The Expedition Team -- Reactions (Macchu Picchu)

Tintin
Counted the stairs, calculating 8,593,063,056,271,234,958 steps. After comparing this with the actual number, he concluded that somewhere his math had gone wrong. He is now wondering how he was able to count that high.

Sharki E. Thrash
Moved by the flowers and plants, decided to abstain from 'eating green'. Left with slim choices, a munching sound was heard in my backpack. While fumbling through its contents, Sharkie was found inside a cookie bag. He’s decided to try eating processed foods made of artificial ingredients.

Ninja Turtle
Was meditating in a vortex of Macchu Picchu. While there, he had a telepathic conversation with his Mentor, a rat named Splinter.

Monkey
has fans and spent her entire time signing autographs. From the ladies at Hostels and Hotels who tuck her in with chocolate, the front desk personnelle who ask how she's doing, the ladies who ask what shop they can buy her sibling at, the Jungle Guide who wanted to carry her, to the people who tell her “que preciouso”, the people who give thumbs ups and smile when her photo is being taken... She says thank You, but doesn't let good nor bad comments sway her.
– her signature looks like this:

Mystery Road

* this entry from 4/28 and yesterday :) *
Mystery Road, Macchu Picchu

Jeans in a neat rectangle, next to the small day pack – the expedition team tucked inside. Hiking boots and socks awaiting feet. I scan the room while stretching from slumber. The sun is peeking through the curtains.

I bolt upright, throw sheets off and run to the window pulling the curtains wide with two hands. Totta is open – the ribbed door pulled up, white frosted cakes line its walls. Totta should not be open.

*

She shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head and looks down at my ticket and back to her computer screen. "Sorry, there are no more departures from here today. You missed the train."

She looks at her partner, seated behind a glass partition. He’s pointing at a piece of paper with a pen, speaking in English to a couple seated before him.

She leans closer, her navy blue suit touches the desk. "But there is an alternative route."

*

A cab stand on avenue Hua%&? where eager drivers are clumped on curbs – here a collectivo cab is negotiated to drive some90kms outside of town to a train station called Ollanta where it’s possible to catch the missed train from Cuzco at noon.

In the company of briefcase man, red-sweater woman, newspaper man, and a paint bucket of gasoline that sloshes and rolls, the cab makes its way past squares of tilled soil, dreadlocked donkeys, and women carrying babies on their backs in striped blankets the color of lifesavers.

An hour and a half later, the cab drives through a dusty central square and down a dirt road stopping at the Ollanta station. And a moment later, I'm seated near a window, the train's wheels rolling along the tracks -- destination Macchu Picchu. A slight detour that led back to the original route.


*

It’s dark when I open my eyes. Raindrops upon tin roofs, a cool draft swirls as I kick off the wool cover.

Downstairs, I leave the key with a note:
Hello, checking out – room 203. Left a bag under desk, will return. Much Thank You. Sorry, my Spanish no is good.

The trail to Macchu Picchu is approx 6km. Yesterday, I asked two gentlemen pushing a wheel barrow where the starting point was, asked them what time the sun rises. They motioned their hands the way a snake moves. Over a bridge, stay to the right, go up for about 2hrs, the sun rises at six, six thirty.

The small town of Aguas Calientes is bathed in a jack-o-lantern glow, its cobblestone streets slick and shiny. Past alleys, a plaza, and closed restaurants, down hill, through a dirt lot, rectangular busses lined like dominoes, their headlights off, seats barren. A black dog, the color of shadows, follows me. At this hour, he appears like a ghost, blending in with the darkness. It’s not long before the dog disappears, before the lights of town disappear and the path turns the shade of the night. It makes my stomach lurch and a voice inside says “turn back”. So I do.

Rather than take the footpath, I take the faster one -- by bus. It’s mentioned, “whichever one you decide on, they both go to the same place.”

