The Devil Dog-heads of Peru [In Spanish and English]

The Devil Dog-heads of Peru

They swarmed about him, the youth from the northern highlands, the Devil Sect, the jackals of Peru (in the Valley of Recuay); they dragged him into darkness, they meant to do him harm (soon they’d dismember him alive) ‘no mercy,’ would he cry--, only curses as they roasted him alive: like mutton, these devil dog-heads, now long forgotten.

The fire grew, he clinched his fists, iron hands, burned like thick wood, his eyes lighted—inside his head, as he was being cooked alive like bread.

His lungs breathless, a cloudless sky, the morning wind blew fitfully, as he died, died, died, died: everything had a charcoal tint to it, especially where his eyes did lie (outside his head, surrounded by ash), looking up—into a gray brooding sky.


Note: After borrowing, for a short time, one of the devil figurines dated about 200 BC to 800 AD, from the Valley of Recuay; the author was inspired to write this poem concerning the plight of a youth that may have sculptured this figurine, and then became its victim. #1399/7/28/2006


Spanish Version



Las Cabezas de Perros del Diablo de Perú
[Verso con Comentario]


Ellos pulularon alrededor de él, del joven de las tierras altas del norte, la Secta del Diablo, los chacales de Perú (en el Valle de Recuay); ellos lo arrastraron en la oscuridad, ellos querían hacerle daño (pronto lo desmembrarían vivo) 'sin piedad’, él gritaría—, sólo maldiciones mientras ellos lo asaban vivo: como cordero, estos diablos con cabezas de perro, ahora mucho tiempo olvidado.

El fuego creció, él cerró sus puños, manos de hierro, quemadas como madera gruesa, sus ojos encendidos—dentro de su cabeza, mientras él estaba siendo cocinado vivo como pan.

Sus pulmones jadeantes, un cielo despejado, el viento de mañana sopló de manera irregular, mientras él murió, murió, murió, murió: todo tenía un tinte de carbón a esto, especialmente donde sus ojos estuvieron (fuera de su cabeza, rodeados por ceniza), mirando arriba—dentro de un cielo gris meláncolico.


Note: Después de haberse prestado, por una corta temporada, una estatuilla en forma de diablo que data aproximadamente del periodo entre 200 A.C. y 800 D.C. del Valle de Recuay; el autor fue inspirado para escribir este poema acerca de la situación apremiante de una joven que pudo haber esculpido esta estatuilla, y luego convertirse en su víctima.


#1399 28/Julio/2006


Hay muchas culturas en Perú; la de Recuay es de verdad una misteriosa, con cerámicas desde diablos, jaguares, a llamas. Ellos se remontan a 400 antes de Cristo, y este parece haberse desvanecido en la oscuridad alrededor de 800 después de Cristo.

The Amazon: Enchantress [Peru] & La Gran Sabana [Salto Angel]

The Amazon: Enchantress [Peru]
(The river and its jungle)

I would recount the time, your crown, allured:
Your majesty, that charmed me, to yours,


O, wild, beguiled, Enchantress River
Your lore and years and livelihood reigns.


With lazy waters, easy sways your trees
Proudly like a child, twilight sings victory,


Along the banks of your jaunty breasts
So rests, triumphantly—my earthly flesh.


Your sweeping wide skirt, of blue and green
Laden with boats, combined animals scenes,


A treasure chest, filled with wondrous things,
You are the sweeping Amazon—Enchantress …!


#1131 1/31/06

La Gran Sabana [Salto Angel]

(Advance) I left the madness of the city to seek out the jungle of the Gran Sabana that melts into Amazonas in the year 2000—(year of ‘Beast’ for me). How shall I tell you what I’ve learned? Its beauty is out of the order of the mind—a strange beauty indeed; thus, the verse blended in this poem here is the labor of a dim eye (a clap of the eye also), in the back of my mind:

1

I did not go to the Gran Sabana over Angel Falls, for joy, or for the burning stars at night; nor did I expect to see mountains called: Tepuis—towering over the highlands, and its virgin terrain (a lost world, I do maintain). But rather, I went for quietness, which covered my wishful eyes. But joy I found in natures wonders, amongst the winking star-lit-nights;--the Jungle!

2

O, yes, I’ve trekked through her rainforest; sat on the edge of her towering peaks, looking up and down, Angel Falls (3000-feet). Walked her plateaus, descended her cliffs, retuning to civilization—with an uplift. She is timeless, par excellence, to anything on earth; in the vein of a wonders dream!

End Notes: the jungles of Venezuela, where I was, were three areas enmesh: we have the Gran Sabana, but also we have what is called Amazonas. The Gran Sabana meshes as others do, into the Amazon Basin. It is different than the Peruvian area where the Amazon River is —and its thick rainforest beyond its banks. Here you will also find the Orinoco Basin, again I say, enmeshed: again I say together, for there are no fences, as if thrown into a bowel of soup. This area was undisturbed by white men until the 1980s; there are a number of ethnic groups in this area, Amazonas, I saw a few groups, with their dug out boats, going about their business, as I was going about mine, and I did not invade their privacy. In contrast, the Peruvian Jungle and Amazon River, I went to, and down, and inland, I did join a few communities, observing their dwellings within the jungle, their habitat, customs, way of life for the most part, by invitation. This area, the Gran Sabana is right out of Mr. Doyle’s story “The Lost World”; most incredible.

Summer Poems out of Peru: 2006 [English and Spanish]

1)Pablo of Lima (Poetic Prose)


She was on an airplane, she told me, when she first met him, my friend, I will call him Pablo, Pablo of Lima, it is not his name of course his real name of course, but then what kind of friend would I be, should I give his real name—indeed, not a friend at all.

Her name, Teresa, somebody. I met her at a house party, Pablo of Lima, a house with no name, Pablo of Lima, I should announce before hand. She was mad, as Pablo walked around greeting his friends, rich and poor alike. I asked her,

“Ms Teresa, why are you so mad at Pablo?” even Pablo was not aware of it at this time.

She explained:

“We were on the plane, he sat next to me, second class, and he talked briefly, told me about himself, what he wanted to tell that is, where he came from, grew up, his family, he did leave out how rich he was. And he talked about his friends, so many friends and so forth and on. He invited me to this party, where of course I met you. And before I met you, I sat over there (she’s pointing now at a chair), and a woman came in, laid down on the rug, right in front of me, flirted like a lesbian, and I asked her ‘Are you flirting with me, are you a lesbian, why are you checking me out from the side of your eyes? The girl didn’t say a word, just moved away from me, that’s all, no more. I said to myself, Teresa: now what kind of party is this? Then realized how rich he was.”

That is what Teresa told me, now she’s looking at me for an answer (but she was not telling me something, she kept glancing over to a picture of Pablo on the mantel, one of his youth with his mother: Pablo of Lima), as other guests arrive, many I knew, like Juan and his brother from the “Favorite Café,” in Lima; and Carmen, owner of the Travel Agency [Cuarzo] I often use, as does Pablo, her husband tried to sell me an office for my writing downtown in Lima, it didn’t work out though; Pablo had introduced her to me six-years ago. And I notice Manuel, he is a preacher from the same church Pablo, my wife and I go to, in Miraflores.

Hernan, from the Café ‘El Parquetito’ is here now at the party, and so is Ms Cecilia from Bancode Crediato, and Efrain Saavedra, Consul General of Peru, are all here, along with Martina Gomez Garibay, Cosmiatra; A. Alexis Garcia, owner of the Cafe Habana, a painter equally, a rich painter in a way; and Chusty a poor painter from the streets; Jessica Avalos LL, Abogada, my lawyer in Lima. Dr. Philip M. Ramp (and his wife), professor at the University of Minnesota of Economics, showed up also, he was Pablo professor too, for a while that is, until he got rich. Enrique, my brother-in-law showed up along the mayor of San Jeronimo Jesus Vargas, and Jose Luis from the Radio; Claudia from Colombia, Bogotá, a guide tour, both myself, wife and Pablo got to know quite well.

And there were many more, like the Bread man of Miraflores, and the Papaya man, and the Negrito and his son, little Negrito: yes, the rich, poor and not so rich and poor, like me, were all invited, and here was this young lady mad at Pablo, looking at me for some kind of answer. I looked Teresa in the eyeballs, stern and steady, “What is it?” I asked, “…what, what do you want, expect out of Pablo? I mean he invited you to his party, you were simply someone he met, liked, invited to a party, I think?”

I had to add those last two words in because I was becoming doubtful about this situation.

“No,” said Teresa, “there is more too it than that,” then added, “when I was thirteen, I was poor; I’ve not reached much higher since. Pablo was from my neighborhood in Lima he and his family were poor also, we were all poor, he had sex with me, he was nineteen-years old then—about five years older than me; when you are young, five years is a long time; anyhow, I was just a kid, he was a little more than that. Oh, I don’t necessarily think he took advantage of me, no more than anyone in the neighborhood at the time, we all liked him. All us girls, he was the neighborhood hero, everyone looked up to him, wanted to touch him. He sang on the guitar, and we all dreamed of going to bed with him, or at least I did, and a few of my friends; then one day he disappeared. I hadn’t seen him for…until the plane… that is! Life is unfair, it is just unfair; anyhow, it’s been of course, twenty-years or so, I’m 33-years old, and he’s got to be at least 40-or a little less. And he became successful, and I know I’ve been used quite a lot, had a lot of boyfriends, not very pretty anymore, heavy I suppose, I had two children, they are gone on their own now, none by him of course, but why can’t he take me now, why should I not have him as a rich man—he could marry me—he loves God, and I could learn; he once took me as a poor girl? I don’t understand, life is unfair; He doesn’t even recognize me.”

Just then, I noticed Pablo behind her, he was there all the time, heard everything she said, Teresa turned around, seeing I was staring at something, I looked dumbfound for sure; he said calmly, in his smooth and worldly way:

“If only you knew what my life was like, you’d not be so harsh on me; it was not all riches after I left the neighborhood, as you may think, as you seem to have presented here in your monologue to my friend; it all came at a price, much heavier than your idioms and thinking; your resentments, your feeling cheated in life—a heavy price indeed. While you were doing whatever you were doing, I was in a war—killed people, as people tried to kill me; I was on the streets of the world drunk trying to find my way back home, whatever way it was I can’t remember it all, I didn’t find it for a decade or two; and there were many ways, painful ways—roads I took; I ended up in whorehouses, sick in the hospitals, dying once, or was it twice, can’t remember so well, much of it was hell; all, it all wasn’t so nice.

I had four children, lost three of them; many times I was hungry, wanted to steal but I didn’t: drunk in the grass, was much of my past. I paid a dear price for my experience, nothing is free, not even dying, and we must even pay the morgue, oftentimes before the taxman comes.

I have been in court a hundred times, yes, indeed, all at a dear price; a weak heart, and an eye for the greedy willing to take it all away at the clap of an eye, at any price: the robber always wants what you have. You can sleep and not worry about him, I cannot. Being poor is not a good thing, nor being rich, perhaps in-between like our mutual friend here, and his wife (meaning me). But if you should want my money—because it is my money you want, not me, if it was me you wanted, I kept the same name, I’m not hard to find, so it is money we are talking about not old times—you then must go back and live my life: and that I doubt you are willing to do.”

Having said all that, he just turned away, and walked back to his guests, greeted them, and I bid the lady goodbye.

A Poetic Prose Story: #1288 3/26/2006 (provoked by a dream, part real)



2) Pigeons at La Favorita Cafe (A Poem)


Faintly, a scene of effects unfolds, awakens the eyes


And is soon forgotten, as it dies: the pigeons prance


Around parked cars, by the Café Favorita’s tables


in Lima, Peru!


Then they take off in flight, some remain, and prance under cars,


Out of sight: as they move in and out (the café is boarding


the street in Miraflores).


They prance, prance: pecking at crumbs on the ground,


Slowly winged, unhastening (as zooming cars pass by).


I watch these pigeons melt into the scene


nobody really notices them, but me…!


