Through where the Incas wander

When I wake up my mouth is as dry as if I had been chewing newspaper the whole night. The bus glasses are moist out of the humidity produced by 40 bodies breathing and snoring the whole night. Together with my also moist eyes, the bus glasses barely let me see through to the street where the still dark walls are slowly waking up with the rest of the city. I’m not even sure about where I am, it could be Cuzco or Beijing, it all looks the same after a night of light sleep woken up suddenly by an undesired and scarce breakfast. We arrive and I walk out the bus station. The backpack’s weight is trebled by the altitude, but each of my steps, already used to the height by many weeks lived with my hands touching the clouds, is slow and steady. After all there’s no rush. Walking up to the centre without still realising where I am, I suddenly bump for the first time into the perfectly aligned puzzle of a smoothly flattened and asymmetrically symmetrical Inca wall. I look at it amazed and amaze myself when I see that on top of this wall there is a church, one more church out of the many my Spanish neighbours planted here as they passed by. While I rub my eyes to check if I’m well awake a sudden ‘Didn’t they have anywhere else to build a church’ slips out of my mouth, but I instantly fall into my senses and remember this is no more than the need to demonstrate subjugation, in order to complete the destruction of an entire civilization in the name of pure greed for the silver and gold of these lands. I walk a bit further up and see more of the same, whole buildings, complete streets of aligned rocks that are used as foundations for many other buildings that do not belong here despite being stupidly beautiful. I walk up a long and narrow alley and feel myself go back in time while starting to see Incas walking by. These are people other than those who walk here now and who I can’t even imagine because for each step I take looking at the pavement one other is taken looking in front, and the buildings above do not let me go back in time for more than brief instants, short seconds of an inability to imagine other times that passed by too fast while the invader buried centuries of misunderstood evolution under rocks, buildings erected in the name of a greed masked as faith and that God himself knocked down once and again in successive earthquakes, which invariably left standing only the rocks underneath, the only ones that should be here. I move on, while thinking as a Portuguese that we did the same, maybe in a different way and in a different place, but basically the same and I feel bad about it. I zigzag in between the tourists and sellers, walk up and down streets, go in and out churches, cross looks with people who welcomes and distrusts me at once, take a couple of photos and, in spite of being in one of the most beautiful cities I’ve seen during this journey, I think to myself: ‘Enough!’. I’m wandering the imperial Cuzco, through where the Incas still wander in the shadow of their own rocks, and it hurts it has to be like this.










Cuzco, Peru, August 2009

In Arequipa

I’m wandering. Once more I wander the white volcanic rock streets that make this beautiful city, one glued to the other, an endless amount of streets. House after house, church after church, one street crossing leads to the next and I feel as if I am wandering a labyrinth made of straight streets with perfect exists that I cannot reach. I run fast but I can’t reach them, although step after step I see them all at an arm-reach distance. I fell like the city does not want to let me go away, but maybe it’s just me who does not want to go, maybe it’s just me realizing I’ll never leave this place again, this city where I lived some of the most beautiful moments of this journey. Stopping in the main square I see in the background the black volcano that decorates one of the square’s corners, my corner, where I spent many minutes turned into days, always hearing a music that despite being repetitive never got me tired while I waited for a look, the look of your eyes that will have me bound to this place forever. I look at the volcano and wish he can spit out what this other volcano inside me cannot, but the dark mountain invariably stares at me inert, inhospitable, black. I run very fast but the ground seems to escape under my feet and I stumble and fall. I get back on my feet and stumble again, but I keep getting back on my feet one time after the other. I want to reach my corner of the square, but each rock on the ground seems to lift to prevent me from getting there. I fall one last time, when I’m already reaching the middle of the square, and my head bangs heavily against the hard pavement making me lose my senses while I feel my body starting to float in the air. When up high in the sky I start hearing a music in the distance, which is not the same monotonous music I’ve always listened to. It’s just the beat of my heart that saw yours and started to sing like this:

“Llego por la calle que dibuja el corazón,
Entro por la puerta de un mundo de pasión,
Abro la sonrisa al encontrar el callejón,
Donde estás parada escuchando mi canción.

Siento dentro mí una suave explosión,
Como un dulce trueno que me aplasta el corazón,
Veo en tu mirada la belleza de un marrón
Que no existe, es tan lindo, debe ser una ilusión.

Quiero ya besarte y no sé cómo es posible
Que me sienta así, recién te veo, es increíble
Pero no hay control eres un sueño que yo vivo
Aquí en vivo y que lindo, no quiero más despertar.

