Chile
At midpoint of the 2700 mi. earthworm that is
Chile, I entered in from Argentina. A region resembling the barren mountain
lakes of Tibet. Six hours of hyperexploration in Santiago, its sleepy
capital. Chile has little or no culture of its own that I can readily
distinguish. Rather Americanized and expensive. Besides first class, no bus
was available north along the coast for days. So like a sucker I dished out
the dough, going against my gut that said stick out your thumb and hitch.
Carnival de Barranquilla in Colombia was set to begin and I in a rush.
Handful of sleepy desert towns like Antofagasta, Iquique, and Arica. I pass
through. Absolutely no sign of life forms, except encampments of Pacific
fishing communes, in this dubbed the driest place on Earth. At the frontier
with Peru an elderly Andean and the Aduanero scream at each other, before he
rips her big Santa sack of old clothing to pieces, deeming it illegal.
Shirts and pants fly across the room, landing on people's heads. Someone on
the next bus has their pet monkey, who jumps across seat cushions making
hand and eye contact with all 50 or so passengers, who offer scraps of their
snack. Since I already saw Peru on my way down, I marathon across its length
in 39 hours for 99 Soles ($33).
It's late Friday afternoon at the entrance into Ecuador and I've depleted
all my cash. The traveler cheques aren't redeemable 'til Monday. With
nothing but a single dollar to pay for shelter and food, this is where a
short spree of good old-fashioned adventure sprouted. Dusk in a land where
bananas and a thousand other varieties of plantain grow from the tips of
your toe to the horizon in every direction. Along the panamerican roadside I
began a long humid walk through the darkness. To my astonishment, an
eighteen wheeler slows to a stop. Nice driver drove me a few miles down,
from where I caught a local bus into southern Ecuador's hub of Machala with
my last buck. Dangerous streets of shady critters and their crocodile eyes
with 360 degree gyration at 2am. And that's coming from someone who gives
endless benefit of the doubt. Line of hysterical mothers at the police
station demanding their teenage sons be let out from jail. "Mi hijo no es
delincuente!" Guards end up letting me crash inside their little booth at
the gate until dawn, but not without laughing amongst each other over the
irony of providing refuge to a stranded Colombiano. There's tension right
now because Uribe broke his promise not to let fumigation planes fly within
a kilometer of the border. Wind carries the poison and destroys crops. With
sunrise continues the long hungry roadside by foot. Midday a dump truck
overfilling with plantains pulls out of a driveway as I walk by. I point
forward with eyes of desperation. Humble guy's dad owns a banana farm on 100
acres that started out as 1/3 of an acre decades ago. He puts me on a $10
bus to Quito. Says "pay it forward" and grins. That evening I cash my last
remaining cheques and slip back into mi pais.
Can't help a sense of pride when looking at the faces of fellow Colombians.
Find myself in the front seat of a fast little van full with folks bound for
Medellin, a handsome city that witnessed my birth, 2.5 decades ago. After
paying homage to some estranged relatives I've next to never seen, I headed
up a lush, forested mountain to find my all-time favorite uncle who hides
out in rural Antioquia, painting landscape portraits while tending to
pollitos and maize at his ascetically austere finca. A former professor of
philosophy who infuses poetic passion into every word and resembles a
somnambulant encyclopedia, yet knows how to meditate in silence for hours.
Dirty bearded hermit missing teeth in his enormously genuine smile. Off to
the Caribbean coast of Colombia I go, pulling into Barranquilla day before
the Carnival. Orchestras parading down every street. Ecstatic echoes of
snare drums, bass drums, bean shakers, metal scrapers, clarinets, bamboo
flutes, make shift cow bells, hand held hi hats, trumpets, and trombones to
a hyperactive tempo bounce off every wall. Half the population already with
their colorful costumes on, moving about as if embers under their heels. As
they say round here, ESTA VAINA LEVANTA ASTA EL MUERTO: This shindig awakens
even the dead." Burned copies of similar sounds sold on every corner. My
collection expands 400%. Next day Barranquilla's widest street is jammed
with the most entranced, convivial members of the humyn spirit, parading
along the route. Crowd is lit and glowing with glee. Hours later, when the
last brigade goes by, everyone follows behind, dancing in the street. But
not all was zipidy du da. Streams of ninos callejeros, no older than 13,
competing for people's empty aluminum cans, got into bloody fist fights
throughout the day. I had to borrow funds from 'my old man' in order to get
back to the land of relatively descent incomes on Avianca flight 02. He's
adding a room to his little cottage and I'm helping him for a few days.
Anyone know of someone driving from South Florida to Texas the first half of
March, or from TX to NYC the second half? ps: my sister got accepted to
Parsons, so it's official that we're going to rent an apartment somewhere in
New York City beginning in July, which I'll pay for by taxi driving. If you
know any vacancies opening then, or would like to move in with us.... let's
talk.
