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Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Peru, a remarkable place
If one thinks too long about certain words, say, remarkable or indescribable, they lose their meanings entirely. The latter actually violates its own definition, by doing what it says itself it cannot. The former, well, anything by definition can be remarked upon! But, if one doesn´t pause to consider my meaning, you´ll understand it. A visit to Peru is cause for even the most taciturn to remark.
I am in Lima, an overflowing metropolis. I arrived here around seven at night and the most predictable thing happened. When it became clear that the cab drivers were trying to rip me off and were of an untrustworthy variety, one of my fellow bus passengers offered me a ride to the city square. Randy, a vivacious university student, and his warm girlfriend Maya, had sat across from me on the way from Pisco -- we hadn´t talked the whole ride after I helped them with their luggage and they helped me find my seat. But when I walked out onto the street in a city of 9 million, Randy hurried to offer me a ride. What is unclear is how out of the way I took them, for they didn´t want to hear about my inconvenience. I found myself an straightforward 2 blocks from a hostel for which I had been recommended by a fellow traveller, and with plenty of other options close at hand.
This has been my experience travelling. I woke up in Huacachina a few mornings ago, and went to check out of my hostel. A 19 year old German girl, Yolanda, was also checking out and suggested we split a cab into the city (Ica). We ended up grabbing breakfast for about an hour and a half, sharing the usual traveller stories. We worked together to sort out which way to the bus stations -- her going to Nazca, me onto Pisco. Upon our arrival we took to separate lines -- hers much shorter than mine. I was waiting not a minute when she ran up to me, "My bus is leaving now! It was nice to meet you. Goodbye." So with Randy and Maya. They regailed me, as Radny´s father drove, with stories of their own four day vacation (the two are utterly enamoured with one another) admist various advice on staying safe in Lima. Then, I was at my destination. "Mucho gracias, mucho gusto!" Fleeting friendships.
Peru is a study in contrast. I am in a bustling city of millions, in the middle of a desert, which hosts a completely modern class in its centre. Recklessly expanding levies of penurious dwellings cling to its main streets, to the shores of modernity´s hope. I´ve seen a jaguar in the heart of the sweltering amazon rainforest. I´ve crossed a spine of the Andes by train. I´ve rocked back and forth in a rickety boat packed with the poor to stay on an island with a family I had never previously met, who speak a language I had never previously heard. I hiked alone in a lush green canyon, over 3 kilometers deep. I ate, drank, and discussed with strangers at night. I blubbered broken spanish over and over again.
I hiked the famed, and degraded, Inca trail to Machu Picchu. The last morning I was sick to my stomach, without energy, and cranky. When we arrived I couldn´t see anything ten feet infront of me. And when the clouds parted for that brief time -- that window of being there -- I gazed upon an ancient city, lost for 400 years, after a mighty empire was washed away. Peering over the percipitous drops on all sides and up the looming mountain crags -- stark with wonder at the fairytale place, one thinks "is this it? Is this what I came for?"
We have notions of the perfect, but can experience no perfection. We can imagine pain far greater than we could possibly feel (and thus rationally, but not possibly, fear). Looking over Machu Picchu I knew I was in the most beautiful place I´d ever been. Foggy mornings at the cottage, sunsets in Sweden, starry nights on the Acropolis ... I´ve seen beauty before. But when you recover your breath, there is always the question. Is this it?
In a word, yes.
When a knife is made by man... that knife has a purpose. Namely, to cut. Or spread, I suppose. If we disbelieve in a creator, then it usually follows that we are made but purposeless. De trop, in french, in english, superfluous. Of course, to have or not have purpose is a characteristic not meaningfully attributed to a human life -- like a knife with or without a sense of humour. But even if we adopt this language, and notion, there is a trapdoor. In fact, we can make a trapdoor ourselves. What is so remarkable, and empowering, in a universe without meaning, without a necessity of life, is not that we are here, but that we can even recognize our circumstances and create, out of nothing, out of de trop, our own purpose. The very ability to recognize our circumstance can make this venture a fulfilling one ... and indeed, it seems that many religious theists, while not recognizing said exact circumstance, still do decide their own purpose. They have fashioned, in some judgements, false gods, and have decided their purpose is to worship them. But this is a purpose still, fashioned out of nothing, out of de trop, and despite its dubious nature, it is still a conquering of this unrequested circumstance. When I´ve gone to places that beautiful, I feel a fulfillment, to be cliche, a broadening of horizons. One may not have adopted an ideological solution to handle the problem of being de trop, and one may struggle if one thinks it a problem. But that route need not be taken necessarily, or out of desperation. If we fulfill ourselves enough, it seems to me, we might die content.