*

Low clouds drift over the green pillars of the Andes, Macchu Picchu fading into and out of view like a reflection on moving water. My feet follow the curves of a road, a road chosen at a fork, chosen simply because there wasn’t a line of people blocking it.


Clouds spill onto the Vilcanota peaks like steam off hot coffee

The road ascends, up stone staircases, past viewpoints with no views, the sky blanketed in a thick sheet of white. I’m not sure what it is I should be looking for, where this road is going, so I start taking photos of flowers, the dew drops on spider webs.









It’s been an hour.

It’s been two hours.

The road hasn’t revealed its destination.

At nearly 3 hours, two girls are seen sitting on stone stairs. They are the first people I’ve come across. While eating cookies and drinking water we talk about Chile, about Torres Del Paine, we a laugh at how long we’ve walked, at how we had no clue how long the road would be. “I think it goes much further up,” one says. “We’re turning back. What are you going to do?”

“Keep going, just to see what’s around the corner.”

Around the corner is a new set of stairs. Maybe the destination is just after those stairs. This pattern continues. The maybes, the what-ifs, the probably-almost-theres.


views

New stair upon new stair.


Alas a gateway. This must be the entrance to the destination. I touch the cold stones, examine the flaky lichen, and take pictures to celebrate the arrival.


Nope, more stairs.


The top, what joy! A granite stone extends into the sky like a dull arrow.


Not quite. A new set of stairs lies hidden around the corner.


..and some more



Up and further up.

Until, finally, the road, the stairs stop.

A thin walkway, dizzying views of green slopes to either side. Clouds like cotton candy being stretched. A panorama of Andean Peaks, jutting upward as though they’re fingers reaching out to the universe. And this really amazing flower.







*


Mystery Road, Macchu Picchu





...at the moment, Cafe Don Estaban
On my way to the bathroom, it said "hello" -- the it being an orange and brown cake on display. It reminded me of Thanksgiving so I requested a slice. Here on the loft, amid a row of wooden tables and chairs, cake and hot chammomile tea. The lyrics of song I'm listening to just mentioned, "easy like Sunday Morning" -- pretty much sums up how it feels right now. Cheers.

Street Reflections: notes from behind tinted glass

(4/20)
A shrill cry. Long black hair, a woman is screaming. She bends down, whisks something up from off the sidewalk and touches her ear. A crowd gathers, cars stop. A man in a yellow cuffed shirt and sunglasses is sending fists to the face of a man in jeans and a hoodie. Uppercuts, elbows, and headbutts. The hooded man crumples to the ground. Policia Nacional appear and pull back on the shoulders of the yellow-shirt man. He sends a kick. Hoodied-man motionless and bloodied. Yellow-shirt man retreats. A woman, with a rounded belly and gray hair shakes his hand and pats his back.


(4/22)
Emergencia Policia. A white pickup truck with black letters pulls up in front of the Hotel. A man wearing a burgundy beret and black uniform steps out and stands with hands on hips. The man presses against the back of a passing pedestrian. Another man, in matching attire steps out of the vehicle. Together they walk into the hotel.

A crowd is gathering near the vehicle, near the front of the hotel. The two men reappear. They are dragging a body, arms dangling to its sides in unnatural form. They hoist the body onto the bed of the truck, close the gate, and drive out of sight.


(4/21..22..23..24..25..26)
A piece of cardboard cut out to fit the square scale – like a welcome mat. He sits in front of it or sometimes stands, his hands often crossed as though in prayer. Pedestrians pass. People go in and out of the bakery. Everyday he’s there, next to the stone exterior of the building. Twenty centavos to stand on the welcome mat, he waits.




*


a toddler walking styrofoam





...at the moment, Cafeteria EL Balcon

REAL TIMEE!!! YEAH YAYYYYYYYYYYYY!!! tralalalalalal AHhhh!
:D

ich, ni, san, chi

* this entry from 4/20 *
ich, ni, san, chi (Cusco, Peru)

Round one, 4/18:

The sign was stumbled upon by accident - "Karate, Self Defensa Para Mujeres". From across the sidewalk, while enroute to a Taibo class at a small local gymnasio, I saw it. What the heck, I reasoned. In cheap shoes bought for this evening's aerobics class -- the right shoe a few centimeters larger than the left -- I traverse the street.

