Perspectives

Perspectives on life are fascinating, partly because of their complexity, and partly because a glimpse of the world from another's perspective tends to broaden our own. Intercultural communication must necessarily center on an attempt to view the world from a different place, a place whose groundwork is made up of different cultures, religions, and economic backgrounds.

I was in Guayaquil, Ecuador. We had spent the previous night wandering the recently renovated riverfront, which is a showpeice of archetectural mastery and wealth. Our wanderlust satisfied, we crashed in our 3 dollar hostel. Sleep came readily that night, and departed reluctantly the next morning, when we set off early for some more exploration. As we wandered through streets of varying size and prosperity, we came on a group of juice stands, clustered under a bridge. Not hungry, I didn't join the group when everyone went to buy some crunchable, munchable, or sipable snack. Still sleepy, I leaned up against a cement wall a little ways off from the stands. I love to observe people, and my subconcious immediately began to observe a little girl, who danced between the stands with the infectious enthusiasm of a 4 year-old.

Suddenly, I wondered what the world looked like to her, and for that matter, what she thought the world was? My perception of her world is dimmed by the multiple differences between us, not least of which was the simple difference in height. I normally stand a head taller than most of the adults here, but the difference between myself and the little girl was even more dramatic. I remember clearly when my perception of the kitchen sink was simply the limited portion I could see when I opened the cabinent and stood on the edge to reach the faucet knob. This problem was solved easily enough, I sat down on the sidewalk, and suddenly her world came into focus. The business man walking down the street was no longer a face creased with worry and stress as it studied the progress charts, but rather a rapidly moving pair of navy blue pants, the shiny black shoes, and the unfathomable upper portion of his body.

Still, there were barriers between us, barriers of age, experience, and ethnicity. All I could do was guess, guess what the world looked like through her eyes. I knew that even if we saw exactly the same things, (extremely unlikely), we would interperet them differently, and so I was left, left to plumb the depths of her world, as the blind man would attempt to navigate through a complex intersection in New York city.

Her world, I postulate, is like a huge rambling house, each room is lit by a lightbulb of varying brightness. As she passes every day with her mother from her house in the city to the fruit stand, she walks through the rooms of the greatest clarity; After all, she knows this route well enough. The weekly trips to the bakery, market, and church are journeys into rooms of lesser brightness, in which the main features of the room are distinguishable, but not intimate. Even further afield, there are a series rooms that is only a memory, fascinating, but just a wee bit scary. It was the chirstmastime journey to the relatives in another city, the trip consisted of a long bus ride, and a new home, and broke all barriers as they passed rapidly from room to dark room, flying through the doors at a bewildering pace. And then there are rooms that are completely dark, those doors have never been opened, and just now, at 4 years old, they don't need to open. With age, more doors will open, and the areas of brightness will undoubtedly change. Life however, does not exhaust the capacity of this house, after all, there is always that valley or mountaintop, (excuse me, doors) that is unknown, unreached, and enchantingly alluring.

This,however, is only what I can guess. I am left like the blind men with the elephant, only to guess at the accuracy of my imaginations. Frustrating work it is, but inescapably, one of life's greatest pleasures.

Guano War (part the second)

We slept cozily in our thrifty hostel throughout the night. At 7:45, we took a taxi to Paracas, and from there we caught a boat out to Islas Ballestas, also known as the "poor mans galapagos". Through good fortune, we were on a boat equipped with twin 80 horse-power motors, and so made it out to the islands in good time.

