Monday, September 10, 2007, 08:24 PM
After setting up my shade structure at the worksite, we started laying out the array. The whole thing was to be in the shape of the Zia symbol. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zia
To make it straight, we measured it all out and then used string attached to t-posts to set the flags. It didn't take us long at all, so we were quickly able to get started on pounding the u-posts in that the panels would be mounted to.
Unfortunately, the u-posts didn't take too kindly to being pounded in. To make matters worse, we had a quarter of them in before we realized that they were backwards. Like most projects, we'd started out on the wrong foot.
Fortunately, we had some really bright people on our crew. We figured out a way to reconfigure the posts so that we didn't have to pull them all out, and then reinforced all the ones on the outside edge with cement stakes to make up for the weakness of the u-posts.
Then we got busy assembling the panels. We had to put a mounting bracket on all of them, which was the perfect job to do in the shade of the carport. We did alot of the work at night, as the sweltering heat during the day made it tough to do much of anything. By the time we were a couple of days in, the whole operation was moving like a well oiled machine.
A few new crew members showed up: Wizard, a tall farmer from Kentucky with a huge beard and an other-worldly strength, who seemed to always know just what to do and how to do it. Mowgli, friend of Motas and amateur photographer like myself. Manifesto, the clown who gets things done, a solar installer who never intended to come to burning man this year until he found out about the solar project. Monkey Boy John, a young goateed union electrician and hari krishna with a chip on his shoulder and a driving work ethic. B-Ill, a long-time burner who came across as a frat-boy yahoo but really had a heart of gold.
At nights we'd sit inside the shade structure to protect ourselves from the incessant wind. It usually ended up being Manifesto, MonkeyBoy John, and myself, though I'm sure the others had their talks. The conversations were deep, as most are on the playa. We discussed the benefits of neuro-linguistic programming, the alpha-male stereotype and group dynamics, the role of the shaman or trickster, the nature of creation and the difference between vocalizing your desires and manifestation. There's something about the desert air that lends clarity to thought and action. I feel like I achieved alot of personal breakthroughs, and helped clear some things up that had been nagging at me.
It was a good crew, and by the time we were all there we were a couple days ahead of schedule. This was a good thing, because the whiteouts started coming hard and fast. We had 4 days of whiteouts, with the last two days of that being pretty much non-stop dust storm. Its hard to get much done in weather like that, but somehow we managed to persevere.
Whiteouts are interesting things. They're the playa's natural cleansing process, where the wind whips up all the loose dust and sand and sends it rocketing across the lakebed at speeds upwards of 70 mph. Anything in its path is sandblasted to the point where dunes form up in front of it. This can be quite problematic, if you're trying to put something up that needs to be exposed to the sun instead of under 2 feet of sand.
Like a solar array.
We started discovering that we'd built a really nice dune-collecting array, one that probably wouldn't be creating much electricity if we didn't do something fast. The container full of batteries was due soon, so we got to building a fence to protect the whole installation and digging out the panels from their sandy graves.
All during this I was taking a picture every 30 seconds or so. My intention was to create a documentary on the convergence of Art and Alternative Energy. It was my first attempt at time-lapse photography, accompanied with many of the technical errors, fits, and starts you'd expect of such an effort in some of the harshest conditions imaginable. It still came out pretty good, though I haven't quite got it into video form yet.
By the time we had all the panels in place, I took my camera and installed it on a tower for a better vantage point. This may or may not have been a good idea, we'll see when the video is finished. Each day after dinner, I went over to the main DPW (department of public works) camp, the Ghetto, and helped my friends Austin, Noah, and Garth build their tower. It was an impressive sight, shaped like a cone, looking almost like the tower from Lord of the Rings.
I also helped out with a few of the other crews. When it seemed like there was nothing to do for me at the array, I'd jump on a crew working the fence, or center camp, or First Camp. I also tried to get to know alot of the other volunteers, the comissary crew, the office and dispatch workers, the gate crew, the heavy machinery kids, the Department of Mutant Vehicles, the shade crew, the fence crew... it takes thousands of volunteers to build a city in less than a month, and I was determined to get to know as many as I could.
Thats not easy though. DPW volunteers are a notoriously surly bunch. Part anarchist, part punk, part discordian, part metalhead, part gypsy, part goth, part steampunk, part hippy, part raver, they're a tough bunch to pigeonhole. They're notorious for causing mischief, whether its stenciling obscenities on your trailer, stealing the flag from your cafe, drive-by panhandling for pabst and cigarettes, or just harassing and heckling anyone that gets in their way. Their style is unique, with piercings, tattoos, mohawks, dreadlocks, and clothes covered in grease and playa. This year was their tenth year on the playa, commemorated with a shirt proudly proclaiming "Ten Years of Doing it Wrong."
YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG was the calling card of a DPW worker, who liberally gift that helpful phrase to anyone who didn't seem to have their shit together. As ornery as they came across, they made up with it by busting their asses! 16 hour shifts in full whiteouts were the norm, though they still took care of each other and made sure noone came down with heat exhaustion or dehydration.
Some DPW volunteers treasured their camaraderie and the solitude and quietness of the open playa so much that they dreaded the arrival of the "hippy ravers" during the event. They were in the minority though, for as great as the lead-up to the event was, most knew that were it not for the 40,000+ partygoers buying tickets and making art, there'd be no reason for us to build a city in the desert. They're the reason we're all out there, and the realists among the DPW had a grudging appreciation for the 'artists' and 'participants'.
