Peru Pictures

Hit April in the Archives and scroll down to the end of that page. You'll see photos of Peru. And some from Argentina. What a contrast.

August 26th (Shannon)

On the anniversary of my father's , we had his 4th ceremonial feast. Hard to believe a year has gone by. When I get homesick, I remember he's not there, how he was my home, and I'm glad I'm traveling, and grateful to him for his generosity. He was Ojibwe, and we are following the advice of Rosy, my friend, an Apache medicine woman who befriended my father when he was sick.

In Phil's honor, we had the best steak of our lives at La Tranquera, in Lima. We filled a dinner roll with my father's feast of meat, french fries, broccoli, avocado and gravy. Planned to serve it on a plate of ocean. Around 11 pm, down at the beach, we found a white gingerbred fantasy restaurant way out on a pier in the Pacific, La Rosa Nautica. Its floodlights turn the water a supernatural pale green.

The ocean churns. Huge surf rolls in, booms and rocks the building. We found an upstairs walkway that was empty, above the ocean. In the bathroom I tok a fat red rose head from a bowl of water. It was the end of the night, and I hoped they didn't mind. I was thinking of my grandmother, who asked us to drop a rose into the water when we spread his ashes in the Atlantic.

We leaned on a rail and looked out at the sea. I thought about how it spreads to Catalina, where Carrie put some of his ashes, and Bali, where we just were, and felt his spirit so strongly. The wind was gusty and the ocean was wild, green and mysterious, glowing like jade in the open and sliding dark as a cave under the pier. I dropped tobacco in the ocean and Jon lit a stick of Amazon Indian incense, a beautiful smell.

We smudged Papa's dinner bun and tossed it to him. It floated and immediately started cruising out to sea, as if pulled by an invisible string under water. Even though big waves were rolling into shore, toward the rocky beach, the bun would drift that way for a minute, then slide out toward the night horizon. I thought of all his feast meals this year, all in places where he likes to play, where he is. He's part of the water now.

How he enjoyed that steak. When the bun floated beyond the light onto the dark waves, it began to glow, as if phosphorescent. We watched it for a long time, a tiny light glowing in the distance, bobbing farther and farther out to sea, never sinking, never going out. That's the light of our father. This was his feast. I love you, Phil.

SO Many Rats [S & J]

Well we have returned from the so-called research center on the Rio Tambopata. I´ve always wondered what it would be like to live off the grid and generate my own power. It sucks. At least in Peru. It´s a hot, muddy, interminable effort. The jungle takes back everything you do, eventually. Still, Picaflor is s noble effort at conservation amd education in a thankless social environment. It may be a great place to visit in a few years, if Laurel Hanna´s visions pan out. And maybe they´ll smuggle fewer parrots and cut down less rare wood. There´s hope.

We did see some crazy wildlife, although the forest is too thick to allow a clear view, and everything happens up in the tree canopies. There are also some 12-foot snakes that come out at night. One bite = death. And so many rats. Singing rats. Kitchen rats. Giant rats. And of course Bathroom rats. Anyway, I´m very glad to be on to Lima. --SR

Picaflor Research Center is in Manu, Department of Madre de Dios on the Tambopata river. To get there you have to get on a boat and travel against the current for several hours, southeast more or less. You have to wear bug spray so they can only cover your skin with bites, not your whole life. It is buggy and hot and hard in the rainforest. Here plants rule. The first night at the center is very comfy for me, we had a cool night and I felt the jungle welcoming me. Our first day is without the 3 hours of volunteer work required and we luxuriate in bed. Our host Dr. Laurel Hanna takes us on a guided walk later and we come upon a huge tree fall upon which grow some amazing orchids. Disturbance rules in the rainforest.

The center is three houses connected by covered walkways. In the center is the cooking-living area and bedrooms spider off on either side. Our room is an end with windows on 3 sides looking out on permaculture gardens. The sounds are otherworldly. Bamboo rats that sound like geckos the size of dogs, oropendulas that make the epitome of watery bird calls, crickets that turn on chain saws, monkeys grunt and hoot. At night we shut off the solar powered lights and mice come to play under our bed while rats party on the roof. It´s kooky, it´s the Amazon rainforest, Madre de Dios department, Peru...written by Jonathan

Infierno [SR]

Infierno is this little Indian village in the Amazon Basin where one waits interminably for a boat or a taxi. Hell isn´t bad, it´s just boring, with lots of biting flies.

