La playa

La Playa, Marzo 25, 2013

The first full week has now passed, including the first week of classes. My intital day begain inauspiciously when my teacher was an hour late, being caught in a taco. Say what, is this like the Tomato that Ate Chicago? No, taco is the latin term for traffic jam. So, Monday had a bit of an edge to it. However, by Friday those chips and splinters were well sanded smooth and I enjoyed the week in class. My teacher was forcefully supportive insisting consistently that my lack of perfection was not indicative of failure to progress. Muchas Gracias.

There are other sights and experiences to note for the week, but the most enjoyable was a Saturday excursion to the playa, beach. Chile, as its widest is only 186 miles, so travel to the nearest beach is never long, and therefore in two hours we were there. Our primary destination was to Isla Negra, Black Island, not an island at all, but the color is appropriate due to the black rocks standing in the waves, chests out, bracing for the smash and splash of the giant waves, throwing themselves full force against. Both the thunderous sound and the fireworks-like explosion were amazing.

Our real objective was the visit to one of the houses of Pablo Neruda, a national hero, poet, writer, social activist, first S.A. winner (I think) of the Nobel Prize for Literature. He likely was poisoned by the Pinochet regime shortly after that coup. Only recently did one of the family servants feel safe to report his witness of strange medical treatment by regime doctors during illness of Pablo. The body is being exhumed for investigation. As for the house itself, it overlooks the described beach, a view from almost every room in the house. Pablo traveled the world in various roles, and collected all sorts of objects, bottles, shells, butterflies, masks, ships in bottles, objects from ships, and my favorites, the figureheads that looked out over the sea from the bow tips of old masted ships. Extensive and amazing collections. The house was a bit strange architecturally, as it was extended little by little over the years of habitation. But, the views of the beach below, the ocean beyond, from almost every room, certainly provided a source of energy and inspiration for many of his literary works. I have read some, and though challenging readings,they  provide an insightful view of love and life.

From there we traveled a bit further to a slightly less crowded beach, again occupied by the rocks. The rocks presented some entertaing challenges to climb to get higher perspective over the watery blasts that were happening below. I have always considered myself a mountain lover, not of sea. But, this location forced at least a partial piece of the memory chip that stores accounts, details and summaries, of those special places I have personally visited. The contrast of the calm appearance of the distant horizon, slowly shoving the sheets of surface until they wrinkled and folded higher and higher, until they cracked and tore and vessels of lifesource underneath burst and bled on the rocks, spread out and then strangely rapidly retreated and disappeared without trace. Incredible sight.

So, now I am back at school, starting a new week. Second weeks at school historically have been disquieting as I realize the limited level of ability. But, I will not quit.

So, now I am back at school, starting a new week. Second weeks at school historically have been disquieting as I realize the limited level of ability. But, I will not quit.

In the wave-strike over unquiet stones
the brightness bursts and bears the rose
and the ring of water contracts to a cluster
to one drop of azure brine that falls.
O magnolia radiance breaking in spume,
magnetic voyager whose death flowers
and returns, eternal, to being and nothingness:
shattered brine, dazzling leap of the ocean.
Merged, you and I, my love, seal the silence
while the sea destroys its continual forms,
collapses its turrets of wildness and whiteness,
because in the weft of those unseen garments
of headlong water, and perpetual sand,
we bear the sole, relentless tenderness. (P. Neruda)

Santiago, Marzo 20, 2013

Santiago, Marzo 20, 2013

I now have settled in, connected with the school, have attended my first class. And, I have moved in with my family, Marcela and Walter, little by little find the same song, learning the melody of new friends, earning my way as a son, friend, hermano.  And bonus bucks of another couple from California, both retired as I, with somewhat similar teaching and state government backgrounds, but much more traveled and bilingual than I, good for my transition.

Early impression of Santiago is very positive. It is by far the cleanest city I have visited in S. America, possibly the partial result of economic success, and more progressive attitude. There certainly is the presence of national pride as everywhere else in S.A., but not to the exclusion of adopting foreign influence or idea. Downside is the high cost. It is expensive here, relative to my previous travels, and prices for many things parallel those in the states. It looks like the expense will change some of my grander plans. But, I think I will still find ways to visit many places.

