Trying to maintain Our Sunny Constitution

Camana, 900 km south of Lima, on the Pacific coast.  To get here from the South you have to drive 4 hours through the desert.  Helen and I drove the first two hours last night from Mollendo, another beach town on the water.  Mollendo was covered in shanties… oddly enough it cost over 50 soles to stay in any of them… we found a little place on the outskirts of town for 30 soles a night, but it had no running water.  Modern shiny-tiled floors,  new paint, a 20” statue of a porcelain saint in the corner, a quality bed with clean sheets (only the faintest odor of someone else), but no running water… the toilet is filled with foamy chemicals so when you take a dump the bacteria is neutralized.  But after an evening and night and morning of urine and definite funky defecation, the chemicals are taken over by the body’s jettison.  Our host, a 16 year old kid running the hostel with his parents away, probably didn’t know how to control his water tank and misplanned the night.

In Mollendo we played Scrabble and took it easy.  After filling the toilet and sleeping soundly, we woke up and went to the beach.  Dry Heat… the mountainous desert of sand stretches from the peaks of the Andean foothills and into the ocean.  One big extra-terranean beach.  The equatorial sun beats on these mountains and no rain falls.  In Lima they say “it never rains.”  Just a fog once in a while.  And here it seems the same.  Grass and vegetation only grow in the valleys where water accumulates as rivers.  And in the valleys farmers grow melons and fruit-bearing cacti and grapes.  Cattle graze, and fields of grain lay next to ocean beaches.

We beached in Mollendo under a rented umbrella.  Fifteen minutes in the sun here and you’re cooked…. Literally fifteen minutes.   Everyone on the beach –everyone – is under the cover of an umbrella.   Until now it has been easy to forget how close to the equator we are.  The altitude of the Andes masks the length of the days and intensity of the sun.  Down here the sun is painful and demanding for most of the day.

And at night, the sunset.

Last evening Helen and I drove towards Mollendo, but were stopped en route by a huge traffic jam.  I pulled around the line hoping for a break… a police officer stopped me.  “Donde van?”

 “Buenas Tardes senor… vamos a Camana.”

“Mm m.  You can’t pass” 

“What’s wrong? Why not?”

“There’s a huayco ahead”

“Forgive me… but what’s a huayco?”

“Uncontrolled currents in the road, and it’s the only road.  You can’t pass.”

So we turned Donald around and raced to the last hostel we spotted and got a room.  The hostel was a trucker hostel… huge, cavernous, and echoing with voices and laughter.  Men shuffled by and didn’t say a word, didn’t respond to “hello.”   So we got some food and relaxed inside the purple and yellow room.

This morning we bought fresh melons and drove to the beach.  Bad Donald sped at a velocity of 100 km/h today on several occasions. 

Today is Valentine’s Day.  Our romance is flitting from day to day, discovery to discovery.  Occasionally you open a door and behind it is something so unusual and grotesque you cant help but stare and study its intricacies.  Often these complex scaly folds aren’t pleasing.  Like staring at a body in a car accident… are they dead?  Alive?  What’s that there?  A foot protruding from a blanket.  Surely that’s a dead man’s foot.  And this foot is so inspiring… a flood of ideas and memories, realizations and tappings into your darkest imaginations.  What will his family think?  His wife?  Children?  When will I be under a blanket?  How can I prolong the time until this inevitability?  Who can I save?

I have seen a dead man on this trip.  A motorcycle accident in the rain.  A group of twelve or fourteen men in raincoats, huddled around a swaddled man laying still on the pavement.

But today no humans dead… a living truth in the form of a poem so real and devastating to behold.  A letter typed to an old lover.  A lover still with talons in the now.  A snake slowly digesting its prey.  I had to stop and stare.  And the poison seeped into my flesh, from my eyes and towards my center of organs.  But I have built a wall… my cells turned cold and spit and writhed the venom out as anger and maltrition.  And it only bred fear and violence, good for nothing but more of the same.  A bitter battle between old lovers in the desert hurts.  And we saw many vultures and whipped each other while the tornadoes spun and spun for miles into the baking sand.