Photos

Go to April and you´ll see the last of the Bali pictures, some from Hong Kong and LA and the first Argentina shots. Those are all the pics we have developed at the moment, and we'll be in the jungle tomorrow for about 10 days. Hope to post pictures of Peru from Lima after that. We´re okay, though hot and breathing dust and diesel in a shanty town. Ready for the rainforest.

"Peruano" not Peruvian (jonathan)

South America, August 2005. Lula is melting in Brazil, Toledo is losing ground in Peru, and Oscar Chavez is robbing Venezuela. Or is he? We are in Peru, my favorite place so far. On August 1 we landed in Cuzco, the old center of the Inca Empire. Cuzco has a touristic feel, expensive and a bit jaded but beautiful. Part of its beauty is the elevation, right around 3400 meters or 10,000 feet. Since we flew to Cuzco from Lima (elevation 43 feet) there was a period of adjustment for our bodies...damn we were sick! Trying to walk up the little hills in town left us gasping for air. Each night our sinuses filled with dryness and our heads with pain. It sucked, but on the fourth day we began to acclimatize and feel better, less dizzy. We tried a less prescribed drug for altitude sickness called ¨"Gravergol", a mixture of analgesics and Ergot, the fungus of St Elmos Fire fame (I think)...also chewing Coca leaves and drinking its tea helped enormously. Amazing light here at 10,000 feet. Things get bigger up here, bodies take up more space. The locals are small people, dark hair, indio eyes. Country people wear bowler hats at a jaunty angle or Abraham Lincoln style stovepipes in fanciful colors with buckles. Skirts of thick wool spread wide around short thighs. There is a strange attitude to the cold. Heat does not exist anywhere (we are after all at -10 deg latitude) but it gets cold! It is midwinter here in Cuzco and the temp bottoms out at 30F, still no heat, no fireplace, just coats and lots of alpaca wool blankets. Walls are thick and cold, only heat up after hours of sun. Lots of the building foundations are built on old Inca ruins, the contrast is striking. Perfectly fit stones of a polygonal shape that was obviously not natural (stone workers cut them that way 1000 years ago) sit below shabby modern masonry. Some of the Inca work has more than 10 angles and they fit perfectly together, no mortar. Shannon and I had a nice stretch on the grass of Coricancha in the center of Cuzco. When the spaniards found Coricancha, a vast sun temple almost completely gilded in solid gold, they smelted it. Makes me sick to think of the waste, the pain the Incas must have gone through to watch their painstaking work demolished. Damn spaniards. We find ourselves looking at Christian churches built on top of old ruins, searching for the ruins rather than the church.
On our fifth day in Cuzco we began to climb the mountains. We chose a trek called Salkantay, an alternative to the Inca Trail which was booked solid. On August 5 we were sitting in Mollepata, Peru eating bread and Coca, thinking that such a bracing meal would be illegal in USA. Here little old ladies sell big bags of dried coca for about 1 sole (0.35 USD). It is good for you, helps with altitude sickness and makes a good tea. 40 of us have been bussed here to walk Salkantay, our group is from Belgium, Spain, Israel and Brazil. Macchu Picchu is the ultimate destination, crawling over a 4800 meter pass (about 16,000 feet) on the 2nd day, higher than we have ever been.
6 August 2005
After a long not so steep slog from 2900 m to 3900 m we settled in to popcorn, crackers, hot drinks and "asparagus" soup. Dinner was "with Chicken". A civil discussion of politics and the humanity of economics in a free market (driven by "me") ensued. It was a Very Cold Night but we are warm in our 40F bags with silk liners and clothes piled on top of us.

We wake beneath a glacier so close I can smell it. The wind is cold and the skies are iffy. Today is the hardest part of the trail and there are some in our group who have been promised a horse. However, there will be no horse. We camp in a damp hollow with carved out sites of potential mud. Almost dark we wait for tents to be set, dinner cooked.