The islands, rising up out of the blue pacific, are populated by an astonishing amount and variety of biodiversity for their size. We were able to sight sea lions, copious quantities of cormarants, a few penguins, and many other types of birds as well. In the 1800's, the islands attracted an ingenious but somewhat hardened band of entrepreneurs, who began to export the droppings of the "guano", the resident avian fertilizer producers. Their production was extraordinary, as in places before the beginning of exportation, the guano dung was 50 meters deep! Guano dung came to be valued very highly, as it's fertilization capabilities tickled the fancy of colonial (and european) gardeners. As it's value became increasingly apparent, Spain tangled with other countries in what became known as the "Guano War", which was short, probably violent, and somewhat incongruously, fought over bird poop. Guano mining began to take it's toll on the wildlife; but thankfully, the depletion of the Guano reserves coincided with the development of nitrogen fertilizers, and the business slowly dwindled and then died, leaving the prolific Guano to replenish the islands store of treasure.

After circumnavigating the islands, we made our way back to Paracas. In Paracas, we caught a bus that took us throughout the national park of Paracas, stopping for lunch by a tiny beach. We continued on until 3:00 P.M., when, the tour being over, we caught a bus back to Pisco. We took a bus from Pisco to Lima, where Willie Matthews met us at the bus, and took us to their beautiful home in suburbia.

Guano War (part the first)

After our hike around Ausangate, we spent a full day in Cuzco to recuperate, and then set off the same night for Pisco, A small coast town a few hours (by bus) south of Lima. The ride was estimated to take us about 20 hours, so I considered the resulting 22 hour ride to be remarkably punctual. Emerging from a 22 hour bus ride feels about like I would imagine a bear feels when emerging from hibernation. My limbs are cramped, sleepiness still sustains it's smothering grip on my mind, and I am very, very hungry. Unfortunatly, our bus dropped us off at 5'O-clock in the morning in a town about 2 hours bus ride from Pisco, our desired destination. Our bus driver was either a spiteful, apathetic, or genuinely confused, because he had informed us that we were getting off at Pisco, although the locals informed us quite emphatically of the opposite. We ended up catching a bus back to Pisco, arriving there around 7 A.M.

We managed to locate one of the hostals indicated by our trusty "Lonely planet" guide, but they insisted on a price of 15 Soles, which is unfortunatly incompatible with our meagre budgets. We set off to find a cheaper option, and finally settled on a certain Hostal "Las Americanas" in Plaza Belen, with a 10 soles per night budget. The great price came with an unfortunate proviso however, in that there was a double bed, and a single, for the four of us. The price was right, however, so we rationalized away our doubts, and settled on Ansley taking the single bed, Jackson and I sharing the double, and Alex stretching out on the floor on top of ansley's comfy thermarest.

Alex and I spent the rest of the morning hiking down to the pier at the edge of the Pacific, while ansley and Jackson rested in the room. On returning, we set out together to find some lunch. After some searching, we settled on a 4 sole menú, which served us some delicious "Lomo Saltado", and "Tallerin Saltado". After buying a watermelon, we headed to the town of Paracas, where we spent the afternoon on the beach.

(This concludes part one, the title of the blog will be explained in part two)

Ausangate Circuit

We just came back from our 5 day hike of the Ausangate circuit. Expectations are turned into memories as the future turns into the past, and all my expectations of what Ausangate would be like are now fused inseperably with my memories. What words would I choose to encapsulate those memories most concisely? I'll try these: exquisitely beautiful, very remote, numbingly cold, always wet. This is frustratingly inadequate, but imagine with me anyways........