#1307 Written at the La Favorita Café, in Lima, Peru 4/8/06, while I was having coffee during the evening outside, with several tables full of Peruvians talking, drinking, eating; a TV in the Café going on, sports, news, etc. A mellow evening, and the I got focused on the pigeons for some reason. Perhaps something no one really notices, or if they do, it is almost subconsciously. And so I noticed life buzzing around me, the cars, at the tables of the café, the pigeons, it all makes for a complete package to a closing evening. The cool breeze, for it is fall in Lima now and the ocean is but a half mile away, the winds from the ocean seep up the streets, and impose their presence upon everyone. Sometimes I wonder why people eat or drink coffee inside cafes if they can go outside, it is perhaps one of the pleasures I have living here in Peru; after living in Minnesota most all my life, and having to eat inside seven months out of the year, it is a treat to breath in real air, instead of shifted air from the facility.




3) Last Triumph in Cajamarca (A Poem)

Weep for the one you slay today! The one you found at last. Mourn for Atahualpa, for war has come and passed—; It was he who flamed the hearts so deep, with heroic

Breath, and now—

Now Pizarro’s sword is laid and armor hangs in the house

Of Cajamarca…. Weep for the one so swift to slay, whom they shall hang

Today—in Cajamarca!

#1305 4/8/06 Note: Atahualpa, was king of the Incas, perhaps the most noted one in Inca history, or one of the most famous Incas at least. He was killed in Cajamarca, Peru, in the 16th Century, and of course there are many legends that surround his last days; those days in a Spanish Prison, in this Northern Peruvian city. I suppose, if the city is famous for anything, it is famous more for the death and incarceration of Atahualpa, than anything else. I am not here to judge history, or to say how bad the Spanish were, or how cruel the Incas were. And I’m sure we could point fingers at both of them for their atrocities, for the Inca Empire did not acquire its grand conquering status (likened to the Romans) by being less cruel than the Spanish, but it was Atahualpa, who was the headlines of the day, and all the gold the Inca world could gather, did not save him.

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com Poeta Laureado de la ciudad de San Jeronimo en Peru

4) The Papaya Man, He carts his fruits and vegetables around with an antique motorcycle-drawn-cart: papayas, grapes, oranges, this and that, so forth and on. He broadcasts his coming from house to house by way of a loudspeaker: up and down and around my casa [my house], in San Juan Miraflores (Lima, Peru): he looks up at me, as I’m looking down at him, from my second story window, he stops…got my attention, he is better than a security guard, knows what is happening around him.

He wears a blue rosary around his thick brown neck, short in stature, broad and robust; he looks kindly at my wife, now looking at the fruit and vegetables: he picks out the biggest and most yellowish-green papaya—weights it, he is smiling; ah! he made the sale, blessed be to the rosary.

He then starts his motor-cart back up again (it is 11:30 AM); not sure how it stirs, no handlebars, but nonetheless, he stirs it away, and down the street he sways, hands on the side of the cart…! The moment has passed, God has feed, both him and my wife, and perhaps me tonight!

#1287 3/24/2006 Note by the author. The nice thing about Peru, and Lima, is the old traditions are still alive, especially if you live here; the Papaya Man, the Bread Man, the Soda man, and so for and so on, come around and sell their goods, like it used to be back in the United States in the 50s.


5) Negrito, Little Negrito (In English and Spanish)

Negrito, and his son, little Negrito (and often with his wife) walk the streets, collect trash; not sure what they do with it: bike-wheel attached to a cart behind its back, up and down the streets of Miraflores they walk, sound a horn, let folks know they’re coming, put trash scraps in their cart—move on.

He is a simple man I see, plain, small, three children I have learned, a wife that cares. He, like me came out of a mother naked, and both of us will be naked when we return: the main difference, my mother was born in America, I suppose. Other than that, I don’t know.

All around him are brown people, he is black I am white. I hired him today, in the middle of the heat, he and his children to clean, to clean up the garbage behind our home. Gave him water and a coke, a hat for his child, a towel, and twenty-soles. He said he didn’t need it, the towel, he was black already: looking at his dirt covered hands.

He will come back Monday, this prideful man, a man of God, to sweat some more, to make a few more dollars: cut the branches off our tree, it is almost hanging over our doorframe. There is no black silo inside of him; he is pure man, with a shadow, lean, like so many in Peru, just trying to make a living.

#1282 3/18/06 Prose Poetry. Negrito, of Miraflores, so he is known, his real name is Mark, not sure if he knows he is called Negrito, but no one seems to hide the nick name, yet, he is called Mark to his face. He seems pleasant enough, and being black is not a bourdon to him, like it seems to be to so many in the United States; he seems to go along with God’s calling, and does not give off that ore of: intolerance, as so many blacks in America do today. And so I thought this little sketch of a man I met once and will meet again, would be of interest to my readers.

Spanish Version
Translated by: by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Negrito, Pequeño Negrito
(San Juan de Miraflores; Lima, Peru)

Negrito, y su hijo, pequeño Negrito (y a veces con su esposa) caminan las calles, recogen basura; no estoy seguro que hacen con esto: carruaje atado detrás de este con una bicicleta con ruedas, arriba y debajo de las calles de Miraflores ellos andan, sonido de una bocina, hacen saber a la gente que ellos están viniendo, poner restos de basura en su carruaje—continuar yendo.

El es un hombre simple yo veo, plano, pequeño, tres hijos me entere, una esposa que se preocupa. El, como yo vino desnudo de una madre, y ambos estaremos desnudos cuando volvamos: la mayor diferencia, mi madre nació en América, me imagino. Otra cosa aparte de esta, no lo se.

Todos alrededor de el son personas bronceadas, el es Negro y yo soy blanco. Lo contrate hoy día, en el medio del calor, a el y su hijo para limpiar, para limpiar la basura detrás de nuestra casa. Le di a el agua y Coca Cola, un sombrero para su hijo, una toalla, y veinte-soles. El dijo que el no necesitaba esto, la toalla, dijo que ya era negro: mirando a sus manos cubiertas con suciedad.

El volverá el lunes, este orgulloso hombre, un hombre de Dios, para sudar algo más, ganar unos cuantos dólares más: cortar las ramas de nuestro árbol, que esta casi colgándose encima del marco de nuestra puerta. No hay rasgos de negro dentro de el; el es un hombre puro, con una sombra, delgado, como muchos en Perú, solo tratando de ganarse la vida.

#1282 18/Marzo/2006 Poema en Prosa. Negrito, de Miraflores, así el es conocido, su nombre verdadero es Marco, no estoy seguro si el sabe que lo llaman Negrito, nadie parece ocultar este apodo, sin embargo, el es llamado Marco en su cara. El parece suficientemente agradable, y ser negro no es un problema para el, como parece ser para muchos en los Estados Unidos; el parece que va de acuerdo con los llamados de Dios, y no da muestras de: intolerancia, como muchos de los negros en América lo hacen hoy. Y por eso pensé que este sketch pequeño de un hombre que conocí una vez y lo volveré a ver de nuevo, seria interesante para mis lectores.


6) The Kuelap Bum (of the Amazonas) - A Poem


Come; share a wild Kuelap Bum’s sunny afternoon—

I sit here, sipping my coffee and coke waiting for my pollo saltado

[Chicken with potatoes and rice),

And hear voices, cars pass: sounds, coming from iron motors Like purring cats and roaring mice, with squeaky feet for tires, race

Racing around the café (El Parquetito, in Miraflores)) Lima)), Around the streets and park—; the sun boiling overhead, as I’m

Reading Jack Kerouac’s: “The Dharma Bums,”—I feel like one.

My date to return back into the Amazonian region—this time to the

Andean-jungle—is in five days. My mind is excited, here is Where come my beautiful visions of grassy slopes, by the Nevados,

And there ahead in front of me, are the ancient ruins of Kuelap I can even see the wild warriors of antiquity: the Chachapoyas,

Fight the Incas in the wild deep, deep Andean-jungles of Peru.

I like the incredible peace here, lost in a maze of thoughts, looking for

No certain highway I can sweat, drink my coke and coffee in peace, while I write and dream…and get ready for my next journey.

#1283 3/23/2006 Note by the author: I have been to the Andes and to the Amazon, and even to the Amazonas as they are known for their sections, ranging from Equator to Peru, and Brazil and Venezuela, of which I have been to all these regions or sections except one, the one I am dreaming about, and will go in five days to, to what is known as the Andean-Amazonian region, where elevation is part of the jungle equation, not so in the other regions. Thus, here is where the “Forgotten Fortress,” is located, similar to the ‘Great Enclosure,’ in Zimbabwe. The Forgotten Fortress dates back to about 800 AD.


7)The Chachapoyas (a poem)


[And the ‘Forgotten Fortress´]

Advance: I don’t even know these people I talk about, I’ve seen the landscape they’ve lived on, rushed through, gritting their ivory teeth before they warred with the Inca’s in the 16th century (this pre-Inca civilization). But the more one studies this great civilization, the more one admires its fantastic powers of visualization, its psychic rulers, and wild bull like hearts, and the great fortress (labyrinth) they built in the middle of the Andean-jungles of Peru (walking through it one can only hold their breath in awe: breath in its life-death patriarchal society.

Today, the Chachapoya still carry on in this area, with its pottery, and tapestry, garments, all highly prized; at onetime they worked for the Incas, and like today, gave them high quality.

The Poem:

In the Andean-jungle—the Chachapoya’s (the tree-cloud people) Of the ‘Forgotten Fortress,’ of Kuelap (Amazonas de Peru) once

lived here—twelve-hundred years ago—perhaps 2000- or more Lived in this straddled low-land jungle citadel —; bold and free:

cadaverous war like people, spirit filled: more fierce than the Inca.

Here is where they lived—in Kuelap, in limestone houses: under

conical thatched roofs—; Houses of limestone masonry, in mud mortar plaster like tombs:

painted in rainbow colors; few if any windows.

The ravages of time have sadly, seen the looting of the detailed:

elaborate funerary architecture of the Chachapoya race—; Once decorated in rainbow shades, zigzag friezes, in cliff like caves.

#1287 3/20/2006


8)A Simple Day in Lima


The mist is seeping off the ocean coast in Lima—seeping I say, seeping up and into Milaflores Park, by the café: El Parquetito this sunny, Tuesday afternoon, where I am having my coffee and coke, sitting back absorbing the moment, writing this down for you. Other than that, doing nothing, nothing, I say, nothing at all.

Somewhere in the background the nation’s song is being played, and what really is going through my mind on this sunny day is: who will ever remember this one simple day.

My wife is reading the book: “Last Autumn and Winter,” poems out of Minnesota, and all around her the world seems busy, hot, sounds with entities of life. No potholes, like in Minnesota to worry about, or eleven inches of snow overnight, just an ocean a few blocks away, and sunny days.

The park is green, the fog has reached it now, it is also reaching me, in El Parquetito, but it will fade with the heat of the day, it always does. Romina is serving us today (she is young and happy, always smiling, goes to school in the evenings); Rosa will have Cebiche, for me, Lasagna.

I like the watching, listening, smells of the surrounding actions and motions of the café, I feel like I am underwater, watching everything, like an invisible alien. Ah! but who will remember a simple day like this, if I don’t write about it?

1288 3-22-2006

Karajia’s Sarcophagus (Northern Peru/March, 2006)

Karajia, in the Amazonas of Peru (Chachapoyas)

1

Down the road about a mile and a quarter, down its rocky slope to a cliff area, scrambled rocks of all sorts linger about imbedded in the mud from the rains two days previous. Down this path, or trail resides the famous Karajia site, of the Chachapoyas from 800-years ago, or at least their remains, and their standup coffins in the shape of odd looking hollow statues of their ancestors, or perhaps themselves, where their remains rest in a fetus position in the center of these hollow statues: embedded into the cave of the cliff. Here six- sarcophagi remain looking west, down toward the valley below, where the river runs.

We all, all five of us are in the middle of the Northern Amazonas of Peru; we’ve struggled through the mud to get to the bottom of the road here, the path that is, tumbling along the side fields of corn and potatoes fields (of this long enduring mud path), and at times we had to walk along the inner side of these vegetable farms, for the grass was more solid than the deep rooted mud packed trail, which had big fissures we had to step over, around, or walk through.

Then we crossed over to the rocky bridge, where the cliffs are, and below us, the valley is. But it is the cliffs that are home to the sarcophagus, called Karajia (also spelled with a ‘C’). Henceforward, we climbed down further looking up and there they were (a few minutes ago: as I take these notes whenever I can), the sarcophagus, all six of them with three skulls, two above them, one on the cliff floor, beside them.