Besides, there's benefits to being out there early that most people don't get to see. Like meteor showers with no bright lights to diminish them, and quiet nights at the frog pond or Trego (both closed during the event). Early arriving volunteers sleep well with the knowledge that their camp has already survived whiteouts, so while most participants are scrambling to batten down their hatches, we're free to wander around and offer a helping hand or a bit of advice.
Like, for example:
YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG!
Monday, September 10, 2007, 08:23 PM
I pulled up to the Commissary feeling uneasy. I was already late, first day on the job, and didn't know anyone on my crew. I didn't even know if anyone I knew would be there.
The playa seemed desolate. There was almost no indication that in a few weeks this would be a thriving city of 40,000 people. No street signs, no spires, no huge domes. Just a bunch of really freaky looking vehicles that seemed like they were out of some post-apocalyptic 80s movie. That and a tent or two.
The biggest tent around by far was the commissary. Huge, white, and surrounded by mad max style roadsters and fleet trucks, this was to be my first stop on playa. Get some food in my belly, hopefully find my crew, that was what I needed to do.
I pulled up and immediately could tell that I was different from everyone else. I couldn't quite put my finger on it until a stocky guy in his early thirties walked up to me. A wide smile broadened across his face.
"You must be Nick. Dispatch radioed over and said you'd be here. I'm Mota, and I'll be heading up the solar crew out here." He held out his hand, the only part of his body not covered in white playa dust. I shook it.
"How did you spot me so easily?" I asked.
"Duh, you're clean!" He replied. I looked around. Yup. Every last person here is covered in playa dust. I guess the winds and whiteouts have been as bad as I'd heard.
"Get yourself some food and then come over to 8:30 and Boreal." Mota instructed. I know it sounds strange, but thats actually the coordinates of our camp. The whole city is laid out in a circular 'grid', with the spokes named after the hours from 2:00 to 10:00 and the curved connecting streets named alphabetically according to the theme. Arctic, Boreal, Coral Reef, Desert... cute, but it works. One of the cool aspects of this layout is that on any of the spokes, one direction is the outside of the city, and the other is the man. At least, once he's built and raised into position atop his pavilion.
"We haven't started on the build yet, we're still finalizing the design." Mota continued. "We should get to work on it tomorrow, we'll be placing flags then and mapping it out. See you in camp, welcome home!"
He seemed like a nice enough guy. My apprehension at not knowing anyone on my crew started to ease. At the commissary, I ran into a whole bunch of friends from the year before. Austin, with a spiral bleached into his hair and the sturdy build of someone who can pound rebar in all day. Noah, a strong but slight guy, an artist, electrician and roommate of my friend Garth (who I worked with in Mississippi). DPW stalwart Face, short for Facetious, a strong-willed lesbian with short cropped hair, a great sense of humor, and a sharp tongue. Then there was Chaos, one of the main people I interacted with from Burners Without Borders down in Mississippi, and apparently now the crew manager for the Heavy Machinery Crew.
Ok, so maybe I do know some people out here in the desert. This isn't going to be so bad. Then I ran into Garth.
Garth is one of those people you just can't dislike. His call sign on the radio is 'Easy Going', and he personifies that to a T. He reminds me alot of my grandfather, an engineer and one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet. Garth combines the technical knowledge of an electrician with the kind of esoteric knowledge that can keep a campfire conversation going for hours. He can hook you up with wireless internet with a tin can and some bailing wire. His big project this year was putting an extra floor on the tower that I spend much of last years event on, as well as putting up a turret mounted flame thrower. That, and wiring half the event.
Everyone seemed to have their work cut out for them. After a surprisingly good lunch, I drove over to my camp. There wasn't anything else around it other than a bank of toilets a block away. I met a few of my campmates, Dick, an older burner in his late 50s who had his own solar company, Alan and Rosemary, a feisty couple with a truck full of tools and a great sense of humor, and Jade, a quiet guy who installs solar panels and landscapes in his spare time. Bill, a solar professional first time burner with a shiny air-stream trailer and a cocky swagger. 3-D, a cheery graphic designer and animator with a huge rebar post marking our camp and an art car still being assembled. They were all busy setting up shade structures and acclimating to the weather.
I pulled up next to a huge bus with the words "Starship Palomino" in the front window. A well-built guy in a loincloth popped his head out and introduced himself as K'Ru Tiahaar. He'd driven the bus out himself, but it was full of interesting stuff: wind turbines, the biggest tricycle you've ever seen, shade structures, and god knows what else. This guy seemed prepared, if a little light in the loafers.
We threw up my shade structure and I put up my tent. I left the carport empty in case we needed it for refuge from the whiteouts, or just wanted a break from the sun. Then we went out to check out the future site of the array. For now, its just a couple containers full of panels and some t-stakes in a circle.
Tomorrow, we work.
Monday, September 10, 2007, 06:08 PM
As I watched the sun slowly rise over Pyramid Lake, a rush of emotion went through my whole body. I was close. So close I could taste it. After a day of driving through deserts and mountains and forests and valleys, I was less than an hour from Black Rock City.
My euphoria was interrupted by a change in the road conditions. Apparently the 445 isn't paved all the way. Rough asphalt was replaced by coarse gravel, many pieces as big as my hand and sharp. The sound was like a huge rock grinder under my pickup.
That can't be good for my truck, I thought. Especially not my tires. I just need to get there.
On the map the road seemed simple enough. Go North from Pyramid lake, veer right at some point, get to Gerlach, and get working.
I'm on my way to Burning Man. Two weeks early, coming out for my second time, but early for my first. Last year I'd wanted nothing more than to come out and volunteer with my friends, but I'd been told that there was no room. This year I wasn't leaving it to chance; I'd already secured a spot on Black Rock Solar to help build an array that would power the man.
