Flying Carpet

Tea for One

Although Buenos Aires is a big, busy city, people take time out in ways that New Yorkers don´t. One of the things I love is ordering a cup of tea (or coffee) in the afternoon. Many people stop for a refreshment around 6pm, since they don´t eat until 9 or 10. You order a tea, and the waiter brings an entire tray of objects and places them one by one on your table: the cup, saucer and teaspoon; the metal teapot; the teabag in its wrapper or a selection of teas; several packets of sweetener; a napkin; and a small dish of cookies. It costs a dollar or less.

Another thing that surprised me was visiting the doctor. When I called to inquire about an appointment they told me that both of the doctors I had been referred to were booked through at least October. I explained that the problem was somewhat urgent (I´m okay, but b/c of tummy issues I´ve dropped 10 pounds in a month without dieting, and 15 since the summer). They suggested I call the doctor on his direct line and leave a message. That was Friday. On Sunday morning the phone rang at 8:45am. It was Dr. Jorge Schulte returning his messages. We discussed my problem and he instructed me to call the office Monday morning and ask for him so he could tell the receptionist to fit me in, which they did for Wednesday. When I arrived I had to wait more than an hour, but I figured that he was overbooked so that was to be expected. But then when he called me into his examining room, we spent nearly an hour together. In addition to noting my symptoms, asking questions, and examining me, we talked about George Bush, looked over some sheet music that he´s working on for a singing performance (which I plan to attend), and touched on politics.

My cleaning lady, Ani, and I have also become quite friendly. Last week when she came I went out to run errands, and since she was still there when I got back I asked if she´d like a cup of coffee. She didn´t take the cup and keep cleaning but rather sat down, and we had an interesting conversation about how since the ¨crisis,¨ as they call the national financial crash of December 2001, everyone´s standard of living has sunk. She was interested to learn that even in the wealthy U.S., Social Security is not really enough for retired people to live on. This week, we started off with a coffee since I hadn´t had my breakfast yet, and Ani ended up telling me that her son died in a car accident in July. She is devastated, medicated, doing her best to stay strong for her husband, their three older children, and their adopted little boy. She strikes me as someone with a huge heart, who started adopting kids when she was 17 because she felt bad for the orphans she was working with. I really feel for that family. Life can be so damn unfair and sad.

Well, my life these day is very fortunate. Tomorrow I have two features running in the Buenos Aires Herald, with photos that I shot. So the internship is good, I´m meeting people, I´ve started tango lessons, and I´m settling into this city that reminds me a lot of New York in its sophistication and convenience, yet is somehow warmer and more personal. Even the girl who waxed my legs gave me a kiss goodbye! Funny the things you experience when you are more than a tourist.

Happy Spring

Yesterday was the first day of spring in the southern hemisphere, and, in Buenos Aires, the schools were closed to allow students to frolic in the park. As if on cue, the chilly weather suddenly gave way to a summer-like day, and high-school kids (and their parents and little brothers and sisters) flooded Parque Tres Febrero for an afternoon of picnics, bands, impromptu games, and, a favorite pastime, reclining on the grass while smoking a cigarette.

Now, for those of you who are wondering just what I´m doing in South America anyway, I can finally announce that my plan has come to fruition: I am an intern in the newsroom of the Buenos Aires Herald, which is the English-language newspaper that has been published here since 1876. My basic responsibility will be to write feature stories, but I´ll also be taking photographs, sitting in on editorial meetings, and generally being available to help out as needed.

As for describing Buenos Aires, it´s way too big and diverse to attempt an overview, at least not until the end of my stay in late November. So for now I´ll post anecdotes that provide a flavor of this most European of Latin American capitals, where the restaurants are crowded at 11pm on a Tuesday night, where people dance tango in the plazas on Sunday afternoon, and where you are as likely to get immersed in conversation with a bookseller or taxi driver as with a colleague.

I am living in Palermo, one of the middle-class neighborhoods to the north of the city center. Crossing the Avenida Santa Fe takes me to Palermo Viejo, where chic bars and restaurants have revitalized a sleepy old residential area. On the other side of Santa Fe lie the parks, like Tres Febrero, where I go running around the loop with the few other joggers who reside here. A 30-minute walk towards the center brings me to Alto Palermo, one of the toniest areas, full of pricey cafes frequented by ladies who lunch and lined with balconies overflowing with bougainvillea.