Upon knowing around the bend the site would be, I leaped to see it, walked up and down the side of cliff to get a better view. [Now I making my notes again.]

Stone Seats (Karajia)

A mummy is sitting in a stone cave, perhaps fifty-feet up and into, and onto the cliff, as if it is watching over the site, and the valley at the same time, as if it is the guardian; as if he’s in a theater—and to its right, three more tombs are standing upright, as if they were statues, not as impressive as Karajia’s six, but worth a moment of my time.

[Written afterwards] In a blink of the eye, one could see this whole arrangement. We, the archeologist and I tried to figure out how they got down into the cave to cultivate such a scene. My suggestion was: perhaps they built a tunnel on top of the Mesa above them, and used a ladder to bring down the tombs, and placed them accordingly; it sounded better than trying to lug them up that cliff. In any case, they could fill the tunnel back up, and cover the spot, and no one would be the wiser. In eight hundred years, perhaps other rocks would crisscross, blocking the tunnels once hollowness, or once dugout dirt, making it harder like it previously was; or perhaps they threw rocks back into the tunnel and filled it up with soft dirt. But like everything, or almost everything, it was a theory, and we all had one.

I could see the river below, the Urcubamba; I was full of pure happiness, gladness to have made such a hard trip. I could not make it back up that road, my condition was not good, thus, we found a young man with a horse, and he rented it to me for 10 s/. Double the price he usually got, and to boot, he made the cane for me to assist me in my daily adventure further, and it helped.

2

The Rio Urcubamba

As I looked down upon the river Urcubamba—running back through the gorges, into unpeopled water-land, everything around me was drying up from a heavy rains two days ago, and as a result, everything was sparkling green and healthy looking. All the different shades of green faded into the snake-like canyon, where the river was. I kept thinking: here I was up on this cliff, with 800-year-old mummies buried in shell like tombs, a breeze shifting the heat, warm air pushing warm air, the closer one gets into this environment, the more enmeshed he becomes with nature, the more spiritual he feels with the world.

Back in St. Paul

I wondered what everyone was doing back at the bookstore in St. Paul (Roseville), Minnesota (At the Har Mar Mall, Barns and Noble, bookstore café: Gene, and Gary and Sue and the Professor, and Johannes, and Cindy, and Jerry the Café manager, and Erica: oh, the whole lot of them, all book lovers, and Jessica and Tom and Kathy, all bookworms) had they come with me, they’d be enjoying this moment. I picked up my thoughts and moved on, looked for that young man with a horse ready to bring me back up that muddy pathway to the small village we had originally parked our vehicle at. (Then made some notes in my notebook).

Poggi and the Cannibals [Part 1 of 3: Poggi and Nelly] In English & Spanish

It is not a matter of choosing a time when the psyche of man (usually because of aging) goes haywire, and during this gap in a man’s life, or call it his changing of life, likened to the changing of seasons, he looks at opportunities; hoping to escape for one more run down youth’s lane. The man knows there is perhaps only one more chance to appear in the unrepentant world of youth; thus he must face fight or flight. Most do not leave the homestead, or comfort of the campsite to journey to the unknown, or unsafe areas, save they have plan A and B in place. Henceforward, he escapes, calls it what he wants, perhaps Indian summer, and goes astray, like a woman in menopause. Goes astray and does strange things. His body is changing, he wants to be young again (and he thinks he can), and like the young characters he watches on TV, the sports in particular: smooth bodies, muscles popping out: he can do it, just once more, this is the time, the one and only chance, if he is going to take it, it must be now or never.

Nelly, Poggi’s wife (a good woman, and hard to find), and even Poggi is unaware he is going through this stage of life. Who wants to admit it even if you know it, it is a launching pad for escapism, to live in the forbidden, the imaginary world; thus, in Lima they live a happy life, or as happy as they can make it. He once was a prominent psychologist, not so prominent nowadays, but surely infamous for his past exploits. And so this is where our story begins.

2 Poggi and the Cannibals

3 Rescue From the Jungle

In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Poggi y los Caníbales

1

Poggi y Nelly

Esto no es un asunto de escoger un tiempo cuando la psique de hombre (por lo general debido a la edad) va torcido, y durante este espacio en la vida de un hombre, o llámelo a ello su cambio de vida, comparada con el cambio de estaciones, él ve en ocasiones; esperanza de escaparse por el sendero de su juventud agotada. El hombre sabe que quizás hay solo una posibilidad más para aparecer en el impenitente mundo de la juventud; así él debe afrontar la lucha o el vuelo. La mayoría no abandona la casa, o la comodidad del campamento para viajar a las áreas desconocidas, o inseguras, salvo que ellos tengan un plan A ó B en su lugar.

De ahí en adelante, él se escapa, llama lo que él quiere, quizás el veranillo de San Martín, y se equivoca, como una mujer en la menopausia. Se equivoca y hace cosas extrañas. Su cuerpo esta cambiando, él quiere ser joven otra vez (y él piensa que él puede), y como los caracteres jóvenes él mira por la TV, los deportes en particular: cuerpos lisos, músculos que revientan hacia fuera: él puede hacerlo, solamente una vez más, este es el tiempo, la primera y única oportunidad, si él va a tomarlo, debe ser ahora o nunca.

Nelly, la esposa de Poggi (una mujer buena, y difícil de encontrar), y hasta Poggi es inconsciente que él esta yendo a través de esta etapa de su vida. Quien quiere admitirlo incluso si usted lo sabe, esto es una almohadilla de lanzamiento para la evasión, vivir en lo prohibido, el mundo imaginario; así, en Lima ellos viven una vida feliz, o tan feliz como ellos pueden hacerlo. Él alguna vez fue un psicólogo prominente, no tan prominente hoy en día, pero seguramente tristemente célebre para sus proezas pasadas. Y Así esto es donde nuestra historia comienza.

2 Poggi y los Caníbales

3 Rescate de la Selva

2 Poggi y los Caníbales: Los Caníbales

" Ellos te comerán”, dijo Víctor, a Poggi, así la esperanza desilusionada de ser liberados de los caníbales en las selvas profundas de Atalaya (por la Selva de Satipo, en Perú) lo abrumaron, pero ¿De dónde vendría esto?

"¿Qué podemos hacer?” Dijo Poggi (casi listo para correr ahora, correr ¿Dónde?-en esta oscuridad profunda de la selva era una pregunta retórica traída delante de él mismo; esto desde luego sería la pregunta sin contestar; pregunta de aclaración).

Había quizás, 200 caníbales nativos en la tribu, el Ashaninca. Ahora para ser comidos hasta su piel y posiblemente sus huesos, su carne, por estos monstruos, no pareciendo correcto; sin embargo el dejo a su familia por un capricho, idiosincrasia, excentricidad, solo un poco mas allá y salio, y terminó en la selva, viajó a esta tierra por cualquier motivo, esta tierra horrible de hombres que comen primates, siniestro como era, lo fue: por qué, pues esto tiene sus propias motivaciones, como lo he dicho en la primera parte de esta historia.

Entonces aquí el estaba, en la profundidad de la selva (lo profundo), el año era 1994, esto podría ser un año largo de verdad; sus fosas nasales llenas del aire de selva; caídas de agua corriendo salvajemente como pasillos interminables por todas partes; los sonidos del agua y pájaros por todas partes. Era algo así, ello era un nuevo mundo extraño sin lugar a dudas.

Excéntrico, quizás fue él, no es un pecado ser así; valiente, de verdad fue él, para quien abrigaría tal sueño; entonces Víctor dijo, estando de pie delante de los líderes tribales, susurrando a Poggi, dijo en una voz baja, muy baja, con un pequeño pájaro en sus manos [que él sostenía], “Usted debe matar este pájaro delante de todos, no sea que, usted les dé el tiempo para comerle, ¿verdad?

“Este era un pájaro diminuto seguro, silbando una melodía sin embargo, y un pájaro tan dulce como ese, sin embargo producía miedo en los nativos mas fuertes, era conocido elegir cuidadosamente, y arrancar hacia fuera los globos oculares de sus amados. Quizás el amor era una palabra fuerte aquí: sus compañeros.

Poggi miró alrededor, los nativos estaban riendo (él aprendería en el siguiente año que ellos se reían todo el tiempo, como el mono, todo el tiempo, moviéndose, riendo “¡já!, ¡já!, ¡já!…” ellos lo gritaron hacia fuera constantemente, con lanzas en la mano, rió el uno con el otro, no seguro de que se reían ellos, solamente riéndose como almas perdidas, como idiotas; pintados como diablos, como él estaría en algún tiempo.

Ahora todos ellos miraban a Víctor y Poggi (Víctor había demostrado ser un amigo temeroso, y no estaba en ningún peligro, como estaba Poggi).

Comer los globos oculares de la gente, ¿verdad?” Pregunto Poggi, como si para tenerlo claro (una pregunta retórica de lo mejor).

“¡Crack…!” fue el cuello del pájaro; Poggi lo había torcido, rompió su cuello, y salvó su vida en las manos de estos diablos cadavéricos de la selva. Él miró el pájaro, como si este silbaría otra vez, pero desde luego no era así, y él sabía esto. Y todos los nativos lo miraron, él era uno de ellos ahora. Él se pintó comparado con su clase, y vivió con ellos durante un año.

Salvado de la Selva

Avance: Jaime Bayli: El comentarista de TV, y Nelly, la esposa de Poggi, fueron buscando a Poggi, queriendo encontrarlo, rescatarlo vía helicóptero. Bayli quiso una entrevista con él, y pagó los gastos para encontrarlo.

Saliendo una vez mas dentro de la luz de pleno sol, estaba Poggi, después de un año en las entrañas de la selva, comparada con un encarcelamiento largo, él ahora fue rescatado por helicóptero - Nelly, su esposa Nelly y Bayli habían alquilado a un piloto y habían discrepado en el área de campo, habían obligado devolver a su alejado marido a regresar a casa en Lima; él parecía salvaje, cuando ellos lo vieron, acostumbrado a como se veía hace un año eso es: él había cambiado.

El follaje de las cosas crecientes de la selva desapareció mientras el helicóptero ascendió entre la espesura de las nubes, en su camino de regreso a Lima. Él estaba ahora en el mundo superior Usted podría decir. Recapturado por el comentarista y su esposa. Él limpió sus ojos para mirar a Nelly; ella era realmente la única que pareció entenderlo.

Debajo de ellos un bosque poderoso se hizo historia para ser escrita (esta historia quizás)) aun más quizás para ser escrito)), una entrevista en grabación. Mientras ellos se acercaron a Lima, uno podría ver la neblina de Océano Pacífico, y a media distancia estaba lima, extendido como un cóndor. Nelly apuntó hacia la ciudad, inconscientemente la felicidad era casi completa para ella, y Jaime podría ver esto en sus acciones, en su constancia.

[¿Vacilantemente] “Tú no vas a tratar de volver a la Selva ¿verdad? " ella preguntó a su marido.

"Mira", gritó él, sus ojos encontraron su figura, “Dios me dio a ti”, él exclamó (entonces llegó a perderse por palabras), y mientras su voz era un susurro, él se abalanzo a sus brazos [rápidamente].







Poggi and the Cannibals [Part 2 of 3: The Cannibals]


“They will eat you,” said Victor, to Poggi, then un-expectant hope of deliverance from the cannibals in the deep jungles of Atalaya (by Satipo Jungle, in Peru) overwhelmed him but where would it come from?

“What can we do?” said Poggi (almost ready to run now, run where—in this dark deep jungle was a rhetorical question he brought forward to himself; it of course would be the unanswered question; statement-question).

There were perhaps, 200-native cannibals to the tribe, the Ashaninca. Now to be eaten out of his skin and perchance bones, his flesh, by these monsters, just didn’t seem right; yet he left his family on a quirk, idiosyncrasy, eccentricity, just up and left, that was it, no advise, or where he was going, just up and left and ended up in the jungle, journeyed to this land for whatever reasons, this hideous land of man eating primates, sinister as it was, it was: why, well, it has its own motivations, as I have said in the first part of this story.

So here he was, in the underworld of the jungle (the deep), the year was 1994, it would be a long year indeed; his nostrils filled with the jungle air; water falls running wild like unending corridors everywhere; sounds of water and birds everywhere. It was if anything, it was a strange new world undeniably.

