be back for many a day.
My heart is down my head is turning around,
I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town.

Sounds of laughter everywhere and the dancing girls sway to and fro.
I must declare my heart is there though I've been from Maine to Mexico, and I'm

sad to say I'm on my way,
won't be back for many a day.
My heart is down my head is turning around,
I had to leave a little chick in Kingston town."

Thanks to everyone who got me home and then back to the trip--Shannon, Steve and Kathy, Mom, Julie, Bethy and Jen, Carrie and John--the wild ride just keeps on keeping on. Stay tuned...

When Hindus go to the Beach (Jonathan)

Machines and life move together here in Bali, a unanimity that is dangerous and beautiful. A lot of danger turns to beauty here as beauty becomes the norm. We just attended an event that is part of a larger celebration (what event isn't). This one was amazing. The great Barong Dog (giant mythical dog/god with a dragon-like face and snapping jaws) and some other deities--huge, ornate, beautiful representatives of Nyuh Kuning's pantheon--were taken in a grand procession to the beach. Included were the Barong, two huge square shouldered Gods (?), the live Gurus and priests or mankus that channel the wishes of the gods, and all of the thrones, temporary temples, necessary offerings, gamelan orchestras and the 50 or so cars, trucks, motorbikes and all the attendant traffic police and local muscle needed for their day at the beach. Oh, and us two whities. The beach, east of Ubud on the coast, has a fantastic surf today. One might think Bali was listening, making sure she put on a good show.
The scene is incredible. 200 villagers--probably most of Nyuh Kuning--are dressed in elegant sarongs and head dresses as are the thrones and statues lined up facing the shore. Waves tumble in, 2 gamelan troupes play simultaneously, ancient plays are acted out, prayers are fervently offered, blessings are showered on all present and we finally get some rice to stick on our heads. Then the whole thing is moved back 40 miles to Nyuh Kuning. Just before leaving the gods are carried to the ocean's edge. I watch this part with great interest because the act of carrying these statues gives them an animation, makes them look alive and appreciative. As they turn away from the beach to be carried back to their temple home I can see their eyes and they look like anyone looks when they have to leave the beach, kind of sad and satisfied, a bit forlorn but happy just the same. They have been feted, the Hindu romp on the beach has been a success. Time to start the 50 year clock again. I want to drag my 96 year old butt to Bali for the next one!

Avocado Shake [Shannon]

It's not easy saying good-bye to Bali. Time syrups here. The whole island is a dream: Don't wake me. Days just lounge out, and people smile the loopy grins of actual happiness. I wonder if I can ever go back to the world where it matters if you're right. Bali is a place where you can just be.

Some days we were going to head for somewhere, and we just stopped. The rhythm of Bali got us, not inertia, but sway. All this incidental beauty is not accidental. This is a synergistic place, where the placement of a flower elevates both the flower and the place it adorns. Ritual becomes consciousnes, as simple as breathing. We're weightless when we swim.

No painting in the museum captures what Bali is like, or the suppley slinkiness of the people, who glide around with assured posture and mocking eyes, then crouch still as stones to watch the world. It must be a secure place, to know your world, seen and unseen, and to learn the choreography of its cosmic interactions from birth.

I'll miss the monkeys, the black sand beaches, five dollar massages, frangipani trees, rambutans and mangosteens, the sound of the river in the backyard, the white herons flying home every sunset, the friends we've made, and avocado shakes with chocolate sauce.

And I like it when we're loose on the road, going where we want, reaching a far shore and picturing what's across the way -- Java! The Philippines! Fiji! We've never been here before. There's the Southern Cross! We're below the Equator. There's a lizard on my leg.

Beach Barong [Shannon]

They did a crazy thing today. The villagers of Nyuh Kuning trucked their giant dancing puppet gods, Barong, that weird Rasta/Chinese couple, Rangda, etc., down to the beach. These gods are very large: it takes two people to wear Barong, who looks like a giant Tigger. He's very handsome. They only get out of the temple once a year, and they haven't done it with this 10-day fanfare in 50 years. Timing!