Eres la hermosura que encontré en mi camino
Eres una magia que me llena de cariño,
Eres dulce amor una sonrisa que me atrapa
Desde que te encontré.

En Arequipa, encontré el calor de una mirada,
La sonrisa de una chica enamorada,
En sus labios la dulzura que me llena el corazón.

Ciudad bonita, donde me crucé con la más linda nena,
Que me abraza con su suave piel morena,
Despertando con su ser dentro de mí la gran pasión,
Elena”

My lips sing this music dictated by each beat of my heart, but it’s not enough, they’re not enough. I see your eyes look at mine one last time, giving me a fleeting glance that both hugs me and tells me to go. I wander once more, but the white of these streets is not the same and the black tar of the pavement ends up pointing the way once more. I wander, once more, but I know I found my way and it points in the opposite direction of the one the road draws in the distant horizon.






Arequipa, Peru, August 2009

The Sun's birthplace

I breathe in. The rare oxygen is rapidly absorbed by every tired cell of my body, each of them invariably panting after the many uphill and downhill slopes walked under the scorching sun of this island that shares its name with this heavenly body. This is the same place the Incas believed to be their supreme sun-god’s birthplace. Sitting on top of the hill that tops the island I look around at the famous lake Titicaca, embedded in the foothills of the even taller mountains that surround it and fit it in between the rocks and the sky, making this lake more of a mirror of what surrounds it and of the World. I close my eyes and feel like a little giant sitting on the World’s peak. I imagine my legs long enough to reach the shore with a small jump, as if I was seated in a little rock inside a puddle. I feel my arms long enough to reach the boats that sail this lake, as if I was just a child playing with them in a random Summer afternoon. I stand up and manage to touch the sky, blow around the few clouds on it, burn my fingertips when I touch this little star that lights my way and burns my skin. Opening my eyes and feeling the sun burning the back of my head, I realize while looking around why the Incas knew this place was the Sun’s birthplace. I breathe out, it’s time to move on.








Island of the Sun - Lake Titicaca, Bolivia, August 2009

A village

A village. A big one, but a village. Packed with cars and buildings, with the most modern of modernity, with big brands’ stores, with rich and exclusive neighborhoods. But still a village, filled with simple people who wander the streets of this big city indifferent to its size, living as if they were in just another Andean village, with the same clothes and simple habits lived for centuries, with only the occasional cell phone breaking the slow walk that prevents them from drowning in the lack of oxygen caused by altitude. A village of markets and churches and streets filled with people and colors and houses hanging from the walls of the valley that surrounds it, houses piled on top of each other, village over village, the many villages that constitute this big village of simple people. Village also filled with tourists, many of them strangers to it, living inside bubbles of westernization, from which they only come out when it’s time to leave, leaving without ever experiencing the true taste of this village, of its people, the true essence of La Paz. A village, where my rushed walk leaves me breathless, maybe because I let myself be fooled by its big city look, forgetting that after all I’m in a village, and in villages there is no reason to rush...








La Paz, Bolivia, August 2009

Parade

Looking at the parade that celebrates Bolivia’s independence, with Evo Morales waiving from the balcony at the people looking at him down from the street, I dream. I dream of the day when at the parade that celebrates a country there are no military or weapons. Let march the people, normal people, people that makes the country. Let march clowns and shoemakers, maestros, other musicians, carpenters and bricklayers, bankers and lottery sellers. Let march poets and writers, ironmasters and entrepreneurs, those who study and those who don’t, housewives and their sons, fishermen and farmers, doormen and taxi drivers, referees and sportsmen. Let march architects, engineers, patients, doctors and nurses, firefighters and truck drivers. Let march the crazy and the insane, without them there’s no parade, let march politicians as well, don’t let them stick to the stands, let the military join the people, all of us who were made equal, because not only with weapons and wars are arsenals filled with. Let march the country, the whole country, made by people that fills it and builds it, in each day’s struggle for living and being happy. Let's show the World the whole country, everything contained in it, not just the gun that keeps frontiers as they are. Let's show all that makes that country unique, its arts, its struggle, its work, all the blood and sweat spilled each day, the proud of being human, and love, yes!, love. Why show hatred or rancor or racism or stupidity? Shall the national embrace the foreigner, as the distinguished guest he is, shall the doors be opened to those who want to know who we are. Enough of hatred and fighting, of stupid borders and wars, enough of all those limitations and prisons that take away our freedom. The World is ours, of us all! Let’s celebrate the country as the culture it is, not as some damn birdcage involved in barbwire. I dream of the day when at the parade that celebrates a country there are no military or weapons. I dream, but when will the day arrive in which I will not have to dream about it anymore?