Chile, I entered in from Argentina. A region resembling the barren mountain
lakes of Tibet. Six hours of hyperexploration in Santiago, its sleepy
capital. Chile has little or no culture of its own that I can readily
distinguish. Rather Americanized and expensive. Besides first class, no bus
was available north along the coast for days. So like a sucker I dished out
the dough, going against my gut that said stick out your thumb and hitch.
Carnival de Barranquilla in Colombia was set to begin and I in a rush.
Handful of sleepy desert towns like Antofagasta, Iquique, and Arica. I pass
through. Absolutely no sign of life forms, except encampments of Pacific
fishing communes, in this dubbed the driest place on Earth. At the frontier
with Peru an elderly Andean and the Aduanero scream at each other, before he
rips her big Santa sack of old clothing to pieces, deeming it illegal.
Shirts and pants fly across the room, landing on people's heads. Someone on
the next bus has their pet monkey, who jumps across seat cushions making
hand and eye contact with all 50 or so passengers, who offer scraps of their
snack. Since I already saw Peru on my way down, I marathon across its length
in 39 hours for 99 Soles ($33).
It's late Friday afternoon at the entrance into Ecuador and I've depleted
all my cash. The traveler cheques aren't redeemable 'til Monday. With
nothing but a single dollar to pay for shelter and food, this is where a
short spree of good old-fashioned adventure sprouted. Dusk in a land where
bananas and a thousand other varieties of plantain grow from the tips of
your toe to the horizon in every direction. Along the panamerican roadside I
began a long humid walk through the darkness. To my astonishment, an
eighteen wheeler slows to a stop. Nice driver drove me a few miles down,
from where I caught a local bus into southern Ecuador's hub of Machala with
my last buck. Dangerous streets of shady critters and their crocodile eyes
with 360 degree gyration at 2am. And that's coming from someone who gives
endless benefit of the doubt. Line of hysterical mothers at the police
station demanding their teenage sons be let out from jail. "Mi hijo no es
delincuente!" Guards end up letting me crash inside their little booth at
the gate until dawn, but not without laughing amongst each other over the
irony of providing refuge to a stranded Colombiano. There's tension right
now because Uribe broke his promise not to let fumigation planes fly within
a kilometer of the border. Wind carries the poison and destroys crops. With
sunrise continues the long hungry roadside by foot. Midday a dump truck
overfilling with plantains pulls out of a driveway as I walk by. I point
forward with eyes of desperation. Humble guy's dad owns a banana farm on 100
acres that started out as 1/3 of an acre decades ago. He puts me on a $10
bus to Quito. Says "pay it forward" and grins. That evening I cash my last
remaining cheques and slip back into mi pais.
Can't help a sense of pride when looking at the faces of fellow Colombians.
Find myself in the front seat of a fast little van full with folks bound for
Medellin, a handsome city that witnessed my birth, 2.5 decades ago. After
paying homage to some estranged relatives I've next to never seen, I headed
up a lush, forested mountain to find my all-time favorite uncle who hides
out in rural Antioquia, painting landscape portraits while tending to
pollitos and maize at his ascetically austere finca. A former professor of
philosophy who infuses poetic passion into every word and resembles a
somnambulant encyclopedia, yet knows how to meditate in silence for hours.
Dirty bearded hermit missing teeth in his enormously genuine smile. Off to
the Caribbean coast of Colombia I go, pulling into Barranquilla day before
the Carnival. Orchestras parading down every street. Ecstatic echoes of
snare drums, bass drums, bean shakers, metal scrapers, clarinets, bamboo
flutes, make shift cow bells, hand held hi hats, trumpets, and trombones to
a hyperactive tempo bounce off every wall. Half the population already with
their colorful costumes on, moving about as if embers under their heels. As
they say round here, ESTA VAINA LEVANTA ASTA EL MUERTO: This shindig awakens
even the dead." Burned copies of similar sounds sold on every corner. My
collection expands 400%. Next day Barranquilla's widest street is jammed
with the most entranced, convivial members of the humyn spirit, parading
along the route. Crowd is lit and glowing with glee. Hours later, when the
last brigade goes by, everyone follows behind, dancing in the street. But
not all was zipidy du da. Streams of ninos callejeros, no older than 13,
competing for people's empty aluminum cans, got into bloody fist fights
throughout the day. I had to borrow funds from 'my old man' in order to get
back to the land of relatively descent incomes on Avianca flight 02. He's
adding a room to his little cottage and I'm helping him for a few days.
Anyone know of someone driving from South Florida to Texas the first half of
March, or from TX to NYC the second half? ps: my sister got accepted to
Parsons, so it's official that we're going to rent an apartment somewhere in
New York City beginning in July, which I'll pay for by taxi driving. If you
know any vacancies opening then, or would like to move in with us.... let's
talk.