The idea is the Barong needs to play. He's a giant dog, see. So they take him and the other wackadoos to the beach in a giant caravan with bands playing on trucks and golden floats, banners flying, all this shining color and noise. There were about 10 trucks and 20 cars in the caravan, and dozens of motorbikes, about 200 people wearing their temple best. We rode along on our bike and it was a festive parade.

At the beach, about forty minutes away, they set up all these pavillions and bandstands, and the priests did their thing. We got to pray with flowers and get rice put on our foreheads. Jonathan said, "This is how Hindus go to the beach." Then they packed everybody up and paraded home, gamalans clang-clanging all the way.

Acupuncture [Shannon]

I had acupuncture yesterday from Dr. Wayan. While the pins lit up my neural grid, we talked about Balinese ceremony. He said they were also celebrating their temple anniversary in his village, which is right next to Nyuh Kuning.

Me: They killed 150 ducks today. Sacrifice.
Wayan: So did we.
Me: Satay for the gods!
Wayan: Yes! And for us.
Me: For you?
Wayan: Where is the god? The god is not in the temple. The god is inside us. If we meditate, if we are silent, we can hear the voice of the god. In here. [He taps his chest.] But silence is very boring! We make offerings to practice our creativity. We play music to entertain ourselves. It's for art.
Me: Oh good.

moto [Shannon]

This is Jon's last weekend in Bali. He's going home early for his father's funeral. I'm staying another week before we meet up in California to start the South America leg of the trip.

We decided to have one last Bali beach day, a journey since Ubud, where we're staying, is 2 hours' drive from any coast. Bali is bigger than it seems, with long, twisty roads that feel endless, even if you're not lost. Maybe it's the crazy traffic.

Someone, probably Wayan's mother, started putting an offering on the seat of our motorbike every morning. This is a really nice thing. She leaves them on our walkways, patio table and steps also. They're little trays made of coconut leaves, woven and kind of pinned together, piled with different colored flowers in a nice design, topped with a little leaf sleeve of cooked rice and yellow coconut shavings, and often a stick of burning incense. It's really nice to wake up and see that someone has already been to your house, is thinking of you and has your back, spiritually. Whether we believe it or not, it's touching, and uniquely Balinese.

The last beach was the best one. It was a great day. We saw Ulu Watu temple on the sea cliff before sunset, but it was already dark before we made it home. This is something I like so much about being in Bali. Riding on back of the bike at night when it's cool and we're zooming down empty roads through the scents of flowering trees, seeing the moon reflected in the rice paddies. Last evening we passed a man on his moto with his wife on the back. They were coming toward us in the opposite lane, heading out of town, and he had a huge bundle of long incense sticks on his handlebars, all burning. He was smudging the town, making it safe for everyone. I broke into this big smile and so did he. It was one of those moments. When you really see someone, appreciate what they're doing. They see you seeing them, and you both crack up.

movie night in ubud [shannon]

There's a great little gallery in town called Low Art where for $1 you can rent a bootleg dvd and watch it in a private room with big couches. They serve pizza, but this week we are fasting. I ask for Indonesian subtitles. Nothing like watching the latest Star Wars and learning how to say, "Bagus, R2!"

The Internet cafe is down the street. We try to limit our blogging time because too much slow uploading makes us feel icky. They have Linux! Ugh. Tonight, we checked email an hour after the bombings in London. Shocking. I had a sinking feeling that city would be the next target, horrible. I send prayers to all the lost ones and the ones left behind. Prayers to our leaders to act wisely. Peace.

Bali Photos

Hey click on April and scoll down to see some new pictures. Or wait a moment til we upload shots of the ferocious gecko and Beth and Glenn with monkeys on their heads. Your choice!

ceremony [shan]

Man, the whole village is decked out in towering palm frond tassles and all the statues have new clothes. It's a shining, swinging rippling effect. They made a giant barong (dog/lion thing) out of rice stalks and dried beans and on Monday the whole town rides down to the ocean to do something with the barongs on the shore. We will be there to find out what. Why doesn't matter though, not in a place where everything, every constant ritual action and shape have meaning. I once dated a copy editor who had a book on his shelf called "The Meaning of Meaning." I laughed then and I laugh louder now.

