Around the Bend

.....in terms of psychic decompression, that is. I'm sinking into traveling trim, and will sink further. It took a lot of work and puzzling and fussing to undo my little life, dismantle my long-standing living arrangement, and prepare to live out of a bag for a while. I'm still busy, in a way, but with fewer and larger elements in play. Before I turned the key on #107 for the last time, I had paced my old spaces and marveled at their echoey emptiness till I could marvel no longer. Similarly, I gazed at my 5 x 10 storage space and marveled at all my crap piled high in there unto the third dimension, till I could marvel no longer, and snapped the lock shut. But now, I have no end of fresh marvels. I just have to keep my eyes open as the world goes by. I am quite at large.

My decompression will be complete when my political animal is thoroughly starved of info, and my care for the world and humanity shifts from the general to the particular. (Progress on this is advanced). I'm taking leave of the antics of the Party of Destruction and the Party of Defeat, and of biting my nails over the incapacity of our people, press, and institutions to figure anything out, address our problems and needs honestly, or to do anything to save our asses. I'll be back to bite my nails in due course, and hey, our decomposing civilization will not have noticed my absence. In the meantime, I'll keep an eye on the clam in two inches of water at the river's edge.....ah, he's made a ten-inch track in the sand since I last checked an hour ago.....now, there's a progressive mollusk.

Guttenberg, IA 9/2/11

Pace

I've done the math with the "bucktrack.com" guy, and put numbers under what has been clear from the first week or two: I am not nearly keeping pace with this guy. He's got me three miles to my two. His detailed itinerary ( it's buried in the sitemap of his site) was my guide as to what to expect, but he clearly spent more and harder time at the paddle than I have. I'd figured that my faster boat (solo with kayak paddle vs. two-seater with single paddle) would somewhat compensate for my puttering around as I do, but evidently, not very much. And as for the higher and faster water I'd assumed I had, and which would weigh in on my side, I now wonder if it was ever a factor. A few dams down from Saint Paul, the levels started looking normal, and the lock people have confirmed this. I've been seeing a lot of exposed wing dams, and the steep, terraced dirt riverbanks have the look of a draining reservoir.

Mr Buck did Minneapolis to New Orleans in 47 days. At my present, languorous pace, I'd come in at 74 days. Lovely though this journey is, that seems a bit much, as I do have other fish to fry. My choices are three: 1) Continue floating downstream as a little haiku-leaf, caring not for time, but only for eternity. 2) End my journey somewhere short of New Orleans. 3) Get my ass moving.

I'm inclined to go for number 3 and reassess in a few weeks. Now, you all know me to be a slow-moving creature, but one ever on the lookout for self-improvement, at least in theory, so we'll see how this goes. I'll have to make my visits to towns more concise, and most importantly, be swifter about decamping in the morning, when my reptilian self tends to torpor. My navigation could stand some improvement, in greater attention to finding faster water, and to keeping it short when aiming from point A to point B. And of course, I can always lean into my paddle harder, and not catch myself merely dipping, feebly, out of river hypnosis. So, I'll see about picking it up. The giant boost from the Missouri River will help. I will maintain my serenity, but just be snappier about it.

Crystal City, MO 9/23

[ postscript, 11/11: Robert of Austin, an experienced canoe racer, helped me to reconsider another assumption I'd made about the relative swiftness of my solo boat compared to a two-seater. A larger craft is more stable, and thus faster, in rough water. I did often feel in swells that a lot of my energy was expended just in keeping the boat straight and afloat. And then there's the sail effect of a double-bladed paddle. It was pretty plain from paddling with Robert (in his two-seater with a single blade) that I outpaced him in flat water, he me in wind and wave.]

