Me at Machu Picchu: A Few Shots of Me Bumbling About the Crown Jewel of the Andes

Last week I overcame my jaded ambivalence for ancient ruins that has overcome me these past few years, an ennui that derives from three decades of archeological adventures all over Europe, the Middle East and Meso- America. I used to find ruins romantic and captivating, but somehow lately that fascination has waned, and I've lost the intrigue I had then. I've been wandering about Peru this past month, and the anthropology courses I took back in the day have kept intruding into my thoughts, but I've had no interest in actually going out of my way to see anything, not even Nazca or the many several other major archeological sites that I've been near - There are many ancient cultures that existed here, the Inca being just the last great native culture to dominate Peru, but one that was actually quite brief in its preeminence, gaining power only in the few centuries before the Spanish came.  I was really not all that pumped up to visit Machu Picchu, and almost didn't, until my mother told me I had to, and I realized that she was right. If I didn't go, I'd be a titanic wanker. 

So, I did. I visited. Despite knowing very little about the Inca, despite Machu Picchu being actually quite bereft of history. The Inca had no writing, and the Spanish never discovered the place, which was apparently utterly abandoned during the collapse of the Incan Empire during the conquest. It was not a population center, but served some obscure ritual and political purpose for the Incan elite. They deliberately evacuated the place, to the point that very little has been found by way of artefacts there, because the site had a relatively short life span, and they deliberately stripped the place as they left.  The Spanish tended to destroy Incan cities, using their materials to build their own edifices, and they were particularly keen on destroying Incan religious sites, bent on suppressing their culture. Hence, the several extant astrological/temple structures there are rare survivors. The Inca worshipped the Sun and Moon, and arranged their buildings in astrologically meaningful ways. 

Anyway, more information on them can be found elsewhere online. I just tell you here what little I've learnt. That is, not that much. I thought my - and our larger collective - ignorance would inhibit my appreciating the place.  I was wrong. 

Machu Picchu is amazing. These next pictures really do it little justice, because the scale and spaces girding the place, which is a mountain peak bound by a serpentine river valley and an amazing array of immense mountains, cannot be grasped in two dimensions. Nor can the energy of the place - which is unmistakable, palpable, and vitalizing, be felt in a photo. Still, you can probably sense a scintilla of its magnificence.. And, I just have to post evidence to prove that I was there. 

The mountain falls away a good sheer 500 meters or more to the side in this first shot, but I couldn't get the camera to do that void justice, so I'll just let you imagine the vertigo here:

This next shot is looking uphill, the house in the far background is the "watchtower" where the final picture was taken:

From the watchtower overlooking the main section of the ruin. The classic Machu Picchu view:

I took many more pictures, but they are all just post card shots. I pulled these three because they have me in them.  Beautiful, eh?  Wish you where here..




---

Buen Provecho.

And now, a view from the South American table.

The food here is probably the worst of any place - other than possibly Egypt - that I have ever been. From Bogota to Cali to Quito to Cuenca to Piura to Trujillo to here, it's all been insipid bordering on awful.  Huaraz has actually been a great improvement, has been consistently palatable, even on a couple occasions tasty. So things are looking up. The word is that Lima has a very good food scene, so I'm all anticipation..

A few weeks ago I ordered a Caldo de Pollo - chicken soup/stew - at the bus station terminal in Cali, Columbia.  This is what I got:

The Feet. The Neck. The Whole Freak'n Chick'n.

It was actually pretty yummy.  Better than 90% of what I've been served down here, where their idea of dinner is plain rice, big fat undressed Andean corn kernels and plain slightly steamed white beans with a greasy breaded chicken breast slapped atop it all. No seasoning, certainly no spice or chili. This is definitely not the same as Mexico..

---

Las Días de los Vivos

So, I haven't had any impulse to put anything anywhere online for quite a long while now. It's like I've been hermetically sealed, I've had nothing much to exude.

