Varanasi

Varanasi is a grimy city. But it certainly has no shortage of character. Crazy dreadlocked saddhus (holy people) getting stoned on the ghats (steps) of the Ganges, dressed like shiva in full orange robes accost you. Monkey, cows, and goats run amok in the streets munching trash...although that's pretty much all over India. There are mazes of alleyways and turning corners around which you will never know what you will find. Twenty women sitting on some steps in colorful saris. Two water buffalo, ownerless and nearly the size of a dumptruck each, munching some colorful piece of fabric or a plastic bag filled with filth and slime.

I spent a lot of the time with two guys from Wales and a couple from England. They were all funny people. Wandering the ghats, me and the two Welsh got taken in by some guys who literally started grabbing our hands and giving us ayurvedic massages. After my generous Indian got up to my shoulder, I stopped him and started to walk off amidst his protests of 'no problem' 'nice massage'. The two Welsh boys got caught up farther than I, and one of them was laying down, the nice Indian massaging all the way down to his ass before he stopped him and said he had to go. He gave the man 9 rupees, or less than a quarter.

I met a saddhu for my interview. He asserted that he could change his anatomy, and bury himself under the ground and still see all over the world. This was a far cry from the humility of the Tibetans. I started to doubt him, after the mystical Sufi who didnt say anything really and the Tibetan lamas who don't mention anything of their abilities, but clearly have some powers.

Anyway, on my birthday I decided to swim in the Ganges. Most sensible Westerners wouldn't touch the water -- Hannah, who I traveled with was concerned she might get a disease when a single drop fell on her hand. But I said fuck it, and with one of the Welsh guys I got in. Cholera, AIDs, Ebola, all that shits probably in this water, which has snaked through thousands of kilometers of the dirtiest country I've ever been to, washing cow shit and dirty rotting food out of every city it passes through. Sometimes people see dead bodies floating down. But there I was, swimming, or rather sitting in it, basking in the grimy sludge. Swimming is quite dangerous during monsoon season, people die every day, so I was just sitting on the ghat. Anyway, I took a nice shower when I got back to the guest house. Indians would laugh at me. They brush their teeth, wash their clothes, and even drink that water. But I can't be getting and of those -osis or -itises. Despite my best efforts, I started to feel ill on the train to Agra.

By the time I'm at the Taj, I've had the worst night in history. Beating out Jammu.

Kashmir

Kashmir is the most beautiful place on earth I have decided. Dal lake, the largest lake in India is peppered with 1200 houseboats, where you can lounge and let the little Shikaras (boats) come to you with every conceivable convenience. They bring you fresh flowers, jewelery, chips, cigarettes, bottled water, carved wood, saffron, and even ice cream, straight to your doorstep, or rather, dock.

You can cruise the canals of the lake, surrounded by reeds, water lillies, and a canopy of trees and pass by women in multicolored beautiful saris washing their clothes or little kids laughing and jumping into the lake.

Merchants offer to bring you for free to their workshop, where you can see how they make 100% silk rugs in true Persian style or carve beautiful wood wardrobes and tables and lamps. You see, Kashmir is not really India. That's what all the rock-throwing and civil unrest is all about, and why India dumped thousands of army into Srinagar and the surrounding area. It's 98% muslim, and at all hours you can hear the call to worship echoing across the placid waters 'Allahu akbar' straight to your floating paradise telling you it's time to touch your forehead to the carpet again. Kashmiri is more like Arabic than Hindi, and the people, especially the young ones are very adamant about separating from India. Some want to be part of Pakistan, most want a separate Kashmir.

It's nice really. We didnt want to move...and really, we didnt have to. Meals cooked in the shack behind the houseboat were delivered right to us. We bargained the shit out of our room and board, nearly 25% the normal price. But since the unrest, not so many tourists come, so we could.

Mustafa, the man in charge of the boat was wonderfully accommodating, and helped us out with everything from fresh fry dal and aloo parantha to real 100% Kashmiri saffron and opium honey. He ferried us across to land, where his buddy Kaka, who I called Dosda (friend in Kashmiri) took us around on his motorcycle.

In Kashmir they fry up huge pieces of bread and put this yellow, sweet, wheaty sugary paste inside for a tasty snack that is unbelievable...and unbelievable greasy, but then again it is still close to India, where food isn't food unless its got a litre of oil in it.

