Tradition and Drink

The oldest standing church of Central America withstands the elements of weather and encroachment of the expanding city of Xela in the highlands of Guatemala. A restoration project is working on refurbishing the interior while the active ministry has moved to a more modern building.
On All Saints Day, our tradition of Halloween, the entire town seems to spend the day at the city cemetery celebrating the lives of those past. They bring flowers, picnic, fly kites, and drink to the occasion. In a mini-quest to find a local drink of this region, I found a woman just a block from the above pictured church who makes a strong berry-accented moonshine and a liquor that tastes of eggnog. The heavily monopolized beer industry makes Gallo, with the fertile rooster labeled on the bottle, the default choice for celebration.

Lake Titicaca

The high altitude lake shimmers on a vast plateau within the long chain of the Andes mountains. Currently the lake serves as an arbitrary boarder between Bolivia and Peru. The indigenous cultures floating on their islands of reed grass survivied the Incas, the Conquistadores, and the struggle to stay afloat with the advent of tourism. I continue to feel guilty for taking their pictures. My solace is in the little solar panels that passively take energy from the sun, implicitly saying techinology is an alright addition; this works for me.


The contemplative moment between a father and son listening to the gentle rhythms nature links generations, culture and change. These two were taking a respite from the celebration at the nearby church in Copacabana. The festivities brought pilgrams from all of Bolivia to gain blessing for the longevity of their various modes of transportation. Flowers, toy trucks, saints and beers seemed to converge cultural, Catholic and modern traditions. Interestingly, there is a similar holiday on the opposite side of the world in the Hindu nation of Nepal.


As the sun rose I climbed out of bed, put on some long johns and a hat to take away the chill, shouldered a small pack with water and set out to circumnavigate the Isla del Sol. With no automobiles, only foot paths meander up, down and around the hilly, terraced farmland, I relished in breath-taking vistas at each turn. In my seven hours of touring, I was alone ducking through stone doorways of Inca ruins, hired a canoe and local for a jount in the water, drank coca tea with a elpaca herder and reveled in my aloneness in nature.

Organic Farming Carmagnola

The local train from Torino takes us to Carmagnola twenty minutes southwest of the Olympic destination scrubbed clean for the big winter event held last winter. Without the faculty of the Italian language, we make a phone call and await the farmer on his way to pick us up at the train station. With our legs squished in the back seat of a mini-car, we wind our way on tight, two-lane roads. Big stands of paper harvesting trees, corn and wheat roll in each direction. This sign greets us at the entrance to the farm.

From Rome, the train ride north along the Italian Riviera pops in and out of tunnels passing famous places such as Pisa, La Spezia, and Cinque Terra. Our ride takes us up into the north country of Italy near the base of the Italian Alps. The rugged coastal mountains give way to a flat, lush valley. This is the farming center of Italy with Torino and Milan capitalizing on its wealth and the charm of Venice flourishes where the river meets the sea.

During the weekdays a bus load of little kids come to tour the farm, feed the animals, play, and eat an elegant pasta meal. It is wonderful to see six year-old kids served with white dishes and real silverware on a long table prepared under a grape vine awning, rather than given plastic everything because they can not be trusted or throw-away is temporarily cost effective.
The World Wide Organization for Organic Farmers (WWOOF) provides a network of farms in every corner of the globe for farmers, adventurers and travelers alike to get their hands dirty, manure on their shoes, taste the local food and drink (The wine and espresso being the fortes of Italy!), and delve into some local culture. The exchange is a full week's work, months if the time suits, for room and board. Each farm posts a bio of their location, accommodations, and the focus of their farm. We stayed a week. We got dirty. We drank wine. We ate wonderful meals and we slept well. Our host was fabulous.

Walk

There is a war out there. There is war in here. 

There is war in my heart 

About this place I love. 

Where the majority of people 

With the means and tools to understand 

Would prefer to live in darkness. 

To accept the war for their benefit. 

They drive in oversized vehicles 

Consumed by consumption. 

Consumed by the images and self-interests of an unregulated corporate communism. 

Where each individual accepts the opiate of society 

Striving to dictate every like, dislike. 

Striving for ignorance among its people 

Striving for complacency 

Comfort in the over-abundance of materials 

Plundered from converted export economies of already 

Impoverished nations, 

Who see their best land ransomed to the highest bidder 

And their harvests siphoned in the same direction— Away from them. 

Acceptance of corporate culture 

Power still in the hands of a few 

Blinded by the misrepresentation of words such as: 

Freedom Liberty Patriotism 

Freedom for whom? 