Up the stairs of the nondescript building into a dojo with pink square pads attached to one another like a big puzzle.

Bare feet and white robe-like uniforms, a strip of color around waists. "Hiiht", grunts, and a whipping sound, like a towel being flapped briskly

*

Round two, 4/20:

A girl with glasses is gracefully moving around the room, her hands forming angles. The Instructor steps out of the dojo and points at my feet. While untying my shoes, I hear him explaining to a lady behind a small wooden desk that I was here on Saturday, that I have a week before I leave Cusco.

7pm - Stretching in a corner. Two older boys with yellow belts are sparring, the pink pads shift under their feet. In comes a new Instructor with a cream sweater and sweatpants.

"Jasmine [insert plenty of words]." She stands in front of me, lifts her eyebrows, lifts her chin.

I have no clue what she said. I nod my head.

She's repeating this or maybe saying something else. Her voice low, a little gruff, a little scary.

I nod my head again.

In enters two women, black belts tied around their waists. I miss Saturday's class with the small boy I stood in line next to who made me feel tall, where the most challenging part was during jumping jacks where I was instructed to count in Japanese and mumbled half the numbers, "shoo, shii, shee, shoo".

While applying charade-tactics and simon-says, I try to follow the Instructor's direction. She assigns me to stand in a corner and practice a series of defense blocks. Meanwhile, the other women with their fancy angled arms are chopping the air and twirling kicks.

The Instructor approaches. "Lista?"

I nod my head.

Like a flash, a flurry of fists toward me. No more nodding of the head, I'm shaking my head. "No listo," I yelp.

She's smiling.

Breathe, she says. She squats and opens her arms wide as though drawing a rainbow above her.

"Lista?"

Before I respond, a flurry of fists and a kick. I bat the air as though swatting at a cloud of flies.

She chuckles.

Breathe, she points to her nose, exaggerates an inhale and does her rainbow move again.

I'm picturing a scene. I push her mid rainbow-move. Not expecting the shove, she topples over, momentarily stunned. Barefooted, I run awkwardly down the stairs -- two at a time -- out the door and far far away from Karate hell.

This scene does not happen.

An hour later, students bow and start leaving the room. I follow after them, cramp in thigh.

We're not finished, she says. She looks to another student, points at me, she has a lot to learn in one week.

Before I make my great escape, she's poking me in the solar plexus, speaking in Japanese, kicking my waist, and telling me to breathe. Meanwhile, images of the other students outside, perhaps skipping, eating ice cream, and breathing.

Cramp in thigh, exhaling weird sounds, wondering if sometimes the more uncomfortable we are, the more we learn.

*

Round 3, 4/21:

Something about being slapped in the face.. It hurts my feelings.

*

Round 4, 4/22:

One by one, students in the class with their colorful belts are instructed to attack me. The defense technique is really pretty; hands like mudra, legs sliding back, slightly bent.

Swift punches flying. While fumbling to get into the pretty position, I'm getting hit. Feeling frustrated, I digress to what I know - parrying and deflecting.

The Instructor sees this, marches over, No, wrong! She tells the students to aim for my face, to add more force.

Bruce Lee comes to mind, his philosophy about emptying cups. The results of "emptying my cup" -- legs crisscrossing, mistaking right with left, bizarre and wierd, most of the punches landing.

I stay until the school closes, watch the students, their discipline, precision, and concentration.


Round 5, 4/23:

Today is the last class with the Instructor. Warmup -- dragging fingers across the floor while marching in squat position, hopping and crawling. Students collapse. An interlude -- everyone does the rainbow-move. While doing jumping jacks, I make it to six, "ich, ni, san, chi, go, roku..."