Morning breaks dark and cool, rain taps us awake and back to sleep. Dante, our guide, lets us sleep and we do. Breakfast creaks us into life and again the track slides under us. The going is easy but too long.

This place is vast. No small communities, only individuals perched in the middle of the grassy plains or pampas. The Andes stretch out long and make Peru seem endless. Clouds stick to the trees above 10,000 foot rivers that rush from cataracts which feed it making it begger, changing its name. Huge cataracts foaming out of the side of a mountain--man made this time--diverted water from Macchu Picchu forcing a screw that makes electricity. Here in this valley near the sacred city we wait for a train.

9 August
All the lies you have heard about Peru are true. Peru is vast and illegal. Peru is not ready. Peru is not cheap. The rivers run high up in the Andes choked only by glaciers and pointed summits. There is stamina here, forces at work beyond comprehension. Energy is both required and available for your use. Locals (and gringos) chew leaf coca to make it easier to let happiness in despite the difficulty of the terrain. Coca warms you, cleans your mind, stops hunger, kills pain. Coca helps you thrive in the mountains.

Macchu Picchu sits in the Andes like a pearl in an oyster. Our guide is Miguel, probably a mystic himself, obviously of Andean lineage. He talks about evolved plants and getting information from the sun, from the heavens. He talks about balance and health (as his cell phone rings during his talk). He explains about the use of symbols, especially the cross. His english is difficult to understand but one is able to get the gist of each sermon, delivered with knowing smiles and beautiful flare. It is an unexpected and welcome introduction to this site, and Shannon and I wander through it, exhausted and amazed. Clouds drift over the stones and the peaks surrounding us. We are in the thick of Peru and loving it.

Next, the Jungle...

Sittin' in the Fifties (Shan)

We´re in Puerto Maldonado, Peru, trying to find a boat to Picaflor research center, www.picaflor.org where we have volunteered to help monitor a bio-diversity project in the rainforest, if we ever get there, grrr. No one wants to motorcanoe upriver today, and mañana is the same as hoy round here. Now they´re all coming home with boatloads of brazil nuts and giant papayas.

PM is a mining town in the jungle of eastern Peru, near Bolivia, between 2 rivers that lead to the Amazon. It´s the kind of place where the general store stocks sacks of grain, bolts of cloth, shelves of cans, giant candy jars and an old-fashioned scale. To call Picaflor we have to go to a radio office where a man shouts into the microphone under an old wooden fan. Taxis are motorcycles with a covered bench in back, and they have the strangest manikins we have ever seen.

We just saw Motorcycle Diaries in Cuzco, and this looks like the South America Che explored in the 1950s, interesting till we can catch a goldanged boatay.

El Condor (Shannon)

Peru the vast, the illegal, the unready is a vertical country. To get around, Peruvians chew coca leaves, which give them energy and make them less hungry. They wear t-shirts that read: "La coca no es una droga." They eat guinea pigs. And use them for rituals: removing cancer, exorcisms.

Guinea pig scat litters the ruins tourists pay big money to visit. The money goes to the government in Lima and is not used to restore the ruins, build decent transport or affordable, convenient hotels. It is not spent on guardrails for the dangerous mountain roads or to pay the local tour guides or restaurant workers.

Tourism brings all this money that flows past the people like the Urubamba River, piped to provide hydropower for people in Cuzco. Yet when you turn on a hot tap in Aguas Calientes, the water is cold. Ironic.

So when the tour buses bullet down the deadly cliff road from Machu Picchu, little Quechua boys in native dress slingshot rocks at the bus and yell, "Chuparos!" Suckers!

In a country without mass communication, basic truth stands naked, such as,"Changing presidents is like changing robbers," as Miguel,our Quechua guide at Machu Picchu said.

And if you sit down at a restaurant, know that it´s also someone´s house,with a shower in the bathroom,laundry drying upstairs and babies crawling under the table. Do not order more than one of the same menu item for each person because plates will come out of the kitchen one at a time or not at all. Everyone has to bestir herself, or himself, which they do cheerfully, but tourists´ desires are still a mystery to the Peruvians. Everything they need grows on trees or underground or upon a llama.