A Day in the Life

The blades sweep the waters. The world goes by in a pleasant tedium, to the drone of the cicadas. The river's current varies as one looks across its breadth. The forest is part of this current, to an eye in motion, as the nearer trees slip behind the further. The particular and the general are moving right along. Little lunches (of bread, cheese, fruit, nuts) punctuate the day like islands in a stream of time. Towards the late afternoon, sun in decline, a tension develops between taking it a few miles further or taking my day's rest. This tension is sure to resolve one way or the other. I peel my eyes for a bivouac, with the map suggesting possibilities around the bend. I consider exposure, but what's most desirable is a beach that's not too steep to pull up on, and a forest right at hand, with sizable trees and a more or less open understory. When I fix on a spot, I'll pull up and confirm that it's good, which it almost always is. Besides, one thing can be said of campsites that holds true also for a glass of wine: whether it starts out good, medium, or bad, it always improves as you take it in. Now for the formalities. I've revised this speech over the years, generally cutting out the flim flam and getting down to brass tacks. I face my favored grove, fix my eyes on the middle distance, throw open my arms, and address the spirits of the place thus: "O Spirits, I ask your blessing, as I would like to stay here a little while." There you have it. Deferential, without being obsequious, and as it were informative, as it needs must be, as I wouldn't know how to interpret a rebuff anyway, and reassuring to the spirits that I won't be a long term pest, I mean guest. And not in the least bit pompous. Spirits hate that. (This ritual, by the way, does not get enacted at places where I imagine the spirits have been driven out, like campsite #14 at the state park, or room #37 at the Motel Six). Formalities thus dispensed with, a routine unfolds: I unload Ophelia, and roll her gunnel down into the river to scoop up a big draught of water. I swish this around, lift up her end and drain her, drag her up the beach and flip her over, cleansed of the day's mud and sand (or three quarters of it, anyway). Then for my ablutions. I stand in the river, not as a prophet, but more as kind of a dirty old goat, and dipping a wash cloth, scrub face, neck, arms, and legs - basically the sunscreen areas. My face and neck will get a second round with precious potable water. That's the minimum. There may be further operations, of which delicacy forbids me to detail. Then I layer on a lot of clothes, as the day's warmth gives away quickly to chill, rinse and dry my sandy feet, and step into socks and shoes. Cleanish, dry, and warm, a moment to savor. Now to explore my domain more closely. I pick out two trees for the sleeping hammock, or a spot on the earth if I intend to sleep outside. (The bug net may come into play here, though the bugs have been retiring for the season). One of these arrangements will be set up, probably later, as my priority is to get the leisure hammock, a slight, stringy affair, between two trees, and my well-worked body into it. I have a tripod stool also, which comes in handy, but sitting on it is very much like sitting in a canoe, which I've just spent the day doing, while the leisure hammock is like the womb. I sling it low to the ground, array my material life around me, and take my ease. An evening cup of coffee. The gloom thickens, and the creatures of the night are aroused. I read, write, go over maps, or shut off my brain if I am so moved. There will be cookery: quinoa, couscous, potatoes, or a soup, with fresh vegetables and maybe tuna or canned chicken. My traveling companions have been tomatoes, zucchinis, shallots, and baby carrots, as they are convenient and hold up well. If my cupboard is bare of fresh stuff, I'll resort to my reserve of cans. Here's a time-honored recipe: Cook potatoes, (fresh if you've got them, canned if you don't), moosh, add a can of beans and a can of corn, mix, and serve. Voila! Bon Appetit! Time for bed. If I'm using the sleeping hammock, I'm well postured to bring a book in with me. Dreams. Alarm set to precede the sun (yes, I use an alarm - I'll sleep forever, and the days are short). If on the ground, I roll out of bed and roll up the bed. If in the hammock, I reenact the birth of a calf, as my feet emerge from a very female-like opening, step into shoes, (here the birth analogy breaks down), body plops out, followed by the dangling afterbirth of my sleeping bag. The morning enlightens as I have coffee and breakfast in the leisure hammock. I'll have hot cereal, or maybe just bolt a lot of bread and butter and jam. I try to decamp within two hours, as the days are indeed short. Renewed for a new day, slathered in sunscreen, canoe packed up, I push off. I turn and face my hosts, hold up an open hand, and firmly pronounce "thank you, spirits". The blades sweep the waters. The world goes by in a pleasant tedium, to the drone of the cicadas......

Vicksburg, MS 10/17

Body and Soul

First, as to the body: The earthly clay has performed well, I'm happy to say. I fuel it, rest it, and it seemed perfectly happy to grind away all day at a repetitive motion, with intervals of weight-shifting and ambulation. I'd get going in the morning, and feel a little weak for a while, but I always built up a head of steam, and would usually end the day with full momentum. Being away from my kitchen, I'd not been able to sustain my customary gluttony, and with all this exercise, the comical little roll of middle-aged blubber that in recent years has encircled my otherwise gaunt frame has quite disappeared. My back is stronger than it's ever been, unsurprisingly, as I've been torquing it all day for over two months. Abs are similarly steely, indeed, so much so that they've squeezed out my guts. (Rupture to be attended to in due course). Musculature from the waist up has held up, though my biceps are a little scrawnier since I've left the weight bench. But canoeing is a time for the biceps to step back and let the triceps shine. Joints are good, though in the morning I can feel the vestiges of my old rotator cuff injury in the left shoulder - but this gets worked off in the first hour or so. In the first week of the trip my hands were very tender. They are now calloused monsters, and with the workout they've gotten, I feel they could crush the forces of evil. My feet look OK, charitably speaking, and have been able shipmates. They've spent these days wet and naked, and have stepped through a lot of mud and sand and twigs and whatnot, and have enjoyed a sustained stretch of wildness such as they've not had since my barefoot boyhood. Legs, ever bitten, ever scratched up, ever healing. As for my pitiful buttocks, after weeks of bitter complaint, they at last adapted to a harsh regime. My skin is burnt up, there's no escaping it. I can only reflect on how much worse it would have been had I not been regular with the sunscreen. Digestion has been splendid. And I've been sleeping like a baby. All is well.

Now, as to the soul: The soul is holding up and responding well to occasional jolts of cold, hard reality. A trip like this is intended to feed and renew it, which it has done, inevitably. Nothing dramatic, but that's not the expectation. Travel is just mobile life. When I was young, I would often expect a trip to do something big for me, soulwise. This was unnecessary wishfulness, as I was perfectly capable of being sent into a transcendent ecstasy by the sight of a plastic bag blowing around the K-Mart parking lot, if I was in the mood, which I frequently was. Moments of clarity and joy can not be scheduled, but one can aim to be open to them. It's all about being present, isn't it? "Be here, now", as it says on the Buddha's t-shirt. But travel doesn't necessarily clear the field of distractions. It can bury one in as much fussing and trivia as homebound life. (Indeed, grappling with logistics can be part of the fun and displacement of travel, as long as it doesn't take over). But there is something about travel, especially travel under an open sky, that helps keep the focus on, the clutter at arm's length, and the invitation open. That's all. Bliss attacks don't come with the frequency or intensity that they did when I was seventeen. That's just the Poet's Lament. But the world hasn't changed. And I have been marked, and do not forget. So now, I direct my prayer of gratitude right over Jehovah's hoary old head, directly to The One. Amen.