In fact, my first Saturday, I did trek into the mountains nearby, perhaps a 30-50 mile distance away. We left the city in two minibuses, 20 pasenjeros total, to view volcano and glacier. About a ten-mile round trip into a glacial setting, but not quite sure how much the ascent was. I do know that several of the youth slowly dropped back, stringing like ants behind. Despite my grandfatherly status in the group of kids, I outmatched most, and equaled all, but that was unimportant. The joy was the ability to climb, to view the beautiful valley between the multiple colors in the mineral laden walls of the mountains surrounding us. Little vegetation on those lateral slopes, but reflections and display of dripping stains from iron, magnesium, copper, gypsum and other deposits. So, there were reds, yellows, greens and blues to attract the many mining activities found in Chile. Though I did not knowingly see any, Chile is one of only two countries that have deposits of lapis (Afghanistan is the second).

A few of us tried to get close to the peak of Mt. Morado, but had not sufficient time to succeed. We did get to the saddle ridge where the glacier begins. Rewarded with an excellent view of the valley below toward Bano, the small hamlet where the trail began. Jackie, our guide, called us down, to return to our buses and Santiago.

Thus, in my first full weekend I have experienced both city and country setting, a great beginning. I am not sure what I will encounter this first full week that comes, but it appears there are numerous opportunities. And so the potential influence and impact of other cultures, people, and landscape surrounds me, impossible to predict. I welcome that.

New strangers on other paths await

New places that have never seen you
Every time you leave home
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in.

When you travel, you find yourself

Alone in a different way
More attractive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home.

A journey can become a sacred thing

Make sure before you go to note the time
To bless your going forth
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life. (J. O´Donahue)
  

Santiago, Marzo 17, 2013

I am trying to ´mood´ myself into excitement and eagerness towrd this next journey.  Not truthfully expendit great energy to do so. Other things have temporarily delayed the nearness. I had a hurried visitation tour of many friends and family prior to my Texas departure. I am blessed to have friends and family who put up with my opinions and silliness. But they do. They even feed, house and guide me. I appreciate it and love each and everyone. I miss them often. But, the calendar rules, the days tick off before flight schedules.

So, Texas is left behind, Colorado rises up literally, as I go home, be it a physical, emotional or spiritual place. Some know it deeply within, embrace it, hold tightly, others not so consciously, only feeling tension and anxiety when removed, misplac ed like a wild animal, caught and caged, never understanding the circumstances. But, they know it is not right. They do not know their place, but I do know mine. It is a deep tap root that holds me in place. On my way home I passed a small country church with the billboard message, Peace is not the absence of diversity, but the presence of (ones´s higher power). The presence is everywhere and for me is less cloudy in these mountains.

So here is my place of peace. I visit other friends here, again housed and fed and cared for. Like baptism I am watered (with snowfall), blessed and prepared for journey, for experience, for much that will be unveiled shortly. Now I wait for the last leg to Santiago, the unknown calls, and I go toward the siren.

As I row, row, row

Going so slow, slow, slow
Just down below me
Is the old sea, is the old sea

Nobody knows, knows, knows

So many things, things, so
So out of range
Sometimes so strange
Sometimes so sweet
Sometimes so lonely.

The further I go, no letters from home never arrive

And I´m alone all of the way
All of the way alone and alive
Just have to go, go, go
Where I don´t know, know, know
This is the thing, somebody said
Somebody told me a long time ago. (P. Griffin)

Hogar de Mallorca, May 10, 2012

This will be the last posting from Bolivia as I am slightly less than two weeks away from departure home. I look forward to that. I am ready for home and the pleasure of being back in Colorado, to enjoy summer and other pursuits.

But the last three weeks have been educational and to a degree evolutionary. During this time I have presented myself at a home for street boys, removed from abusive, addictive or negligent families. In some cases they return home for weekends or other occasions, but otherwise Mallorca is their home. I started here with preconceptions which nearly ruined it all. Because those perceptions were not initially met, I was bored and disappointed and considered quitting. But, I have “wizened” a bit with experience and demanded of myself to finish the initial week. Things changed when I let go of the preconceptions and accepted what came.

As a result, I have stayed, grown, changed a bit and discovered a few things on the other side, some golden, some not. The boys are better off than might be initially thought. They are well fed, clothed better than many, attend school, receive medical care and are not left alone. They do work for spending money and to support the home. The older ones work mornings in a panaderia (bakery), while others sell bread on the sidewalk in front of the house, or wash windshields in the streets, and also prepare food to sell from the kitchen. All rotate and share responsibilities in the house for a variety of duties related to cooking and cleaning.

Me, I sometimes just sit. But, mostly I tutor, help with homework, get to work in the kitchen (where I have impressed with my chopping skills), assist with art projects, and now conduct English classes for some in the afternoon. When I do these things I am happy.