Day 5, Machu Picchu

Let´s remember that at 05:00 hrs, it is still dark in the tent. Let´s remember that I stayed up a bit late talking to the British contingent, and that my sleep was interrupted. Let´s also remember that I, having previously noted that my daily prescription medicine is the same size as and a close shade to the little Ambiens that I sometimes take to help me sleep when I´m traveling, transferred the Ambiens to a separate container so I wouldn't make a mistake in the dim dawn. But on the previous evening we had had to pack a mini-bag and leave all our stuff in town. So I had put several types of medicines in one small container.

I think you see where this is going. On the morning I had been waiting for for years, on the day I was finally to see the fabled hidden city of the Incas--the only consruction not to have been sacked by the Spaniards--at the climactic moment of the arduous four-day trek, I accidentally took a sleeping pill and was, well, high. The clue, for me, was when I looked at one of my new friends, and she had two sets of eyes. The hallucinations were not unpleasant, just somewhat distracting as we had an hour to get up, dressed, eat, and board the bus to the ruins.

Apparently I stared at a jar of marmalade for a good three minutes, then had to be helped onto the bus, where I witnessed but completely forgot our giving of tips to the guides. Once at the grand complex, I seemed to make the others quite nervous when I got near a precipice or had to climb some stairs. The mountains were shrouded in mist, which pretty much mirrored the cotton balls in my head. Fortunately the hallucinations did not last, and in little time I was feeling fine, albeit very m-e-l-l-o-w...

The place itself defies description. It was a place of study, of agricultural experimentation, of retreat, and of sacrifice to the gods. I ended up having a rather profound spiritual experience (which I do not believe was drug-induced, thank you very much). It suddenly became clear to me why I had been drawn to this place, and why I had been having some incongruous thoughts during our trek--the kind of heavy thinking that is unrelated to the experience at hand and thus bothersome. At that moment the whole idea of the mountain symbolizing Mother Earth and thus the god of creation made sense in a more-than-intellectual way. I felt that I could ask for what was most dear to my heart. Sitting on a rock outcropping, I sat in the rain, prayed to Pacha Mama, and cried. Call me crazy, but that´s how I felt and that's what I did.

That night, back in Cusco via train and bus, most of the group met in an Irish pub to raise a glass in celebration of our trip. Then we raised a glass at a club called Mythology. Then there were some more glasses at Mama Africa. We were dancing fools. As each person left, we embraced and wished each other well. Some of us may meet again. Most of us will not. But we shared an experience that, in all its difficulty and beauty, we will never forget.

Day 4

05:30 hrs This morning we must not delay. Cesar has warned us that it could take 4 hours to climb up the mountain and another 2 to climb down, and we must arrive at the hydroelectric dam in time for an afternoon train. If we miss the train, it's an 11k walk along the railroad tracks. He cautions anyone who is not feeling great to take the truck around the mountain instead. Four members of the group resign themselves to taking it easy, and the rest of us charge up the mountain as if flames were licking our heels. This time it's not the lack of oxygen that makes my heart pound but the sheer physical exertion. I am drenched with sweat, and it doesn't help when I spill my snack of peanuts and raisins all over the trail--that's what was supposed to keep me going.

Miraculously, everyone makes it to the top in 2 hours, the marathoners in 1.5. Even admitting that he exaggerated a bit, Cesar says most groups take 3 hours to get up the slope. We, especially the 30-somethings, are deservedly proud of pushing ourselves and succeeding. Now, once again, it's the treacherous downhill. I do slip and fall (once another day as well), but it's nothing serious. In fact, over the four days of trekking, despite the parts of the trail that were barely two feet wide with precipitous drops on one side, despite the streams we had to rock-skip to cross, despite the loose soil on the downhills and the randomly shaped rocks strewn about the paths, no one suffers an injury.

At lunchtime we meet up with the people who took the truck and hear their stories of taking a zip line across a gorge, which prospect had almost been enough to make me decide to go with them (but not really). We pile onto a standing-room-only train filled with other dirty trekkers and some normal tourist folk who are taking the route to Aguas Calientes, the base town for seeing Machu Picchu. Apparently the train does not have the engine power to conquer the mountain, so it shifts back and forth, in essence getting a running start every time there is an incline. Pulling into one staion for the third time (once forward, twice backward), really was deja vu all over again.