Liberty for whom? 

Defending the interests of whom? 

Those same few. 

I am one of those few. 

I take no comfort. I take no comfort in something forcibly taken from others 

And people around me just sit in front of the opiate 

Admire their big guzzling SUVs, 

“Supersized” meals, bottled water, 

And “teardown” houses. 

One upping their neighbor, 

Their ex-spouse. 

There is a war out there. 

There is a war in here. 

We are the instigators. 

We are the perpetrators. 

We are our worst enemy. 

It is time to walk 

To continue walking in the direction of change, 

In the direction of an inclusive world; 

Dispel the myths of fundamentalism. 

Myths that bind the heart, 

Blind the eye 

And drown out the diversity of life. 

I choose to walk.

Vallanaraju

In view of Huascaran, Peru's highest peak, I had to bow in awe of this extremely slow yet pronounced uplift from of the depths of the Pacific Ocean. Only a ten hour bus ride from Lima and a hundred miles from the ocean, this oasis of snow capped peaks just nine degrees south of the equator attracts mountaineers and trekkers from all over the planet. It was just a few years ago that an earthquake shook this beautiful mountain and broke a large piece of glacier from near its peak. The ensuing slide buried a town and its 70,000 inhabitants. The town rejuvenated itself and the travelers continue to marvel within its shadow.We, with zero glacial experience yet tons of backcountry wanderings, strap on some crampons and lug some ice axes and rope to the base of the glacier at Vallanaraju (5885 meters above sea level). In one guide book, the author suggests that anyone who is a rookie with big mountaineering aspirations should not attempt their first peak in the Cordillera Blanca. Whatever!? The guy is just over cautious. We have hiked all over the Himalayas and I have spent months in the backcountry of southern Utah. With some phone discussion, thirty plus years behind us and our bravado slightly diminishing, we acquiesce to hiring a local guide and include a mountaineering course within the excursion package. The campfire is absolutely the best part of camping, trekking or really anything backcountry (Skiing through fresh thigh-deep powder in Alta, Utah being a decided exception!) We are well above the tree line and the hike to base camp a 400 meter climb in an hour and a half on a trail too steep for mules does not encourage carrying wood. A stove would do just fine for cooking. Deforestation is another inhibitor. I read one account that stated that the random flickering of fire coals is strikingly similar to the flicker of the eyes in REM sleep. Who wouldn't love a little warmth and a day dream? On the jagged outcrop perched below the glacier and above the ravine, my general fear of heights or more importantly falling from heights and a fabulous companion at home, I lay awake in my tent. Really, what the hell am I doing up here. I have plenty of outdoor things on my plate and adding one with mountain weather being so inherantly sporatic and dangerous, not to mention the sport carrying a decently high price tag, is not so responsible.
Three in the morning, having already eaten some breakfast and drunken tea, I can only see the shin deep footsteps in the snow, the rope, and vaguely Chris in front of me with the glow of my head lamp. The brilliance of stars and the extreme thinness of the air is exilerating. Still tramping at 5:00, 5:30 am, the orange glow on the distant horizon gives faint light to the sky. The fresh snow on the undulating, other-worldly glacier is untouched save the trail of our slow, trodding steps. Our height, the cravasses and snow bridges become apparent. I have to refocus on my footsteps and take off the stupid mask because I am hyperventilating. Minutes later I am better. At about 8:00 am, I sit, perched or rather strattling a couch-sized snow cap with the whole world below us. This really is why I do this kind of stuff.

The Taxi Stand

Suydam Street

Second Tally

He has a mandate
A stamp of approval
From an ignorant, selfish public
With their heads in the ground.
Our vast land of overfed orks.
Crosses soaked in blood
Hanging from their necks,
Lying on the ground.
They betray the teachings of Jesus and Mohammed.
Betray the prophetic
Embrace the Constantinian.
Embrace lies and manipulation,
Embrace brazen arrogance.
He is neither compassionate
Nor conservative
Fear and intimidation are his tools
Manufacturing consent.
Spewing empty rhetoric
With the backdrop of red, white and blue.
They line up in obedience
Eyes glazed over
From the hours staring at the opiate,
Like some Orwellian nightmare,
Leading to an abyss.
Void of thoughtfulness,
Void of compassion,
Void of resilience.
They ask which hole to punch,
Which button press
In the farce of the November tally.
Some stand aside with their heads out of the sand,
Faces flushed,
Tears rolling down their cheeks,
Seeing their loved ones fall
Asking how this could be.