Helen is soft and strong, and comforted my pain, uneasy, sickness and I started to heal because of her.  She can make you feel better when you really need it.  I was bleeding less into the car.  We made it to Camana, found a room, went to the beach which was being played by a few beautiful families.  Little boys in cowboy hats tugged bottle-boats on string, soccer and splashing.  I covered myself in mud and Helen found round stones… marbled, purple, blue, and black as coal, all smooth.

Dinosaurs lived here 150 million years ago.  Back then this desert was a jungle and prairie and the ocean was very different in its boundaries.  We didn’t exist then.

I’ve been worried on this trip more than ever that we won’t exist in several generations.  Can we handle life with no petroleum and no potable water?  Do we really want to expend all the energy it will take to kill other civilizations (possibly drawing lines within the “United” States) in order to secure life-sources such as water and air?

When the shit hits the fan, the most “civilized” nations may very well be the least prepared… the people here regularly live with no electricity, petroleum, or running water… they survive as they have for millennia.  They are Native Americans.  But here is another example of talons and prey… petroleum is a drug needed by the engines of modernity.  The more we civilize these people with our modern cars, chemicals, and materials (including media and information technologies) the more they become dependent upon the resources that fuel these conveniences.  Do I think we should limit their right to cars and technology?  No.  But we should reconsider our involvement in their economy.

To get to Camana we drive through the coastal desert.  The roads are new and freshly paved, a wonderful improvement over the tedious rocky dirt roads that are much of Peru’s transportation network.  But every once in a while you see more and more giant trucks weaving around bends carrying huge vats of minerals and chemicals…. Then around a corner out of the sand and sea looms an enormous structure of steel and smokestacks stabbing the sky and fuming the air.  Huge pipes lead ominously into the water.  All the signs are in English… “CAUTION”  “SECURITY ZONE 1”  “SouthernPeru Refinery.”

Southern Peru is a Canadian corporation… Canada is one of the other members of the G8 summit… the most powerful countries in the world.

You can see from our pictures that this is a unique environment.  Certainly there are geological features and compounds here that the modern world wants.  And if North American and European companies (Bechtel, Halliburton, and other large engineering firms) decide they can profit from these minerals and resources and prove a benefit to the American people, then the government will work with them to open doors.  Perhaps we’ll lend Peru money (we already have) and use it to build  more industries (we’ll build them… no problem.  They just have to buy the help with our money) and operate them and run them with petroleum.  Then we’ll have a share in the product and license to break regulations when they fail to pay the impossible debt.

No internet for a while, gonna post this for now, more coming.  Don’t lie it?  Say why, please.  We need an open discussion on this.

Bless everybody. 

And We're Off

Ok... from here on in I am turning this page into a shared creation between Helen and me.  We are traveling together, and will write together.  Occasionally we might post our own blog but for all intents and purposes take this from us both.   :)  We will make a facebook album of pictures... more to come!

The view from the chakra of our untrusty steed, "Bad Donald"

For ten days we’ve been living in a “chakra”, or farmhouse. It is in San Jeronimo, a mountain town 30 minutes north of Cusco. The chakra is a concrete house covered in white stucco. It has wooden floors, no running water, and a dysfunctional fireplace that was built poorly and now spews smoke into the house when you try to light a fire. Most of the heat at night is from the gas cooking-stove (two burners and propane).  Water comes from a spring outside, and the bathroom is a concrete toilet in a little outhouse. A flush consists of pouring a bucket of water or two into the toilet to drain your waste. Josh is very proud he went 6 days without a shower. We left for 10 days to go to Puerto Maldonado, where we worked on a farm in the jungle, rode motorcycles in the tropical rain, and did an ayahuasca healing ceremony with a shaman named Don Ignacio. We came back exhausted, but ready for our journey south in our “new” 1971 Volkswagen cucaracha.