All in all, Kashmir was the most peaceful, tranquil, beautiful place I've ever been, and people were dying in the streets every night. It's unbelievable, but when I think about it, I can understand. It's certainly something worth fighting for.

India

So it's been to long. But Japan has passed, and now it's India.

India is an assault on the senses. A common phrase, but it really is true. You could write a book on the smells alone. The tastes, the colors, the sounds. One day you love it the next you hate it with a fiery passion. Horns everywhere, cows munching on trash in the middle of the road, poor women with beautiful saris holding babies and begging in hindi, an endless variety of hats with religious significance...it all collides and mixes with dirt and spices. It's hard to explain, but India is a place you can understand in a day, but need a lifetime to really get. India is the land of contrasts, high rises next to vast slums, brown next to bright reds and oranges, monkeys and cows running rampant next to trucks and rickshaws.
It's everything you've heard and nothing you'd expect rolled into one piece of chapati.

After the incredible heat, noise and dirt of Delhi, I bus up to Dharamsala in the Himalayas. Here I am supposed to meet with lamas (robes not fur), and talk about dreams. I quickly find out that my topic, lucid dreaming and/or dream yoga, is one of the advanced yogas of just a few traditions of Tibetan Buddhism. As such, very few lamas will actually even say anything. I feel like a five-year old trying to get Fred Alan Wolf to explain Quantum Physics and string theory to me. Moreover, they won't talk about their own experiences because it seems like bragging. Great. Well, I'm running into brick walls, but at least I feel like Indiana Jones. This is like the grail right now for me.

What is the sound of one hand clapping?
It's me smacking my head against my hand because I can't find anyone to talk to.
Chamtrul Rinpoche, Kyabje Trulshig Rinpoche, Kochhen Rinpoche, Tulku Dakpa Rinpoche, and Ven. Khandro Rinpoche are all travelling. These are the people who know what I want to talk about.
These lamas are smart. Its monsoon season, so they get out. But I'm here.

Well, anyway, Khamtrul Rinpoche is here I've just heard. He's in the Nyingma tradition, which means he will know what I'm talking about. This is the first bright light since my interview with Tenzin Palmo, the nun who spent 12 years in a cave. However, she had little to say about dream yoga, whereas Khamtrul, if he will talk to me, will have mounds of information.

Today is the Dalai Lama's birthday. It was pouring rain. Everyone crowded into the monastery to see him and the performance. Umbrellas blocked the view. I saw him sitting there thought. It was anticlimactic.

Anyway, I must get on with the research. Until next time...

On being an American going to Hiroshima

During our Kansai trip, we were scheduled to go to Hiroshima, the peace park and the A-bomb museum.

My first reaction was to be less excited about this part of the trip. After all, compared to a shrine in the water, a temple plated in 20 tons of pure gold, and a floor that makes the noise of a nightingale when you walk across it to protect from enemy ninjas, the sobering and saddening Hiroshima hardly had any appeal.

But on the way there, I decided its really important for me to go there, as an American. To go there and realize what happened, why it happened, what can stop it from happening again. To gloss over Hiroshima is to avoid the vicious nature of humanity, and my country.

Its interesting to have some feeling of guilt from a time before I was born. I wasn't alive yet, so why should I feel guilty? But I do.

Anyway, the museum made me realize that yes, temples and pretty places are important, testaments to the glory of the past which are fun to remember, but remembering the darker shades of history has its place too.

I think the TIU people planned this too. They know its important for Americans to face this part of history they'd just as soon look over. Its important for them too that we do such.

At the end I'm left with peace...peace of mind

Kazoku

Time to delve into the host family! First of all, they're great! They are so nice and always help me out with everything. Fantastic! My host mom is a delightful woman who is always around, does my laundry (score!) and feeds me. Basically my life line. She tells me hilarious stories of having a 'Hepburn cut' in high school to 'look more mature', and we discuss such things as the origin of the Bloods and the Crips, and Asian horizontal racism in broken and/or simple Japanese.

This is my host mom's delicious cooking. This is a tasty soup she made. Once we ate most of the soup, except for some of the broth, she reboiled it and added eggs and poured over rice. Tasty!

















I returned the favor and cooked some pasta with a tomato-creme sauce, garlic bread, and salad. My host dad looked worried when I mentioned I wanted to cook. I told him not to worry, and he seemed to like it in the end!