I'm picturing a scene. At the end of class, after thanking the Instructor, we hug.

This scene does happen.



*



Sidebar: "Soy bushido siempre mejor" -- the phrase has been recited at the end of each class. Upon reseaching Bushido, the word translates as "Way of the Warrior" and is defined as "the traditional code of the Japanese Samurai which stressed courage and loyalty and self-discipline and simple living."












The Principles of Bushido detailed on Japanesebushido.net

On the Road – Bus from La Paz to Copacabana to Puno to Cusco

* this entry from 4/15 *
Ask and Thou Shall Receive, enroute to Copacabana

Sheep grazing, donkeys, llamas, and chickens. Fields of fuchsia and gold quinoa, abodes made of sun-dried bricks.




Lake Titicaca spread out to the horizon, so large it seems as though it’s an ocean. At San Pedro de Tiquina, passengers disembark and are asked to purchase a ticket from a small blue building. Meanwhile, the bus boards a wooden boat and floats across the lake.



A 1.50BOL ticket takes us on a smaller boat. On board are a five year old and his mom from London. For his sixth birthday he wanted to visit the Amazon or Mexico City; his Mom is making this possible.

*


Bienvenidos a Peru. Inka cola, coca and maca candy. On board the bus, we continue on to Puno, the city on the Peruvian side which borders Lake Titicaca, the world’s highest navigable lake.



Simple Solutions, Lake Titicaca

Accompanied by a large group of tourists, we board a motor boat and converse with friendly travellers. The guide is thorough, explains that the deepest part of the lake is 284 meters deep, that the lake sits at 3800 meters, and has roughly 40 islands.

The wind is cool, cold almost. The sun reflects off the water, ripples form behind the boat. In the distance -- islands made of reeds, small houses of the same material.

The motor boat docks next to reeds. Florescent colored skirts, bare feet and braided hair, cheeks deeply tinted by the sun’s harsh rays. Inhabitants of Uros hold out their hand, helping passengers off the boat.


Reeds commonly eaten and rich in calcium

A presentation describes how the floating islands are made –
Blocks of Earth tied to one another with grass laid on top in a crisscross pattern. At a 12 – 15 meter deep section of the lake, the grass layered blocks are set and secured to the lake bottom with an 18 meter pole.


About 10 – 15 families live on the island. Should there be disputes with their neighbors, they can either pickup their house, put it on a boat, and move to another island, or simply split the island in half.


*


Locals sing a song and wave goodbye, "kamisawaki" (spelt phonetically) – an all encompassing word which translates as hello, how are you, good day. It’s said that the locals used to speak Uros, but the last known speaker died in 1960 and since, they’ve spoken Quechua and Spanish. The idea of language as an endangered specie as mentioned in the documentary – Encounters at the End of the World.



Almost at the moment, Bus to Cusco
A bus attendant waves a metal detector across seated passengers. He returns again with a digital camera and records everyone’s faces. He’s swift, nonchalant, routine-like in his demeanor. Past robberies likely prompted this procedure.

An arrival to Cusco at 3:45am -- the city bleak in the dark hours, concrete and gas stations. At the bus terminal, a woman approaches. She shows images of a hotel. After asking prices, checking location and availability, it’s decided to go for it. A taxi ride later, and we’re dropped off in front of a garage-like, metal door pasted to a concrete building. Thankfully, upon entering, the hotel is lovely. Clean sheets, a private bathroom, and toilet paper.

toilet paper!!!

* A big hug to Papa, who flew out the following day :) *



...at the moment, Cafeteria El Balcon
almost there.. almost.......

The Expedition Team – Reactions (Madidi)

Monkey
This being Monkey’s hood, she guides us through the dense forest, speaking Munki, the official language of Primate, and making elaborate hand signals with bananas. Soon her relatives appear and we’re introduced.