In the back of my truck were a couple newly bought shade structures. One was for my own camp, the other was for the worksite. After we finished using it at the array Burners Without Borders were getting it. That made me happy.
I like BWB. Burners Without Borders. A great idea, even better executed. The same time I was driving out to Mississippi two years ago to volunteer after Hurricane Katrina, a group of festival goers were driving out with the same intentions. We met up by chance at the Buddhist Temple they rebuilt in Biloxi, and though we never officially worked together, I respected them alot.
The way things went down there, the way I operate, we didn't need to work together. Early on, I was mainly supporting groups that didn't have the flexibility and infrastructure to effectively work with the community and coordinate projects. I worked with dozens of church groups and non-profits, helped set up the coordination center, and eventually fell in with Hands On USA. I got alot done in the 11 months I was down there, and helped alot of people, locals and volunteers.
Burners Without Borders didn't need my help. They had their shit together. They were also doing the work that the people I worked with wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. They had their own heavy machinery, and used it to help people tear down their houses and salvage what they could. This didn't always make the city happy, especially not the code enforcement guys and the contractors they were paying (to do the same job, just fast and sloppy). Eventually BWB moved on from Biloxi to Pearlington, a much smaller community, much more ignored by the larger organizations, and much more remote.
Wow, Pearlington may have been in the middle of nowhere, but Pyramid Lake might have it beat. There are only a few thousand people around here, mostly native Paiutes and a few gypsum mine workers. As I bump along the jagged rocks, the bleakness of the surroundings increases by the minute. I pass a few abandoned ranches, windows all broken and vehicles rusting in the yard. The only signs of life are the occasional cows gazing listlessly as they chew up sagebrush and some sort of condor or crow flying overhead.
I try to vaguely follow the road. There hasn't been a sign in miles. Not a road sign, not a sign of civilization, not a sign of life. I don't even know if I'm still on highway 445, I veered right a few times but haven't seen much to indicate I'm on the right track.
Man this would be a crappy place to get a flat tire.
Of course, right as I think this, I feel my car lurch to the left. Crap, is that a flat, or just the road? I continue on a few dozen feet.
Yup, its a flat.
I get out to inspect the damage. Back left tire completely blown out. Back right tire audibly leaking. Where the heck is my spare?
Right between both of them, under the car, of course. I can't find the jack, can't do jack. No fix a flat, no phone service.
At least I got plenty of water.
Man, and I was going to get there in time to set up camp and maybe even get some work in. There go my plans. I should have taken the 447.
After debating with myself the merits of leaving a fully stocked car to be looted or sitting in the middle of nowhere on a gravel road that doesn't look like its been used in years, I decide staying still isn't the best strategy. I should at least try to find a phone or a radio so that I can get someone out here with a tow truck.
Fortunately, I wasn't a mile down the road before I ran into a Washoe County gravel spreader. He radioed my situation into Gerlach, so I walked back to my car.
On the way, a couple burners drove up behind me. Carl and Bill, both long time event attendees. They'd been out volunteering, but were taking off before the event. They had no intentions of participation this year, but were out to see their friends who were there early.
They helped me find my jack (behind the seat, of course!) and put my spare on the blown out wheel, then we tried to rig up a solution for the leak. Bubble gum didn't work, neither did a screw. We settled on pieces of the other tire mixed with rubber cement.
It still leaked. They gave me a hand bike pump, no bigger than a fat sharpie, which amazingly inflated the tire! Cecil, the mechanic from Gerlach showed up right then, of course not with the tow truck, but just a pickup with a jack.
Upon seeing we'd found my jack and fixed most the problem, he ran back to town to get some tires ready for me. Apparently, he too suffered a double flat the second he hit the paved road. The 445 is a bitch. Don't take it.
So I limped into Gerlach, stopping every mile (I was 20 miles out) to inflate my leaky tire with a hand bike pump. Not the most graceful entry I've ever made, but now I've got two new rear tires! When I asked Cecil how many cars pop their tires on the 445, his answer made me laugh.
"All of them."
At least that doesn't make me feel so bad. I checked in at the Burning Man office, where a cute first time burner and volunteer named Evilina the car crash ninja empathized with my situation.
"At least you didn't crash and fly off the road."
Good point. As I drove onto the playa a few hours later than I'd expected, I decided it was time to stop with the expectations altogether. This is no time for preconceived notions, no time for personal agendas. I'm here to work, I'm here to learn, I'm here to testify about the creativity and ingenuity of the volunteers and participants who come to this desert.
Lets build this city.
Friday, March 30, 2007, 07:09 PM
So I must have died a few years ago. Thats the only explanation for it. My life doesn't really make sense otherwise. I think I passed away in my sleep sometime right after I graduated college, and I've been in heaven ever since.
The past few years have been insane, and the past few weeks have been as good or better. After partying it up in Peru, then at my brother's wedding, then all across California for a month, then Mexico, then getting my dream job, you'd think things would be pretty maxed out. But no. There's always room for culture.
This past weekend I went to the Paid Dues music festival. There were just about all my favorite hip hop artists there, from Blackalicious, to the Visionaries, to Zion I and the Grouch, to Chali 2na, to Sage Francis, to Brother Ali, Jean Grae, Mr. Lif... you might not know any of these people, but I have all of their cds, many of them signed.
I picked up new albums at the show, straight from the artists. They hang out. Most people don't know that, but real hip hop musicians are some of the most down to earth, accessible people in the world. They'll insist you call them by their real name, not their stage name, talk about interesting things, and treat you like a human being. If you're lucky, they'll even tell you about some up and coming artists to look out for.