Little Takeru was trying to chug some Asahi. Luckily it was empty.

It was hilarious nonetheless!



This is our toilet. It has more settings than I know what to do with, a seat warmer, three different types of ass washers, and could probably beat me at chess as well. Shit, it has a level of consciousness meriting a name, so I call it Ronald. As if that isnt enough, Ronald is also eco-friendly, with a built in sink at the top where you wash your hands with the soon-to-be toilet water which refills the basin. Now that I see this it seems almost obvious. Why arent these everywhere?
These appliances filter water, and produce delicious tea. Im not quite sure on the mechanics of them, but when I contact superhuman aliens, maybe they can reverse engineer Japanese appliances and tell me what they are.

Tokyo 101

Welcome to Tokyo 101.

In Tokyo, the world revolves around the denshas (trains). The trains are the arteries of the city. When saying where do you live, its really what stop do you get off at. All the malls, movie theaters, stores, restaurants, and really everything worth seeing is usually right by the stations.
Its hard to imagine how crucial they are, but I assure you, they're vital.




You're sure you remember what stop is yours? Cuz theres a lot...





Today the plan is to go to downtown Tokyo. What Ipanema and Copacabana are to Rio, Harajuku and Shibuya are to Tokyo.

Walk out the train station at Harajuku, and you see this:
This street is crawling with odd clothing shops, strangely (yet awesomely) dressed Japanese people, hilariously out of place gaijin (foreigners), crepe shops out the wazoo, and shiny things everywhere.
Yes, children, Harajuku is the lace and leather of Tokyo, the cutting edge of fringe Japanese style. And its oh so glamorous.














Harajuku smacks you in the face. And the group of us, rubbing our cheeks, proceeded to Shibuya. Shibuya is where the young and popular go to buy clothes that arent quite as insane as those at Harajuku.


I know you can't tell because of the HORDES of asians, but this is actually an intersection. Its utter chaos for about a minute as everyone shuffles across the road in all directions. This makes me want to study chaos mathematics and develop some sort of algorhythm or something. But then I think of the work...and decide fuck that.





The malls are extremely crazy. Space is a priority in Tokyo like it seemingly is on a 5-star dinner plate, so similarly, instead of sprawling, they go up. This famous mall, Shibuya 108 is a 8-story ziggaurat of trendy shops where the pious come to pay respects to the lord of dinero, or okane as they do in Japan.

And yes, there's a store called Titty.






After a while, we were tired, and chilled waiting for Pierce to get his cell phone. I call this picture "camera-cell phone-cell phone-cell phone-cane" which I found amusing.










The day ended with some toriyaki - grilled chicken and meat - and karaoke (always a great time). What a jam-packed day!

I slept well to say the least.

Host Family

So on Saturday I met my host family.
We had the opening ceremony, and all the students introduced themselves briefly standing up one by one and saying name, major, school, etc. It was slightly nerve-wracking because it was the first time we all met our host families.
I didnt even know what they looked like, so they were looking at me, but I didnt know who they were. Anyway, after the introductions, those who had gotten letters from their host families (I would have if my Mom hadnt missed it in the envelope from TIU!!) walked towards them and the semi-strange, cross-cultural shmorgasborg of greetings ensued.
I sort of stood there and waited for a few seconds, and saw an adorable lady shuffling towards me. Hagimemashite, she says, which roughly means nice first time. Yoroshiku oneggai shimasu, I reply.
We sit and start talking and eating, and I quickly discover my father is not a 'tsumetai otousan' (cold father) as Matt had warned us most host dads would be. I am glad, he opens up and smiles and laughs a lot. Its already great, and I barely know anything about them.

They take us all home, and I am shown around the house. There are rooms with tatami mats (very cool), a toilet with more buttons than a remote (although a US remote, because the remote here handles 3 types of TV: digital, sattelite, AND cable. All the TV one could ever want or use, and much more), a refrigerator with a rice drawer with some crazy function (this too had more buttons than anything in my house back home), and lots of crazy decorations and interesting random things.

We sit down, I struggle to explain my complex family, roots, and recent travels. Dinner is kare (curry), a delicious brown sludge on a bed of rice, some sort of potato pancake thing very similar to a latka and a yogurt-lemon sauce type deal. They keep expecting me to put mayonaise on everything, and I keep disappointing them. Well, not that they mind.