Eccentric, perhaps he was, not a sin to be so; brave, indeed he was, for who would cherish such a dream; then Victor said, standing in front of the tribal leaders, whispered to Poggi, said in a low, very low voice, with a small bird in his hands [he was holding], “You must kill this bird in front of everyone, lest, you give them time to eat you, should you not.”

It was a tiny bird for sure, whistling a tune nonetheless, and a cut bird at that, yet it bestowed fear in the strongest of the natives, it was known to pick, and pluck out the eyeballs of their loved ones. Perhaps love is a strong word here: their comrades.

Poggi looked about, the natives were laughing (he would learn in the next year they laughed all the time, like monkey’s, all the time moving, laughing ‘ha, ha, ha…’ they bellowed it out constantly, with spears in hand, laughed with each other, not sure what they were laughing at, just laughing like lost souls, like idiots; painted up like devils, as he would be in time.

Now they were all looking at Victor and Poggi (Victor had proven himself to be a fearful friend, and was in no danger, as was Poggi).

“Eat the eyeballs out of humans, do they?” asked Poggi, as if to have it clarified (a rhetorical question at best).

‘Crack…!’ went the bird’s neck; Poggi had twisted it, broke its neck, and saved his life at the hands of these cadaverous jungle devils. He looked at the bird, as if it would whistle again, but of course it would not, and he knew that. And all the natives looked at him, he was one of them now. He painted himself likened to their kind, and lived with them for a year.




Poggi and the Cannibals [Part 3 of 3: Salvaged From the Jungle]


Advance: Jaime Bayli: TV commentator, and Nelly, Poggi’s wife, went looking for Poggi, wanting to find him, rescue him via helicopter. Bayli wanted an interview with him, and paid the expenses to find him.

Emerging one more time into the light of the full sun, was Poggi, after a year in the bowels of the jungle, likened to a long incarceration, he was now rescued by helicopter —Nelly, his wife Nelly and Bayli had hired a pilot and dissented into the camp area, compelled to bring back her estranged husband back home to Lima; he looked wild, when they saw him, accustomed to how he looked a year ago that is: he had changed.

The foliage of growing things of the jungle disappeared as the helicopter-ascended into the thick of the clouds, on their way back to Lima. He was now in the upper world you could say. Recaptured by the commentator and his wife. He wiped his eyes to look at Nelly; she was really the only one who seemed to understand him.

Below them a mighty forest became a story to be written (this story perhaps)) more perhaps to be written yet)), an interview in the makings. As they got close to Lima, one could see the haze from the pacific, in the distanced, faintly, then they descended, and in the mid-distance was Lima, spread out like a condor. Nelly pointed to the city, unknowingly, happiness was almost complete for her, and Jaime could see this in her actions, in her constancy.

[Hesitantly] “You’re not going to try to go back to the Jungle are you?” she asked her husband.

“Look,” he cried, his eyes found her figure, “God gave you to me,” he exclaimed (then became lost for words), and as his voice went to a whisper, he leaped into her arms [swiftly].

Chachapoya Countryside & Boyish Hopes and Dreams [two poems]

)Chachapoya Countryside

As one rides by in a car, visits a house or two on foot, a few shops in the villages and towns of the Amazonas, whole families walk by with mules and cows, along the roads to these locations: farmers on battered dusty carts, wagons with wooden wheels; no clocks in the city squares, some houses have no glass windows, nor screens: everything’s bare; some horses with no saddles, just a blanket; ploughs-gear old as the houses, a century or two. You can tell by their faces: their ancestors lived here for a thousand years, perhaps still walk the ground far and near. At the end of the road, or the road leading in (at the other end) of each town it seems to have chickens and dogs running around, laying down in the dust for coolness; mules stray.

Here in the Amazonas you wear long rubber boots for mud is unavoidable; women wear derby hats; landslides are like muck pies, thick and troublesome: everywhere, gangs of workmen cut through them: shovel-by-shovel: it’s another world.

Note: #1328 [4/23/06], Lima, Peru, Written at the Author’s home in the evening.

2)Tales of Boyish Hopes and Dreams [A poem]

When I am all alone (it seems)
With timeless thoughts (or: by the sea)
In the mountains, called the Andes
Her face comes back, comes back to me—!

Memories of her unsought—,
In quiet slender, regal form;
Lenient I feel with thoughts like these:
I know not why they come or go…

Of her who died so brave, so old
Ah yes: so long ago (it seems)
And all I’m left with, now—are
Tales of boyish hopes and dreams!

When I am all alone (it seems)
With timeless thoughts (or: by the sea)
Lenient I feel with thoughts like these:
Tales of boyish hopes and dreams.

Note: #1327/ 4-23-06 Lima, Peru, written at El Parquetito’s Dedicated to ETS (7/20030

King Toledo of Peru, vs El Perro (The Hero Dog) Poem and Commentary

King Toledo of Peru, vs. El Perro

[The Hero dog]

Here is my new poem on the Hero of Peru, I do hope the King of Peru, Toledo, does not get mad, for the new hero has taken his throne away for a few weeks, the spot light I mean. But before I give you the poem I shall simply update you: El Perro (the dog), who has a name, ‘Lay Fun,’ to my understanding, was a watchdog on duty, and he killed a robber. And to the public’s dismay, the government, and Toledo is the Government in Peru, wanted him crucified, but some group came up with money and lawyers, and saved the dog from his doom, destiny, to a national hero of the month status. This of course, took the focus off the King of Peru, which Toledo, whom is on TV 7/24 I think. I doubt Sipan got as much attention as this little fellow got; I’m not saying he’s a bad king, he is Inca, so I know better—save, I could be roasted alive for writing this. Plus, he does like freedom of speech, and Americans, a few attributes not plentiful in South America nowadays, so I give him credit, and applaud. But on the other hand, I think his spouse (whom is out of control most of the time) ran off with a bunch of mummies to Paris or London or some place to cash in before the king steps down in a few days from his throne. So, having said all this, here is my little poem, dedicated to King Toledo:

E Perro—the Hero [of Peru]

There is hero in Peru these days,
El Perro, ‘Lay fun’ they call him


(I think it’s a he)—He killed a
Robber, I hear say, and he went
On trial the other day, for dog
Slaughter they say.


The Republic of Peru, took
A stand, and lawyers saved his
Dog, hide from the man:
Now he’s the hero of Peru,
I thought this could only happen
In America, I was fooled.


#1396 7/24/2006

Poems Out of Peru from the book: 'La Casa de Azul'

The Great Desert Kingdom of Peru


In the spring of 2001, I flew over
The desert kingdom of Peru,
The Nazca-Lines carve (or etched),
Bearing symbolic images (in
The desert sand), in the
Desert kingdom of Peru.

Our plane was but a hundred
Feet above this desert temple
(perhaps a shrine);
Streams of lines, carved out of
An ocean of dirt and clay,
(so it seemed), looked as if it’d
been burnt with sun beams:

Reds, yellows, brownish clays
(beyond the Pacific Ocean
((it laid)).

I looked down as
I sat by the window and saw through
The bronze light that pierced
The atmosphere, under the wing of
Our plane:
Reflections, scares—ripped
Open on the desert plateau, akin to
Flesh, tattooed all around us
Designs called: Nazca-Lines,
Lines in a rage…!:

The condor, the astronaut, the spider,
Hummingbird, the monkey,
Airstrips (or runways)) or so it
Seemed)), 2000-years old; faceless
I was, in awe—trying to swallow.
Blinded I was, by its surreal-ness.

It had occurred to me, perhaps
The inhabitants were marked by
Misfortune—
And carved those images to the gods,
Pleading for rain (or something).
Now a refuge, saved from the ravages
Of time: these scars remain—.
It is but a grave to the eyes
That carved them, I do believe.



#1238 2/23/06

Note: The Author flew over the Nazca Lines in February of 2001; it was a marvelous experience.




Spanish Version



El Gran Reino de Desierto del Perú

En la Primavera del 2001, volé sobre
El reino de desierto del Perú,
Las Líneas de Nazca talladas (o grabadas),
Marcando imágenes simbólicas (en
La arena del desierto), en el
Reino de desierto del Perú.

Nuestro avión estuvo a sólo cien
Pies sobre este templo desierto
(talvez un santuario);
Arroyos de líneas, tallados fuera de
Un océano de tierra y arcilla,
(así parecía), parecía como si esto
estuviera ardiendo con los rayos del sol:

Rojos, amarillos, arcillas parduscas
(más allá del Océano Pacífico)
((Tendidos están)).

Yo miré para abajo mientras
Me senté por la ventana y vi a través
La luz bronceada que penetraba
La atmósfera, entre las alas de
Nuestro avión:
Reflexiones, miedos—rasgaron
Abiertos sobre la meseta del desierto, semejante a
Carne, tatuadas todo a nuestro alrededor
Diseños llamados: Las Líneas de Nazca,
¡Líneas en un furor!

El cóndor, el Astronauta, la araña,
El colibrí, el mono,
Pistas de aterrizaje ((o pista (o eso se
Parecía)), 2000 años de edad; anónimo
Estuve, in sobrecogimiento—tratando de tragarlo.
Enceguecido estaba, por su surrealismo.

Se me ocurrió, talvez
Que los habitantes fueron marcados por
Desgracia—
Y tallaron aquellas imágenes para los dioses,
Suplicando por lluvia (o algo).
Ahora un refugio, salvado por los estragos
Del tiempo: estas cicatrices permanecen—.
Esto no es más que una sepultura para los ojos
Que los tallaron, yo creo.

# 1238 23/Febrero/2006

Nota: El autor voló sobre las Líneas de Nazca en Febrero de 2001, esta fue una experiencia maravillosa.



37.


San Juan de Miraflores
(Lima, Perú)


Beyond the thick windows
Of my house (Casa)
Brown children play across
The street in the park
By the church: play
In the dirt…!

A Christian parade—in the
Evening goes up and down
The neighborhood’s streets—
Stopping at certain houses,
Hoping to Christianize!

There is dancing and drinking
At the new Nightclub
Up the road, by the Tram—
Echoes of music ‘til 2:00 AM
Neon lights blinking—

Laughter, love, religion—
It is all here, all part of life
In this one little corner of the world
In San Juan de Miraflores,
In the summer of 2006.




#1276 3/12/2006

Note by the author: no one lives on the mountain looking down into the city, usually they live in the little corners of the city, looking up at the mountains, and so it is in Lima, Peru, all surrounded by mountains, and I, like all the others have my little corner in the city, looking up.




Spanish Version
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk



San Juan de Miraflores
(Lima, Perú)


Afuera de las ventanas gruesas
De mi casa
Niños bronceados juegan cruzando
La calle en el parque
Por la iglesia: ¡juegan
En la tierra…!

Una procesión Cristiana—en la
Noche va arriba y abajo
Por las calles de la vecindad—
Deteniéndose en ciertas casas,
¡Esperando Cristianizar!

Hay baile y bebida
En el nuevo Nightclub
Arriba del camino, por el tren eléctrico—
Ecos de música hasta las 2:00 AM
Luces de neon parpadeando—

Risas, amor, religión—
Está todo acá, todo parte de la vida
En esta pequeña esquina del mundo
En San Juan de Miraflores,
En el verano del 2006.



# 1276 12/Marzo/2006


Apuntes por el autor: nadie vive en las montañas mirando hacia abajo dentro de la ciudad, generalmente ellos viven en las pequeñas esquina de la ciudad, mirando arriba a las montanas, y por eso así es en Lima, Perú, todo rodeado por montañas, y yo, como todos tengo mi pequeña esquina en la ciudad, mirando arriba.




38.


An Afternoon in Chicago


The sun, like a deer trail—bit my brow,
Industriously, as my wife and I took the train
Back to O’Hare from downtown Chicago, —
Windy city, with stretched-up eyebrows
In its winter sleep.
We walked around, downtown: busy city—
From Washington Street to Michigan; across
The bridge, there on East Ontario, we
Ate at ‘Bice,’ Italian Restaurant (my wife
Paid the bill) her treat, Valentine’s Day.