So that show was amazing. I practiced break dancing there, hung out with my best friend Jack, and just all around had a blast.
That wasn't even the best thing I did this week though. As much as I love all those acts, my favorite band is Ozomatli. Tuesday night, I returned to my alma mater, USC, and met Ozomatli.
Before the show I got to hang out a bit with the bassist, Wildog. Then the whole band sat in chairs on stage like "Inside the Actors' Studio" as they told stories about growing up broke in LA. Some of them would get jumped in certain parks or neighborhoods, others saw their brothers, cousins, and uncles get shot. It was pretty scary hearing what they had to go through, and even more inspirational when you realize what they've done with that lot in life.
You see, Ozomatli makes straight up inspirational music. Not only can they play any type of music, from hip hop to salsa to cumbia to rock and roll to funk to soul to jazz to electronica to middle eastern or african tribal music, but they infuse every song with deep messages and social commentary. Their first self titled album dropped like a 10 megaton social nuke, blew my mind, and they've only gotten better and better. In 4 days they have a new album coming out, Don't Mess With the Dragon.
After they told their story, we got to ask them questions. I asked them this: "You guys have alot of socialist messages in your songs. Do you think capitalism can be saved through things like sustainable development, or are we going to need a violent revolution?"
Their answer was great. The lead guitarist, Raul, answered me. He said each of them would answer that question differently, because they're not about one ideology. What they are about is community, and he said no matter what if the communities aren't united and engaged at the local level, there will be violence and more of the same. He said people coming together was more important than one system or another. I thought that was a pretty damned good answer, because while they're almost opposite sides of the economic spectrum, successful socialism or sustainable development both depend upon localized, grass-roots action.
Then they played us some music. Their new album is going to rock! Its just funky. Its inspirational. They represent everything thats good about Los Angeles, and America for that matter. You gotta hear it.
They played for several hours, getting a bunch of disinterested students who'd never heard of them before to get off their hands, get to their feet, and before long everyone was dancing and singing along. By the end of the show, they were walking across the tops of people's chairs, playing drums, leading people in song as we marched out into the middle of campus and jumped up and down clapping and stomping our feet. It was as much fun as I had the entire time I was at USC, I didn't stop dancing the whole show.
And I didn't even have any friends go with me. Thats how good they were, I didn't even care.
And since then, my work has just been getting better and better. I've got my new job, working for Ali Sahabi in sustainable development. Its great, because he's not ideological about it. He's trying to actually make environmentalism a politically neutral cause. We're even working on rebranding my hometown, Riverside, and the Inland Empire, into a place we can be proud of: the Green Valley. Its like how San Jose transformed in the 90s from San Francisco's redheaded stepchild to Silicon Valley... except a "Green Valley", dedicated to sustainable development.
My friend at work Imran is starting a program to engage local universities and put on symposiums for sustainable development. I'm going to help him with that, as well as go around and ask county level planners, politicians, university deans, volunteer groups, high schools, and just about anyone interested what they think about sustainable development and how its going to happen. Soon.
Its time for a revolution. Why do it like everyone else has in the past, too? Violent revolution is so 1900s. Socialism, communism, fascism, even oligarchic capitalism are all anachronisms from 30 to 100 years ago. Its the 21st century. Things have changed. Technology has come so far, you don't have to sacrifice the environment to expand, you don't have to oppress people to profit. What we need is a revolution, but not in the Che Guevara sense or the Reagan sense. We're going to start a social-industrial revolution, focused on community action and small business, encouraging the entrepreneurial spirit to tackle the problems facing our society. We need to stop trying to be more efficient, and just be less harmful, and find ways we can effectively improve the world.
Its doable. People are already working on it. Now I'm one of them.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007, 09:15 AM
"ŋY que podemos hacer con este?" My friend Dolores the Quechua professor crouched down behind the school in hishometown of Porcón. He was guesturing at a pile of buried trash, right next to the playground. What can we do with this garbage? I dug at it with my foot, exposing broken glass metal, plastic, rotting food...
My mind started racing. What can we do with this garbage? Obviously, the glass bottles and hard plastic can be recycled.
"Pero no hay sitio de reciclar aca, y no hay camiones". Dolores pointed out. Not only do they not have a recycling center, even if they did pick up all the trash from the stream and playground, the mayor wonīt send trucks to bring it to Cajamarca.
This sustainable development thing isnīt easy.
Dolores and I started talking about different Peruvian programs that could help. Iīve read a ton about cradle to cradle thinking and closed loop waste management. The premise is simple: donīt have trash. Recycle all your inorganic waste, compost all the organic.
It makes sense, but who is actually doing it? Ecotourism? Universities? Shamans? Ze Germans?
I thought back to my talk with Kosti Shivranian. The founder of Western Waste, he built every dump from Texas to California. I should ask him what to do...
"Creo que necesitamos atacar esta problema de muchos angulos, pero primero y ultimo con los niņos". I explained some ideas to Dolores and his fellow professors. Tierra de los Niņos. Just take the dirty land, and give it to the kids.
Iīm meeting with the founder tomorrow, if all goes well. Iīm in Lima, tired, and need a shower. Iīll post more about Trujillo and Huanchaco later.
Monday, January 15, 2007, 08:37 AM
As I write this Iīm sitting across from the Incan Baths in Cajamarca. If you donīt remember your history, this is where Francisco Pizarro and his hundred odd men took the emperor Atahuallpa captive, massacred all of the nobility of the Incan Empire, ransomed him for 2 rooms full of gold and a room full of silver, and then offed him when they decided he was going to try to escape.