Helen and friend (his name escapes us right now) after Helen was attacked by wasps on our  5 hour boat ride up the Tambopata River, to the farm in the Amazon.  More on the jungle later.

Wednesday morning, we woke up at 6 for an early start. We drank instant coffee, fried a couple eggs, and packed the rest of our stuff. The rooster crowed at 3 in the morning because Josh went to the outhouse and woke it up. It was raining and we had everything ready to go. While we were outside packing the car, our neighbor Yolanda, a farmer with two kids, a husband, three cows, a lamb, various chickens dogs and cats but no car, asked us for a ride down the hill. We said we’d be ready in twenty minutes. 

An unknown person had pilfered our gasoline tank that we’d stupidly left next to the car. The battery light was dim when we turned the key to the ignition, and sure enough, nothing. Not enough electricity to start the car. Josh had a little J-pats freak out, and kicked the plastic gas tank into the woods, claiming to fucking hate everyone. He was pissed. Really pissed. After a cool down and discussion, we decided to attempt to push the car down the mountain for a jump-start. Josh pushed, Helen steered. After half an hour we moved the car 15 meters through a grassy muddy stretch from where it was parked to near the road. We still had 50 meters of uphill muddy pushing, before we reached the beginning of the downhill. Finally Helen convinced Josh to ask the neighbor, whom he suspected stole the gasoline, for help. He said, “ I fucking hate Julio, I don’t want to ever fucking see him again”. Julio is Yolanda’s husband. Helen on the other hand was convinced we needed the help of another man. No one in the village owns a car. Finally, Josh admitted he wasn’t strong enough to push the car by himself. In the cold drizzle, steam was coming off his body. Grunting, convinced and beaten by gravity, wishing he was a lineman in the NFL, he knocked on Julio’s door. Julio’s son, a14-year-old boy whose name we can never remember, opened the door. His rich dark skin always has a smile. He has beautiful white teeth and dimples. Every few days we would come home and he’d be re-painting the windowsill where the rooster liked to sit and shit down the side of our house. His parents no doubt told him to do this, but he always did it with a smile on his face, and also collected the rooster nightly. Of course when we said we needed help he immediately was ready and stepped out of the door into the rain. More than ready, he seemed honored to be asked.

 With a great deal of effort the three of us pushed the car 50 meters up hill through the mud, ankle deep in cold puddles. Helen's shoes would be wet for a week.  We thanked him profusely, although we failed to jump-start the car on the first downhill. Then we coasted down the mountain fifteen minutes in neutral. We made it to the bottom with the engine off where we hoped to find a jump-start from someone else with cables. Luckily, we found a shop at the bottom that charges batteries. An old man raced around with tools, full of energy.  Unable to jump our battery, he lent us one of his with no deposit. He took ours to charge, and told us to come back in two hours.

We headed to the market to pass the time. We got a plate of vegetables and baked potatoes from a Quechua woman for a dollar, and got some snacks for the road. We bought instant coffee and went on the hunt for a thermos. There were four stands in a row that sold thermoses. Each vendor made sure to unscrew the top and hold it up to her ear and then ours. “Listen”, they would say. As with anything that shape you can hear a humming like the ocean, but I guess here in Peru that means the thermos works. The ocean test is their standard to ensure quality. We finally bought one for 5 bucks. It passed the ocean test, and does keep our water hot. On our way out of the market we stopped by a stand selling coca leaves. People here have told us that if you mix limestone with coca leaves you get a better effect, more like cocaine. There were many options- white square stones, grey round stones, and black tar-like stuff. The women there thought something was hilarious as we questioned them about which to buy. Were they all stoned? We got a grey and black ball you bite pieces off of, and a sticky square of something resembling licorice. Then we headed back to the car.