Tonight is the night we get clean. Well, as clean as one can getting bathing in a sulphur hot springs. I haven't brought a bathing suit, so I improvise one with dark underwear and a tank top. As the sun sets, we rinse off in a naturally hot outdoor shower and then slip into the large pool. The water is opaque, and we doubt its very clean, but it feels so good to soak and rub our feet on the pebbly bottom. When Cesar orders a round of beers, we are in paradise. Our assistant guides, Roger and the quiet but affable Jaime, seem relaxed, too.

That night we finally experience what Cesar has been promising us since the second night--a warm campground. For once I don't need the thermal blanket around my sleeping bag. Okay, so I'm eaten alive by mosquitoes, but you can't have everything at the same time. In the middle of the night, when I hear rain snapping against our tent, I see that Emily's eyes are open and ask her if the tent is waterproof.  Yes, she reassures me, and I fall back asleep. When I remind her of this in the morning, she finds my question quite hilarious. But, hey, before this trip I had only spent one night in a tent, and that was pitched next to the car, which was parked next to the bathrooms. What do I know from roughing it?

Day 3

06:30 hrs Oh the luxury of sleeping in! Today the trail is undulating, giving us a chance to walk and talk over the course of 12k. Cesar tells us his version of the birds and the bees: how the orchids and the hummingbirds are the pollinators of the Andean forest. Without the interaction of these species, he says, there would be no trees.

We arrive at camp in the early afternoong and have time to catch up on our travel diaries. This camp seems to be the common ground of a tiny town marked by a series of houses and bars lining a dirt road, with pigs, chickens, and ducks running around. By now we are used to watching where we step--there is crap all over the trails, so a barnyard is only marginally more challenging. The cap to this evening is the disco, a dirt-floored hut with spinning lights and 80s dance music. We dance and laugh and wonder what the locals think of us crazy gringos.

Day 2

05:30 hrs Awake to the assistant guide, Roger, asking what hot beverage we would like. I opt for tea made from coca leaves, to help with the altitude, and he hands me a tin cup. After breakfast of porridge in the big food tent, we march 250 meters straight up to the pass, at 4550m. The morning started out foggy, but by the time we reach the pass the sun illuminates Salkantay and we are all elated. We made it through the night! We climbed to 14,000 feet!To celebrate, Cesar hands us all wads of coca leaves to chew (bitter, but I got used to it) and then pours a bit of a mysterious liquor into each of our mouths. In this way, we thank the mountain for our safe passage. All around us, people have built cairns to honor the mountain as well.

Now it is time to descend. All day. Hours and hours of knee-pounding trudging through rocky paths until, 16 kilometers later, we reach 2500m in the early evening. That´s lower than we started out. The good news is, we can breathe easily. The bad news is, people are taking an assortment of pain killers. Most people have had some degree of diarrhea, others nausea, backache, sleeplessness, and yet...we are all happy campers. Bobby buys a bunch of beers from the stand at the farm where we camp, and we retire early. (Note, even in the middle of nowhere, where farmers have no electricity or running water and their children are covered in dirt, a stand will pop up selling water, the fruity neon-yellow Inca Cola, and, sorry to say, Coca-Cola.)

Day 1

04:30 hours. The United Mice tour company collects me at my hotel in Cusco, Peru, and I pile into the back of a cramped van for a three-hour drive. When we stop for breakfast, I meet the cast of characters of my trek. They are as follows:
-The married couple John, 45, from England and Manuela, 36, from Switzerland, both hair stylists; she's into Reiki and he´s a history buff.
-The 23-year-old lovebirds Bob and Emma. He´s an engineer on a private yacht and she´s going to graduate school.
-The four American 30-something friends, Eden, Liz, Lisa, and Jen. They are a massage therapist, a puppet-theatre owner, an artist/architect, and (Jen, remind me!)
-The two American 20-something friends, Hope and Allison, who met at architecture school.
-The Norwegians, Thomas and Kirsten, a tech guy and a scientist.
-The American marathoners, Dave and Melissa, who´ve been living in South America for several months but will soon return to Oregon.
-The Czech defector, Bobby, who works in the heating industry and lives in Queens with his Russian wife.
-The flight attendant Michael, 39, who takes adventurous trips every chance he gets.
-The young Australian girl, Emily, who just finished college and put off getting a job to travel for three months. As the other solo female, she was my tentmate.

After a head-bashingly bumpy hour in the vans, we clamber out at around 3500 meters above sea level, strap on our day packs, and start walking. The ground is covered with scrubby yellow grass and the occasional bush, but we are above the tree line. A few ranchers dot the landscape, their cows standing in the middle of the trail and grudgingly moving to let us pass.