New Orleans, 11/3

70 Days, 1705 Miles

It seems that if one moves continuously in the direction of point B, one will at length arrive at that point. This is my contribution to philosophy, Zeno and his never arriving arrow notwithstanding. It was all pretty straightforward, and I dare say easy, unless physical work can be called hard. Just move along by day, and camp at night. All one needs is time. And that I had, all spread out. I always felt fully engaged, even busy, whether on the river or in towns (where I had to take care not to be too busy). I was certainly never bored, and was not in any particular hurry to arrive (aside from the enticement of Halloween). The little domestic habits and routines I'd fallen into were so comfortable, that I knew it would be a little sad to leave them. Still, it's amazing how quickly I shifted from outdoorsman to motel-dwelling pavement pounder. I didn't even have to tell myself to stop talking to myself, or to stop freely making other personal noises. The urge to accost passersby and announce how clean and groomed I was passed in the blink of an eye. I forgot all about keeping sand out of my food. Looking back at my river journey, the time seems unfixed, as usually happens during trips, but this time even more so. I felt like I'd been gone precisely somewhere between a week and a half and ten years. And where in my brain are all those landscapes? The terrain, the forests, the look of the riverbanks, the trees and flora and the wild population, in their particulars so absorbing by the hour, and telling a continuous story as one slips down the latitudes......but add it all up, - poof ! - it all sinks into the consciousness as a handful of generalities. So be it. Ephemeral experiences add ballast to the soul.

If I had a purpose (besides being a witness to the world, which, like breathing, is hardly a purpose), it was to lose myself in a day-to-day travel regime, and to soften myself up (and harden myself too, I suppose) for more strenuous travel in foreign lands. One thing's certain. This was time well spent. I didn't waste my time.

Over the course of all those days on the river, I slowly discerned and hearkened unto the subtle, scarcely audible call of the vulture. "Eat, drink, and be merry," it can be rendered. "Eat, drink, and be merry."

New Orleans, 11/12

Photography

Let's face it. Photography is a nasty, vile, morally filthy business. If the world were just, photographers would be dragged through the streets till dead, and then damned to hell, where their torments would be continuously photographed by goggle-eyed devils. But having said that, I must say that I do love to take photographs. Subject to certain limitations. Visitors to this blog will notice that my photo collection is heavy on the landscapes, streetscapes, and architecture. Now, I like landscapes, streetscapes, and architecture. That's what you're going to get, and you're going to like it too, dammit. But, of course, these inanimate scenes do not represent what is most visually fascinating about passing through the wide world. That, people, is people. Their faces, their doings, and their domestic spaces and work places. Latin America has been for me a cornucopia of beautiful, fascinating, and endearing human imagery. But you'll have to come down here to see it for yourself, because my camera will be of limited help. Tourism is generally intrusive, and photography more so. I know how bugged I get when some doofus steals my soul with his damned consumer technology. So the camera stays in my pocket in human environments, unless I really can't help myself (Satan's favorite excuse), or unless the actual situation presents some moral weasel room. This would include crowded public spaces, performances and public events, and obvious tourist spots. The zoom feature extends one's thievish reach, so that one need not always breathe on one's victims. One can take photographs in such situations in an underhanded way, striking quickly like a serpent, and then slithering away. Hence, my human photos have a furtive, stolen, uncomposed quality. They are snapshots. When a landscape is my subject, I aim for art.

All these people, at work and play, and at social and family life, in their own, shaped environment..... It's all so engaging, but I'll mention just one particular theme, as an example of what you're missing: the cuteness of Mayan children. I mean, they swarm out of nowhere, hola-ing, in the mini versions of their traditional, homely attire, all excited about the strange, new being that you are. They are so cute they just about kill you. In fact, they do. I am dead. I have been killed. They are that cute.

Here's a vignette that happened back in Mexico, also involving Indian children. I was walking down a shopping street in San Luis Potosi. Two women were walking ahead of me, one of whom had a baby on her back, facing backward. Two girls of seven or eight were with them. The girls would pause at the ornamental trees lining the street, find a way to get at a blossom, yank it off, and run to catch up to their moms and the bouncing-along baby. They would present the blossom to the baby, who would clench it in her fist as her face went supernova. The girls kept this up repeatedly, with an air of intense mission. Now, the cuteness of this scene could have been photographed, but not the holiness. I say this reverently as a devout secular humanist. So let's raise a glass to humanity, in all its undocumented reality.

San Isidro, Costa Rica 2/8

Huayno Music

Huayno is the popular music of Peru. I became acquainted with it on my trip in '07, and coming back into its sphere has been one of the delights of my present outing. Its roots are rural and indigenous, though one hears it everywhere in Peru, as it has come along with the Andean people in their migrations. Huayno has a rolling rhythm, and widely loping melodies. High pitches are favored, both in the instruments and in the voices, male or female. The churango (a ringing, little guitar-like thing), and other stringed, fretted instruments will carry the song. There are also harps, flutes, panpipes, and accordions. More contemporary ensembles may include keys, bass guitar, and a drum kit. Huaynos are written in both Spanish and Quechua, and I'm not always able to figure out which language is being sung. I'm told that, in addition to the joys and pains of love, nostalgia for the home valley is a standard theme, which is very endearing.

It's striking how genuinely and widely popular it is. It's what you mostly hear coming out of radios and people's houses. Vendors will display a big selection of CDs and DVDs, and play samples on the TVs and speakers hooked up in their market stalls, gathering a small audience. These productions are often very homely, featuring perhaps just a camera fixed on the band, or on a female singer swirling around in a field of wildflowers. She will always have talent, and only sometimes beauty. In a world where popular music has a kind of cross-border sameness and universality, here in Peru the people have retained their own thing, and adapted it to modern modes of distribution.