Historically, its a pretty important place. Atahuallpa had just defeated his half brother and the royal army, making him the unanimous king of the Incas. Atahuallpa was a much stronger leader than his brother, but when his father suddenly died (most likely of smallpox) without leaving an heir, civil war broke out. Atahuallpa was only half Inca, the other half Chachapoyan.
The Chachapoyas were a Pre-Incan culture that reined in the Gran Vilaya of central Peru for hundreds of years. Their architecture is not as advanced as the Incas, but is still amazing. Their capital of Kuelap is distinguished by its circular buildings, the fact that it contains more stone than the pyramids of Giza or any other ruin in the Americas, and an ancient calendar eerily similar to ones in Mexico and Italy.
The Chachas also have much fairer skin than the other natives of Peru, as well as blue and green eyes. Some have postulated that theyīre the lost tribe of Israel, or descendents of Mediterranean sailors or ancient Vikings. Regardless, their ruins, from the Laguna of the Condors to the City of the Dead to magnificent Kuelap, bespeak of a truly advanced and interesting culture.
I tried very hard to get to Kuelap early, waking up at the crack of dawn two days in a row, failing to get their both days due to inclement weather, terrible roads, and sick companions. It was all worth it though, as the third day I hitched a ride with a couple Limeņans named Fermin and Vickie. As the road winded beneath us on our three hour approach to the ancient fortress, we were awed that someone would build a castle so high and so precariously perched on the cliffs.
The fortress itself is massive, though not as open as Machu Picchu. Its only been cleared for tourism for 10 years, and is still draped with rainforest. The ancient, moss covered trees rise up from the ruins of the circular habitations, with beautiful green and red orchids sprouting from every branch and stone outcrop in all directions.
We explored the ruins for 4 hours, the highlight being the climb to the top of the torreon, or tower. Up there, a magnificent vista of the entire Grand Valley awaits you, giving you the feeling that youīre on top of the world. Across, hidden in a mountain covered with jungles and cloud forests, lie even more ruins, still undiscovered. When I return, I plan on exploring them with my friends.
I danced on top of the tower, spinning with the staff I bought in Machu Picchu. Dancing has become like meditation for me, accompanied by stretching and breathing to feel more in tune with the amazing places Iīve been visiting. To spin like a whirling dervish on top of the tower of such inspiring ruins was one of the highlights of my trip, like when I danced above the temple of the sun in Pisaq, or like when I danced at the gates of the city of the dead, or in the waves at the beach of Colán where Pizarro first touched down, or in the jungle of Madre de Dios in the pouring rain, or in the slums of Cantagallo on the banks of Limaīs river.
Now Iīm in Cajamarca. Last night I visited the Incan Baths that Atahuallpa had been visiting to celebrate his victory over his half brother. His thermal swim and massage were probably the last happy moments of his life. After a grueling 17 hours in buses, I was happy to relax and do the same, visiting the naturally heated pool, the eucalyptus sauna, and the massage parlor. In the sauna I chatted with Peruvians from all over this country about social change and addressing the problems facing the country. It was really great, but not so exhilirating as when I later danced in the mist as the sun went down. The sulfurous fog swirled around me as I spun on the precarious ledges above boiling, roiling waters. It was yet another amazing experience, one I will never forget.
Today I go to Cajamarca central, to see the cathedrals the Spaniards built with their Incan booty. It should be interesting...
Tuesday, January 9, 2007, 09:56 AM
Visiting the village of shamans and curanderos up in the remote mountains of Peru was anticlimactic. I didnīt get a chance to sit on a hilltop with a bearded master pondering the cosmos. I DID get to partake in some nonsensical rituals and grueling hiking on dilapidated trails. I also ran into some really great locals who made me forget about the earlier madness, so it all ended up alright.
My trip started out on a bad foot. The bus to get up there was late, and ended up taking 9 hours to traverse the winding road to Huancabamba. Once there, I realized that I was completely destitute: the only bank in town was closed, and wouldnīt open until Monday.
It was Saturday.
Somehow, I had to survive on 6 bucks for 2 days, in the meantime traveling 3 more hours up to the lagunas, walking another four, and meet some shamans. It didnīt help that most charge up to a hundred bucks for their services. How was I going to manage this one?
Fortunately, a bunch of local kids (none older than 10) took pity on me and showed me around. Normally, the first thing I do is ditch my backpack when I arrive in town so I donīt look like a tourist. I usually avoid the local kids, because theyīre often pickpockets or will lead you on a wild goosechase. In this instance, things worked out for the best: the kids were nice, and nobody messed with me even though I was loaded down with two heavy backpacks.
The kids took me to a witches shop, where the lady ran down a list of shamans in town I could visit. I picked one at random, Don Juan Manuel, and walked with the kids to his house. He wasnīt home, but his daughter was. She let me in and offered to let me stay the night there. I was anxious to meet a shaman though, and declined her offer.
Luckily, one of her suitors showed up then. He was more than happy to get some stranger away from his woman, so he drove me up the mountain (two hours!) for free.
Once there, I wandered around the shamanīs house. He had dozens of creepy dead animals hanging from his rafters, and room after room of strangers and Peruvians waiting to be īcuredī. One older Peruvian gentleman, Roman Llover, was really cool, and we talked awhile about shamans and his experience with them.
I didnīt get a chance to talk to the master, as he was busy attending to paying clients. I ended up wolfing down some cheese, bread, and crackers, and passing out in one of the wool-sheeted beds.
