Dealers and the Dealee

* this entry from 5/11 *
Fruit Dealers & Eaters, Mariscal Sucre

They're notorious here -- The Fruit-Dealers, a pack of little kiddos with dirt smudged cheeks and eyes that twinkle. They run the streets of Mariscal Sucre, walk around town touting bags of limes, lychees, and apples. They make their rounds, down slim alleys, into the Salsa Studio, past tour agencies, and farras. Their selling tactic -- they have this keen ability to morph their faces into wounded expressions, to make their voices sweet and soft. "Por favor", they say, drawing out the or in "por" and "favor".

They've crossed my path quite a few times. I might have succumbed earlier, but reason kept me strong -- what would I do with 12 limes? How do I peel a hairy lychee? But today, they succeeded...

Minding my own business, I'm strolling the street licking the sides of a tall ice cream cone, when suddenly, The Fruit-Dealers appear. Startled, I murmer a quick "hey". With eyes to the ground, I try to walk around them. They match my footsteps -- to the left, to the right. Soon I'm cornered against a brick wall. I want to hide the icecream cone. It makes me look like someone who eats; they could use this to their advantage and say I know you eat, now buy our fruit. Por favor(twinkle eyes). They hold bags of small apples above their heads, close to my face. Waving a hand, I signal that I don't want any trouble. I hastily dig in a pocket and hand over money. The exchange is fast, and in no time The Fruit-Dealers have vanished and I'm left with a bunch of apples.

Down another block, I run into The Fruit-Eaters. They're sitting on the concrete sidewalk, leaned against a building side, the soles of their feet darkened ash, their hair knotted, tangled and long. After offering weed, they ask for an apple. One apple leads to two and soon everyone in the group wants one. "Hippies share everything," they say smiling.


* this entry from 5/17 *
The Shoe Dealer, Old Town
I made a friend today at the shoe shop; I’d like to call her can’t-stay-still. This little creature was dressed in a spotted fur coat, a rather morbid fashion statement. Her caretaker who made the ensemble is also the owner of a shoe shop. While can’t-stay-still stayed true to her name, the Shoe Dealer sat in a comfy chair and talked about Texaco and the oil spill in the Orient, talked about Ecuador’s slice of the Amazon and pink dolphins, talked about Oregon, Montana and Washington; she talked about her preference to classic literature, talked about Sheba (her other cat) and took me to the back of the store to show me her hiding places. And then, she talked about a special sale on a pair of shoes -- high heel shoes, the kind of shoe that is pointless while on the travel road; the type of shoe that takes up space and adds to backpack weight. But once on feet, reason faltered, and in the same manner as encounters with the Fruit Dealers, I forked over the cash and added the shoes to the hordes of lychee, apple, and tamarind candy I’ve succumbed to.

from hairy lychees to high-heel shoes…

...The Flight of Feathers

* this entry from now *

Just a moment ago I was sitting at a wrought iron table in the middle of an atrium, when suddenly, a small feather landed in my lap.

The Flight of Feathers

* this entry from now *

One new message appears in my email inbox. It's from Captain Mo, written from Afghanistan.

She describes her accomodation in a shipping container, describes the F18 jets that roar overhead, describes the many landmines left behind by the Russians, how due to this walking in certain areas requires following local kids familiar with the terrain.

From my room with two blankets, mint tea and chocolate, a desk lamp that casts a warm glow, I read this.

Earlier, I read about the parents whose children were buried beneath a poorly constructed school that collapsed in China's May 08 earthquake, how one mother said in regards to being compensated for her loss, "what kind of justice can we have? There is no way to bring back my daughter".

And currently reading in Murakami's After the Quake, the unsettling undertone of distance and the intangibility of events...


At least, there's thoughts, there's prayer -- and perhaps it works in the same way that Shanley's Doubt interprets gossip: as feathers shredded from a pillow that take flight, past walls and fences, on such a course that even if attempted could not all be gathered.



... at the moment, Hotel Alcala, Quito
sending out feathers



(new song added; it conjures images of feathers in flight)

On the Road -- Cusco to Lima

* this entry from 5/1 & yesterday *

Read something this morning about May -- the 1st of May -- being "the new start of your life". I'm celebrating with a MilkyWay bar; it got smashed beneath a water bottle, but the flavor's still the same. On the road, same routine -- metal detectors and videotapes of bus passenger's faces. The only difference though, is that this is a fancy bus -- leather seats, blankets with gold embroidery, a lady dressed in a black pant suit walks up and down the aisle asks passengers to buckle their seatbelts, hands out hot food (Lomo Saltado), Bingo cards, and little bags of toothbrushes and paste. I'm waiting for a yellow facemask to come dangling from the ceiling, for the bus to lift off the ground and sprout wings.












19hrs later an arrival to Lima.

After showing up on the doorstep of a no-vacancy Hostel, walking, then hopping in a cab and going in circles looking for a non-existent address to accommodation attempt #2, then settling at random Hotel, I went out for some fresh air... and then started running, with a book and cigarettes. Forrest Gump came to mind, and I tried to embody his spirit by continuing to run to nowhere in particular for no particular reason.

Unlike Forrest, the run ends maybe thirty minutes later on a rocky shore embedded with bright soda bottle tops, plastic bags, and crab claws. A man and a small boy with a long line cast out to sea stand on a thin peninsula. A fellow is skipping stones. Further along a group of surfers congregate, their bodies half out of wetsuits like peeled bananas. Small black bodies straddling surfboards dot the water, rise and fall with the swell of the ocean.

What's it like to be out there sliding along the crest of waves? When the ocean is gliding under them, are they thinking about their technique or does everything flow, like the ocean is giving them a piggyback ride. And when the waves roll on top of them and they dip below the surface does it muffle out the traffic of noise, is there a peaceful quiet in that underwater world? Rather than set, the sun seemed to take a mysterious route out, disappearing behind a rolling mass of clouds and leaving in its place nighttime.



...at the moment, Residencial Alfa
In the morning news -- swine flu possibly ebbs, Japanese couples wed more economically in US, and Captain Mo leaves for Afghanistan.

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