Huayno is deeply moving and I love it, but it presents me with a practical problem as a traveler. I tear up every time I hear it, and if I don't watch out, I'll soon be blubbering and making a spectacle of myself. I mean, this is a real Pavlov's dog situation. Let me try something on you. Clear your mind. Now, just imagine.....biting down, slowly, on a tart, yielding.....green olive.... There, you just salivated. Yes you did, and don't deny it. That's the manner in which I go to pieces when I even think of huayno music. It's not that it's particularly sad. It's that it's so......reaching. Oh God, I'm losing it...... Better sign off....

Juli, Peru 4/29

Latin American Notes

Way back, when I was idly spinning the globe, wondering where an extended wayfaring may take me, I settled easily upon Latin America. Nowhere else on Earth is there such a lengthy stretch of a single uberculture (language, religion, common colonial heritage overlaying an indigenous foundation), but with such a wealth of variation. People and their doings morph steadily as I wander further into the nether regions. Now, if I were more observant, and had a more compendious memory (or were a more diligent note-taker), I would write you a book. But let's just keep it to a few observations.

Tortillas

Ah, the Mexican tortilla that we know and love: large, thin, handy, and accompanying everything in plentiful quantities. To eat them is to live. The Guatemalan tortilla presents quite a contrast, but is equally exquisite. They are smaller and thicker, but still handy for rolling things up. They are a three bite operation, rather than four, as with the Mexican. There is perhaps a deeper waft of the earth in them. They also accompany meals in abundant quantities. In Honduras and Nicaragua, the tortilla steps back. Meals sometimes show up without them, causing profound grief, or with just one draped meagerly over the rice. They are larger and often thinner than the Mexican, and wheat flour will sometimes appear. In Costa Rica, the tortilla is sadly on the verge of wasting away. You get just one, and as a perfect four-inch circle, heartlessly stamped out by a machine, it seems a token gesture. They taste OK, but one can not help but close one's eyes and conjure the sounds of Guatemala: The giggles and chatter of the tortilla chicas, the slappity-slappity as the tortillas take shape in their hands, and the plop and sizzle as they hit the comal..... In Panama, the tortilla as we know it is gone. What goes by its name is a thick cornmeal puck, heavy with the fat it's fried in, and very salty. It does not at all function as a food roller. It's honest food, but no delight. In Colombia, this thing becomes drier, and less greasy and salty. It's called an arepa, and is part of a standard breakfast. It's OK, in a staple kind of way, but I'd take each bite with a bit of the white, crumbly cheese that's part of a breakfast plate. In Ecuador, the tortilla, as a word, has shifted over to the Spanish meaning, that is, some sort of omelette.

Beans

In Mexico, mostly the familiar refried presentation, but sometimes in whole form. In Guatemala, sometimes refried, more often whole. The black bean is favored in Guatemala. The Honduran bean merits more study, as I was there only four days. In Nicaragua and Costa Rica, the bean collaborates with the rice to form "gallo pinto" ("spotted rooster" - shortened to "pinto" in Costa Rica), a staple available for all three meals. The Costa Rican is OK, but the Nicas frankly do it better, using more fat in the refry (lard, I imagine). Beans are relatively scarce in Panama, but when you see them, they are big limas or kidneys. These big beans continue south, and resume some of their importance, though not on the Central American scale. In Colombia and Ecuador, they swim in their own cooking juice. In Peru and Bolivia, the bean is hard to find, though lentils come to the fore in set meals. Thus the bean, thus far.

Rice

Ubiquitous everywhere I've been. Latin Americans eat rice like they're Vietnamese. It comes white and brown, steamy and fried. There has been a general whitening as I've gone south.

Baked Goods

Though the tortillas of Mexico are sisters of the rising sun, their loaf bread is frankly bad, as they sweeten it. Sugary bread continues through Central America, though by asking one can sometimes find something no dulce. Paradoxically, the pastries throughout the hispanosphere, which always look great, are usually not sweet enough. My generally adaptable tastes never quite got used to this. The bread in the Andean countries is perfectly good, though always white, except in rare dispensaries of tourist fare.

Coffee

Straight through, these coffee producing countries serve instant. This seems perverse, but I'm sure it's because people down here are just not coffee drinkers, so there is little incentive to improve the market. Sometimes, when an urn is involved, I've wondered about the drip method, though I never saw evidence of it, and the stuff still tasted like instant. If one neglects to specify, your cup may come to you pre-glopped with sugar. Most often, one does up one's own cup with a little packet, or with a spoon in the jar on the table, or, in Ecuador, from a corked bottle with some kind of concentrate. The "negro" of Central America becomes the "tinto" or "solo" of South America. In Peru and Bolivia, one can sometimes get a "distilado", espresso made with the little pot rather than the fancy machine. The Americano seems to be watered espresso, where espresso is available in the scattered oases of world coffee culture. But mostly, it's instant, which actually isn't so bad anymore. There have been big improvements since the foul Sanka of the 70s. Costa Rica is the exception to all this. Espresso machines are everywhere. One can usually count on a rich brew, though at the humblest sodas one may still find oneself morosely stirring brown dust into hot water.