I've been in South America for over a month now, I can't tell you exactly how long. I don't know if I have anything I much want to say, except to the dozen or so friends who have asked me to say something, to keep them in the loop.

So, here.  For the baker's dozen of you who really will enjoy this, and the few score more who I may slightly amuse:

I'm in Huaraz, Peru, in the middle of the Andes. The town is at 2,100 meters, and the couple excursions I've taken from here above 3,000 have left me - I, who haven't run a sustained mile since I left the army - feeling short of breath. This thin air is no good for me, so I'm seeking sea level tomorrow, I think in Lima. I'll make my mind up at the terminal, because maybe it may make more sense instead to head straight for Bolivia and then Tierra del Fuego.

Anyway, these past three days have been a welter of festivity here, beginning on Friday with All Saints' Eve. I'm not sure what they used to traditionally do here on Hallow's Eve, but this past Friday night as I went out to eat, the streets here were full of families - Peruvian ones - adults chaperoning their kids out trick o' treating:

They - all these little Inca - were just adorable, the photo opps just redounded unto absurdity because the sidewalks were mobbed with these nutty little critters, but since I hadn't been paying attention and so didn't have my camera with me, and was on a mission to find supper not wanting to go back to my digs to get it,  I just took a few shots with my phone instead.

They challenge you by saying "Halloween" with a slight accent, instead of Trick o' Treat - which I suspect may be impossible to translate into Spanish or any other language - and often get money instead of candy for loot, but the essential vibe was the same; and since they aren't terrified of the boogeyman down here, they have no phobia against letting their kids loose all over the urban streets in a great throng, propositioning every stranger who happens along.

The two days since have been filled with more traditional observances, mainly families going to their ancestral tombs to have dinner with the dead just like they do in Mexico. I didn't go with them, because I had other things on my mind, so no photos.

But at least you get a post.  Cheers.



---

Maracaibo: Where I Arrive In Kenny's Old Truck

So I left Santa Marta today.  I wanted to take a bus direct to Maracaibo, which is the first large city (population 2 million+) in Venezuela.  But there were none, and the woman at the bus station said there would be none until Monday.  Since I want to be at the Brazilian Embassy in Caracas at 9 am Monday to get my visa taken care of, I had no intention of waiting.  I had to take a small bus to Maicao on the border, and then transfer to another bus to Maracaibo.

I got to Maicao in about four hours, a place my guidebook warned me was going to be gritty and possibly dangerous, while there I needed to"watch my back."  Heartening, that.

When we arrived, the door of the bus was crowded with jammering men demonically leering, wanting to sell me services.  I was mildly disoriented, and my Spanish, which usually is quite solid in everyday situations, fled me.  I was understanding less than half of what they were saying.  I was not happy, and felt mildly threatened.  I was in no mood to trust anybody, but I needed directions.  I got one of the guys to cart my bags into the terminal on his dolly.  I always take advantage help with my luggage these days, because the 50 cents or so I tip saves me the stress of lugging my overpacked bag, which is well worth it.  This time I got a little paranoid, thinking he might run off on me.  I ran behind him as he sprinted off to the collectivo office.  I wanted the counter of the main busline, but was in no condition to interject myself properly into the situation.

There, there were more men shouting at me, pricing the trip in three currencies, and wanting to change my money..  They kept telling me that the border was closing in an hour and a half, if I wanted to go today I needed to make my mind up right away.

Way too much to handle.  I needed to clear my head.  I tipped the luggage guy, grabbed my bags, and fled into the open air.

I asked a man where the main busline counter is. He pointed the way.  One man from the collectivo office is following me.  I try to ignore him.  He taps me on the shoulder.

I turn, about to lose my temper, which is a very, very rare thing for me to do. But I'm on the edge.

He hands my wallet to me.  I'd dropped it.  I take it, stammer my thanks, and run to the busline office.

I ask if there's a bus.  No.  Tommorow?  No.  Monday?  Again, no.  Why the hell not?