Very shortly I have gained confidence, friendship and comfort with most. Sometimes it has been like the first sighting of a white man by the indigenous people. I have not traded beads, but I have attracted attention more from my electronic Spanish to English dictionary, or my eyeglasses, or the hair on my arms. Particularly the younger ones ask to borrow the first two, and stroke the latter. These more than anything have been my points of access into their world.

There certainly is a difference here with the boys, independent of the causes that place them here. Each has a degree of defense against the external world that has dealt them a bad hand. Pugilistic arts are frequently exhibited, usually in jest, but sometimes escalating. But, this is not unique to them, as anytime after school hours this demonstration can be seen on the sidewalks. As a disciplinarian it has been hard to do nothing more than stare. Outside of that though, most have, and likely all would in time, opened that hard wall a little. Many now seek attention, enjoy a hug, a bit of playful combat, and other physical and conversational contact, which I gladly provide. This also makes me happy.

Unfortunately verbal communication has been difficult. Most interplay Quechua with Spanish (if spoken at all), speak faster than I can understand, speak low and with incomplete sentences. So, that has made it hard. However, generally it seems to be working. I have even played football (soccer) a few times, which requires little verbal skill. I am not sure they understand how impressed they should be with my talent and level of intensity, despite the age. I am impressed.

There are always favorites. Yet, it is not just for those favorites, but for all that I wonder. What happens after age 18 when they must leave? This country offers so little, there is so little reward for character and hard effort. The country is corrupt. This week alone there have been four strikes, by transportation, by medical doctors and staff, by universities, by government workers. The president, who has no college education, recently stated how glad he was to not attend a university and its irrelevance. This is the mentality that holds power. Of the boys I have enjoyed to any degree to know and understand, not a single one in my opinion lacks possibility, if the country offered any.

So, as I finish my last days, I am thankful from where I came, where I return. But, even there in the states, things are wrong. My experience here will stay with me for some time and will not fade away. It will not allow peace without some effort for change, something beyond a vote and a buying decision. What will it be?

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we’ve been told and some choose to believe it
I know they’re wrong wait and see.
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered,
And wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought a lot, and someone believed it,
And look what it’s done so far.
What’s so amazing that keeps us star gazing,
And what do we think we might see,
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under it’s spell,
We know that it’s probably magic,
Have you ever been half asleep,
And have you heard voices?
Yes, I’ve heard them calling my name.
Is it the sweet voice that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it,
It’s something that I’m supposed to be.
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.
(Kermit the Frog)

Sucre, 04/22/12

This weekend was more tranquilo, being dedicated to minimal activity after the very busy weekend before. It was pretty much a walk in the park, literally. Much of the discretionary time was bench sitting, watching people, an easy and enjoyable task. There were the teenagers, joking, laughing, all phones in hand or on the ear. There were the vendors with cheap candy, helado (ice cream), balloons, fresh popcorn and bird seed. There were the curbside car washers, giving wash and wax for about $3, with their buckets of soap and rinse water. There were the families, bringing thier young childre to enjoy the sun, while the youngest feed the pigeons or secitedly chased them around the statute of Antonio Jose Sucre, or they posed for photos atop one of the two lions on either side of the statute. There were the garden crews, digging and replanting below the spread of teh palms and other trees, to maintain the beautiful mixture of green and bright color. There were the lovers, mostly young, but not all, holding hands, hugging kissing. And there were the old friends, reflecting on life, politics, age and the past.

There was the walk through the central market, several streets of virtually everything available for consumption. Certainly there was the market for produce, meat and pan. So many, so much. I wonder what happens at the end of the day, with the unsold. Are there methods to assure that the expiration dates are not exceeded? I proceeded to several vendors selling pirated CDs (they all are), both music and movie, where the price ranges from $1 to $2, wondering if customs will object.

And finished with a rare bar night, cerveza for me, while my younger school friends, from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and Scotland consumed stronger content. Funny how the group all had some degree of allegiance to the Queen. But, I enjoyed the brief break from the spanish. My accent without the latin did get a comment. I have commented before on the enjoyment of the cultural discovery and exploration with fellow travelers from abroad, how different we all are from each other.

We will see how the brief momentary diversion prepares me for the upcoming week, my first as a volunteer in Sucre.