And to gaze upon the tourist companÃes´ "wonders of the world," to horde those conspicuous and most often scarce goods of consumption, do not misunderstand me, are just one type of fruit of fulfillment. When I finish a good book, laugh at irony, eat something tasty, I feel a type of this fulfillment. When I accomplish something, when I write an article, when I have a conversation of no given length, I feel fulfillment. When I exercise my body ...even when I watch television I occasionally feel fulfillment -- there are no rules against it. These things, everyday things, provide different, unquanitfiable, yet similar feelings of fulfillment as those times in the indescribable places of the world, as a day and a night spent with a woman.
I have not found nor written any overarching rules for this game, and the chance of losing it is real. Or was, at least, for a time. But the chance of real loss, to not be reawakened and given another shot in another life, is what makes sucess genuine, in a word, real. It is what makes a malnurished child´s eyes mean something.
I´ve met many people here and they are all the same. I knew it would be the case -- people are people. Some are humble, some cocky. Some are indifferent and some are unconditionally caring. Some you like at first, then not in retrospect. Some you think are assholes, but probably are not, it was just circumstance or miscommunication. Some really are assholes. But most you can relate to, in some way or another, if you´ll let one another.
Whether they agree with the above or not I haven´t met one who would turn down that feeling of fulfillment you can occasionally glimpse in another person´s eyes or smile. It is mutually fulfilling of course, for an instant to be certain one is not alone.
I am in Lima, an overflowing metropolis. I arrived here around seven at night and the most predictable thing happened. When it became clear that the cab drivers were trying to rip me off and were of an untrustworthy variety, one of my fellow bus passengers offered me a ride to the city square. Randy, a vivacious university student, and his warm girlfriend Maya, had sat across from me on the way from Pisco -- we hadn´t talked the whole ride after I helped them with their luggage and they helped me find my seat. But when I walked out onto the street in a city of 9 million, Randy hurried to offer me a ride. What is unclear is how out of the way I took them, for they didn´t want to hear about my inconvenience. I found myself an straightforward 2 blocks from a hostel for which I had been recommended by a fellow traveller, and with plenty of other options close at hand.
This has been my experience travelling. I woke up in Huacachina a few mornings ago, and went to check out of my hostel. A 19 year old German girl, Yolanda, was also checking out and suggested we split a cab into the city (Ica). We ended up grabbing breakfast for about an hour and a half, sharing the usual traveller stories. We worked together to sort out which way to the bus stations -- her going to Nazca, me onto Pisco. Upon our arrival we took to separate lines -- hers much shorter than mine. I was waiting not a minute when she ran up to me, "My bus is leaving now! It was nice to meet you. Goodbye." So with Randy and Maya. They regailed me, as Radny´s father drove, with stories of their own four day vacation (the two are utterly enamoured with one another) admist various advice on staying safe in Lima. Then, I was at my destination. "Mucho gracias, mucho gusto!" Fleeting friendships.
Peru is a study in contrast. I am in a bustling city of millions, in the middle of a desert, which hosts a completely modern class in its centre. Recklessly expanding levies of penurious dwellings cling to its main streets, to the shores of modernity´s hope. I´ve seen a jaguar in the heart of the sweltering amazon rainforest. I´ve crossed a spine of the Andes by train. I´ve rocked back and forth in a rickety boat packed with the poor to stay on an island with a family I had never previously met, who speak a language I had never previously heard. I hiked alone in a lush green canyon, over 3 kilometers deep. I ate, drank, and discussed with strangers at night. I blubbered broken spanish over and over again.
I hiked the famed, and degraded, Inca trail to Machu Picchu. The last morning I was sick to my stomach, without energy, and cranky. When we arrived I couldn´t see anything ten feet infront of me. And when the clouds parted for that brief time -- that window of being there -- I gazed upon an ancient city, lost for 400 years, after a mighty empire was washed away. Peering over the percipitous drops on all sides and up the looming mountain crags -- stark with wonder at the fairytale place, one thinks "is this it? Is this what I came for?"