Sharki. E. Thrash
Having a newfound appetite for all things green, was seen munching ferociously on every shiny plant. He feels like he has a belly now and misses being able to see his feet.

He was also disturbed to see a friend of a friends’ uncle’s daughter’s nanny displayed on a plate – Madam P. Ranha. He marked it a terrible loss to the underwater kingdom and organized a funeral procession. In his closing statement, he encouraged others to eat green.



Ninja Turtle
Was star-struck by the worker ants. While shaking their antennas, he was overheard, “So you see sometimes I get tired carrying this shell and um..was wondering.. if You could give me some advice?”



Tintin
Was assigned the task of spider hunting. But after encountering a tarantula, whose legs were thrice the size of his body, he requested that the assignment be reconsidered.

Jungle Journalings

Jungle Journalings…

* this entry from 4/10 *

Rainshowers against the thatched roof; chirps, buzzes, and croaks muted beneath the heavy drops of water.


jungle lodging

Feeling ill, I skip the morning hike, but not breakfast. The food here is fresh and trustworthy. Vegetables, omelets, fruit & yogurt parfaits. At the long dining table, Rosa Maria asks my symptoms. She believes I’m dehydrated and assigns four liters of water, 3tbs of salt, and 1 tsp of sugar a day and kindly monitors my progress.

While conversing with a frog outside the cabin, I see Papa walking down the muddy path, a big smile on his face. He describes seeing a rubber tree, a pungent smelling garlic tree, a poisonous tree where just a dab of its secretions on a dart will make it a deadly weapon, and vines that wrap around trees, suffocating them, making them collapse to the ground.

Excited by the details, I decide to join the afternoon hike.

Thick jungle vines, thick swarms of mosquitoes. Moist, muddy, and wet. Leaves slick and shiny. Inhaling and exhaling effortlessly, imagining that we’re walking in Earth’s lungs.



At least a dozen mosquito bites on my face, itchy lumps swelling by the minute. I swat the air fiercely, slapping myself by accident. Mosquitoes dodge the wailing arms. Another bite. I scratch my eyebrow and a creature crumbles in my hand. Not a mosquito, or ant, but a spider. I silently freak-out not wanting to draw attention to my lame insect battle. From my pocket, I pull out a bottle of deet and spray it furiously. It burns the skin.

Further on, another hiker -- a very nice British lady -- did not duck low enough under a plant. Fire ants are crawling on her, biting her neck. Her husband helps to sweep them off, but many are tangled in her hair.

Chirpy sounds are heard from all angles, the fanning of big leaves overhead. Capuchin monkeys hop from tree to tree. From above leaves are pulled open and tiny faces are spotted, as though peeking through the window blinds of their home.



* this entry from 4/11 *

early morning
The gray light of early dawn faintly illuminates the path. The rising sun, a peek of cooper light between the dense jungle foliage.





A plant that is toxic – when placed in a puddle, it turns the water black. A tree whose properties can cause infertility. Worker ants busy carrying leaf shards on their backs, building tunnels and walkways to an enormous ant city. Rodolpho continues to share information about the jungle, tells us that ants as well as macaws are immune to the leaves of the poisonous tree (the one which can make a dart deadly).






The chorus of howler monkeys grows louder as we approach. It’s said that their groans imitate that of a jaguar. Rodolpho stops, points up into the trees. Spots of burnt orange -- perhaps 50 ft up – the rustle of leaves, between them a howler monkey swings.

As Rodolpho walks he snaps plants, their leaves pointed in the direction we’re moving so that he knows the way back.

*

breakfast
My eye swollen, face swelling -- Rosa Maria says I’m having an allergic reaction to the spider bite and gives me an antihistamine pill. Another lump on my face has turned painful. Later I learn that an insect laid larvae beneath my skin.

*

afternoon
Footprints of tapirs, jaguars, and “bambis”. The lack of large furry animal sightings seems to bring to focus the smaller details – the translucent mushrooms, the blazing blue butterfly, and the bulging bodies of fire ants.