Day 1.
We slept in a small hostel in Tinqui (the phonetic imagery in this word is perfect, Tinqui is exactly like it sounds, the only thing to do in tinqui is tinker) after a long bus ride from cuzco. We ate a good breakfast in the hostel facilities, and then set out on our hike under a canopy of gray sky. Following the directions provided by "Lonely Planet", we hiked by a green school, crossed 2 streams, and climbed up a steady incline, towards what our guidebook told us was the "gleaming bulk of Ausangate" which, unfortunately for us, was hidden from our view. We passed between rock walls and small stone houses, pestered by the occasional child (and adult!) saying "dame dulces" or "give me sweets". After about 2 hours leisurely hiking, we arrived in the small village of Upis, where we decided to take shelter (from the rain) under the overhanging roof of the local school. Hardy school-children dashed about in the 13,000 ft. altitude without concern, seemingly invulnerable to the cold and altitude alike. Our arrival was something of a sensation, and they crowded round us, taking special delight in the digital displays of ansley and alex's cameras. We waited for about an hour, hoping that the rain would come and go, leaving us to continue on our way unmolested. Despite the threatening clouds, the rain never came, so we decided to continue on our way. School was let out almost simultaneously with our departure, and two small schoolboys accompanied us on our way. After hiking for a ways, we parted company with the boys, and descended into a broad green valley, at the head of which was our campsite. The valley was marshy, streams that criss-crossed the valley occasionally impeded our progress, but we made steady progress. It eventually started to rain, but thankfully it was very light, and didn't give us too much trouble. We arrived at our campsite at about 4:00 P.M. set up our tents, and cooked supper. We camp tonight at about 14,500 feet.

Day 2.
Getting up was a sluggish process, it seemed like every lapse in concentration meant a lapse in progress; I would find myself sitting up in my sleeping bag, staring at a section of the tent wall, still half-way to finding my other sock. When I finally crawled out, I had the privelege of seeing a portion of Ausangate, only partially shrouded by clouds. We took our time packing up, cold hands meant little or no dexterity in our fingers, which slowed us down considerably. Our hike immediately involved some upward climbing, through barren rocky fields, the landscape interupted by the occasional grazing llama or alpaca. We navigated by a combination of a map, the guidebook description for the day, directions from local herdsmen, and a liberal sprinkling of common sense. The trails we followed were primarily stock trails, sometimes easily distinguishable, sometimes non-existant. We climbed up to a spot where we sat to rest and eat a snack, at about 15,300 feet. We hiked around a long spur and then descended into a valley with a few lakes scattered along it´s floor at regular intervals. We paused by a beautiful waterfall for lunch, the which I found so inspiring that I had to accompany the falling waters with some tunes on my recorder. We continued to hike up along the valley floor, until we arrived at the lake by which we set up camp. We look up at a large glacier on the side of a mountain, which descends down until it meets the striking green of the lake. Camp at just over 15,000 feet tonight. I fall asleep to the occasional rumble and boom of a small avalanche up on the mountain.

Day 3.
Today we crossed 2 high passes, including the highest pass of the hike. We climbed steadily from our lake-side camp until we arrived at the first pass, (about 16,200 feet) where we took a snack break. The view from the pass was both beautiful and discouraging. Far below us spread out a small valley with a beautiful lake at the bottom. The discouraging aspect was immediately apparent, our path led us down into the valley, and then steeply up the other side to the high pass. We clambered down into the valley without serious mishap, except for a slip I had in which I fell back on my pack and slid for a few feet because of a misplaced footstep. We took pause at the bottom of the valley to gear up for the upcoming climb, eating some high calorie food (snickers bars, rasins and peanuts, dried fruit). The climb would not have been so daunting if it hadn't been above 15,000 feet. As it was, we started at about 15,000 feet and then climbed steeply up to the pass at about 16,800. At the top of the pass, Alex and I immediately dropped our packs and (with GPS in hand to determine altitude) headed for the 17,000 foot mark. Ansley and Jackson followed at a little ways behind. Climbing was easier without our packs, but breathing still came fast and hard. We had set our sights on a small peak above the pass, so we kept going even after we had passed the 17,000 foot mark. We finally gained the peak at about 17,071 feet. A quick picture, then a wait for Jackson and Ansley to arrive, and then a group picture, and then a fast descent back to the pass. I think the altitude was playing with our minds a little because it was tempting to be snappy and snippish when we were that high. Thankfully, we soon picked up our packs and headed down the other side, all the way down to a valley close to a little stream. We camped close to the Ausangate base camp tonight, but unfortunatly did not see any mountaineers in camp. Our camp is at about 15,500 feet tonight.