I am surprised, most host families (I was told all) are returning families, some of which have been hosting for 20 years, but I am my families first. This is going to be very cool and new for both of us, if a bit difficult, virginity allusions aside.

I crash, exhausted after much conversation in japanese, and wake around 10:30. My hostmom is surprised, and we arrange for her not to cook me hot food on the weekends, I will just eat cereal and fruit. Again I leave the mayo untouched as I munch the salad, eggs and bacon.

For lunch Kaori (host sister)'s elder sister comes over with her husband and two extremely adorable children. They at first appear extremely terrified of the gigantic dark man, but later warm up and giggle lots. They are Takeru (1yr) and Yui (3yrs), and oh so adorable.
This is a pic with me, host mom and dad, two sisters, grandchildren, and sister's hubby...oh and lots of yakisoba!















Here is Yui reciting the ABCs...which is basically the cutest thing I have EVER SEEN. Seriously...in my entire life.




Later, we roamed around and went to Kawagoe-eki, the train station to check out various stores and buy random stuff like my commuter pass.

I saw a japanese starbucks...which was moderately disgruntling, but they had this amazing beverage:

Tokyo; Phase 1

Welcome to Tokyo.

Now that I am done with South America for now, I fly almost directly to the far East. Japan is a country unlike any other country. The food, the people, the way of life is so efficient, proper, and very very cute, of course.
Its orientation at Tokyo International University. I check out the campus and meet all the fresh blood. The japanese dont start their term until April. So we have some time to romp around the campus. What antics will happen in one of the biggest cities in the world when the keys are laid out before me for four months? Well, time will tell.
But for now, I have to patch up my badly mauled Japanese skills, root out the Portuguese and Spanish words that pop into my mind first, and get my shit in order. Its going to be a rough first bit learning.

The Net Conclusion

As Dylan would ask, what was my net conclusion for South America?

I gnawed on this question, of course phrased far differently because I would never use a phrase like `net conclusion.`
But basically South America is the shit. I knew this previously, but this trip was like the iron-cast truth of it. First-hand experience of the dopeness.
The people may seem cold at first, but they are warm and open in a simple way. The floods of memories, snippets of sound bites and interactions will haunt me in a way I hope never leaves.
I now feel like I am a True American, american meaning from Nome, Alaska to Patagonia. South and North, North and South. But the West Coast still is the Best Coast, no doubt.
Its difficult trying to summarize how a series of countries or a general location makes you feel, you kind of just have tobe there, breathe the air, swallow the water, and feel the pulse of the land. In my veins my home is here. In my mind my home is North. In my heart my home is everywhere.

CARNAVAL

Well, Maya came in clutch and found me a place to stay. 300 reals for a week, Ipanema, two blocks from the beach and one block from the Metro station, and right where a huuuge bloco started yesterday night, breakfast included. What a great deal for me...a bed in a dorm hostel with 5 other people would be like $500 US. Its cruelty here now for rooms, but theres some shining souls. My remarkable good karma continues on this trip.
I forgot to explain the other instance. I lost my wallet on a bus. Just kind of stood up and it mutinied and stayed on the seat. I realized as soon as the doors closed. I had just pulled out a lot of Reals, figuring its better that way since the ATMs rob you blind. Bad luck, I guess, over 300 US. Shit. Next day, after I cancelled my ATM card, someone calls. They found my wallet and want to return it. Wait, am I still in South America? Really? Are you sure?
Ok, theres no money in it, they jsut want to give a traveller back their ID, I think.
I meet up with them later, and all the money is there. What luck! Amazing! I will pass on the favor, i promise the world.
Strangely, my international phone card is the only thing missing. Weird, i think. But who cares!
Life is beautiful...
Anyway, a huge bloco started a block from my house, transvestites came out of the woodwork (oh right, its Ipanema) with crazy Brazilians and tourists to get sprayed by foam and streamers and covered in glitter and sweat and excitement. French maid costumes, men wearing dresses (even the straight men), beer and meat skewers, and thousands and thousands of people in the streets following the drums and music, dancing, loving, screaming, laughing
and having a ball.
Just think, the whole city is like this. Miles and miles of drunk happy people comandeering the streets and all the alcoholic beverages and shiny things they can muster.
What a great event. Let´s make regular life like this! Cmon guys, lets bring more bubbles, more glitter, more excitement into the world on a daily basis. No more suits and briefcases hurrying to your job, DON A MASK and save the world from corporate corruption through SIN and MAYHEM!

haha and thats the word we live by...