Eating, and its Effects

Latin Americans are great eaters, and the Guatemalans the greatest face-stuffers of all. For them, it's all part and parcel of the street cookery, and the many vectors of candy, confections, fried blobs, and chips, whether peddled afoot, in curbside stands, or in the endless tiendas. And, of course, the smorgasbord that is routinely pushed through the impushable aisles of the chicken buses. The gorging and nibbling and slurping that goes on in this packed, inhospitable, mobile environment is a slightly off-putting sight to behold. Indeed, the indifference to mealtimes or any solemnity horrifies my inner Frenchman. One would think all this gluttony would fatten the nation. But aside from the occasional venerable matron grown stout, Guatemalans are not fat. The explanation is easy to see: all day, every day, these people are, literally, working their asses off. Now, Mexicans and Nicaraguans are also conspicuous grazers, but insofar as they lay aside the pick ax and the machete, and step on the gas rather than hump like a mule, they tend to fatten. In the other countries I've visited, the range of heftiness looks a little more familiar. But nowhere in Latin America are US standards approached in this weighty matter.

Cows

In the sultry lowlands, the cows are very foreign, very exotic creatures, with a camel-like hump above the shoulder, big, floppy ears, horns curving straight up, and a wattle of skin hanging like a drapery under the chin and breast. If this sounds very Asian, it's because these cows are indeed Indian immigrants. Up in the more elevated regions, the cows are boring, familiar Minnesotans.

Construction

Latin Americans are great constructors, and during my brief stays in town or village, I've seen buildings sprout like mushrooms in the course of a few days. (Seemingly abandoned efforts are also common). The standard material is masonry. I don't think I ever saw a wood frame building going up, though old specimens exist in places with a timber supply. One still sees stacks of adobe blocks awaiting use in small places. In Mexico, our familiar concrete blocks are common. Further south, the standard form is a thin framework of rebar and poured concrete, filled in with large, solid, red brick or delicate six-chambered molded red blocks. Whole neighborhoods and whole cities (El Alto) are made like this. Sometimes the facades can get a little fancy, with protrusions, indents, balconies, overhangs, and whatnot. Plain sheets of glass are installed, with some panels hinged to swing open. The whole effect is one of solidity, thrift, practicality, uniformity, and ugliness. A notable quality of finished buildings is their unfinishedness up on the roof. It is standard practice to leave the extra rebar protruding to the skies, so that the whole town resembles a pin cushion warding off space aliens. Perhaps this is meant to facilitate future upper additions. Sometimes the ends are adorned with empty plastic bottles. Roofs are also cluttered with leftover construction materials and whatever junk the business below generates. I've looked over many of these fascinating rooftops, from the rooftops of my hotels. Hotel rooftops will include water purifying tanks, solar water heaters, laundry tubs, and flapping laundry. As for the wiring in new or old construction, it's let it all hang out. Latin Americans are great tilers as well as masons. Baños are well tiled, of course, and floors, and often stairways, and even sidewalks in front, sometimes with shards laid out artfully. Sometimes facades are partly or wholly tiled, making entire buildings look like giant, inverted bathroom fixtures. I asked Jank, the German fellow I met in Nicaragua, who was back home a tiler by trade, what he thought of all this tiling. "Not gut," he said, sadly shaking his head. "No, no, no. Not gut."

Physical Hazards

Latin America being relatively low on wealth, lawyers, and rules, but high on fatalism, the built environment is full of what we pampered weenies of the north would regard as physical hazards. Streets and sidewalks are full of leg-breaking holes and fissures. Utility access holes are routinely left uncovered, as are man-eating open storm sewers. Sidewalks on sloped streets can be narrow, stepped goat paths, beautifully made, but with nothing to hang onto, and the street a single 180 degree flip into quadriplegia below. There is a conspicuous absence of railings that would prevent you from pitching headfirst off a landing, or into a culvert, or down the stairs, or into some unknown abyss. I've seen hotels in operation with no railings on their second and third floor walkways. Buildings are thrown together with all sorts of injury-friendly quirks, such as mismatched or narrow steps, trip-thresholds at the top of landings, and odd step-ups. (When I get home, ask me about my near compound fracture incident caused by a door in a hotel). Latin Americans, city and country, are by necessity a sure-footed lot. Still, given the level of their exposure to risk, I have to think that their per capita fracture rate must be high. So visitors, be advised: watch your step.

Transportation

In Mexico, the bus travel is like flying: clean, efficient, and easy to figure out. In northerly Central America, a traveler becomes freight-like, as I've detailed elsewhere. From Costa Rica onward, the buses and minibuses, though sometimes a little beaten up, are at least designed for the purpose of long distance travel, not ferrying eight-year-old Yankee children to school. The figure of the ayudante is a constant, in all countries and in all types of conveyances. He is your go-to guy, while the driver keeps his eye on the road.

Commerce Buying and selling in the streets (or on buses) is everywhere down here, but the extent of it correlates with the wealth of the country. With prosperity, commerce becomes regularized and moves indoors. This applies to street food too, though Mexico is an anomaly in that it is relatively prosperous, yet loves to cook on the street. Guatemala is the Shangri-La of street food. As for the custom of weekly market day, this seems to be a rural and indigenous thing.

Hawking

Audible sales pitching is present everywhere, to the extent that street vending is practiced. Each pitch will find its natural rhythm and melody, often ending on a note dropping one step. Some can get a little long-winded, if a lot of price and quantity info is being conveyed. Newspapers get a cursory treatment, as with the three note slur, "Diario!". The Ecuadorian pitch is notable for its mechanistic perfection. The most beautiful is the Nicaraguan, being drawn out, lilting, and musical, as befits a nation that reveres its poets.

Religion

I don't know the stats about actual observance, but masses seem well attended, and there are always a few, or many, prayers and meditators in churches whenever the doors are open. The ritual bodily motions are routinely performed as people enter, leave, or even pass in front of a church. Jesus/Mary imagery is everywhere, but is especially prevalent in the poorer countries, further proof that poverty makes for religious intensity. The poorer countries are also the fertile vineyards in which American-style evangelism is laboring. Costa Rica and South America thus far seem quite immune to this.