This is what I like about them. I like their gentle voices, fangy teeth and shining eyes. The way they preface their answers with "Normal" (for us), followed by what you (abnormal) might want to hear. As in our trekking guide Dante's answer to how long will it take to climb this mountain: "Normal,15 minutes. For you, maybe 4 hours."

This is a beautiful,unspoiled,serene country where we walked for days through incredibly varying landscapes seeing no houses,roads or electric wires. The stars fill the sky with a clarity and abundance I have never seen. The constellation Lamaria is called the Eyes of the Llama. In one day we climbed a sheer, dry, rocky mountain in intense heat,and around the bend ducked fierce snow audibly breathed by its glacial neighbor,then slid downhill through a mossy Irish bog into a cloud forest where we inhaled thick mist as the trees dripped on us and unseen birds sang crazy-colored songs. The we followed a foaming green river through quiet jungle along shady soft roads where bananas and avocados and passionfruit grow, following giant metallic blue-winged butterflies and soaking in the abundant solitude.

We were hot, we were cold, we struggled and laughed and ate strange fruit in a land that conquered itself with Incan dances, with golden pumas and offerings to the sun, and no need for an army until the Spanish wanted it, and Quechua words became twisted with Castillian but still spoken, still sung.

Miguel said to evolve, float like the condor, be gentle. Fly softly through the world.

Peru (Jonathan & Shannon)

Peru.
It's vast.
It's illegal.
It's not really ready for us.

Strange Currency (Shannon)

It only makes sense to shop in other countries if you're there for a short time with a big suitcase and are going home. Our trip is like a business. We always have to plan for and consider the next stop, and instead of doing touristy things, we are administrative, which takes time, research, money and foreign language skills. (Okay, we do touristy things.) Our business is not to make money, but to spend it. The absurdity appeals to me,while the practicality has me out of sorts. What's next? Mirrored candles? Alpaca sweaters? More film and CDs.

I do have a lot of images to work with, for the business that is the rest of my life, the book I'm writing that ends with my death. Meanwhile, people are so poor, orphan children, dirty and crying on the street, kicked dogs, old people creaking around begging. The fucked ways of the world we never have an answer for.

I got called an "Aparecia" by an old Quechua woman on the street. A ghost with white skin and white hair. Lost all my native currency when I lost my father. When Papa Indio was with me, the skins smiled at us. Now Í'm just another gringa. That doesn´t stop me from crying in the museum when the next room in the Inca story is called "Conquest." But it doesn´t stop there. The story continues with Indigenous Resistance and Survival. Reason to smile again. History is exhausting.

But I'm happy to be traveling. I like it that we're not 2-week vacationers glued to a guide book with urgency about seeing specific things, being focused on certain places, or else --what? We haven't been here? Not so. It's more here here when we can unravel in a place and be ourselves, mold the strangeness to our desires as much as we surrender to its surprises.

There's a lot to see and it all feels new, good and bad, sweet and scary,like eyes looking back at you out of a bundle on an old woman´s back, or a tiny dirty girl selling you your weight as she sits on the sidewalk with a bathroom scale. There´s chocolate that tastes strange and bugs we can't name. Our lips are blue from alt.sick. And in Cuzco, there are no cats. They've all been eaten.

¡Man! What a Country. (SR)

Cuzco, way up here, 10,000 feet and counting, a scrumbly sprawling adobe and tin roofed town snaked with Inca walls, huge stones smooth as glass, twisty streets paved with same. The altitude shift is massive, bought headaches, nausea, dizziness, the works, but they have all these rainforest herbs that are good for everything. The colors are intense, all the woven alpaca gear worn by indigenos, stripes and zigzags, and the light is this super bright white and powdery creature. I dreamed of an old man in a fedora whose hands turned into llama heads.

Feeling some better today, we´ll confirm our bookings to Macchupichu on Friday. It´ll be a 5-day hike with horses via an alternate route since the main Inca Trail is booked through October. All the flights to Puerto Maldonado are full, so we may have to go by truck. That´s the town on the edge of the jungle where we get a boat to Picaflor research center in the rainforest, southern part of the Amazon. We´ll volunteer there, take our antimalarials and dodge the vampire bats.