Fazenda

The farm, or fazenda, as the Portuguese call it, is situated outside the city of Mogi das Cruzes, near Sao Paulo. The farm is off of a pothole ridden dirt road, often completely muddy due to the monsoon rains that strike nearly daily and send torrential waves of rain down on Brazil. On the muddy days, and sometimes the not so muddy ones depending on the driver, the bus doesnt come here.
The farm is focused on building permaculture, there are no crops yet. We have built a compost, seed planters, we fixed doors on for the front and back doors, and mesh for the moscas, the flies on the windows. The house is simple at best, but at least there is light, hot water for the shower, and an angering and tempermental internet connection.
A big fierce black dog named Delicado (Delicate) prowls the house and farm, and a smaller brown dog named Laika just gave birth to seven (!) puppies, 5 girls and 2 boys. There is a cute black and white kitten, a horse who sticks his head in through the kitchen window above the sink to much whatever you~re cooking (until we fixed the mesh), and a strange small blonde dog named MalMal (maomao), which means bad-bad, after a card game the people were playing when they first saw him at the farm. He generally lurks in the garage far away from the house, and you only see him running away with his head turned back to look at you. Slowly, he has gotten more and more comfortable with the people at the farm, and not sometimes will make raids on the food lying around the kitchen or beds, until someone sees him, then he runs out of the room and disappears into the vapor.
The work is hard but rewarding, and the days either incredibly hot or full of torrential thunderstorms.
The food is simple and vegetarian, a lot of rice and beans and lentils...tons of tomatoes, some avocados, mangoes, papayas, goyabas, and other obscure fruits. But its all quite delicious.

The Farm

Tomorrow I am off to the relaxing farm gig I have worked out. Some longer-term and far cheaper peace and quiet away from the city life I live most of the time and have been visiting. The owners seem very friendly, and we will see what the first encounter brings, but I have tranquility on the mind, and lots of sweat to come yet.

Brasil!

Well, its been a few days, but after narrowly missing another $500 flight-credit bump, I arrived in Rio.
The streets smell of a bizarre concotion of flowers, warm wet tropical air, some strange scents of vague foodstuffs and meats, and the subtlty of a guava. Its hard to describe, but it is unforgettable.
Rio is certainly a more modern city than any Ive yet seen in South America, with bustling shoreline skyscrapers and modern supermarkets and storefronts, a far cry from the ragtag copious amounts of street vendors clamoring for your attention in La Paz, and to a lesser degree, Peru. Walking down the streets of Copacabana, you are in a first-world country, and the money reeks everywhere.
Life here is far too expensive for me to stay long, a room in a hostel bunkbed with 6 others costs about $20 US a night, much more than the $4-5 in Lima and Cuzco, and the $2-3 in Bolivia. Needless to say, I wont be here much longer...for now.
Strolling the beaches of Ipanema, you can suckle the tender kisses of a fresh coconut, hacked open with a machete with a straw inside. You can attack the waves, the warm water will tease your senses and the surf will toss you around playfully, but rigorously. It is certain, you could easily fall in love with this place, until the ticking reminders of your wallet come back to the forefront of your consciousness.
Palm trees and sharp cliffy mountains are the scenery, Samba and funk is the soundtrack, and the food is barbecue and fresh juice, a recipe for well-being in a city that swallows you up into the warm tropic belly of a dangerous beast.

Barranco, Lima

Barranco, Lima, is the artsy not quite as elaborate version of Miraflores. The buildings resonate different colors, orange, pink, blue, green, and the streets are quaint but clean.
Where Miraflores is opulence and condos, Barranco is cute and colorful. Perfect!

The beach in Lima is the whackest shit Ive ever seen. Small, next to a highway, and very unimpressive. Luckily, tomorrow I fly to the best beaches in the world...Rio de Janeiro!! Its going to be beyond all dreams...

Now Im on my way to Chinatown, Lima to see how they do, then some great ceviche and a cerveza.