First Beaches (Jonathan)

June 7, 2005
When we arrived it was hot and I felt it right down to my coccyx where the little drips went. There is not much AC here and it is a good thing, saves energy, keeps Bali cleaner. I slept almost the whole first day. We are on the Monkey Forest road and the name does not disappoint! Gregarious, cute multitudes greet us and smilingly take banans, papaya and the bags of fruit disappear. They don't "oo-oo" much but have great little mohawks. Babies suckle and cling to the underside of momma, pulling teats hard, stretching.
It is hot, sub-tropical hot, sub-equatorial blisteringly hot. We spend a day getting used to motoing around in the hairy traffic in our MSD (motorized suicide device). Then we head to Sanur for some sun/fun. Rustic and coral back reef the water is gloriously warm, very fun. We lay out, eat some food and moto home before dark--all goes well until parking it for the night--I lay it down in the driveway. A little damage and the less than obvious (to me at the time) animistic problems, all is well, no injuries. Thank Shiva Shannon got off before I did that...
The next day is magic. We moto to Seminyak and see the first surf waves--crispy sun makes a cabana necessary. Major bodysurfing waves. I figure out the best way to tan: count to 300 on each side and then cover entire skin area with SPF30. We luck into a villa at the local Sofitel (extremely luxurious) for a fraction of the normal cost. Almost as nice as our house in Ubud! hee hee
Driving here (on 2 wheels) is not as bad as it looks from a car, which is really bad...The wierd part is Rule #1: Watch out in front and don't assume people entering traffic or changing lanes are looking back. One drives on the left in Bali (like Ireland) and traffic entering on the left seldom look at what is coming. The solution here is to honk the horn to let them know you exist. Of course, that doesn't stop them from boldly going. My advice, wear helmets and look in front more and behind less--people will really not careen into you (!?)Also, honking is never rude and is rarely used to display anger. Balinese are well aware of the feelings one gets while driving (fear, anger, frustration) and also enjoy the freedom/fun/sport of it all, especially on two wheels. Just watch a sarong clad queen of indonesia, sandals dangling above asphalt, muffler heat singeing her tassles, riding sidesaddle behind the driver (not recommended!!)holding a basket of offerings, smoldering, straw basket glinting in the sun. If you catch her eye she will smile beautifully and you know she is thinking "yeah, this is crazy and dangerous, but what fun!!"
After Seminyak we moto to Jimbaran and eat whole grilled Barracuda and Snapper, unbelieveably delicious, best grilled fish ever. French fries and a gallon of water. We adopt a little black dog with ear sores--it eats well today.
We moto home to Ubud, sweet comfort awaits everywhere we go. Bali!

The Bali [ by Shan]

We've been here awhile now, though it's hard to say if it feels like a long time or short because time is rubbery here. It's an easy place to be in the moment and forget what day it is. It's a fun place to play. There are so many places to swim, so much art to look at and all these beautiful flowers scenting the air. Our house is full of geckos, big beaded ones who come out at night, hang around on the high thatched ceiling and eat the bugs. We've seen tree frogs on the beams and giant toads on the walkways. I've shoed away a few scorpions who I don't like so much. Our house is open, bungalow style, so the world comes in.

Bali is Asian in the sense that privacy is minimal and personal space doesn't exist. People are quickly forthcoming to make conversation, and questions like Where are you going? Where are you from? Where are you staying? from strangers would seem too personal in New York, but are just small talk here. They are also very honest: You are beautiful. You are fat, etc.

On the surface, everyone seems enraptured in spiritual grace as they carry offerings around, always with easy, beautiful smiles. Underneath, they are pressured by family and community obligations and bound by a strict caste system. The women do hard manual labor in the rice fields and even construction and road work. They have few rights and legal protections compared to men. I found out about this more from reading modern Balinese fiction than from anyone here directly. And lucky for us, the Balinese people we've met here have been generous in including us in ceremonies and feasts. I really enjoy their company, their lively sense of humor, their way of honoring everything in creation with gifts and thanks, and their casual way of making everything beautiful.

Will I ever be able to return to the land where lunch costs more than 20 cents? Hard to say.