As we pulled out… the clutch petal seemed to disappear. It was on the floor. We had broken the clutch cable. Off to a good start? So, Josh pushed the car, put it into first and started it and we drove without a clutch, to a repair shop. The owners referred us to a shop across the street, and an hour later we had a new clutch cable. We paid the guy with a banana and 15 soles (about 6 bucks). We now have wires holding the clutch and brake up off the floor. From there we drove to get our charged battery, a Kola Real, a sparkling clear sugar-free pear beverage, and 20 pieces of gum the texture of Bazooka Joe and flavor that lasts no more than 2 minutes. From there, we started off towards Julliaca.

It was 3:30pm. The road to Julliaca is the same road we took by bus to get to Puerto Maldonado. The difference is a turn off 100 kilometers down the inter-oceanic highway that runs from Peru to Brazil. By highway, we mean a two lane, freshly paved road that winds up, down and around mountains, valleys and prairies. A compañera at the English language institute informed us the drive to Julliaca would take 5 hours. 4 hours into the journey we saw a sign; “Julliaca 163 kilometers”. We were traveling uphill and the Volkswagen was maxed out at about 40 km/hr. And then it started to rain as the sun went down beyond the mountains ahead. The Volkswagen has no heater and no windshield defrost system. The faster you drive, the faster the windshield wipers swipe. This is humorous for the first five minutes of rain. Then the windshield fogs, tractor-trailer trucks rattle the car as they rush by roaring. Buses and trucks are coming at you with high beams on. The sun goes down in the mountains, and it starts to get very cold. Cold, tired, wet, and (Josh) stressed, we stopped the car by the side of the road and smoked a cigarette. Hmm, the exhaust smells a little like gasoline. Putting it to the back of our minds we got in and continued on, in search of the nearest hostel. Downhill we made great progress, but uphill we couldn’t go more than 30km/hr. Finally we came upon a stretch of road and in the distance we saw a field of orange lights. Perhaps a place to rest for the night. We continued on the main road, which didn’t bring us into the city, the city we so desperately wanted to find. We stopped at a grifo (Petro-station) for a fill up. Out came the attendant, an old woman in classic Quechua attire, and we asked her if there was a hostel nearby. She pointed to a dark dirt road, which led in the direction of the lights, and she said “Santa Rosa”.

We were very close to continuing on into the rainy night, but instead we turned around, pointed our car up the muddy dirt road and drove for 2 kilometers into the center of the little town. We stopped at the first “hospedaje” sign we saw. From a small store selling fruit, bread, soda and canned goods, a man came out to the car to greet us. It was raining hard, and the street was empty. All the stores, except for this one were closed. This means all the doors were shut and the streets were dark. Not even dogs were out in this weather. The man came up to our window and said “hospedaje?” We said “Si, por favor”. Helen was freezing, and we wanted a warm room as soon as possible. The man put wooden ramps next to the curb and we drove inside his stable to park the car. The room cost us 20 soles for the night, about 8 dollars. Before we went to sleep, the guy from the hostel led us to a where he said we could get some hot food. He walked us through the rain to the doorstep of a restaurant. They were about to close, but welcomed us in none-the-less. Treated like family everywhere we went, we felt like we’d been part of this small town for years. We had a warm bowl of soup. Helens opinion of the soup; broth and pasta with chunks of unknown meat left uneaten. Josh’s opinion; ziti in hot broth with beef cubes. Following that was a plate of rice and fried potatoes, and a cup of hot tea. The man who served us was extremely curious about the U.S. and our opinion of Peru. We chatted a while then left and walked around the corner back to our hostel. In our room were three small beds and one large poster of a badly drawn smiling cartoon boy holding a notebook. The notebook said “Nuestras cuentas” (our stories).  The family’s kitchen was the door next to ours, and their bedroom the next one down. The bathroom was across the way, and the sink outside. A crooked mirror hung on the cement wall outside. We went to bed, huddled close for warmth. Josh had nightmares, woke up at 3 in the morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. As usual, Helen stole all the covers.

On the Road