Rosario

Rosario was an incredible guy. A typical looking family man who was more of a genie, really.
We walked down the train tracks to Aguas Calientes, and he was like, go ahead, Ill catch up with you all. We walked and walked, and partway through he just walked past us, and was waiting for us at the end when we got there. We told him we were going to leave at 4am, and to meet us at the main square in Aguas Calientes. In the morning, about 430 am and we couldnt find him in the square, so we started to hike up the massive staircase to Machu Picchu. It was quite dark, but somewhere along the walk he appeared and casually fell in stride with us, and nobody saw where he came from.
Once at the top, he announced he couldnt get in because he didnt have his papers. We were sad, but told him we would catch back up with him on the way back. We then went in and walked towards Wayanu Picchu, our group in the first 400 of the day.
Then, walking through Machu Picchu, Rosalio magically appeared. He claimed, I had a friend. Haha, what a gangster.
But he said he couldnt go up Wayanu Picchu, he was too late to get through. We sighed, but we´d meet him back at Machu Picchu.
We started walking, and he once again walked out of a bush to join us. Another friend, I guess. Peruvians take care of their own.
We explored MP and everything, and then stayed the night. The next day, Rosario was already waiting at the car for us, and we drove all the way to Cusco. Perfect!

Cusco and the Sacred Valley

I stayed in Cuzco for one quick night, the headed out on a whim with far too little clothing for Machu Picchu. One night was an ordeal, staying in Ollantaytambo, but I found a group of 9 Brazilian guys, and we all banded together (they were two groups of 5 and 4), and saw the amazing ruins there. We were trying to make it to Aguas Calientes, the town right by Machu Picchu, that night, but the transport is purposefully difficult unless you want to bank out.

The next day we commissioned a driver to take us, Rosario, all the way there, the 6 hours bumpy, windy mountain drive. We staayed in Aguas CAlientes, the most overpriced, foul city in Peru.
The next morning we marched up the hundreds of steps for an hour to get up to the city, and were in of the first 400 to get there, so we could climb wayana picchu, the mountain overlooking M.P. That took another hour of climbing, then an hour back tdown and to a cave and more ruins (not MP), then another hour to MP, and finaly after four hours of climbing and hiking we could explore the mystical ´lost ´ city. It was beyond all expectations, and awe inspiring.

They import llamas for asthetic value. They werent there when we first arrived, but later in the afternoon, there were about a dozen llamas. Hilarious...

Now I am in Cusco again, saw some more ruins, cool places, and am off to Lima on the 24 hour bus...YAY! haha what a long trip. Oh well...

Cuzco

Well, after some sad goodbyes to all my wonderfully newfound family, I head off to Cuzco, the seat of the Inca empire. Needless to say it will be a huge adventure, the first time Ive been on my own this trip. I have a while to enjoy Peru then I´m out to Rio. My family warns me repeatedly that Peruvians are liars, and will drug me so don´t take any food or drink from any ´friends´ I might meet. I sort of go along with it, thinking across the border they probably say the same shit about Bolivians. But they have a point, a bunch of Peruvians do come to Bolivia to commit crimes. Why, I´m not sure, as its cheaper in Bolivia, but who knows. Anyway I bet most of the hate is just racism...or anti-Peruvianism since theyre all Andinos. But nonetheless I take it carefully.

A long bus ride, 12-13hours, then dumped into the middle of downtown Cuzco. I had no soles or money of any kind for that matter, no hostel, and no friends, and it was after dark. Not so bueno. Anyway, I latched onto a veritable horde of Argentinians and followed some Peruvian lady to her hostel. There were no rooms, even though she was trying to get us there.
After some standing around, the Argentinians split three different ways, I kind of drift with three of the girls. They decide to share a matrimonial bed. I stash my bags there and look for another room somewhere else. Its pouring rain. I go to an ATM. Card not recognized. Shit. Will I not be able to get money out in Peru? This could be a huge problem. Where will I sleep?
Another ATM. This time it works. Sweet. I find a room. Also sweet. I grab some saltado de pollo, a wonderful mixture of french fries, tomatoes, onions, pollo, and all manner of juicy spices mixed up together with a kind of sauce. Too delicious. Peru is looking sweeter now...

Now its bedtime in Cuzco...

Adios Papa!

Today I went to the airport to send off my dad. He has been here five weeks, but it has passed like the wind for him. Anyway, the airport is always a weird place, especially after the ravaging practicality of La Paz. There is no exhuberance, no unnecessary garnishes or flourishes of luxury. Everything exists for its strictly utilitarian purpose. And why not?