I’m waiting for the plane now; it’s 5:00 PM;
It has been one of those happier days, moments,
In my life: strange, even with Northwest being late.
It is pale to dark now (6:00 PM)
Sitting on these worn-out seats…!
Thinking of nothing, like when you’re a little boy,
Spending the whole day rambling through the
City, on your high, two wheel bike!...
Whistling away a sunny day,
With nothing much to do or say.

My wife, sitting next me fell to sleep, hat on:
Holding my jacket in her two hands, sleeping;
Had to remove her coffee cup, in case it fell:
She’s in some joyful lofty solitude
While I’m sniffling away like hell.
It was nice, just being ‘we’ today
Before having to go back home, to St. Paul,
Go back to the kitchen—fixing things.
As I look about, everyone’s on cell phones.
Hurry-up—flight: NW 145!

Now that I think of it, one can smell the lake
The Great Lake Michigan; feel its pulse, its
Wind like tides in the air all about.
Soft dust, swirling along the cities’ streets;
Street people blowing brass horns for a meal.
Rhythmic packs, misplaced men and women:
Everywhere: like undergrowth, weeds not growing.
Drunks, and derelicts, eyes staring at your every move,
An endless forest of a city, with boulders,
Towering bricks, next to an unforgiving lake:

Chicago!...

Semi prose/ 2/14/06 #1208




Spanish Version



Una Tarde en Chicago


El sol, como rastro de ciervo—muerde mi frente,
Vigorosamente, mientras mi esposa y yo tomamos el tren
De regreso a O’Hara desde el centro de Chicago, —
Ciudad ventosa, con cejas levantadas
En su invierno dormido.
Caminamos alrededor del centro de la ciudad: ciudad activa—
Desde la calle Washington hasta Michigan; a través
Del puente, allí sobre el este de Ontario, nosotros
Comimos en “Bice”. Restaurante italiano (Mi esposa
Pagó la cuenta) mi regalo por el Día de San Valentín.

Estoy esperando por el avión ahora; son las 5:00 PM;
Éste ha sido uno de esos días muy felices, momentos,
En mi vida: curioso, incluso con Northwest retrasado.
Está pálido casi oscuro ahora (6:00 PM)
¡Sentado sobre estos asientos desgastados!
¡Pensando en nada, como cuando eres un niño,
Pasando el día entero divagando a través de
La ciudad, sobre tu alta, bicicleta de dos ruedas!..
Disfrutando de un día soleado,
Sin nada más que hacer o decir.

Mi esposa, sentada cerca de mí se quedo dormida, sombrero puesto:
Agarrando mi chaqueta con sus dos manos, durmiendo,
Tuve que retirar su taza de café, en caso que esta caiga:
Ella está en alguna soledad alegre sublime;
Mientras estoy resoplando como infierno.
Fue hermoso, sólo siendo nosotros hoy día
Antes de tener que regresar a casa, a San Pablo,
Regresar a la cocina—arreglar cosas.
Mientras miro alrededor, todos con celulares.
¡Apúrense—vuelo: NW 145!

Ahora que pienso de esto, uno puede oler el lago
El gran lago Michigan; sentir su pulso, sus
Vientos como oleadas en el aire por todos lados.
Polvo muy suave, arremolinándose a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad;
Gente de la calle soplando cuernos de metal por una comida.
Paquetes rítmicos, hombres y mujeres extraviados:
En todo lugar: como maleza, mala hierba sin crecer
Borrachos, y abandonados, ojos mirando fijamente a cada movimiento tuyo,
Un bosque interminable de ciudad, con pedruscos,
Torres de ladrillos, cerca de un lago implacable:

Chicago….

Semi Prosa 14/Febrero/2006 # 1208







39.


Branches


There is something that bothers my neighbor
That irritates her, makes her skin: jump, crewel
That creates a humming stammer in her voice
And even makes gaps, silent ones as she talks
To my wife, about the heap across the street.
Her kind of row is another thing indeed
Where she doesn’t let one idea, spin
Not even one iota of that fall
Lest she lose her focus once and for all.
We are talking about last week’s branches,
And what’s hiding under that heap I see.
To please my neighbor, the branches I mean,
I’d have to get rid of the pile of rubbish
The one, everyone tosses garbage underneath
That lays so crude across the street, in the park.
But if one looks around we find much more:
My wife let my neighbor know this, that day
By day, her dogs piss and shit on our lawn,
Even on the light pole, and into the heap—
The one she keeps talking about: an eye on.
She watches them all right, when you are looking.
To each this burden now has fallen, the branches:
We have to use nice words to keep the balance:
“The neighbor up the block has a junk car,” my
Wife complains to her, she has no more to say.
Oh, just another kind of neighborly game,
One to each his own, it adds up to little more:
She is all heap and we are all branches.
She will never understand my branches,
Nor I, her focus on the heap—that
We alone are responsible for its parting.
If I could put an idea in her head
“Should we not all work together to rid
Our neighborhood of branches, messy dogs
Loafing cars: making for good neighbors?”
Before I hired the branch cuter, I asked him:
“Please take the branches with you, when done!”
He also is a neighbor who lives nearby.
Something irritates my neighbor about us—
My wife and I, whom she gives offence to;
She moves with slyness it seems to me,
Not of concern over those dry old branches.
I’m sure she likes having thought she done well
For the Neighborhood: firmly defending her heap.



#1314 (From a morning dream came Branches 4/14/06)) Written in Lima, Peru))




Spanish Version



Ramas


Hay algo que le incomoda a mi vecina
Que la irrita, hace que su piel: salte, se enrosque
Eso crea un murmullo tartamudo en su voz
Y hasta hace intervalos, unos silenciosos mientras ella habla
A mi esposa, sobre el montón al frente de la calle.

Su especie de escándalo es otra cosa en realidad
Donde ella no deja una idea, dar vuelta
Ni aún una pizca de aquella caída
No sea que ella pierda su enfoque de una vez por todas.

Estamos hablando acerca de las ramas de la semana pasada,
Y lo que se oculta bajo aquel montón yo veo.
Para complacer a mi vecina, las ramas pienso,
Yo tendría que deshacerme del montón de porquería,
El que, todos tiran basura por debajo
Que yace tan vulgar al frente de la calle, en el parque.
Pero si uno mira alrededor encontramos mucho más:
Mi esposa le hizo saber esto a mi vecina, que día
A día, sus perros orinan y defecan sobre nuestro césped,
Incluso sobre el poste de luz, y dentro del montón –
Aquel del que ella sigue hablando: vigilando.

Ella ve esto muy correcto, cuando estás mirando.
Para cada uno esta carga ahora ha caído, las ramas:
Tenemos que usar palabras agradables para mantener el equilibrio:
“El vecino de arriba de la cuadra tiene una coche chatarra” mi
Esposa se queja a ella, ella no tiene nada más que decir.

Ah, sólo otra clase de juego vecindario,
Uno para cada uno propio, esto añade un poco más:
De ella todo el montón y de nosotros todas las ramas.
Ella nunca entenderá mis ramas,
Ni yo, su enfoque sobre el montón–que
Nosotros solos somos responsables de su separación.
Si yo pudiera poner una idea en su cabeza
“No deberíamos trabajar todos juntos para librar
a nuestro vecindario de ramas, perros sucios
carros inservibles: ¿haciendo buenos vecinos?”

Antes de que contratara al cortador de ramas, le pedí:
“¡Por favor llévese las ramas, cuando acabe!”
Él también es un vecino que vive cerca.

Algo le molesta a mi vecina sobre nosotros—
Mi esposa y yo, a quien ella ofende;
Ella se mueve con astucia me parece,
No concerniente sobre aquellas secas ramas viejas.
Estoy seguro que le gusta haber pensado que ella hizo un bien
A la Vecindad: defendiendo firmemente su montón.

# 1314 (Desde un sueño de mañana vino Ramas 14/Abril/2006)) Escrito en Lima, Perú









40.


The Chancay Maiden
Of the Supe Valley of Peru


Advance: before the Inca, Chancay, Moche, and Chavin there was the Caral civilization, in the North-central coast of Peru, five thousand years ago (3000 BC)) all these civilizations lived in the Supe Valley at one time except the Moche, who lived in Chan Chan, bordering the coast. Caral, a city-state you might say, or perhaps a small sanctuary along the Supe Rio (of which were perhaps some 3000-inhabidents at one time)) of which I first crossed by foot, and came back by horse)), in the Supe Valley, is most bravura, for I have been there and can bear this out. This civilization coexisted with that of Mesopotamia of the Near East, or Crete of Europe; perhaps built their pyramids at the same time Egypt did. The city was not only sacred, but it was political, with all its six pyramids, tucked away in a mountain like a corral (from where it got its name), in that it is surrounded by beautiful mountains. It is about 165-miles north of Lima; it is also the city known as ‘…dwelling place of the gods….’ You have three regions here: the Andean highlands, Andean jungle, and equatorial coastal area, of which now I have been to all three. It is close to the sea, the mountains look over it, and the jungle is not that far away. [Caral: in Quechua, is cabuya, or sisal, a dry fiber often used in weaving.] Pottery was not discovered until later to have been made at Caral, thus, no early dates for its baking process. One would have to date it perhaps between the Inca and Chavin cultures, or a better date might be the Chancay culture. It is known that the Chancay culture lived right on the site of the Caral Culture between 900 and 1300 AD.


The Poem:


She sat crossed legged: the Sacred Supe Rio to her right:
Small, sloping forehead: deep brown, secretive eyes;
Thin lips, slightly upward, triangular chin; thin hair.
Sparse outer eyebrows (beautiful) with a straight torso.
She was naked, arms stretched, crossed behind.

(She died according to her times.)

She sat crossed legged: the year 1102 AD, among her
Lay, unbaked clay figurines; color cotton textiles;
Head adornments: were two circular headdresses
Linked-and-twisted, made out of totora reed, rush fiber
And cotton thread; a wooden comb by her knees.

Pieces of pottery lay by her side, in the warm valley sand
To the left of her were the Caral ruins, the old city.
(Four thousand years had now passed, her Ancestors long gone;
Gone, now dead, perhaps her blood was currently, intermixed
With the many cultures that once walked this land.)

She sat crossed legged and thought: how crafty she was
Compared to them, for she had made handles for her pottery,
And she was proud, so very proud, of being: Peruvian
(with 11,000-years of proven history). She brushed away the
Mosquitoes, watched her friends plant corn, hot peppers
Along the banks of the Rio, in the Sacred Valley of Supe.

She sat crossed legged until sunset: watching the reds and
Yellows and orange mist fade into the sun’s brightness:
Thus, she wept and wept, for someone or thing had broken
Her pottery, as she laid still from a blow to the back of the head,
Her face (her cranial traumatized); it was all she could see,
As they bound her knees, the way they did back in 3000 BC!…

(She was part of the Caral legend. I for one, picked up those
Pieces of clay, with handles, in the sands of the Supe Valley).


#1312 4/13/06




Spanish Version



La Doncella de Chancay del Valle Supe de Perú


Avance: Antes de los Incas, Chancay, Moche, y Chavín hubo la civilización de Caral, en la costa central al norte del Perú, hace cinco mil años atrás (3000 antes de Cristo) todas estas civilizaciones vivieron en el Valle Supe en cierta época excepto La civilización Moche, que vivió en Chan Chan, bordeando la costa. Caral, una ciudad-estado podrías decir, o quizás un pequeño santuario a lo largo del Río Supe ((que quizás fue de unos 3000-habitantes en cierta época)(el cual primero yo crucé a pie, y volví en caballo)), en el Valle Supe, está lo más brillante, porque he estado allí y lo puedo confirmar. Esta civilización coexistió con la Mesopotámica del cercano Oriente, o Creta de Europa; quizás construyó sus pirámides al mismo tiempo que lo hizo Egipto. La ciudad no sólo fue sagrada, sino también política, con todas sus seis pirámides, metidas en una montaña como corral (de donde esta consiguió su nombre), la cual está rodeada por montañas hermosas, conocidos así.

Está aproximadamente a 165 millas al norte de Lima; esta es también la ciudad conocida como “…lugar de morada de los dioses”. Aquí tienes tres regiones: las tierras altas Andinas, la selva Andina, y el área ecuatorial costera, de los cuales ahora he estado en todas las tres. Está cerca del mar, las montañas se ven sobre esta, y la selva no está muy lejos de aquí. [Caral: en quechua, es cabuya, o sisal, una fibra seca a menudo usada en tejidos]. La Cerámica no fue descubierta hasta más tarde, para ser hecho en Caral, asi, no hay dato reciente de su proceso de cocción. Uno tendría que fecharlo talvez entre la Cultura Inca y Chavín, o una fecha mejor podría ser la cultura Chancay. Es sabido que la cultura Chancay residió exactamente sobre el lugar de la Cultura Caral entre 900 y 1300 años después de Cristo.