The next morning, we arose early. Most the visitors were going to ride mules and horses for the 3 hour trip to the lagunas. Roman and I were broke, so we decided to walk. Neither of us had rubber boots. I thought I didnīt need them.
I was wrong.
The trail was an absolute wreck. At times, it was completely washed out. Other times, it was complete quicksand or mud. Roman and I oftentimes climbed fences to walk across fields to avoid the path. Fortunately, it was an absolutely gorgeous day. Huancabamba is sometimes called the "Switzerland of Peru", with soaring vistas in all directions, abundant wildlife, and clouds bedecking the sierras.
After hours of walking, many spills and falls, and completely covering ourselves with mud, we arrived at Laguna Shimbe, one of "las Huarinjas". The shaman Don Juan didnīt accompany us, but several of his curandero assistants did. Roman and I actually arrived ahead of the mules, they had as much trouble with the walkway as we did.
The curanderos unloaded a pack of sacred items. Crucifixes, perfumes, pipes, swords, clubs, flowers, pottery, statues, dried animals, you name it, they had it. We jumped around, sang, spat perfume, swam in the freezing lagoon, and snorted tobacco alcohol up our noses. That last part really hurt, and seemed really arbitrary. The curanderos seemed to think it was important though.
The whole ceremony lasted an hour, consisting of various purification rites. I donīt know if it worked or not, I donīt feel much purer. It was cold as hell in the lagoon though.
Afterwards, we walked the three hours back to Don Juanīs house. There, I passed out, with my filthy pants and shoes drying next to my bedpost. They awoke me at 10 in the evening, when we went with another dozen people behind the Maestroīs house (in the room with the most creepy things hanging from the ceiling) to have another curing session. This one lasted until dawn, and was more of the same chanting, jumping, kicking the badness out of your legs, dusting your shoulders off, and snorting the painful tobacco mixture.
It was a big production, with half a dozen assistants, singing, dancing, and whatnot. It all seemed pretty arbitrary, I with the Don had had time to explain things to me. As it was, in the end he just told me what my tab was, and who I could pay once the bank was open. Chagrinned, I left on the first car out in the morning.
Once back in Huancabamba, I realized that the bank couldnīt accept my card. Now I had a 30 dollar tab, no ticket out of town, and not a cent to my name. I started getting really frustrated, and really let the guy at the bank hear it. He took pity on me and loaned me six bucks, which I used to call my mom.
I hate doing that. I have plenty of money, I donīt need to call my parents like some bum. I even woke my mom up. Unfortunately, it was all I could do. She moneygrammed me enough to buy a ticket out of town and cover my tab with the shaman, bless her heart. Iīll be sure to pay her back once Iīm back in the states.
The only bus out of town didnīt leave for a few more hours. Luckily, I ran into a couple girls from town who showed me around. Their family had a botanical gardens, which I checked out. I also practiced my fire dancing a bit, and talked with their mother. We spoke of the various non-profits Iīve ran into in Peru, and she was really interested in Aniaīs Tierra de los Niņos. I think sheīs going to start a chapter up in Huancabamba. That would be really cool.
In the end, I got out of town on the next bus, and made it back to my friendīs house in Piura. Iīm about to hop on another bus to Chiclayo, where Iīll check out the ruins in the jungle. It should be exciting... hopefully better than the village of mystics.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007, 02:59 PM
"Ok Nick, we're on when the Miss Hawaiian Tropic girls finish. ĄEstas listo?" Fox asked me.
I looked over at my dreadlocked Colombian friend, then back at the bikini contest going on on the other side of the pool. People raucously cheered for their favorites. I didn't answer Fox, it wasn't necessary. He knew I was ready.
One of the Hawaiian Tropic girls glanced in my direction. I was swinging my arms in a wide circle, getting the circulation moving, but I almost fell over when our eyes met.
Tatiana. We'd met each other earlier on the beach that day. It was early in the day New Years Eve, and all my friends were still asleep. She was by far the most gorgeous girl on the beach, and I don't really know how we started talking. She is a professor of tourism at a university in Lima. Iīm investigating ecotourist groups in Peru, and hopefully all of Latin America, so we had alot to talk about.
And now I realize profesor is just her day job. At nights, she puts on a bikini and struts her stuff in the VIP section of expensive clubs. Its better than being a stripper, I guess.
The party itself wasnīt that great. It was 30 bucks for general admission, 70 for VIP. Thats obscenely expensive here in Peru, so only the richest of the rich and their pampered kids could afford it. The only poor people in the entire party were the workers.
Guys like Fox. His real name is Marco. We met in the street in the middle of Colán. He was spinning balls of fire around, blowing out huge fireballs from his mouth. Iīve seen the act a million times, but its always cool to see someone new. A new style.
He told me about the party, but I didnīt figure Iīd go. I would rather just spend the New Year at my friendsī house. I invited Fox to dinner, so he came along.
We drank a bit, danced a bit, entertained Luke and his wife Denisse. Denisse was on the plane from Miami to Lima with me, a month ago. Somehow, a month later I made it to her beach house in Colán. Her family is great, sheīs got two little kids of 5 and 3, and a bunch of drunken uncles, sisters, brothers, and nephews. Iīve gotten to know half the town in the past 4 days.
We werenīt paying much attention to the time, because all of a sudden Fox grabbed me.
"Nick, its 10 minutes to midnight. Iīm late for my work!"
Luke, drunk, three sheets to the wind, staggered over.
"You can take the buggy."
The buggy.