The guy looks at me, and hands me a brochure with Hugo Chavez's face on it.  Because of the elections tomorrow he says.  Would I like to change my money?  He starts spouting information about collectivos again.

I get defensive once again, and start to lose my mind.  I need a pen and paper.  Write everything down.  Prices. Exchange rates.

I told him that the bankrate on the Venezualan Bolivar to the dollar is 4.25, because that is what the internet said.  He said their rate was 9 to one.

First the thuggish looking collectivo dude gives me back my lost wallet, and now I'm getting quoted and exchange rate twice the official rate.  Surreal.  What is going on here?

At that point I just surrendered, and realized that paranoia was getting me nowhere.  I decided to trust these people.

Next thing I know, I am hurtling toward the border bouncing around in the back this,

 I found Kenny's Old Truck in Venezuela. Who'da thunk?

Crammed alongside a bunch of campesinos, with twice as many Bolivars as I'd initially thought I'd have in my pocket.

Hugo Chavez decreed in 2007 that Venezuela be a half hour - that's right a half hour - timezone ahead of Columbia,  just to make arriving in his country just a little more annoying than it need be.  That Hugo.  Crazy guy.  We'll see if he wins today..

Four hours in the back of Kenny's ramshackle old truck later, I'm now safely ensconced in a hotel in center Maracaibo, which the a major oil hub here.

The guy at the hotel desk keeps putting his finger to his eye everytime I walk by him, squinting and hissing "cuidado cabellero: indigentes!"

I ignored him, and went out looking for a bottle of water.  I saw a bunch of gypsy ladies on the corner running what looked at first as I approached like a hotdog stand. I went up and asked if they had any drinks, but when they turned around the one closest me had this wicked orcish looking five inch blade in her hand, and I saw that the box they had wasn't of hotdogs, but was instead a pile of raw offal.  Viscous entrails, that is.  The woman was wearing a black dress and bandana, and looked as if capable of gutting me there on the spot.  They all snarled and glared at me, and croaked "no" in unison, like they were the witches in MacBeth or the Fates or something..  I fled, beating a hasty retreat back to my room, where I am reduced to drinking tap water for the first time since I've been in Latin America, hoping it's safe..

The hotel is a cheap one, within a few blocks of the bus station and the cathedral, which is convenient, because I hope to catch mass in the morning, and then leave for Caracas tomorrow afternoon.

I'll keep you all posted as I get along.  As always, keep watching  this space..



---

Picture of the Day: Existential Kitty

The Ninth Tail

---

Location:14th Street,Santa Marta,Colombia

Martha, Mary, Magdelena..

I wrote a post last night that got partly swallowed by Blogsy, an ipad app I like, but that has its issues.  I gave up re-writing because it was past midnight and I was meant to be up at 7 this morning to dive.  When I got up this morning they told me that because I was the only one who'd booked diving, they were postponing 'til tomorrow.

I went out and walked about Santa Marta instead.  The hostel is at the city center, just off the beach.  There's a central square surrounded by a dozen banks, and a few casinos (and hardly anything else, scum collects) with a great equestrian statue of Simon Bolivar, the George Washington of South America, who died here at 47 in 1830.

The Liberator

There's a container port with one of those great hoist cranes to lift the containers off the boats on the waterfront, and a beach that verges into a breakwater.

Port lights at night

The water seems relatively clean, and there were urchins diving and swimming all along the waterfront, looking for coins and seafood.

I was propositioned by this very talkative and friendly woman who wanted to give me a massage.  Twenty five bucks, my choice of creams.  Much more subtle come on than usual from the prostitutes down here, who usually are quite aggressive.. She left me the pretension that we could have been talking about shiatsu, which we in fact could have been, but I'm pretty sure weren't.  I was grateful for this, because I can't stand aggressive whores.  I listened to her, as she told me about her life and all about the coast about the city.

I left my camera in the room, so this evening after eating a forth time at the superb Mexican place that is owned by the hostel, I decided to go out and walk about getting pictures, including the two prior.