An arrival back to the main lodge. Hammock siestas are taken. I sit outside with Rodolpho and a ten year old boy who thinks I’m 13. I tell him it’s very nice to meet him, hopefully he can repeat that when I’m fifty. Rodolpho -- his skin leathery -- he’s making a hole in a small red and white seed, showing how to make necklaces and rings. He’s missing a few teeth, but his eyes seem to do more of the smiling.

*

nighttime
Reduced visibility heightens the sounds. Silhouettes of ancient trees, their age marked in size. The sensation of thousands of eyeballs watching. At a muddy enclave, fresh tapir footprints. Rodolpho instructs us to sit on a tree log and stay still, the tapirs are nearby. Our boots sink into the mud, suctioning sounds, and the rustling of Papa’s poncho as he slaps mosquitoes off him. Not a minute passes without someone shifting or slapping a bug. The tapirs didn’t come to visit, but in the end we had a good laugh.

*

moment I'd like to remember
Papa and Rosa Maria are seated in chairs talking about a myriad of things.

"Never give up hope," Rosa Maria says, "Life is full of opportunities, imagination is an extraordinary thing."




jungle sunsets

Sightless Seeing

* this entry from 4/9 *
Serere Sanctuary, Bolivia


Salmonella Warning to Salar de Uyuni Travellers
An arrival to Rurre. The town is green, jungle green. Low clouds over a backdrop of lush mountains. Motorbikes take us from the bus to the Madidi Travel office. Sick for the past week in Bolivia, Rosa Maria takes me to the local doctor while Papa shops for an extra set of clothes.

*

A little boy with a deep fleshy lesion on his arm, pink tissue laid bare. A poster hangs on the wall a few inches from my nose, warns of the flesh eating bacteria carried by mosquitoes. A jar of exposed cotton sits on the table. A lady approaches, syringe in hand, her nailpolish chipped. I don't want to be here. Blood is drawn and taken to a small laboratory which will determine whether the culprit is salmonella.

An hour later, with Salmonella-positive test results, I'm given a 5day antibiotic treatment.

The source, as hypothesized by Rosa Maria, lies somewhere along the Salar de Uyuni route. Apparently, there is a high incidence of travellers who’ve come off this tour and have been unknowingly infected with Salmonella.



Welcome to Serere Sanctuary, Madidi National Park
A three hour motorboat ride down the Beni River -- where beneath its brown waters are caiman and piranhas -- leads to the Serere Sanctuary, a private protected sector of the Madidi National Park.



A conversation with Rosa Maria and it’s learned that before this land had been acquired it was also used for environmentally-damaging Tourism. Examples: Some tourists would request to go hunting or eat exotic animals and the tour operators would comply -- skinning jaguars, catching caimans frightening them so much that they bit off their own tails. After the land was acquired it took five years to excavate 20 tons of trash.

“The only thing that’s dangerous is human stupidity,” she says.



Sightless Seeing, Serere
Groans like the rumblings of a hungry tummy mark the chorus of howler monkeys. Water pours gently off the moving oars of the canoe. Quick splashes and rippling circles that grow wide before fading away. Reeds twitching, the buzz of insects like humming electricity. An orchestra of new instruments – rattles, shakes, croaks, caws and hoots. With eyes fixed, I eagerly search for visibility of “the musicians”. Though, it’s clear whose eyes are on whom.

Schools of bats sweep over the lake’s surface at dusk, their faces almost human-like. Silhouettes of dragonflies against the smoky rose clouds left by the descended sun. They swirl in the sky, weaving invisible patterns.


dragonflies somewhere in there


dense jungle foilage spills onto the water



It’s easy to seal eyelids and drift in this canoe; the melody of the Jungle, its transmissions hopefully sent.




... at the moment, Cafeteria El Balcon
it's dark outside. Someone just skyped me -- username: SexPenisHardCockSperm.

?