Its a beautiful, bright yellow, insectoid dune buggy Luke found wrecked in Lima. A few grand later, it sparkles in his driveway. Well, not anymore. He crashed it last night.
With a boat.
I guess driving drunk on a beach isn't a good idea. I'm good to drive though. I've barely been drinking New Years Eve. The stomach bug I got from the rat I ate in Cuzco haunts me 3 weeks later. Plus, when I play with fire, I donīt like to drink much.
"Sure Luke, I won't be able to get it back soon though. It's almost midnight..." I said.
"Oh no problem, bring it back when you get a chance. Denisse is sick anyway, I don't think we're going out tonight." Luke replied.
Sweet! Just like that, I had a dune buggy for New Years Eve.
Fox and I jumped in, racing to the gas station. We needed more kerosene. It was closed, the best we could do was gasoline, and mix it with the kerosene we had left from earlier.
Thats not good. Gasoline is explosive, and burns hot as hell. It'll probably destroy the fire stick Luke and I had slapped together earlier.
We got to the party. Fox talked to the owner. I just stood next to the buggy. Fox walked over.
"You can come in for free. I told them you're my assistant. Just stick with me. We're going to the VIP section!"
Only we didn't right away. First we went to the big stage with the DJ. The Barena dancers were shaking their moneymakers above us. A line of drummers from the local high school were forming. Fox was going to perform in front of the stage with the drummers at midnight.
I talked with the drummers a bit, then wandered off. I ran into about a dozen people I knew, not just from Colán, but Lima, Cuzco, and Puerto Maldonado. Luciana and Mariana, two of my friends from Pierinaīs house in Madre de Dios, happened to be from Colán! What a small world.
After an hour or so, Fox found me again.
"Ok, now we go into the VIP. You ready?"
I didnīt answer. My throat was sore from yelling "ĄFeliz Aņo Nuevo!". I just nodded my head.
We talked our way past the guards at the VIP section. Inside, free booze, five star dinner, and Miss Hawaiian Tropic contestants.
We were to only stay on the other side of the pool, away from all the action. Afterwards, we had to get out right away.
After the contest, Fox and I danced. All the girls were still on the other side of the pool, while Fox and I slowly advanced. I looked across at Tatiana. She winked at me. I looked at the closest table. The Barena dancers waved. The lead dancer, a guy named Arturo, winked at me.
Great, a gay admirer. Oh well, I focused on the dancing. With gasoline, I didnīt want to burn anyone.
After we finished, my stick was in tatters. I couldnīt do any more. Fox felt obligated to do something. He filled his mouth full of fuel, then started dancing in the middle of all the bikini contestants.
What a nut! Halfway through the dance, he blew a huge fireball. Normally, with kerosene, he can blow two or three. With gasoline, it exploded, and covered his whole face in flames! He quickly slapped them out, but his lips kept burning. He sputtered a bit.
His mouth was still full of gasoline!
From across the pool, it looked like he was kissing at the Hawaiian Tropic girls. For about thirty seconds, he blew gasoline flames until all the gas was gone. Then he dunked his head in the pool.
He still has burned lips and chin from that. I never do that stuff, too dangerous. A burning 6 foot staff is enough excitement for me. Fox is a consummate performer though.
After dancing, we hung out with the Barena dancers a bit. They convinced the guards to let us stay, and poured us a few drinks. I tried to talk to the girls, but Arturo kept hounding me, so I eventually took off. They weren't that interesting, they've never left Peru, or even seen the jungle or Machu Picchu. I guess if you want to be a master synchronized dancer, you have to sacrifice you life.
We left the party and Fox went back to his tent to sleep. I jumped in the buggy and drove up and down the only road in town. I must have given 30 people rides, and yelled "ĄFeliz Aņo Nuevo!", "ĄProspero Aņo Nuevo Tambien!", and "ĄCambia Algo!" at each person in town.
Twice.
Sometime around 8 in the morning I made it back to the house. Exhausted, I passed out in a chair on the sand, facing the ocean. I awoke with a cookie in my mouth, little Luke junior shoving it down my throat.
"ĄFeliz Aņo Nuevo!"
Monday, December 18, 2006, 01:52 PM
As I write this Iīm staring up the steep steps of Ollantaytambo, the warriorīs rest. Its smack dab in the middle of the Sacred Valley of the Incas, where three different valleys come together. Iīve spent the past week exploring this place, have had at least half a dozen different guides, and have made many new friends.
I started in Pisaq, which Iīve already written about. The ruins there are an extensive complex, sprawled over a whole mountain. The city below has the most colorful market Iīve ever seen.
After Pisaq, I hopped the local bus to Urubamba. The train to Machu Picchu leaves from Urubamba, and I wanted to get there early, so I woke up at 5 and caught the first bus. It was 45 minutes late, so it ended up being packed to the gills, so much so that we couldnīt even close the door for several miles, and three guys were literally hanging on for dear life.
Urubamba didnīt make that big of an impression on me, so I ended up in the next (and last) stop at Ollantaytambo (where I am now!). I ended up missing my train due to not having enough cash, and there not being an ATM within 15 minutes walk of the train station. It was ok though, because I got a great breakfast and met some cool Americans.
I caught the 10:30 (aka super expensive) train to Aguas Calientes, the city at the base of Machu Picchu. There, I made friends with a Cuzqeņan guy named Juano, who offered me a room in his house. I accepted, then went to buy a ticket to Machu Picchu park.
At the park office, I met a nice girl named Maria Angelica, who turns out to be an archeology student whoīs father is the head of the anthropology department at the University of Cuzco. We talked alot about Machu Picchu, sustainable development, and some political hot topics in the valley like a bridge theyīre building. It was more great luck to run into a person like her.