Sucre, Bolivia, August 2009

The miners of Potosi

I can’t write. Words can’t come out of my mouth, I can’t chain thoughts, ideas or images, nothing comes out. I just lived one of the most beautiful experiences of my journey and still I can’t describe what I felt and lived. People, simple people, more hard working than what I ever was or will ever be, because they live all their lives dedicated or chained to an intense work inside a mine that practically gave birth to them, which gives birth to them one day after the other. People that inhales smoke and dusk, living in darkness to earn the close to nothing given by this sacred and dirty mountain, dilapidated by centuries of greed. People who have close to nothing, who once a year celebrate the luck of none of them having disappeared, asking once more to Mother-Earth not to swallow them. People who forget about everything else this day, doing nothing but smiling. People who do not know me, who I am, where I’m from, where I’m heading to, but still open the door of their house and welcome me as a brother, that long lost brother who has been away all their lives and who comes back to be welcomed as a king. ‘What are they waiting for in return?’, is asked by anyone whose mind has been soiled by our daily greedy living. They do not wait for nothing in return but smiles, wanting us only to share their joy, their drinks, the meat of the llamas they sacrificed to PachaMama, their music, their dances, their home. They wait for us to leave their place with the same smile they have, so we can return someday to smile together once more. I leave the place speechless and my writing doesn’t come out because I look around, I look back at the world and at my life and I feel dirty, unworthy of all this. I feel this world of ours has a lot to re-learn, that each day we step further and further away from what’s worthy, from what really matters. We’re forgetting each day that life for love and smiles can exist if we want it to exist, although we prefer each day to attach ourselves to material things, to so much stuff that distracts us and pushes us away from ourselves. And I’m not saying we should stop the progress of things, which brings us all so many worthy advancements and tools. I’m only questioning if we are taking the right path and the answer is so obvious that I feel like crying. We are destroying our world. More than our planet, which can take care of itself and will, eventually, eliminate us if we continue this destructive path, in the name of progress we are destroying human relations, the capacity to love, to give ourselves to one another, to trust each other. And it does not have to be like this, there are other ways of progressing fully, in every sense, without having to sacrifice mankind for a simple X% extra profit. And this endless greed is not new, it has been around for ages. Maybe due to our human nature some may say, or because of our inability of being totally free. But once and again it is in the presence of simple people who welcome me in their houses with arms wide open that I realize human nature cannot be used as an excuse. There’s still many of us in the world who, even without having a lot, give out everything they have for a simple smile. There’s still hope, but when will things change? What do we have to do, what can we do each day to change and improve the life of every single one of us? I look down at the paper once more and don’t know what to say, maybe because I lost my speech when I felt the strong hug and simple smile of the miners from Potosi that
stole the words from my mouth and swept my feet of the ground.




Photos: Karim BenBenai


Potosi, Bolivia, 1st of August 2009

p.s.: thank you very much Karim, for the photos and for guiding me into this experience.

The enchanted world of Uyuni

To follow their route the four knights had to cross the enchanted salt desert of Uyuni, which was said to be guarded by magical creatures and enchanted by mysterious spells. Guided by their faithful squire, who was taking them in his metal horse, they entered the immense white flat. After a few hours they reached a cactus oasis where the squire had to stop to let the beast that was carrying them rest for a while. While the knights waited a friendly old man invited them to walk a bit through the desert while he charmed them with lovely tales. When inside the desert the old men transformed himself! He was a disguised wizard who told them: "You entered this desert without paying your respects to Pachamama, the Mother-Earth, and she is furious with you! Now you'll have to go to the iced mountain to honor her or your friend will keep shrinking until he disappears forever." And throwing a lightning bolt with his hands he transformed one of the knights in a tiny one-inch dwarf, vanishing afterwards. While the three big ones looked at each other confused and picked up the now little dwarf knight putting him in one of their pockets, their faithful squire appeared and took them back to the oasis. After getting to know what happened he said: "We have to reach the mountain before dawn, or he will vanish forever!" They quickly left the salt flats headed to the sacred mountain. But in order to be able to enter it they had to first collect the four elements that would enable them to break the spell. So they did, going firstly to the lagoon where the sacred flamingos lived. There they collected a feather with which they would pay respect to the air. After that they went to the desert where they found a tree made of stone from where they took a leaf to homage the earth. The last stop before the mountain was the pink lake from where they took some of its magical liquid with which they would show their respect for the water. When they finally reached the mountain they had to face the freezing temperatures of the mountain's dawn so they could pray to the Pachamama. In front of one of the puddles of boiling mud they offered the other three elements inside the fire that came from inside the mountain, thanking Mother-Earth for the beautiful adventure they had just lived. The spell was broken and the little dwarf started to go back to his normal size at the same time the morning sun slowly rose in the horizon. Already able to hug his friends he grabbed them to thank their help. And so the the five stood there looking at the sun that was rising through the mist.