This time, I ran into a whole clutch of whores.  Just as I was taking that picture of Bolivar, there.  Four or five of them, a couple I think were transvestites.  Now, to be honest, there's something venal about the Caribbean, that I dislike intensely.  One of the reasons La Cieba, Honduras got so much on my nerves, and was so depressing was that you couldn't walk the waterfront in the evening without being harassed by streetwalkers.  I've never noticed this type of aggressive pandering stateside.  Granted, I never go where you'd probably encounter it.  But the center of a city?  Right next to city hall?

This is why I detest libertarianism.  Like this crap is supposed to be legal?  Leave me the f**K alone, please. Where are the cops? If you think prostitution should be legal, think about having our public spaces invaded like this. This type of thing makes me appreciate what it must be like for girls to be hit on and leered at.  Not cool.

Still, there is in fact a certain nasty charm in being propositioned so blatantly.  They're actually kind of funny, the things that they say, like "¡Que rrrr-ico!" (how yummy!) "¡Ay, papi!" - other stuff like that.  Until they get down to groping (no respect for personal space, they try to feel you up) and flashing you (the girl - I think she's a girl - in the picture below actually has quite a nice ass, I know because she showed it to me several times) and asking to fellate you.  I flatter myself, I think a few of them would have done it for free..

They wanted me to take photos of them, I obliged:

Que rico.

Yeah.  So that's Santa Marta by night.

I then headed back to the hostel, which is quite happening.  There's a bar upstairs where they blare the tunes until two-ish every night.  Not so loud that it disturbs my sleep, so I don't mind.  As I mentioned, there's a really, really good Mexican place in the same building, and the downstairs has a groovy swimming pool in the center courtyard, with a movie room where they have probably a few hundred films tevo'd and on constant rotation.  The crowd is twenty-ish and international, but largely anglophone.

The hostel too, has an air of decadence about it.  This picture is on the wall in the stairway to the bar area.  It's pornographic and sacrilegious, so don't study this image too closely if you don't want to be offended:

That's just how we roll these days, eh.  Penis jokes never get old, especially when they're blasphemous, right?

Creepy.

There's also a ram's skull on the wall of the barroom, which reminds me of this.


All of which leaves me ambivalent, in that while this town and hostel are once beautiful, they are also charged with a souspeçon of corruption.  I've been of paranoid mind these past few years.. I've been getting over it lately, throwing myself more fully back into an emphatic life of prayer where I'm trying to avoid analyzing things and becoming judgmental (ergo prudentes sicut serpentes, et simplices sicut columbæ.. that in my case by grace alone, because I'm too much the fool to manage it by my own) and thereby jacking up my inner life with the idea that I understand anything or anyone, or that I am actually in control of anything or anyone beyond my own mind and heart, and even that is touch and go, most the time...

Anyhow, as I came back to catch some sleep before diving tommorow, I noticed that the hostel is right next door to this:

eis qui sine peccado..

Which made me smile.  We're also right around the corner from another Paroquia de San Francisco here, as well.  I took a couple crummy shots of the church, it's a humble little colonial structure, I like it quite a lot.  I hope I can assist at mass there sometime before I leave here these next couple days..

He's always popping up, wherever I happen to go..

Tonight is the eve of our little brother's feast.  Saint Francis, pray for us.  I pray tonight especially for my little whores, may they come to no harm in the resurrection..

Oracion Simple

Senor, haz de mi un instremento de tu paz, 

Que alla donde hay odio, yo pongo el amor. 

Que alla donde hay ofensa, yo pongo el perdon.

Que alla donde hay discordia, yo pongo la union.

Que alla donde hay error, yo pongo la verdad.

Que alla donde hay duda, yo pongo la Fe.

Que alla donde hay desperacion, yo pongo la esperenza.

Que alla donde hay tiniebas,  yo pongo luz.

Que alla donde hay tristessa, yo pongo alegria.