Its like when your making conversation
And you´re trying not to scream
And you´re trying not to tell them
But you don´t care what they mean
And you´re really felling fragile
And you really can´t get home
And you really feel abandoned
But you want to be alone.
Old friends, they shine like diamonds
Old friends, you can always call
Old friends, lord you can´t buy them
You know its old friends after all.

When the house is empty
And the light begins to fade
And there´s nothing to protect you
Except a window shade
Its hard to put your finger on the thing
That scares you most.
And you can´t tell the difference
Between an angel and a ghost.
Old friends, they shine like diamonds
Old friends, you can always call
Old friends, lord you can´t buy them
You know its old friends after all.

(G. Clark)

Uyuni, 04/18/12

I have now reached the halfway point of my adventure, and this weekend provided the most exploration to date. But, before discussion of the five day experience in the SW part of Bolivia, near the frontier of Chile, I will reflect on one observation.

Normally on group tours, such as I just completed, I get the added benefit of meeting fellow travelers from other countries. So, not only do I encounter the local population, but get the added bonus cherry on top of the whipped cream. That taste is deliciosa. Without the added travel expense, less the visual aides, I still feel afterward that I know something about another place, people. My primary observation based on those who travel elsewhere, is that there are not essential differences. I`m not as tolerant as Will Rogers in liking everyone I meet, but I have not yet crossed anyone who wanted to harm or conquer. But, I have not met the political, business leaders.

On this trip I was entertained by three young South Koreans, and a lovely family (madre, padre, young adult son) from Sao Paulo, Brazil. The Korean youngsters were hardly quiet or subdued, as I would have predicted, but very expressive, excited and fun loving. I enjoyed the Brazilian family even more. Their Spanish was perhaps no better than mine, if that, and so much of the communication from them was via Portuguesa. That indeed was a challenge, due to the many differences from Spanish. But, we did communicate. Best of all, after the trip, our enjoyment of each other resulted in exchange of communication data, and an invite to visit, which I am strongly considering.

As for the trip itself, it started with a nine hour bus trip from Sucre to the SW part of Bolivia, a pueblo named Uyuni. The next morning our group gathered and first visited the Salar de Uyuni, a massive salt flat, reportedly the largest of its kind in the world. At this time of the year, ending the wet season, most parts have standing water of an inch or so. This thin layer of water creates a strange mirror impression. Dozens of other tours spread out over the flat, and as they flew in random directions over the area without restriction of road or signal, it appeared that water bugs were walking on top of an immense pond. Nearby cooperatives will rake off the top layer of salt, shovel ant hill like mounds of the salt, then wait one, two days for the mound to dry, before hauling off the salt for processing. Some of the buildings in Uyuni are constructed of salt blocks. We spent most of the day here on the salar and then proceeded toward the most desolate looking atmosphere I have ever seen.

The area visited has a volcanic history and there are numerous volcanoes, mostly inactive, that rise above. For much of the three days through this area, at the foot of these peaks, lies a gravel like surface, totally devoid of plant life, except a few lichens, and nothing more. From a distant view toward the feet of the peaks, the appearance is that of a massive beach, that extends for kilometers (metric system) rather than yards. The mountains and volcanoes have no vegetation as well, clearing exposing every wrinkle, fold and crevice of their form.

Throughout this landscape are a variety of unusual rock sightings, ghost like, some exposed by erosion, others blasted from afar by ancient volcanic eruption. Once exposed, ages of constant strong winds have carved the most unusual shapes. One area is named Valley of Rocks, thrown and scattered from great distances by ancient explosions. Another area, named Desert of Dali, references the similarity to a Salvidor painting, where isolated rocks are strategically placed intermittently on this flat, plantless, sandy floor, cast shadows providing the only contrast to the backdrop. But, I saw no limp clocks from my vista. The name, however, is appropriate.

Another constant to this lifeless place are constant lagunas. A few have aqua dulce, but most are saline. At these high altitudes in excess of 4,000 kms, they only support tiny micro organisms. This is not a tropical paradise, due to extreme cold, dry and windy conditions, and yet numerous flamingos feed on these tiny organisms, providing a contradiction to the otherwise lifeless environment. They are present everywhere. When the winds blow, as they almost always do, the minerals and microorganisms, are forced to the top, and the uniqueness of each produces a variety of colors on these lagunas, from red to green, black and white. Many lagunas are aptly named the color of their resulting surface sheen. The most unusual, and one of the largest, is named Laguna Colorado (red). I attempted with many photo shots, to capture some image of the bands of red of the surface, the blue of the sky, the white bands of salt deposits, and the pink of the flamingo. Difficult.