Uyuni, Bolivia, July 2009

The sound of the desert

“Close your eyes”, he said, “and listen to the sound of the desert.” Siting in a dune it was not difficult: I only had to, imagine, close my eyes and listen. In the beginning I heard a light whistle echoing in my ears. It was the sound of 30 years continuously spent hearing to exhaust pipes, people, music, jackhammers, screams, television, airplanes, dogs, lights, cellphones, discos, meaningless chatter, computers, guitars, walls, streets, roads and highways, factories, cities and countryside, a whole lot of noise, too much, all together, mixed in one single whistle. Little by little it disappeared. The noise of silence shut down the noise of millenniums of civilization, letting everything get involved by an immense calm and the soft wind that was blowing. I felt as if my brain was also shutting down and everything else stopped existing. No before, no after, nothing else but that moment that lasted a second but felt like centuries of rest. “Let’s go!”. It finished. As the group started to run down the dune the silence disappeared once more, replaced by the laughter of children that was produced also by adults. But in the end the silence remains forever, here in this desert and inside each of us. We only have to want to hear it.

San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, July 2009

One last 'asado'

I follow my nose, which leads me throughout the house. The smell is coming from above so I go up the stairs. My feet are dragged by the smoke, almost floating over the tiles. I’m flying with my eyes closed and stop only when I feel the heat, knowing the charcoal is destined to a meet which is not my own. I open my eyes and among the mist I do not see a Rei Dom Sebastião (Portuguese king who disappeared in battle and who, according to the mythology, is expected return one day among the morning mist) but only one more of those meat feasts so common here. Uncertain if there are two or three cows laying over the grill, I’m sure only to comfort the friend taking care of cooking with an approval smile. I decide to sit down. Closing my eyes again, I feel myself go back the four months passed by since I first arrived to this country called Argentina. Once again I feel the astonishment I felt in the beginning, due more to that awesome water-made natural wonder shared with its brother country Brazil than to the first impression this land caused on me. I remember then the capital city, in which streets I got lost to then find myself in a tango. That same tango I later sang among friends while looking at a lake lost in the mountains, but not before I traveled through the dryness of the vast South. South, endless vastness that navigated me to and from an imaginary end of the world... I also remember the nostalgia when leaving the country and the joy of coming back once and again to this borrowed house of mine. Also fresh in my mind are these last few days, spent wandering through mountains and valleys, getting to know the effect of that strange drug called too much height and too little oxygen. Maybe this drug was the one making me see salt lakes, many mountains, deep canyons, rock-made rainbows, a vast, strange and beautiful nature, all difficult to describe. In each place I remember people, many and distinct, who will travel with me to where ever I may go. But soon the intense smell wakes me up from this trance. The meet is ready and right bellow my nose. One last ‘asado’ goes down my throat and esophagus, washed by red wine, perpetuating in my mouth during my farewell the great taste of being here, reminding me forever the need to come back.

Salta, Argentina, July 2009

I Feel

I feel the earth, the ground, the smell of dryness and herbs I do not know. I feel the sky watching me from above, hardly reflected in the scarce water that runs far from here, in the bottom of the canyon, in that little yellow snake that can hardly be seen. I feel the wind, warm and cold, the tar and the sand, the air I breathe and the sun that burns my skin. I feel the friendly hug of a stranger that talks to me only to say hello. I feel the sound of nothingness, of the vastness, of this void filled with everything that surrounds and suffocates me. I feel, I feel, I feel... I feel until it is impossible to not feel anymore, until I get unconscious from feeling so much. I feel with my six senses, as if they were eight, ten, a single one. I close my eyes and breathe. The world could end right here, right now, I would not notice a thing.

Cafayate Canyon, Argentina, July 2009