Little Old Ladies

Here in the south, little old ladies have hundred-year-old faces in seventy-five- year-old bodies. They sit on the ground cross-legged, or hunched, or coiled under their skirts. They walk all over creation. They walk up long mountain roads for hours. Carrying firewood. In worn out shoes. I merely mention this because our little old ladies don't do that.

Manners

It is well known that Latin Americans are polite, civil people, and that is one big reason to love them. They absolutely use the standard greetings and the magic words in situations where an American would omit them. But there is regional variation in how this civility comes through, a formality gradient, which I would place at the Nicaragua- Costa Rica border. This is where "amigo" shifts to "señor". The truncated "provecho" becomes complete again with "buen provecho" ("bon appetit", spoken to fellow diners as people arrive or leave an eatery - coming from a gringo, this really brightens people up - the response, of course, is "gracias"). "Mucho gusto" (much pleasure), which is used as a "pleased to meet you" in an introduction, picks up "con" (with), and expands its coverage to include a formal ardency in any interaction, as in "it is with much pleasure that I sell you this banana". I love these people! (Here in Peru, amigo seems to be moving in on señor again).

Noise

.....a universal modern scourge. Noise became a problem when the advance of technology released its production from bodily effort. The bell ringer will eventually tire, but the Toshiba TV, and the Sony mega-amp and super-speakers never wear out, ever. Humanity pressed the 'on' switch, cranked up the volume, walked away, and it's been cacophony ever since. I believe this is a major factor in our general stupefaction. In America, the prime example of antisocial noise is the thumpin' car. In Latin America, it is the noxious practice of businesses setting up stacks of speakers and blasting music into the streets. This is especially lovely in the clash zone between two sets of blasters. Establishments like auto parts stores will do this, presumably in an effort to draw in customers by destroying their brains. The cell phone companies are the worst offenders. Cute chicas with nice hair and name tags will stand behind their counters all day in a high decibel zone, smiling, and becoming stupider and stupider by the hour. And yet people just take it. It's astonishing. In Jalapa, the nice family hotel I was staying in was being flooded all day with thumping club music from the cell phone company across the street. The family lived more or less in the lobby with their big screen TV. They just turned up their own volume and went with the flow. If I were a citizen, I'd be walking across the street with a sledgehammer. I can not see this practice in any terms other than its brutality. But the saving grace of the Latin Americans is that they personally are quiet people. They don't talk too loud, bellow into cell phones, or roar when they laugh. There is very little screaming. Even school kids at play are moderate in their outbursts. Their whistles can be piercing, but they are infrequent. This is all in line with their general dignity. Thankfully, the practice of private speakers beating up the public does not seem to be an Andean thing. I think that proximity to the Caribbean has something to do with it. It was on the wane in Colombia, and I've seen little of it since. - - - - - - Being part of the transportation stream down here exposes one to a lot of entertainment noise. Passenger buses are fitted out with TVs like airplanes. If I'm lucky, they remain mute; if semi-lucky, I'll get only one movie, or a decent interval between two; if unlucky, it's back-to-back. This can drive a guy nuts, especially when the selections are in the gunfire-explosion-car chase genre, as is more often than not the case. Earplugs help, but the noise will still dominate. Not knowing Spanish is an advantage, so that the noise doesn't pester me further with plot and dialog. (It's so much nicer to not know was Nicholas Cage is saying). Even some chicken buses have a TV bolted in up front. But chicken buses and smaller conveyances will usually entertain you with music. This is sometimes agreeable when the volume is reasonable and they are playing traditional stuff, or humane pop music (and the pop music down here tends to be more listenable than our equivalent). But more often than not, you are being hosed with something noxious. Getting off the bus can be a real relief. But then try to find a place to eat without a TV blatting away in your face. This form of decadence is infiltrating the whole world, and nothing but the Rapture will stop it. Oh, Humanity! - - - - - Horn honking continues at a high level. As annoying as this is, here one must exercise some tolerance. Pushing your way through intersections with noise and aggression is the custom, and that's the way it is. The streets are narrow, and street life is thick at the margins, so being honked at I suppose can be justified. The practice of taxi drivers honking to lure people into their taxis, when half the vehicles on the street are taxis, and they are all honking, seems literally insane, yet one could, in an insane way, see some purpose in it. To an American, a honking horn means that someone is being yelled at, insulted, or attacked. One must suppress one's natural reaction to this perceived violence, because obviously people here don't see it that way. But still, most horn honking anywhere in the world is meaningless, or, just as bad, an expression of an undisciplined temperament. It falls short to denounce as childish the honking of one's horn to express irritation at being stuck in traffic. It is in fact infantile, as in "I want the nipple, and I want it now! Bwaah!" New Yorkers, take note. But what of the taxi drivers of Piura? I can only interpret the static they produce as stemming from a mass nervous disorder. - - - - - - - Roosters in the predawn can be very irksome. One eats them as fast as one can, but there's no keeping up. But thankfully, and in keeping with the general theme of things quieting down as I head south, I'm noticing that the roosters are not waking me up as frequently as they did in Central America. There's no accounting for it, as there are just as many chickens running around. One of many things to wonder about out here in the wide world.