El Poema:

Ella se sentó piernas cruzadas: El Río Sagrado Supe a su derecha:
Pequeña, inclinada frente: marrón profundo, ojos reservados;
Labios finos, ligeramente ascendente, barbilla triangular; pelo
Fino.
Cejas escasas (hermosas) con un torso erguido.
Ella estaba desnuda, brazos estirados, cruzados detrás.

(Ella murió de acuerdo a su época).

Ella se sentó piernas cruzadas: el año 1102 después de Cristo, entre ella
Yacen, estatuillas de arcilla cruda; textiles de algodón coloreado;
Adornos para cabeza: hubo dos tocados circulares
Unidos-y-torcidos, hechos de la caña de totora, fibra de junco
e hilo de algodón; un peine de madera por sus rodillas.

Piezas de cerámica yacen por su lado, en la arena caliente del valle
A la izquierda de ella estaban las ruinas de Caral, la vieja ciudad.
(Cuatro mil años ahora habían pasado, sus Antepasados hace mucho tiempo idos;
Idos, ahora muertos, quizás su sangre estaba actualmente, entremezclada
Con muchas de las culturas que una vez anduvieron esta tierra).

Ella se sentó piernas cruzadas y pensó: cuán astuta era ella
Comparada a ellos, ya que ella había hecho manijas para su
cerámica,
Y ella estaba orgullosa, tan orgullosa, de ser: Peruana
(Con 11,000 años de historia comprobada). Ella limpió los
Mosquitos, vio a sus amigos plantar maíz, pimientos picantes
A lo largo de las orillas del Río, en el Valle Sagrado de Supe.

Ella se sentó piernas cruzadas hasta el ocaso: mirando las rojas y
Amarillas y anaranjadas nieblas atenuadas dentro del resplandor del sol:
Así, ella lloró y lloró, porque alguien o algo había roto
Su cerámica, mientras ella yacía inmovilizada por un golpe atrás de la cabeza,
Su cara (su cráneo fracturado); esto era todo lo que ella podía ver,
Mientras ellos ataban sus rodillas, del modo que lo hicieron atrás en 3000 antes de Cristo! …

(Ella era parte de la leyenda de Caral. Yo por una vez, recogí aquellos
Pedazos de arcilla, con manijas, en las arenas del Valle Supe).



# 1312 13/Abril/2006




41.




From Satipo
[A Three-Part Poem]
Dedicated to Mama Maria



1) Ode to Satipo
[Part One/Jungle Eyes]


O Satipo, your jungle eyes—I see:
Lo, your life-filled warmth opens
Upon thy brow…

Be ye, open up—your jungle gates
For me,

Before—
Before the wild comes with new
And old roars
(and horrific drums from within
The deep…)!


I could feel and hear the jungle life
Within my veins—
Appeared images—within my brain.

Leafage, like peace offerings—
Silently—swayed,
Upon the shoulders of its kind—;
And here, here I stood, yes, here I stood
In paradise!

1/24/06 #1016




2) Ode to Satipo
[Part Two/Peru’s Abode]


Across her deep-paths of green
From rivers and valleys now
(from where I stand) unseen, —
thy heavens above, falls
forth
(in truth and trials, and long course)
I call you friend, and nobler than I,
Wherefore I stand, under your skies.
Wherefrom I saith, ‘Satipo!’—
Peru’s abode—
Precious as the Andean walls—
Be ye, lift up your gates:
Jungle (beauty),
For here is where stars are born!...

#1017 1/24/2006



3) Ode to Satipo
[Part Three/Shades of Green]


O, patient Satipo, in silent
Green!
Complexities, triumphs
Wings like engines
(everywhere)

And—, whatever way I look,
Shapes and wonders: bounties
Uproot—!
That thou with loving care
Created
A thousand colors of jade
Receding in your forest-green,
hence, I sense your bliss:
Within
Your wildness…!


#1018 1/24/2006/reedited in Peru, 3/17/2006


A Note on Mama Maria: She lived most all her life (off and on, that is) in Satipo in the Jungle of Peru; it perhaps was her third or forth love: her first being God, herself, her husband and children, and then the Jungle; I think it would be in that order, or perhaps her husband and children and then herself, I don’t know; but what I do know is this: if she loved the jungle half as much as I love to write my poetry, she loved it monumentally, so who more deserves this dedicated poem, I don’t know of anyone else besides her.




Spanish Version


De Satipo
Dedicado a Mamá María



Oda a Satipo
[Parte Uno/Ojos de la Selva]

Oh Satipo, tus ojos selváticos—veo:
Mira, tu vida llena de calor se abre
Sobre tu frente…

Tengan ustedes, abiertas—sus puertas de la selva
Para mí,

¡Antes—
Antes que el salvaje venga con nuevos
y viejos rugidos
(y tambores horrendos desde
lo profundo..)!

Yo puedo sentir y oír la vida de la selva
Dentro de mis venas—
Imágenes aparecidas—dentro de mi cerebro.

Follajes, como ofrecimientos de paz—
Silenciosamente—balanceados,
Sobre los hombros de su clase—;
¡Y aquí, aquí estuve, sí, aquí estuve
En el paraíso!

24/Enero/2006 # 1016




2) Oda a Satipo
[Parte Dos/Morada de Perú]


A través de sus caminos profundos verdes
de ríos y valles ahora
(desde donde estoy) no vistos, —
tus cielos encima, cataratas
en adelante
(de verdad y pruebas, y curso largo)
te llamo amigo, y más noble que yo,
Por qué estoy de pie, bajo tus cielos.
Por qué yo digo, “¡Satipo!”-
La morada de Perú-
Precioso como las paredes Andinas—
Ten, levantadas tus puertas:
Selva (hermosa),
¡Porque aquí es dónde las estrellas nacen!...

Enero/24/2006 # 1017



3) Oda a Satipo
[Parte Tres/Sombras de Verde]


¡Oh, Satipo paciente, en verde silencioso!
Complejidades, alas triunfantes
como motores
(por todas partes)

Y—, cualquier camino que vea,
Formas y maravillas: ¡recompensas
Desarraigan-!
Que tú con cuidado amoroso
Creaste
Mil colores de jade
Desvaneciéndose en tu verde forestal,
de ahí, yo siento tu dicha:
¡Dentro de
Tu rusticidad …!



# 1018 24/Enero/2006/re-editado en Perú, 17/Marzo/2006


Unos apuntes acerca de Mamá Maria: Ella vivió la mayor parte de su vida, (no regularmente, es decir) en Satipo en la selva del Perú; éste talvez era su tercer o cuarto amor: siendo primero Dios, después ella misma, su esposo e hijos, y luego la selva; creo que esto pudo ser en ese orden, o talvez su esposo e hijos, y luego ella misma, yo no sé; pero lo que sé es esto: si ella amó la selva la mitad de lo mucho que yo amo escribir poesía: ella verdaderamente la amó monumentalmente, por eso quién mejor se merece este poema dedicado, yo no sé de alguien más además de ella.




42.


Treasures of the Andes

Within the Andes golden rim
I gazed afar, and caught a dream,
It filled me with bold, treasures gleam,
What guarded jewels there resides? —

Silver and copper, stone and clay,
Building blocks, for herds and dwellings,
And farms of cows, lambs and llamas
With turkeys, chickens and camels, —

Up, the narrow and moonlit pass
Where twilight, is now, far ablaze
With dimness shadows comes the haze
With its mass, impervious cast

Splendid and thrilled these treasures shone,
With echoes, from shifting winds,
Eternal autumn, for my soul, —
Offer the Andes, from its treasures.


#1378/Dedicated to Mayra, at the café, El Parquetito’s; and Enrique H. 7/7/2006


Note: I have been in the Andes twice, and will be in August for my third time; while sitting at the Café with my brother in law, and wife on the 7th of July 2006 I thought about the Andes, and its peacefulness. I asked him, Enrique: why he loved the Andes so much, since he lives right beyond them, and must go through them to get to Lima, actually, they surround his city I suppose you could say, Huancayo. What I gathered, besides a way of life, which is different than from the big city where he was raised, was love and peace. Here in the Andes and beyond, in the Mantaro Valley where Huancayo is, you are surrounded by this frame of mind, the Andes injects this into ones blood.




Spanish Version



Tesoros de Los Andes


Dentro del dorado borde de Los Andes
miré fijamente a lo lejos, y tuve un sueño,
Éste me llenó de audacia, destello del tesoro,
¿Qué joyas guardadas allí residen?—

Plata y cobre, piedras y arcilla,
Componentes básicos, para multitud y viviendas,
Y granjas de vacas, corderos y llamas
Con pavos, pollos y camellos,—

Encima, el angosto e iluminado pase de la luna
Donde el crepúsculo, está ahora, lejos en llamas
Con desvanecidas sombras viene la neblina
Con su masa, molde impermeable

Espléndido y encantadores estos tesoros brillaron,
Con ecos, de vientos cambiantes,
Otoño Eterno, para mi alma,—
Ofrece Los Andes, de sus tesoros.


# 1378/ Dedicado a Mayra, de el café, El Parquetito; y a Enrique H. 7/Julio/2006


Note: He estado en Los Andes dos veces, y será en agosto mi tercera vez; mientras estaba sentando en el Café con mi cuñado, y mi esposa el 7 de julio de 2006, pensé en Los Andes, y su tranquilidad. Le pregunté a él, Enrique: por qué le gusta a él tanto Los Andes, porque él vive justamente entre ellos, y debe pasar a traves de ellos para llegar a Lima, realmente ellos rodean su ciudad supongo tú podrías decir, Huancayo. Lo que deducí, aparte de un modo de vida, que es diferente con la de una ciudad grande donde él fue criado, era el amor y la paz. Aquí en Los Andes y más allá, en el Valle Mantaro donde Huancayo está, tú estás rodeado por ese estado de ánimo, Los Andes inyectan esto en la sangre de uno.



43.




Sipan’s Valley Tomb


What is it in thy grave?
That bleeds your sacred name
Of bygone years:
Once long forgotten in
A midnight tomb
Foredoomed!
Now resurrected for mankind.

O turn thou head to me
In whose empty eyes I see,
Eternal legends!
For I know, no need for thy
To say anything.

Ah, your hour did flee
Ruled across the Sipan Valley:
That old glory lost in years
Now remembered:
Returns motionless—.

As the sun grows bright
Once again, over Sipan’s tomb…
Today, is yesterday’s sunset
Renewed…!


#1337 5/2/06 written at El Parquetito, Lima, Peru.



Notes: in April I took a trip to see the tomb of Sipan, and its surrounding environment [Northern Peru]: its tombs, its pyramids, and its valley; all seemed to carry a force, a hidden force in the sands. The bones of the Lord of Sipan are in a nearby museum, and a replica has been put in its place. This dread can also be felt, as you stand by the outside tomb, some fifteen feet deep, as you look into it. The Spirits are annoyed to say the least. The Lord of Sipan, equal to King Tutankhamun of Egypt (so it has been said), equal in its worth of a great discover that is, dates back to 200 AD; it was originally discovered in 1987, thus, it is a new discover, like Caral, in the Supe Valley, 124 miles north from the city of Lima, Peru, discovered in 1992 (the site dating back to 3000 BC). The tomb of The Lord of Sipan has been replicated to look as it did on the day of discovery: five bodies within the tomb, with all their royal attire; it is a moving site, nonetheless, even with the original bones of the Lord of Sipan, taken out for posterity’s sake.




Spanish Version



La Tumba del Valle de Sipan


Qué hay en tu sepultura
Que sangra tu nombre sagrado
De años pasados:
Una vez mucho tiempo olvidado en
Una tumba de medianoche
¡Destinada de antemano!
Ahora resucitado para la humanidad.

¡Oh, voltea tu cabeza hacia mí
En cuyos ojos vacíos veo,
Leyendas eternas!
Porque sé, no necesidad tuya
De decir algo.