We have notions of the perfect, but can experience no perfection. We can imagine pain far greater than we could possibly feel (and thus rationally, but not possibly, fear). Looking over Machu Picchu I knew I was in the most beautiful place I´d ever been. Foggy mornings at the cottage, sunsets in Sweden, starry nights on the Acropolis ... I´ve seen beauty before. But when you recover your breath, there is always the question. Is this it?
In a word, yes.
When a knife is made by man... that knife has a purpose. Namely, to cut. Or spread, I suppose. If we disbelieve in a creator, then it usually follows that we are made but purposeless. De trop, in french, in english, superfluous. Of course, to have or not have purpose is a characteristic not meaningfully attributed to a human life -- like a knife with or without a sense of humour. But even if we adopt this language, and notion, there is a trapdoor. In fact, we can make a trapdoor ourselves. What is so remarkable, and empowering, in a universe without meaning, without a necessity of life, is not that we are here, but that we can even recognize our circumstances and create, out of nothing, out of de trop, our own purpose. The very ability to recognize our circumstance can make this venture a fulfilling one ... and indeed, it seems that many religious theists, while not recognizing said exact circumstance, still do decide their own purpose. They have fashioned, in some judgements, false gods, and have decided their purpose is to worship them. But this is a purpose still, fashioned out of nothing, out of de trop, and despite its dubious nature, it is still a conquering of this unrequested circumstance. When I´ve gone to places that beautiful, I feel a fulfillment, to be cliche, a broadening of horizons. One may not have adopted an ideological solution to handle the problem of being de trop, and one may struggle if one thinks it a problem. But that route need not be taken necessarily, or out of desperation. If we fulfill ourselves enough, it seems to me, we might die content.
And to gaze upon the tourist companÃes´ "wonders of the world," to horde those conspicuous and most often scarce goods of consumption, do not misunderstand me, are just one type of fruit of fulfillment. When I finish a good book, laugh at irony, eat something tasty, I feel a type of this fulfillment. When I accomplish something, when I write an article, when I have a conversation of no given length, I feel fulfillment. When I exercise my body ...even when I watch television I occasionally feel fulfillment -- there are no rules against it. These things, everyday things, provide different, unquanitfiable, yet similar feelings of fulfillment as those times in the indescribable places of the world, as a day and a night spent with a woman.
I have not found nor written any overarching rules for this game, and the chance of losing it is real. Or was, at least, for a time. But the chance of real loss, to not be reawakened and given another shot in another life, is what makes sucess genuine, in a word, real. It is what makes a malnurished child´s eyes mean something.
I´ve met many people here and they are all the same. I knew it would be the case -- people are people. Some are humble, some cocky. Some are indifferent and some are unconditionally caring. Some you like at first, then not in retrospect. Some you think are assholes, but probably are not, it was just circumstance or miscommunication. Some really are assholes. But most you can relate to, in some way or another, if you´ll let one another.
Whether they agree with the above or not I haven´t met one who would turn down that feeling of fulfillment you can occasionally glimpse in another person´s eyes or smile. It is mutually fulfilling of course, for an instant to be certain one is not alone.
Friday, February 27, 2009
nothing here
Well this city is officially boring. Mostly there is nothing to do because about half the city was destroyed by a recent earthquake. I was initially fooled because the main square is in alright shape.
I haven´t taken any photos, it does feel a bit like poverty pornography. Not that there is anything wrong with pornography, I just am not in the mood to be a pornographer. Its as you imagine... rubble in the streets and in empty lots, skeletons of buildings, collapsed walls, etc. The one hotel I got recommended by LonelyPlanet has huge cracks in all 3 stories of its walls... it looks like it could fall any minute. So I´m staying somewhere else. Definitely going to be in Lima by tomorrow afternoon.
I haven´t taken any photos, it does feel a bit like poverty pornography. Not that there is anything wrong with pornography, I just am not in the mood to be a pornographer. Its as you imagine... rubble in the streets and in empty lots, skeletons of buildings, collapsed walls, etc. The one hotel I got recommended by LonelyPlanet has huge cracks in all 3 stories of its walls... it looks like it could fall any minute. So I´m staying somewhere else. Definitely going to be in Lima by tomorrow afternoon.