Dehimundu

Three to four hundred water buffalo wait, shaking, foaming at the mouth from the exhaustion of their arduous journey. The temple sits along a high reaching ridge in these western Himalayas, the far west corner of Nepal. Dehimandu is the destination. The land is terraced mountainous landscape, steppes dropping away from the Hindu sight’s sacred grounds. The quivering beasts wear red tikka powder and orange flower necklaces. Women walk by showering them with more. Each new water buffalo arrives with an entourage of men holding tethers tied to him. Thousands of people from the area dress in their finest clothing. People are playing drums and singing. It is festive and we dance along with them while taking in the grand mountain views, not paying much mind to the centerpiece of the carnival.

Broken

They come to broken schools from broken homes.
They know only fear and intimidation;
Mistakening it for respect and strength.
They fight amongst themselves
Battling for their lives.
Knowing somewhere deep down
That they are the forgotten
The poor,
The minority,
The lowest rung in our class society.
They’re fed sugar, caffeine and logos.
Then expected to focus on content
Increasingly disconnected from their lives.
Drugs are used to placate them.
Soma
Images of a “Brave New World”
A factory with its bells, whistles and clocks
Training workers
Not thinkers
Students push against the walls
Fight the only way they know
Pleading for help.

Afternoon Clouds

The streets are empty, but a car, door open, left abandoned in the middle of the street. The stray fire hydrant made it about two feet into the front end of the car slowing an errant driver the night before. Through fogged vision, he must have driven a few moments before his transport surrendered to the crushed engine. The car is facing downhill, so the driver may have been coasting, thinking he was still in control. The assumption is that it was a man, just because, well, men tend to be more idiotic than women in that regard. The local police barracks is only two blocks away. It is the early afternoon. No one has reported it, nor moved it. The engine is cold. I think one of the credos at the police barracks is vigilance, but, then again, there are much worse things happening in Bushwick. At least that is what the Daily News would try to tell me.
“I should take a picture of that.”
“Nah, there will be another one like it soon enough.”
“True.”
We continue walking down the street, late summer storm clouds fill the sky over the baseball field opposite the police station. Our conversation veers toward cops, corruption and nepotism. We make no moves to curb or quiet our chat as we pass a policeman taking a belated coffee break. He pauses, looks up at us with an indifferent expression then returns back to his own thoughts.
Beyond the park, the streets are lined with barren shells of industrial buildings, brick or cement, covered in various layers of graffiti. Block after block, we walk the mile toward Williamsburg. The industrial buildings give way to vinyl sided, dilapidated row homes with caged windows and cable wires running between the windows. With each block the décor improves. Fresh planted saplings line the streets, and then grow incrementally with each passing block.

Casa del Mundo

The water laps onto the shore caressing the mind to rest from a long days journey from the bowels of LaGuardia. The wind fetched from across the lake and down one of the brilliant volcanos lightly rattles the windows. In the morning light before the sunrise, there are lone fishermen in small canoes juxtoposed next to a steep cliff. We awake briefly to take in the sight, the air and the serenity of Lago Attitlan.

Our travels from Brooklyn to here were nearly flawless but definitely not direct. After a wait for the wind-delayed regional flight, we got the last two seats on the plane. Luckily a few of the standby passengers had left or were not waiting at the gate when their name was called. In Richmond, the Day's Inn provided a clean drab bed to sleep on. The middle American street lining the perimeter of the airport is wide, impassable for a pedestrian and provides a seemingly endless chain of chain hotels and Waffle Houses. There is a pool but the miles of concrete and lack of green living things makes it uninviting to those with sight.

At the airport we get confirmed seats to Charlotte and on to Guatemala. Guatemala City's airport covers the only flat portion of the gargantuan sprawl of Central America's largest city. With a fresh cup of the omnipotent NesCafe (If you are wondering, Guatemala does grow wonderful coffee but it gets exported!), my friend and her canine meet us at the airport.

Our vehicle winds through familiar countryside before we drop down the few thousand feet to the majestic Lago Atitlan, a lake reminiscent of Titicaca in Peru and Tahoe in Nevada for its granduer. After a light, though heavily buttered, cena tipico we get an overpriced lancha ride across the lake under the umbrella of every star in the northern sky. On the dock, the quiet of night envelops as the lancha returns from where it came. We stumble up a steep stone staircase to the sound of glasses clinking and pleasant after dinner conversation in the main dining room of the Casa del Mundo.