Oh Senor, que yo no busque tanto
Ser consolado, cuanto consolar.

Ser comprendido, cuanto comprendar.

Ser amado, cuanto amar.

Porque es dandose, como se recibe. 
Es olvidanose de si mismo, como uno se encuentra a si mismo.

Es perdonando, como se es perdonado.

Es muriendo, como se resucita a la vida eterna.

Amen + 

I think that's all I got for you guys tonight.  Blessings on your heads.  Sleep tight.



---

Location:14th Street,Santa Marta,Colombia

Hiatus, Undone

So, after fulsome promises to blog with conviction once I left Guatemala, I have instead fallen into a severe rut in which I have not felt like blogging at all. And so, I haven't.

La Cieba, Honduras left me a moderate depressive (I'll probably get around to explaining why here, soon) so that I decided not to go out to the Bay Islands to dive like I'd planned. Instead, I came directly south to Tegucigalpa, then Managua, then San Jose, then Panama City. I spent several days in Costa Rica's national Marian shrine, in Cartago near San Jose, which I will blog these coming few days. I have good pictures, and the place was impressive. I'll gloss everything I've done, mostly by posting some of my backlog of photos. That's both easier, and I think more interesting than writing and reading a blow by blow of my travels.


In any case, last week I took a sailboat to Columbia. If you were not aware, there is no road from Panama to Columbia, the isthmus is blocked by a jungle called the Darien Gap that is home to FARC communist insurgents, drug smugglers, and other thuggish types best avoided. The passage took five days, and it was exceptional. I shall blog that, too..

See how glibly I promise. I'm not much in the mood to write, even now. But I ought to, just to feel virtuous.

Tonight however, I'll just tell you that I am in Santa Marta, Columbia. I was in the extremely beautiful colonial gem Cartegena for five days after debarking, and spent far too much - 45$ - Like a cheap American motel price, for a nice room in Getsemani, one of the historic parts of Cartegena, a room that in the States would cost probably at least three times what I paid. 45$ for a crappy motel stateside would have me feeling frugal and disciplined, but that price here made me feel bovine and used. This afternoon I hopped the bus here, where I suppose I'll go diving if feel so inspired tomorrow. If I don't, I'll just hop another bus to Maricaibo or Caracas. I figure I need go pay Hugo his respects, perhaps sooner than later.

Anyway, I got nickel and dimed stupidly by the cabby from the bus station to the hostel tonight. He asked for 10k pesos - about 5 bucks, again maybe half what I would have paid in the states for the 3km ride - when I asked at the hostel what the going rate is, they told me 5k. So I was left feeling absurdly gypped over 2.5$.. Until they quoted me 35$ for a single room here, putting that in perspective. I took it, because I am in no mood to sleep in the dorm, nor look for another hotel where I may not even get a better deal.

I'm kevetching about all this because until Panama I never paid more than 20$ a night down here. One of the great charms of traveling Latin America has been sleeping and eating well on less than 30$ a day, which is rather significantly less than it costs me merely to live in a damn apartment and eat groceries and all that back home.

Anyhow, I'm sitting at the bar at the hostel here, surrounded by people speaking English - lots of Australians mate d- and being ignored by the bar tender. Like what the crap. You know. What the crap. There's a horned bull skull on the wall opposite, creeping me out. There's absurd alternative music playing, damn kids these days think it's still 1988. Have REM sold out? I still don't care. Like whatevah.

I shouldn't be here.

From here on down, I am am avoiding these gringo infestations. Puede llamarme Carlitos del Barrio.

I'd post a picture, but I got nothin on the pad. Tomorrow. Maybe.

Well, gee, I'm cranky. Time to go to bed.

 

(autre chose: aujourd'hui c'est le fete de chere ste. therese. prie pour nous tous therese. I'm beginning a novena, tonight, time to get down, you know..)

 

---

Location:14th Street,Santa Marta,Colombia

 

Posted with Blogsy