Day 4.
Today we were supposed to camp at the head of the Jampa valley, but instead climbed over another pass and made it into a fairly vigorous day. We ate a quick breakfast, relishing the warmth imparted to our hands from the warm mugs as we took in the breathtaking view. We hiked up the lower Jampa valley, until about 11:00, when we ate a snack. We kept on, hoping that by climbing up and over a ridge we would be able to climb down into the upper valley. We climbed for a long time, until finally taking a break, we realized we had come higher than we should have, being above 16,000 feet. The next day we were supposed to climb up and out of the valley to climb another high pass, but we realized we must be fairly close to the pass now, and so decided to keep going and combine the 2 days. As we climbed over the pass, we were deluged in a snowstorm, and took pains to stay together so that none of us would get seperated. We finally made it over the pass and then hiked steadily downwards, following Alex, whose sense over direction proved good, as we ended up in the right valley, although it wasn't immediately apparent which way to go. We rested in a shepherds hut down in a snowy valley, sharing the cramped quarters with 3 generations of a family, represented by the an old couple, a young couple, and their tiny son. Once rested, we continued on to find a campsite by a lake. We camp at about 15,000 feet tonight. We are absolutely exhausted and very, very wet.

Day 5
We awoke this morning to beautiful and welcome sunlight, illuminating the rugged face of Ausangate. We cooked ourselves a leisurely breakfast, spreading all our clothes and gear out in the warm sunlight to dry. Alex attempted to catch some trout in the nearby stream, but failed in his efforts. We packed up and hiked the remaining distance out to Tinqui, accompanied by a lightning and hail storm. We catch the bus back for Cuzco, and arrive there at about midnight. It has been an incredible trip.

Parallels

When I was studying geometry, I learned that the concept of parallel lines is by definition "two straight lines that are equidistant at all points, continuing on indefinitely, but never crossing or diverging". In this blog, I wish to discuss parallelism in the format of ideas, cultures, and band music. Obviously, this definition of parallelism is by necessity more elastic.

It was sabbath, and the four of us (ansley, jackson, alex, and I) set off to hike some of the mountains surrounding Lake Titicaca. This day was also chosen by the police force of Bolivia as an anniversary demonstration. They had tuned their band up the previous night by playing some ponderous marches to the citizens of Copacobana, so we were accordingly prepared for festivities on the day following. As we passed through the further borders of the town, the band broke into an inspiring march, although the various orchestration of winds and brass was superseded by the steady beat of an enthusiastic drummer.

As we climbed, I began to ponder the parallels between the proud strains coming from the military band and the Bolivian political situation. The massive orchestration was comperable to the many strident voices beckoning Bolivias public towards a supposedly brighter future; and the steady beat of the drum represented the pulse of the public, highly patriotic, and steadily pressing on to a future they hope is brighter, although like the drummer, they simply don't know if their orchestraters will follow their hopeful beat.

We climb higher, and a new beat is introduced, it's beginning is indefinable, but is presense is undeniable. The winds and brass momentarily waver, trying to decide which beat to follow, and then confidently strike off in opposing directions, some following one beat, while others follow the other. The resulting chaos is peculiar because of a marked determination among the players to continue on. The parallel is striking. Although the Bolivian public is marching to a beat, the beat is not necessarily unifying. When two (or more)"beats" are introduced, the persons in power are often indecisive, until when they finally strike out on one course of action, the volatile situation is transformed into discord. Despite this, the country struggles on from one note to the next, hoping that somewhere the music will resolve into harmony.

I am an idealist. I am still young enough to think that beneficial concrete changes on a grand scale are a possibility. I therefore hope that somewhere, somehow, Bolivia's economic and political situation will resume a more harmonious tone. The band plays on, and yet the score has yet to be written. Bolivia (in particular) and our world (in general) need good composers. Start composing.