Streak Over
I´m in Pisco. I spent last night in Huachachina near Ica. Tomorrow I´m taking a boat out to the Bastelles (sp) Islands for some sea lion watching, etc. Tomorrow I´ll probably head to Lima in the afternoon. Its hot here. Pisco is pretty much only half standing because of recent earthquakes.
My streak of having nothing stolen, lost, or forgotten is broken. I took a 12 hours bus ride from Arequipa to Ica a couple nights ago. I splurged on the most expensive luxurious bus company available (still not that expensive). They had a VIP room to wait in, showed Evan Almighty in English, served airplane food dinner (I ate half), etc. I still spent about 4 hours of the trip concentrating with my eyes closed on the thought "don´t throw up," but that´s how bus rides have become for me, the luxury didn´t seem to save me. Anyways, they lost my sleeping bag. I usually have it carabeenered to my backpack but they wanted to check it in (they had check in lugguage -- a sign of expensive bus company) separately. Fine. The guy made sure I had two lugguage tickets to assure me. Fine. We get there at 7am...only one piece of my lugguage is there. Oops....They say they´ll bring my 2nd bag on the 2nd bus that gets there at 7pm. Fine. Bus shows up, no bag.
My streak of having nothing stolen, lost, or forgotten is broken. I took a 12 hours bus ride from Arequipa to Ica a couple nights ago. I splurged on the most expensive luxurious bus company available (still not that expensive). They had a VIP room to wait in, showed Evan Almighty in English, served airplane food dinner (I ate half), etc. I still spent about 4 hours of the trip concentrating with my eyes closed on the thought "don´t throw up," but that´s how bus rides have become for me, the luxury didn´t seem to save me. Anyways, they lost my sleeping bag. I usually have it carabeenered to my backpack but they wanted to check it in (they had check in lugguage -- a sign of expensive bus company) separately. Fine. The guy made sure I had two lugguage tickets to assure me. Fine. We get there at 7am...only one piece of my lugguage is there. Oops....They say they´ll bring my 2nd bag on the 2nd bus that gets there at 7pm. Fine. Bus shows up, no bag.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Moving On
Heading to Nazca or Ica or Paracas. It depends what bus is available when I go to the station late this afternoon. Checked out of the hostel this morning, just going to wander around town and have a nice lunch. It was good to rest up for a few days, spend some time sitting infront of an internet cafe computer screen and hostel tv vegitating, as well as talk, eat, and drink with fellow travellers with some continuity. Met some cool people, Arequipa has the most beautiful city centre of anywhere I´ve been so far. I´ve got to be in Lima by Sunday morning I figure. That was I´ll be able to see everthing I can. So I´ve got to get moving. Got some good writing done this week.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Arequipa, again
I am back in the white city. Got in yesterday around 1pm, got lost walking from the Terminal Terreste to the old city (my guidebook maps only covers city centres.... then has arrows down some streets with "Bus station, 2km" etc on it). This makes it rewarding/educational to wander in random streets of random cities but elevates the risk of robbery and murder considerably. I dont know to what to attribute the lack of attempted muggings on my person to my being a young male or the mean look I walk around sporting. I wandered into an incredible hostel around 5pm. I stayed there 1 night before, but the rooms with private bathroom are 37 soles, and a bit too pricey to stay. Thankfully they had 1 room left with shared bathroom (22 soles). Brilliant. Theyve got a patio and sweet TV rooms. Im really worn out from hiking and bus rides. I hiked 6 or 7 hours the day before yesterday and the day before that and the 4 hour bus ride from Chivay to Arequipa is rough. I think Ill stay here some more days and just relax. In said sweet TV rooms I watched Slumdog Millionaire last night, and that recent movie where reees witherspoon is a ghost in this guys apartment. Both good movies. Slumdog has been critisized as "poverty-porno".... Im not sure how to show poverty in a film without being accused of glorifying it. I came feeling they glorified the people to an extent, not the poverty itself. Anyways, I am in internet Nirvana.... pics and videos from Puno train trip and festival to the Uros Islands and Amantani Island...
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