At the airport, though, one thing astonished me the most. Where the hell did all these white people come from? The brown brown of the city, and the white white of the airport. I have a hypothesis. White people possess a separate sense like the seventh, a fourth eye if you will (the sixth is too psychic and mystical, the third the same...they tend to skip these). They can smell the money. Wherever there is copious amounts of spending to be done, white folk come out of the woodwork to make it happen. Who will buy this 70$ filet mignon? Do not fret good sir, they will be here soon enough. Its almost like they apparate, they congeal from an ethereal mist. Its quite eerie, actually, if you see it happen. But they camoflauge it well, you won´t notice if you aren´t looking for it.

Abuela Luisa

My Grandmother is a fabulous woman. Regal, and ancient. She is a chola, dresses in the traditional style, with multiple colorful pleated skirts, layered, a shawl and a bowler hat to top it off. Two long braids down the back, tied together to prevent them from getting in the way with a string with two miniature pompoms, like on the ends of llama hats. Haha, you know the ones.

Her wrinkles wink at you, her age is nonexistant, but her wisom speaks nonverbally through her eyes. A sage.

Despite her great age, she comes on our adventures too sometimes, and everyday she climbs the four floors up and down to the apartment in the family house where she and Abuelo live, at the top, the penthouse if you will, with a patio and a magnificant view of La Paz from the hills of Achachachicala, a place with far too many c´s and a´s in its name. She, like other cholas, carries great burdens on her back wrapped in vibrantly colored textiles, reds and oranges, sun colors predominate. You never really know entirely all shes got in there. Probably some crazy stuff. Fairy powders, rabbits feet. Who knows?

And she always wants to feed me. What could be a better abuela?

Bolivia

Once you stay in a country long enough...eat enough food, hear enough music, listen to the muscic of the language, it becomes part of you. You exhude it from your pores, your sweat stinks of the country, the culture...it changes the way you think, the way you act, the way you feel, down to your very core. But so does everything, right?

Books

I have finished the third book on this trip. I feel kind of accomplished.
Revolution for the Hell of it, then On the Road, then the Holographic Universe. What a fabulous reading list for me...And theres plenty more where that came from.

Thankfully Im over my fever too. I think i got it at Tihuanaco...the sun was very strong on my head, then the weather changed to pouring rain. Anyway, Im all good now.

Dogs

There are stray dogs everywhere. They amble about joyously, aimlessly. They live the Zen life.

I know these dogs are much happier than dogs in the US. I know because I have spoken to them. But even if you cannot speak to them, you can still see it in their eyes.

Toilets

One thing about Bolivia, and many other places as well, that sucks, is the toilets. Often the public toilets are seat-less lidless bowls that often dont even flush. You just kind of have to close your eyes and nose and do the do. On the bright side, it give me a chance to work on my horse stance.

Tihuanaku

I went with the family to the crazy ruins of Tihuanacu, close to La Paz. These ruins are utterly astonishing...

MAssive stones carved with intricate designs...these people, estimates date them from 1000bc-1000ad, are much more advanced in stonework than even the inca! There are astonishin megaliths, carved, some reaching heights of five people tall, giant statues. There are emblems and certain indicators that seem to point to the fact that these people used a 24-hour, 52-week calendar just like the Roman calendar. Astonishing! The rocks they used to create one of the largest pyramid-temple structures is made of the second most hard substance on earth, after diamond! Even modern technology has a hard time cutting through this tough substance!

These ruins just make me wonder. Who were these people? Why did they build these crazy buildings, carve these weird emblems and holes and grooves in these rocks? What purpose did they have? Who knows??
I imagine one day, our distant descendents, or some alien race, will look upon the ruins of our civilization pondering similar questions. They will find wall street and say ´what purpose did this have? Why did they build this seeming idiocy?´ And certainly nobody will be able to explain it to them. Even if they came to this time, they would have a hard time getting a solid answer.

Silly monkeys and their buildings...