On her recommendation, I visited the park museum. Outside, they have a spectacular botanical gardens. It didnīt seem like much at first, I walked almost the entire thing without noticing anything of interest. On asking one of the gardeners where the flowers were, he proceeded to show me around for the next two hours. Apparently, there are hundreds of rare and unique plants growing in Machu Picchu, it being at the convergence of the mountains and the rainforest. The orchids, in particular, were really cool.
The next day, I scaled Machu Picchu. The bus ride itself was an adventure, winding precariously up a cliffside. Once on top, the view was breathtaking. Cloudbanks rose up on all sides, and mist was visibly rising from the rainforest. The entire complex is covered with flowers and other plants, and the bottom parts of it are literally falling into the jungle.
Max, Nishkama, and Josh, my American friends, tried to do a tour on their own. Max is a tour guide, so he was showing me around, but he kept getting in trouble with the workers there. I guess the rules have changed. After a couple hours, I decided it would be best to get an official guide, so I went back to the gate and hailed Francisco.
Don Francisco Palomino Fuente appears as old as Machu Picchu itself. He has a voice that seems to rise from the depths of the valleys, and speaks with a profundity that makes the air around him seem to shake. He was a great guide, and showed me alot of the meditations associated with different areas and taught me dozens of words in Quechua.
After the tour, I hiked up Wayna Picchu, the young mountain. Its quite a trek, and on my way up I was passed by dozens of red faced, sweaty tourists. I took my time though, as I had nothing to prove, and by the time I got to the top I was the last one there. They had to kick me off, because they were worried it was going to rain. As I made my way out of the park, I realized I was not just the last person on Wayna Picchu, I was the last person in the park!
Instead of taking the bus down, I decided to hoof it. Along the way, I repeatedly encountered pieces of trash littering the trail. I donīt know why, I guess its my upbringing... but I canīt just walk over a piece of trash in my way, especially at a sacred place like that.
At the halfway point, my arms were full of trash. I was tired, sweaty, filthy, and could barely see. The sun had been down for over an hour, and the mosquitos were starting to swarm me. Luckily, the cleanup crew from the park was on their way down just then. They threw me in the back of their truck with the rest of their garbage, and I bounced and clanged all the way to the bottom.
I stayed a couple more days in Aguas Calientes, hanging out with Juano, his friend Manuel, and checking out the local scene. It started raining really hard, so I didnīt get to do too much more hiking. That was ok though, because just the first day up Machu Picchu took alot out of me.
The last couple days Iīve been checking out sites on the other side of the sacred valley, near Cuzco. I went to Tambomachay, the sacred water shrine, Puka Pukara, where the young noblemen came to train, Qenqo, the cavern of kings, and Sacsaywaman, what was once the most beautiful of all the Inca sites. All of them were seriously defaced by the Spaniards, which is a shame. I wish I could have seen them when they were covered in gold, reflecting the light of the moon or the sun onto images of pumas, condors, serpents, and llamas.
Today, I returned to Ollantaytambo and checked out the ruins here. I also picked up some christmas gifts, which I have to go send right now. Next, Iīm heading off for Cuzco, where Iīll be checking out museums, universities, and the recycling center. Wish me luck!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006, 08:13 PM
This little village is special. Its a completely different feeling here. Iīve read before that Peru is like three different countries: the coast, the mountains, and the rainforest. I can attest to the truthfulness of that statement, and would maybe add a fourth, the city (Lima).
The mountains are awesome. They rise up on all sides, towering above, casting huge shadows, often engulfed in clouds. Its the beginning of the rainy season, but so far Iīve only experienced a few sprinkles.
Today, I took a taxi up to the ruins of Pisaq, which are practically a mile or two above the town of Pisaq. Instead of returning in the taxi, I decided to walk the whole way back. It took me almost three hours, but it was well worth it. The ruins here are amazing. I really get a sense of the power that brought the people to build in these sites. For whatever reason (·cough·Spaniards·cough·) they no longer live in them, but there are still dozens of Incan women selling trinkets and marveling at the grandeur of their lost culture.
One thing that constantly strikes me is the strength of the people here. Little old ladies, the same age as the women in America who are crippled with arthritis and osteoporosis, heft enormous sacks full of their wares. The bags are at least twice as big as my backpack, and the one Iīve tried to lift was as heavy as it was big. It doesnīt seem like the concept of retirement and relaxation has caught on here.
Iīve already made some friends. I downed a couple Pilsner Callao beers with Ernesto (the drunken toolshop owner) and his brother Guillermo, a political aspirant for the nationalist party. Theyīre both jokesters, in their fifties with kids my age. Thursday Iīm invited to a barbecue with them and some volunteers that work for and live with Guillermo.
Tomorrow, I go to Machu Picchu. I have to wake up at 6 to catch the bus, then the train, and get in in time before they close the doors. I guess they limit the number of tourists who can go in each day.
Friday, Iīm going to hang out with the Shaman Alonso del Río. I already met up with him the first day I got here, and helped him fix his internet. Heīs quite wise; Iīm looking forward to our conversations Friday.
Thereīs much for me to learn here. This doesnīt seem like a third world country at all; its at least as well developed as Thailand and some of the poorer areas in America and Europe. Everywhere I look, there are civic improvement projects, and everyone seems to be working. Its not at all like Armenia and Thailand, where the national pasttime is "taking it easy". My plans for studying sustainable development are coming along, but I donīt know that Iīll ever need to īdevelopī this place.
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