Trash

It doesn't magically disappear like our trash. On the contrary, people happily live with it. The roadsides have a colorful, festive look. But there is a contrast between the richer and poorer countries, with the latter being distinctly trashier. One sees the shift dramatically when crossing from Nicaragua to Costa Rica. The poorer countries lack the infrastructure and resources to handle their effluvia. Attitudes follow necessity. Hence, in the chicken buses of Guatemala, the vendors will pass down the aisles dispensing victuals, and shortly thereafter the wrappings are flying out the windows. Dogs at bus stations love this. In the wealthier countries, trash is more likely to find its way into receptacles, or piled up around receptacles, for as I said, the infrastructure is scanty, and the results not up to the pristine standards that our excessive wealth affords us. Still, even in the poorer countries, someone will be detailed to keep the plaza clean, (except in dirt-poor San Mateo Ixtatan). Cities will have whole phalanxes of jumpsuited, masked figures patrolling the central streets with brooms and scoops, keeping things quite tidy. Shopkeepers tend well to their immediate environs. There's resource deployment for you. There must be landfills somewhere, because garbage trucks are in operation. What to our ears sounds like the repetitive clown music of an ice cream truck actually signals the approach of the garbage truck, so bring out your trash. (If you want ice cream, listen for the tinkling of little bells with which the push carts are equipped). Some of the more dignified garbage trucks forego the clown music and employ bells instead. The ringer stands in the truck bed, deep in his art and his work. You heave up your trash to him, he adds it to the pile he's standing in, and tosses back your bag. We are all one as waste producers. So ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for your trash.

Roots

As for people's ancestry, there is lots of visual data, but as I'll be skipping the book, let me just state the obvious generality: The historical past and the cultural now can be read in the faces of people in every passing region. This works in the mix of individuals as well as in the mix in individuals. The three great roots of Europe, Africa, and the Americas here continue their roiling entanglements. The most thoroughly blended country I've been in has been Panama, which comports with its status as the crossroads of the Americas. I have the romantic notion that when us humans first dispersed from east Africa, and before we started differentiating, we looked like modern Panamanians. (And that as a species, we're headed back in that direction). When one rises out of the coastal areas, Africa generally steps back. One wonders in these human climes where a mestizo/national feeling leaves off and indigenous feeling begins. This is mostly over my head and under my radar. Surely, it has some correspondence to blood ancestry. (You can see this, if not always so clearly). But I think more definitive for indigenous identity is proximity to the land and the old ways of living on it, and of course, language. For the ignorant foreigner, the most obvious sign of cultural identity is dress, or more specifically, women's dress.

Public Displays of Affection

A very striking cultural practice I noticed in Mexico was the ferocity with which people would swap spit in public. This went far beyond the usual canoodling. It really went over the top, and I wondered if the trend would continue south. But to my surprise, it stopped at the Guatemalan border. Beyond, public displays of affection approximated American levels, which for lack of a broad world view, I'll call moderate. But with the Mexicans, you have to wonder if there's something in the water. Teens and twenty-somethings are grasping, groping, and grinding faces gyroscopically anywhere and everywhere, all the time, and they do not stop, ever. You think that I am joking, but I am not. I've been on jam-packed subway cars in Mexico City with couples gnawing each others heads off like praying mantises. The most extreme episode affecting me personally occurred in an internet place in Saltillo. The guy tending the place and his girlfriend were carrying on at my elbow. At long, wet intervals, there would be a drowning intake of breath, and the girl would again say goodbye, for apparently this was a leave-taking, though it went on for over an hour. Now this is all very sweet, and far be it for the likes of me to rain on anyone's parade in these matters, but after an hour of listening to a canoe paddle being swirled through a vat of macaroni and cheese two and a half feet from my left ear, I was feeling a little urpy. But this anything-anywhere-nonstop foreplay is common. I declare this phenomenon to be a real, demonstrable, authentic Mexican Thing. So, hats off to the make-out monarchs of the world, the loving Mexicans.

Coupledom

The aforementioned writhing of young Mexicans is but an extreme manifestation of coupledom, an institution which seems to have a lot more currency among the youth of Latin America than among the rough beasts that are our young. It seems that way looking around, anyway. Younger teens especially seem big on true romance. The lengthy midday break from school is a tender time for hand-holding. It seems good practice for family life to come, which somehow seems more visible down here. But apparently, everything's not always traditionally virtuous. Friend Paul reports that in Honduras, actual marriages are not common, and that after establishing a brood in his youth, a young man will then go on to spawn others, spreading himself thin and becoming remote to all. Must have something to do with machismo.

Friendliness

Making sweeping statements about the friendliness of this or that nationality is common among people who have been places. The usual form is to praise the friendliness of the country under discussion without daring to make comparisons. (Guidebooks are certainly guilty of this). I've always been sceptical of the pertinence of the whole topic. For one thing, I'd have to be more sociable, more observant, and better traveled before I'd feel qualified to weigh in. But I have a feeling that my current prejudice would be confirmed: That whatever this thing called friendliness is, its quantity is universal, and not culture bound. As for its quality, well , perhaps that is where the discussion really lies. As a practical guide, the thing to bear in mind is a kindergarden universal: give and ye shall receive. Being distant, abstracted, or abrupt calls forth an unhappy response. Warmth and politeness will be echoed. It doesn't always work, of course, but the general rule holds. It's all on me folks, especially as I am a visitor. And making little connections is what travel is all about. <<< Postscript to the above, which was written before Bolivia: Please allow me to muddy my point. Having been in Bolivia awhile, I am starting to wonder about these people. A rather high proportion of them (especially women), seem to have an attitude of: "transact if you must, but this is unpleasant." I think that Jeremy, one of the well-traveled Englishmen I met in Costa Rica, was on to something when he said, gazing wistfully into the middle-distance, "They're not the friendliest people in the world, the Bolivians." Not that that's a reason to not like them. Indeed, as a misanthrope, I must say quite the contrary. >>>

Town and Country

The distinction is relatively blurred in Latin America. Every city is filled with country migrants, recent, or a generation removed. They've brought with them their markets, their modes of commerce, their folkways, their dress, their foodstuffs, and their artisanal skills. One gets the sense in every city and larger town that the country is pressing in. Horse-drawn carts ply the streets of Leon. Cities are just big country towns at heart. Contrast this to the USA, where traditionally the city presses in on the country, imposing its industrialism, and where the farmers live like suburbanites. Our token efforts to evoke the country in our cities amount to unscuffed bushel baskets decorating the produce aisle at Lund's. In La Paz, the rank, meaty smell of the butchered mingles with exhaust fumes.