Ah, tu hora voló
Gobernó a través del Valle de Sipan:
Aquella vieja gloria perdida en años
Ahora recordada:
Regresa inmóvil—.

Mientras el sol empieza a brillar
Otra vez, sobre la tumba de Sipan …
Hoy, es la puesta del sol de ayer
¡Renovada …!



# 1337 2/Mayo/2006 escrito en El Parquetito, Lima, Perú.

Notas: En abril viajé para ver la tumba de Sipan, y sus alrededores (en el norte de Perú): sus tumbas, sus pirámides, y su valle; todos parecían llevar una fuerza, una fuerza ocultada en las arenas. Los huesos del Señor de Sipan están en un museo cercano, y una réplica ha sido puesta en su lugar. Esta sensación, también puede sentirse cuando estás en la tumba exterior, de aproximadamente cinco metros de profundidad, mientras la examinas. Los Espíritus están molestos por decir lo menos. El Señor de Sipan, similar al Rey Tutankhamun de Egipto (eso se ha dicho), similar en el valor de un gran descubrimiento, esto es, se remonta al año 200 después de Cristo; fue descubierto originalmente en 1987, así, es un nuevo descubrimiento, como Caral, en el Valle de Supe, a 200 kilometros al norte de Lima, Perú, descubierto en 1992 (el lugar se remonta al año 3000 antes de Cristo). La tumba del Señor de Sipan ha sido reproducida similar a la que se encontró el día del descubrimiento: cinco cuerpos dentro de la tumba, con todos su atavíos reales; éste es un lugar en movimiento, no obstante, incluso los huesos originales del Señor de Sipan, fueron sacados por el bien de la posteridad.




44


Lima’s Devouring Winter Dew


The mist of the pacific flows cool and fair—
On city streets that are far and near
With haunted blows, from Lima’s shadows.
Ah! Its pale magic mist now fills the air
Here I sit, at El Parquetito’s café
With a splendid delightful cup of coffee
As the phantom sun awakes and sweats
Trying to peek through Lima’s wintry cloak!



# 1376 [7/5/2006]



Note: Written at EP Café, on a pale winter afternoon in Lima [July], Peru; dedicated to Rosa and Enrique, who had the pleasure to look up into this drab misty sky with me in Lima at 1:00 PM. Then after lunch, around 2:00 PM, the sun came out, but our lunch was now over. Wintertime in the central part of Lima is pale; with misty grays a lot of the time. And when the sun comes out, you got to bottle it, or run to it to enjoy the few hours you will have it. Winter’s in Lima are ‘Pale Dawns’ all day long, or can be. That is because you sit almost on top of the ocean. In farther out areas of Lima, the sun does come out. So today I was inspired to write about its bleakness, whereas, I normally write about all the positives; yet this can be taken as a positive, because when the sun does come, I parade around like a wild duck trying to suck up all the sun’s rays I can get.




Spanish Version



El Devorante Rocío de Invierno de Lima


La niebla del Océano Pacífico fluye fresca y bastante—
Sobre las calles de la ciudad que están lejos y cerca
Con golpes atormentados, de las sombras de Lima.
¡Ah! Su niebla pálida mágica ahora llena el aire
Aquí me siento, en el café El Parquetito
Con una espléndida taza de café deliciosa
¡Mientras el sol fantasma se da cuenta y suda
Tratando de echar un vistazo a traves de la capa invernal de Lima!


# 1376 [5/Julio/2006]


Nota: Escrito en el Café EP, durante una tarde pálida de Julio en invierno en Lima, Perú; dedicado a Rosa y Enrique, quienes tuvieron el placer de mirar conmigo este cielo monótono húmedo de Lima a la 1:00 de la tarde. Luego después del almuerzo, alrededor de las 2:00 de la tarde, el sol salió, pero nuestro almuerzo se había terminado. El invierno en el centro de Lima es pálido; con colores grises húmedos la mayor parte del tiempo. Y cuando el sol sale, tienes que aprovechar, o correr hacia donde está para disfrutar de las pocas horas que lo tendrás. El invierno en Lima son “Amanecidas Pálidas” todo el día, o pueden ser. Esto se debe a que estás casi encima del océano. En otros lugares más alejados de Lima, el sol si sale. Por eso hoy estuve inspirado en escribir sobre su desolación, mientras que, normalmente escribo sobre todos los aspectos positivos; aunque éste puede ser considerado como un positivo, porque cuando el sol sale, desfilo alrededor como un pato salvaje tratando de aspirar todos los rayos del sol que pueda conseguir.




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The Green Sea of the Amazon

The Green Sea of the Amazon

The Green Sea of the Amazon [Chapter One: The Canopy]

Advance: Most of my stories or books have been mixed with characters and sunken into the imaginary (non-fiction that is into historical fiction). This one hasn’t. This writer has attempted to write absolutely a true story to see if it can match, or present, or compete with the work of the imagination. 1

The Canopy

We were standing 119-feet high up on a canopy that scientist had built of rope and boards, tied to towering jungle trees, and then I heard my guide below, talking to two visitors. It was too far away, I could not tell what was being said. Then the talking stopped, and I told my wife Rosa, ‘I hope he doesn’t’ leave without us, it gets dark here early…’ The canopy moved, swayed a bit to the right and left as we scaled its thin walkway here and there, up and down, it was at this time the longest one built in the world. I then motioned down to our guide, who had lived in this part of the jungle all his life, so he told us, and so it seemed. He was perhaps in his early forties, I, perhaps was ten years older than he. He was build broad, robust, and a likeable kind of fella; assured, or self-confident in himself, and his knowledge of the jungle.

“Anytime!” he said, Avelino yelled up to us, he meant that it was up to me when we went back to our lodge in the thick of the Amazon jungle. It was to be an hour and a half walk back, the same it took to get there. And I knew a good portion of that walk would most likely end up being at dusk, or in the twilight of the evening. And much more, should we not get moving. I liked Avelino; he had spent forty-years and then some, in this part of the Amazon, about 125-miles from Iquitos, Peru. I got only an hour or so to spend in Iquitos, not much time, i hoped to get more on the way ack; stopped in an old bar, from the days of the booming rubber plantations, when money was plentiful, and had a coke, talked to the barkeeper. Then we visited the Iron House, architecture by Mr. Eiffel himself, who created on paper the famous Eiffel Tower, in Paris, for he Worlds Fair, back in the 1880s.

“Wait a minute,” I told Rosa, I wanted to make sure I walked the whole canopy (she smiled, as usual, and followed me); every inch of it, ever corner and by every tree that it was tied to, I walked to it, by it, around it, not sure why, perhaps to say I did it, like a mountain climber: I wanted to say, I climbed to the top; and now we had to go down—and so I rushed that process up (but without a doubt, I had climbed to the top of the Jungle, looked over its roof, and say its sea of green, which was more like a dream).

It was now conceivably, an hour or so, before that last of light would be put out, when it would shrink into twilight, and then dusk: our light would be gone. Frankly I made a last look over the top of the jungle: Avelino, simply waited down in the opening of the area below, and Rosa and I now were headed toward the rope ladder that lead down to the first platform, there were three platforms we had to descend to.

On the first platform, we stopped a bit to get our balance, and breath, or I did anyways, Rosa really didn’t need to, she seems to adjust in the jungle as well as she does in the high mountains of the Andes, quite well, in comparison to me. We had gone up once, or I suppose you could say several times, to heights in them mountains to exceed 16,000-feet, and she never groaned a bit, as thin as the air gets, she was like she was at sea level, while I’m gasping for air, and trying to rid myself of the headache coming.

“Lets go,” Is aid to Rosa, meaning to the second level, yet I wanted to make sure she knew I was about to descend, and that was the best way to inform her, so neither of us, got in the others way as we climbed down.

“Yes,” she agreed, in her broken English, a native to the Spanish language, and about three years into speaking English as a second language. “It’s going to get dark soon,” she added.

“Yaw, I hope he knows the way back in the dark, but he does have that flashlight.” I said.

“I’m glad you pushed the fact we should take the flashlight along, he really didn’t want to, said he didn’t need it, but it makes me feel safer, even if he doesn’t need it. But I think he’ll need it.” Rosa said, and I just glanced up, as I put my foot down into the next loop of the rope, as if to say: ‘let’s see if he does or don’t, I bet he will.’ (But of course I didn’t say that, I thought that, lest he hear me, and I disrespect his knowledge he so aspires to have of the jungle.) The last several steps were wooded ones, and then the end platform, and out into the open area.

As I caught my breath (for the second time) I waited for Rosa to adjust herself, Avelino, approached us, the flashlight in his back pants pocket. I took a last look at the trees holding the canopy up, the ropes tightly wrapped around them: the ladder that went up, as well as down—and saw the path ahead of us, the same one we had come through, that would lead us back out into the deep of the jungle—it was dark in there, already; the rays of the sun were not piercing the openings of the foliage as it was doing a few hours ago.

There had been rain a few days ago, but not enough to make the ground soggy, or difficult to walk on or through, yet it was not completely dry either, and it would make for a slower walk than what harder gravel would allow. I kind of was thinking of trying to walk at a faster pace back, and Avelino was thinking the same, and it would turn out we were thinking alike, and Rosa with her little legs, and me with my warn out lungs, ended up far behind him, with that flash light still in the back of his pants pocks. As we walked through the jungle, there was no way to keep up with him, he was like a wild cat, and perhaps, perchance showing off a ting. But he slowed down then, allowed us to catch up, and I gave him a smile attached to a smirk.

There were opening in the jungle where you could get a good look at the sky, but it was a quick look if you were walking at a pace Avelino was leading. A wild cat, black had run by, in the distance, I called to Avelino, and point it out, “Just a cat, in its natural habitat, no more, dhats all…” he said as if it was an ant trying to get back to his ant hole. Matter of fact, it was a while back when I saw those ant hills, and they were two feet high, and four feet around, and a stream of ants were going to and fro, and I was going to kick it for the hell of it, to wake them up, and I got the smirk I gave him today, back then. Not sure what would have happened, but I suppose, if they were hungry I’d not be alive to write this story.

The cat was gone, now, perhaps it was 300-feet from us, too far to get a perfect picture of it with my old and aging eyes, but I suppose I needed had gotten a better glance, it was good enough, so I told myself.

There were a lot of dry leaves, and roots extending out of the ground, not as bad as when I was in the Gran Sabana, a year earlier: ‘Thank God for little favors,’ I told myself… those roots killed me, kind of. Broke some toenails, and a friend of mine, a little older than I, fell and broke his nose, and a few others got cuts, and so forth and so on, it was a three hour hike in the jungle, always going upward, upward, until you were 200-feet on a ledge looking over at Angel Falls, 1500-feet high, and 1500-feet below you, and the water of the falls, slapping you in the face, It was the place Rosa wanted to go to for our Honeymoon.

The roots, the wild cat, the ants, the canopy was not much compared to some of the things we had to put up with else where. I shouldn’t say, put up with, it was all an adventure, one we begged for I suppose, and got. As I then looked up into the sky, I though I figured it would be dusk soon, and I was already getting tired, and we were perhaps one forth of the ways into the jungle. Avelino had one speed it seemed, high gear, the only way for him to slow down was to stop. To be quite honest, I think he wanted to make it back to the lodge before he’d have to show us he needed the flashlight.

Many things seemed to move in the threes, in the plant life, undergrowth in the distance, nearby; sounds everywhere, movements, a few eyes I saw, they didn’t look dangerous, up in the tree-branches so I just kept moving.

2

The Jungle Path

So now going along the green path in the rainforest, I started to notice large toads, and a frog, small one, with a glowing yellowish shade on its back, I was told to leave them be, they were poisonous. You get, or I got anyways, the profoundest urge to grab that cute little frog and give him a life; but I dared not, and Rosa informed me of its deadliness, and of course we both knew of this already: my little angel. Again we say what Rosa called the big lazy birds on branches, a few more eyes here and there, and we all were getting hungry, and we knew the cook at the lodge was cooking Rosa’s and my piranhas we caught yesterday. I was determined to eat them, not sure why, I suppose because they like eating human flesh, but then they like really eating anything that is meat. I had used a pound of steak meat to catch three little big mouth piranhas. We caught them in the dark-waters, in a tributary that connected into the Amazon River (the trees give off this chemical that makes the water darken, and the piranhas seem to like this sort of water, akin to vampire fish). Around our lodge there were many tributaries and streams, and ponds, enmeshed into this basin area that was a little distance from the main Amazon River.