The last leg of the trip began at 5:00 AM to drive to a post above 5,000 km (about 17,000 feet) to see geysers at sunrise, against the sunrise, where wind chill was well below zero. Interesting, but very uncomfortable. On this day we continued to see several sites of thermal activity, strange rock formations, numerous volcanoes, and lagunas.

At one such stop over Laguna Verde (green), after a group photo, I lost my camera and its documentation of a month stay in Bolivia. After several miles to a checkpoint between Bolivia and Chile, where we dropped the Koreans to enter Chile, I discovered the loss. Immediately my mental state changed and I had to test my maturity of handling and accepting conditions beyond my control. My state was not positive. I did my best to rationalize, blame, hope, accept. Blame was due to my own carelessness. My greatest worry was to the lingering impact on my attitude, and to my feelings of my trip, the possibility my adventure would leave a very bad taste. But, the tour had to stay on schedule. After possibly 100 miles of further travel toward our return to Uyuni, with the continued thought of my loss, we encountered another tour group, of the dozens in the area. They asked if anyone had lost a camera. Elation. After many many thanks, and a prayer of grace, I had to reflect on my luck as to why, the possibility of such discovery in an area larger than many states, and to whether I had promised in my hopes more than I could give for the return. I am in a better place now.

Its one of those days, you can´t explain
When nothings right or wrong
Too much wine, or not enough
So you just play along.
Theres no rhyme or reason
Ain`t a damn thing you can do
Somedays you write the song
Somedays the song writes you.

Searching for a melody, to sing my soul asleep
Reaching for some harmony, down inside of me
Somedays you know just how it goes
Somedays you have no clue
Somedays you write the song
Somedays the song writes you.
(G.Clark)

Sucre 4/09/12

Had a bit of a jumpy week. There initially was a financial scare, but fortunately it can be resolved after my return. For a few days, the anxiety level challenged the Andean peaks. But, sometimes I am taken care of by the trust of others, and so all is well. So, finished upbeat with Pascua, the Easter weekend.

Good Friday evening I actually walked in a procession. I have observed others, but this was the first for me to walk within the crowd. I was never in a marching band, nor served in the military. I did march a few times in the 60´s antiwar protests. Plus, there have been numerous 10K, half and full marathon runs, but these have no similarity. With the protest marches there is some uniformity of committment, but chants, shouts, raised clinched fists and waving signs, just do not quite relate. Obvioulsy a more somber and less reactive flow of humanity stepped beside, behind and around the wooden carved images of Christ and Mary carried on the shoulders through the streets.

Crowd counting is not a skill set, but I have departed a few UT football games. I would say the numbers within the procession, along the streets and those awaiting anxiously in the plaza compared to the exodus of stadium exits. Considering the city is not much more than two hundred thousand, that makes a pretty good size participation.

I generally was beside the marching band that trailed the end of the procession. That way my steps generally matched the beat of the bass drum. I suppose the thoughts, emotions of each believer, shoulder to shoulder, tightly packed, varied. But, there were evident many who were certainly attached and sensitive to the moment, the scene and its representation , while others perhaps were fulfilling implied obligations of faith. For me, well I was curious to the impact of being near, yet open to the possibility of exposure, to what might happen if I let my self participate in the possibility.

Saturday, I left the house early to climb a nearby feature, maybe a little less than a 2,000 foot climb. Along the cobbled path are marked stages in memory of the last 13 stages of Christ´s life. I have seen similar marked walkways, the most impressive in Bogota. But, this was the longest, ending with a tall sculpture of Christ at the summit, overlooking the city, with a marvelous 360 degree view. Even with my early arrival at top, a number of others were, mostly Quechua, were there. Many created small rock altars against the foundation. Many had created small fires for these structures, imploring pardon or begging assistance. The typical mix of Christian and Quechua was visible. Several were passing around bottles of alcohol. Before each sip a few drops were poured on the ground for Pachamana, mother earth, under the outspread arms of Christ above.

Coming weekend is first bus trip.

If I could have the world and all it owns
A thousand kingdoms, a thousand thrones,
If all the earth were mine to hold
With wealth my only goal
I would spend my gold on selfish things
Without the love that your light brings.
Just a little bit more is all I´d need
Till life was torn from me.
I´d rather be in the palm of your hand
Though rich or poor I may be
Fate can see right through the circumstance
Sees the forest in spite of the trees
Your grace provides for me.
(Cox Family)