The Exotic

In what does the exotic consist, for the suburban white boy? I'd say it's some compound of the poor, the rural, and the indigenous, three elements that are often associated. Since all the countries down here are extremely various in their parts, and contain the three elements, largely or in enclaves, and all the countries contain sparks or substantial flames of non-exotic cosmopolitanism in their cities, it would be hard to assign each country a qualitative exoticness quotient. But let me enlist the aid of the quantitative and go to where the poverty really adds up. So, Guatemala gets the prize for the most exotic country I've been in, with Honduras and Nicaragua being strong rivals. Chiapas in Mexico, and the indigenous parts of the Andean countries are certainly far out, but the relative wealth of these countries at large mutes the overall national exoticness. (Still, heavily indigenous and not-rich Bolivia is pretty darn exotic). Panama contends, by reason of the paradoxical exoticness of its unique cosmopolitanism, and its Caribbean Joie de Vivre. Costa Rica is lovable in many ways, but not, sadly, for anything like the exotic.

The Wave of the Future

In spite of all the strangeness I've witnessed down here, my overall impression is one of familiarity. One world, one people. Much of the difference in the look and feel and way of doing things between Latin and Anglo America can be attributed to all the extra wealth that we create or extract or rip off and allow to slosh around. This theory will be tested when resource depletion really sets in, and a general, worldwide, downward leveling follows. We'll be looking to our immigrants as models of how to make do with less.

Sorata, Bolivia 5/26

Goo Goo Ba Ba

When I crossed the Mexican border, I was armed linguistically with some basic phrases, a mini-vocabulary, a bit of present tense grammar, a dictionary, and a few index cards on which I'd arranged some essentials. I had no great ambition to actually learn Spanish, knowing well the magnitude of such a task, and how quickly I'd lose my gains when I returned to the Anglosphere. But still, I wished to advance, for the fun, the humanity, and the smoothing of my passage. And I have advanced. The common stuff is closer to the tip of my tongue, my vocabulary is expanded and solidified, and I have a better idea of what to expect and what's important. But in hindsight, I think I succeeded in my ambition to not learn Spanish perhaps a little too well. I was never aiming to be conversational, but even my remark-making remained pretty balky, and coming up with statements and questions usually required a rehearsal loop in my head. Here at the end of my trip, I feel like I coulda-shoulda-woulda pushed it a little bit harder. I felt especially shirkful when in the presence of the astonishing linguistic accomplishments of some of the young travelers I met. Europeans mostly, they'd show up on the continent with no Spanish, take some classes or do some volunteer work, get sociable, and in a few months be carrying on at three quarters speed. I may grumble enviously about their young brains, but the point is, they outstudied and outpracticed me. But regret is unmanly. I know this from deep experience. I am in charge of my priorities, after all.

But as lazy as I've been at improving it, I do treasure my little store of Spanish, and do not dismiss its powers. Dropping me unprepared for a few days in Uzbekistan would demonstrate well that a little is a lot compared with nothing. My micro-Spanish has gotten my needs met and kept me connected with humanity. It was common to sense delight in people with whom I had a successful exchange. I would then be delighted in turn. With silence, people would recoil from the annoying, gigantic foreign monster. Speak warmly, and people would engage the charming gigantic foreign monster. When a linguistic encounter would founder, I'd come away deflated. When it went well, I'd be elated. In the case of failure, I'd look for what was specifically lacking. In the case of success, I'd simply glory in human connectedness and brotherly love. The substance of what I could communicate was very small. Yet when an interchange went well, it seemed strangely intimate, even if its purpose was only to get me an empanade. This may be because without a full language to bridge the gap of strangeness, my interlocutor and I had to rely on older, deeper, and more universal modes of connection, which is to say civility, or codified love. But perhaps I effuse. I didn't just effuse, did I? Call the effusion police! But seriously folks, making do with my little Spanish was a fun and friendly and fascinating thing to do. My linguistic efforts not only got me to point B. It was also a journey in itself, quite parallel and entwined with my physical journey, and just as engaging. And it's what I got for human contact. Travel outside your language zone is an isolating experience. As a rather remote person, who does not flinch from long silences, and who gets on well with rocks and trees, I have a high tolerance for solitude. But still, I'm within the pale of humanity. My little language encounters were the drops of nectar which were sufficient to sustain the butterfly that is my soul.

Minneapolis 9/2

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Travel Quotes

“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” – Robert Louis Stevenson

“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.” – Jack Kerouac

Your true traveler finds boredom rather agreeable than painful. It is the symbol of his liberty-his excessive freedom. He accepts his boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure.” – Aldous Huxley

Tourists don’t know where they’ve been, travelers don’t know where they’re going.” – Paul Theroux

“Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.” – Seneca toga! toga!

“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.” – G. K. Chesterton