The air is thin. Our hearts pound and we are easily winded. We pass by frozen Humantay. The weather is constantly changing, one minute drizzling, the next warm and sunny, then windy, and at dusk, super-cold. By the time we reach the tents where the porters have set up our lunch, around 14:00 hours, I feel like I could almost pass out. Revived by carbs, we charge up the last, very steep, stretch. John and Manuela have altitude sickness and take turns on the rescue white horse, Martina.

At last, the view of the sacred mountain Salkantay is one I will never forget. Towering at 6000 meters, its face is covered with piles of brilliant white snow. The problem is, the temperature is dropping toward freezing and I don´t have a sufficiently warm sleeping bag. Trembling from the cold and desperate, I tell the lead guide, Cesar, that I don´t know how I´m going to make it through the night. He recommends filling my water bottle with hot water. That, together with the plastic thermal blanket that James gave me and the shots of whisky that Hope and Allison gave me, made the night bearable. Waking up at 2:00 am, I needed the toilet tent (a freshly dug hole in the ground) but was loathe to crawl out of my cocoon. Since Emily was awake, too, we gained the courage to go and were thankfully able to fall back asleep. All night long, the avalanches were like distant thunder, actually quite magical.

3400 meters and Climbing

Everyone here in Cuzco drinks tea made from coca leaves, which apparently helps with altitude sickness. As I start my 5-day trek in the morning, I am armed with the leaves and a catalyst that I am supposed to chew. As they say here, ¨la oja de coca no es droga.¨

Cuzco is an interesting blend of cultures. At first, seeing women on the streets, begging silently, with babies swaddled on their backs, distracted me from the city itself. But accepting for the moment that this is an agricultural society that is supplemented by tourism and nothing else, I can look around and see a lovely colonial square, built atop the foundations of the Incan palaces and temples that the Spaniards destroyed when they arrived in 1516. They recognized good engineering and were not averse to dragging those nicely cut basalt stones to make their own buildings.

What´s interesting is that the locals accepted Catholicism and made it their own, for example painting a Last Supper in the cathedral at which Jesus and the disciples are eating roast guinea pig, a local delicacy. Or painting Virgen Marys in tent-like garments that symbolize the mountain or mother earth, Pacha Mama, whom they still revere. So it´s a real mix of faiths, languages, and traditions.

Airplane Diaries, or the Middle Class Desaparecido

Remember in the movie ¨Motorcycle Diaries¨how the young Che Guevara was so moved by the poverty of the various countries and ethnicities in South America that he gave up a career as a doctor and became a pan-national revolutionary? Well, I hate to say it, and, granted, I´ve only seen a tiny portion of this vast continent, but the leadership and the economy are still inadequate to the task. In Buenos Aires, which historically has had one of the most "European" cultures, the taxi driver informed me that there used to be a thriving middle class, of which he was part. These were the people who bought clothes and paid for services. Now, he said, there are only two classes, the rich and the poor. Sound familiar?

Is it beyond the imaginable that the United States could arrive at such a state? Probably. On the other hand, the editorials in the newspapers here are flirting with the sentiment that the USA got its comeuppance with the destruction of New Orleans. Not that anyone is anything less than compassionate for the people who are suffering. But the world has noticed that Bush was on vacation as usual. That the ones who were last to be rescued were black. That the country is spending millions each month on the war in Iraq, while refusing to shore up the dykes in one of its historic cities. And that a large percentage of the National Guard, and its equipment, are thousands of miles away fighting a war that may not be won. The world wants to know: will George W. Bush finally accept that global climate change is a reality? Nah, first he´d have to accept that people, not God, are responsible for what happens on Earth. 

I´m currently in Cuzco, the colonial Spanish capital built over the ruins of the Incan Empire, but more on that tomorrow.

Transit Lounge

Where are you when you´re in the transit area of an international airport? Outside the window I´m facing is the spectacular cordillera of Chile--the white-dusted ridge of mountains that runs north-south along this incredibly narrow country. I can see the snow and feel the chill in the air, but since I´m waiting for a connecting flight to Argentina, I won´t actually set foot in Chile. It´s like being in international waters, albeit with a lot more conveniences, like the Dunkin Donuts behind me and the Internet terminals at which I´m trying to adjust to the Spanish keyboard (close, but not quite).

By 6pm this evening, I should have the keys to my new apartment in Palermo, Buenos Aires...