Isla Del Sol...in sobriety

The sunlight of my consciousness suddenly burst through the tumultuous stormclouds of drunken sleep, and in a flash i was awake. I kicked my dad...´que hora es?´ It was 11;30. Suddenly i recognized that evil head- pounding death. The vice-grip last night still posessed over my well-being. We wrestled ourselves out of our covers and blearily stumbled out into the bright morning sun, in search of some remedy for our maladies. We decided we would trek to the ruins, although every ouce of our bodies screamed no. We found a breakfast place, with some coffee and eggs. We cautiosly sipped the coffee and tenatively poked the eggs. After hassling the huevos but not fully consuming them out of nausea, we trekked to the ruins. After about a half hour of trekking in the hot andean sun atop the island peppered with eucalyptus trees and covered completely in terraces with occasional farms on them, we had no clue where we were. We had not seen a person in twenty minutes of walking. We ambled down to the closest casa, and asked someone, the only person in sight. They pointed further down a road.
Finally we made it, to the ruins in the south of Isla del Sol. This was where the inca king rested. Apparently, the inca first came to this island, but it was too rocky, so they proceeded north to Cuzco, where they founded their capital. This island is where the first inca emperor, his wife, the sun, and the moon were all born, according to legend.
They ruin itself was a 15-roomed stone square building, built on terraces with different levels. It was exquisite, and maze-like. But the best was yet to come.
We picked up some ocarinas and necklaces...beautiful!
That night, we took a nap, and woke just as the sun went down. The supposed best ruins were north on the island 3 hours´ trek. There are no motor vehicles on the island, just donkeys and llamas. We contemplated our plans. The rest of the family was meeting us in Copacabana at 1 the next afternoon. Its a 3 hours boat ride. We debated our options...waking up at 5, trekking with our fat bags for 3 hours, cruising the ruins, and catching a boat from the north back...trekking now, at sundown, walking partilly in the dark, and crashing halfway, then finishing the hike in the morning....or doing the whole trek this night, under the moonlight, and crashing all the way at the north, then checking the ruins in the morning. The last was the most agreeable option, despite the dark 3 hour trek. We made it, but had to scramble over some rocks, a stream , and a forest because we thought there was a path. No matter, we got to the small town at the north, and found a hostel and a boat back the next morning at 1030. We woke at 7, hiked the 45 minutes to the ruins, and checked them out.
And I am so glad we didnt skip them! They were an intricate labrynth of twists and turns, over terraces and in tunnels. The idea was, for the Incas, when the sun goes away its the end of the world, so they built this labrynth to trap the sun every night until the next morning. How cool! There is a well and a ceremonial table, probably for sacrifices. There is a rock that looks like a crouching puma, called Ti´ti kar´ka, which gives Lake Titcaca its name.
We traverse the winding maze, and head back to town for the boat back to Copacabana

New Years!

We arrived on isla del sol, and found our hostel room had been taken! Scheming bolivians probably just sold that shit to some other person willing to pay a little more. I dont blame them. Id do the same probably ;).

Anyway, we got another one, price jacked up cuz the island was popping for NY. But its all good, and we set around partying to the trancey music with djs from Bolivia, Peru, Argentina, and Brazil! We met tons of travellers, mostly south americans like brazilians and argentinians...I told my dad I wanted to go get some champagne, and he warily asked me how much i was going to drink...in a very parental way. IU was like its okay, just some champagne. But when we walked to the store we asked if they had san pedro, his favorite liquor from bolivia. They did, and we got a bottle. Absolutely the smoothest alcohol I have ever tasted, way better than top shelf shit like grey goose and patron...trust me, youd believe if you tasted! Anyway, Ive never seen my dad try any alcohol at all and he always is apprehensive about it, but we went ape shit!
Plastered, we stumbled over to some other party, where the entrance was originally 210 USD. We laughed but my dad basically drunkenly forced me to let him take me there, clñaiming he wanted me to have the best ´bolivian´ experience...at this place that was playing techno as opposed to the other playing techno. No matter...we negotiated with the owners and for about 7 USD we got two fat beers and entrance to the party. Once inside, he saw some panpipe players in a band who played earlier and really wanted them to play instead of the DJ. He hassled both parties, and after a round of a dozen beers for the musicians, he got them playing! The entire party went into a trance around the magical musicians...either that or a drunken stupor. Closer than one might think, i guess...
Anyway, that was the best part of the evening...the musicians were so fabulous and the atmosphere amazing. My dad chanted viva aymara (our and the musicians´ tribe) and viva bolivia!! What a great night!
And an equally awful next morning...