Rosa had brought some water along, she had insisted somewhat, I was thinking I would not need it, but a fresh drink of water was just what was needed, and I drank my share in on setting I do believe. The coolness was invigorating, and I needed to rest, and our guide was getting farther in the distance and we called out to him, and the night was creeping in, smelling the good smells for the Amazon. I was very happy, I had thought about going into the Amazon for ten-years, ten long years; and here I was. People had told me: how can you afford it. I told them, stop drinking or smoking, and put our money together, and don’t buy that new car for another year or so. It was easy to save when you rally want to save. It was like going on a diet.

We had now come to a village…

To be continued








The Green Sea of the Amazon [Chapter One, Part Two: the Village]

We had not stopped for a half hour straight walking, and we seemed to have taken a little side trip, yet still in somewhat of the same direction of the campsite, or lodge; Avelino wanted to introduce us to the chief of a village, who seemed also to be a seer, unless I got it wrong, nonetheless, he greeted us and Rosa talked to him in Spanish. He gave us a tour of the village, then I asked Rosa, “Tell him I want to take his picture,” and she asked the chief.

“But make sure, “he said, “to take my whole body, the spirits, the evil spirits are out for me, and want the chance to invade me, that would open a window for them,” and I assured him the picture would be whole, I had a pilloried camera and so he could see it immediately, and he was happy about that.

“Do you think he will let me blow that six-foot blow gun?” I asked Avelino.

“Sure,” he said, and walked over a foot or two, to where the chief was, and said something to him, and brought the blowgun back to me. I steadied it with my two hands, and blew the dart out with all my might and breath, it went about three feet, that was it. Then the chief looked at me, trying to hold his laugh in, blew it and it went I bet twenty-feet. I smiled at the older man; I was too embarrassed to try it again. I had stopped smoking fifteen-years prior to this event, but it didn’t do much good for air capacity in my lungs, so I found out.

Then we sat in a big open enclosure, and he talked to us, saying something in Spanish to my wife: it was an invitation to stay in the village the night if we so wished, but I declined the offer, then Rosa asked him something about my illness, Multiple Sclerosis, and he asked questions about it, the symptoms: “In the morning,” he said, “you come back here in the morning, I have some sap from a tree I will drain tonight, it will heal your illness.”

Rosa translated this to me (what she had said): she had told the chief it was a neurological problem, that I was dropping things and got tired quickly, and my eyesight was half-hazard half the time, and I got tired often, and I needed to sleep for long periods, so forth and so on, etc., and it was making me unstable: all true I suppose. And he added it would cost ten-soles, or about 3.5 dollars. I assured him I would try it and return in the morning for the bottle, and Rosa smiled at him, and we said our goodbyes, but drank some coconut juice before we started our journey in the dark, and now our guide, pulling out the flashlight he said he did need was saying, “I guess I am glad we brought it along,” he didn’t look at me when he said it, just pulled it out of his back pocket, like John Wayne would in the cowboy movies pull out a gun, around his hip it went and flashed it straight ahead.

We would return in the morning for the—whatever it was—substance the chief had for us, and I did use it for several months, and it did seem to stop the progression of the MS, not cure it, but slow it down, and stabilize me for the moment, I will perhaps have to go back there for more, I thought, after my return home. And after it was gone, it did get worse.





The Green Sea of the Amazon [Chapter Two: Tarantulas]

We were out and under the light of the moon, a good distance from our lodge, in the thick of this jungle, the Amazon. This time there was no path to guide us somewhat, but Avelino assured me he didn’t need one, it was his backyard he said, matter-of-fact, he said that too many times, it made me suspicious. Now we were in the dense jungle, a flashlight in his hands, and mine likewise, the moon over our heads we could hardly see, looking for—none other than the big spider, the Tarantulas. We were lucky in that we got our own guide, and the other group three or four couples, had one guide for them all. It was as I wanted it, if possible.

As we walked in the deep, we past many large trees, larger and thicker than the thickest pillars of any cathedral I had been in, and I’ve been in them from Istanbul to Rome, and throughout South America, and North America—; and all along our sides was entangled shrubbery, a wealth of green. Rosa and I walked shoulder to shoulder, and as far as I knew Avelino was walking was walking everywhichway. But some how we got him to slow down for me, and thus, I got to rest when needed. We had stopped earlier in the day at his home village, perhaps 200- natives, several houses on sticks, or I should say, wooded beams; and a large school house, a square box type building, with a tin roof, and thin wooded sides for walls, not much but it served it purpose. It now comes to mind as we walked through this thick foliage of a jungle at night the story he told us: his village was along side the river, “We got to keep a good eye out on the children, they run off, and get into the thick of the high grass, and the big cats come and pull them by the necks, or the snakes come and swallow them, but mothers can’t be everywhere all the time, can they…” he said, rhetorically. And then he introduced us to his sister-in-law.

All of a sudden we stopped by a big tree, its trunk was perhaps thirty feet round, and its roots extended a half foot out of the ground, and a big hole was under one root, the largest root it seemed, of the tree, or what I could see of the tree.

“It’ll all work out,” he said looking at Rosa, and putting his stick into the hole, thinking perchance, Rosa might freak out or something. Rosa was behind me, I was about four feet from the hole, and of course our guide was almost on top of it, possibly two feet, with his stick inside of it.

Then I saw, and I’m sure Rosa saw legs coming out of the hole: extending out of the hole, not rat legs, but legs…”That’ll be ok,” he said, not sure if he was talking to us or the creature inside the hole; the legs turned out to be hairy, reddish-brown, huge spider legs, called a Tarantula: larger than my whole hand, legs longer than my fingers, as thick as my fingers. Rosa moved just a ting, “Where’d he come from,” she said.

“It’s his home,” said Avelino “I woke him up.”

Now Rosa was stone still and I was amazed, the eyes of the creature were staring at me, or so it seemed, and Avelino waved his long magic wand (or stick) around its legs, as if it tranquilized it; or had him trained to stand down. Then another long legged tarantula came out, as if to either protect its mate, or join in on the festivities. But the second one never came out all the way, like the first one, it kept its guard, and remained halfway in the whole.

“Be calm Rosa,” I said, I could hear her heart beating, and her breathing heavy, but she is a good sidekick when it comes to traveling, she wants to be part of everything, I can only recall once when she panicked and I had to retreat from my forward advance: it was in Glastonbury, England, on the Tor, the Great Mound, known in ancient times as Avalon, when a heard of cows, huge cows came up, and she is a small woman, and they came blocking the walkway to the top, from the bottom upwards as we were coming down, and I grabbed her as not to panic and started walking through the herd, and she pulled away and ran to the side of the mound, and I joined her, and we had to climb down the mound sideways. Oh well, one out of a hundred is not bad.

So here we were with two monstrous huge spiders, with beady eyes, staring at us, and I guess it was to me the funniest thing to see this stick tranquilize them to the point of shortening out the danger, to where there seemed not to be any.

It had been a full day, and therefore after this escapade, we went back to the lodge....


The Green Sea of the Amazon [Chapter Three: The Big Snake]

So when we got back to the lodge that night, we ate our fish our piranha, and it was delicious; we also played the guitar, I did, that is--play the guitar, in the main hall, and painted a picture on a plaque, which was really a piece of plain wood, that they hung up on the wall to let others know who you were, and when you had come to the lodge, they had plaques all around the lodge. There was only gas lights throughout the lodge, inside and outside on the walk way. We had well water, and a tank, and we had big giant toad’s guarding our outhouse as you’d go into it to take a dump. So to summarize the evening, we ate, played the guitar in the dark of the evening, with crickets and wings flapping here and there, and noises you’d never hear any other place except the Amazon, painted a picture and said goodnight to the toads, and went to sleep.

The following night we started ahead of everyone else, to go find snakes, the great anaconda nonetheless. And at night is the best time I was told: it needs sun to regenerate, it is a cold blooded creature, and thus, at night rests, and is at its weakest; we humans need rest, day or night, because our body needs protean, and sleep and food regenerates heat, which our body needs.

And so here we are, all regenerated from a previously nights sleep, and a nice dinner, having our protean, and looking for Mr. or Mrs. Anaconda; or even baby one would do. We took a large boat, so they said it was large, it looked normal to me, the right size for three people, and we rowed with ores down one of the tributaries of the Amazon looking for this snake of snakes half the night. For one, small or big, and every time we got near the banks of the river, the snakes would hightail it out of the vicinity. Our guide had told us then, that more people were coming down onto the Amazon recently, to where they know [the snakes know] when a boat is near, especially these bigger boats, and leave quickly. That there were not many around here anymore that we’d have to go to another location, but it would take a couple of days, not an evening. Plan B, was to get a smaller boat, and sneak in on the snakes, should we find one, and he assured me, we would, providing we went along with his Plan B.

It was a hot evening, it was only 11:00 PM, but very dark, as we got close to the bank again, for the umpteenth time. And again we heard the sounds of the high grass with movements: it was a big snake for sure, our guide assured us, but as he said before, he repeated again, “We go back and get the dugout.” It was a canoe of sorts, a tree I do believe just chipped out by hand and chisel—I saw one a few days ago it looked rough to me; and should you rock the boat, Rosa felt we’d end up swallowed, especially her being 4’11”, she was a half meal for the big snake, me perhaps a meal and a half.

By the time we got back to the lodge, ready to take the dugout boat, I looked at Rosa, the boat, Rosa, the Boat, and said, “I can’t do it, it is just too thin and small, and it was made for the natives not for me.” I am not a big person, but the dugout couldn’t shelter me even for a coffin I do believe.

“Hell with it,” I said, “let's go in, call it a night,” disappointed I was, but there is always reasons for things, and so I do not tempt fate, I just thank God, for the moment.





The Green Sea of the Amazon (Chapter #4, The Wine of the Amazon)

In the following days I saw dozens of small animals, such as monkeys (small they where), birds, butterflies—, butterflies with eyes on their wings, most peculiar I thought, and interesting; ant hills, and macho ants, marching to and fro, carrying twigs like Hercules would carry a pillar from a Greek acropolis. Lazy-birds high up in the branches of trees sleeping away, big bodied birds they were. Then somewhere along the Amazon we stopped at a winery, built in the 1830s.

I walked around this old plant, made of thick old wood: the owner showed us where they crushed the grapes, and the old timbers they interlocked for the apparatus to run the winery. Again, it was most interesting. And I purchased two bottles of wine, gave it to my guide. I think it was more interesting to me on its historical basis than its wine making capacity. I don’t drink anymore, so it was ridiculous to buy wine, other than to show appreciation for the tour.

When we arrived back to the lodge, there were two Amazonian women sitting in one of those dug out canoes, docked at the wooden pier that extended out into the somewhat, Laguna that trailed off of the arm from the Amazon? I asked her (and my wife translated, although I think she understood my Spanish a ting, it is rough), I asked her if she had been here all day (several hours had passed since I've seen her last sitting here), it was no about 5:00 PM.

“Yes,” she said with a big smile.

“But why?” I replied; since we were the only ones at the lodge until after 7:00 PM, when a new group would come. I really didn’t expect an answer, but she said nonetheless, politely, “Wait for you!” This somehow seemed to obligate me to buy something from her (as she had several items displayed on a board of some sort tucked between her legs so the items would not fall off, to steady the showing, and it was a coconut, small in size, with its top cut off I purchased, to use it for –god knows what, I suppose to put change in, or my wife could put pins in it (in the long run it would be tucked away for five years until we moved it to our home in Lima, thus it went from the Amazon, to Lima, to Minnesota, and back to Lima, it is a world traveler I do believe). In any case, she was happy as the lazy bird sleeping in those lofty branches, we saw a while earlier: she gave me a big smile, and her and her female companion drifted out of the Laguna, to the tributary and on home—I expect.

It was a most charming day to say the least.

“Another day,” I said to my wife, “another day and we’ll be going home,” and we walked up the wooden walkway to the lodge, and into the kitchen area for some coffee.




The Green Sea of the Amazon (Chapter Five: Leaving the Amazon)

I sat in the cafeteria area having coffee, it was 10:00 AM, the day we were to leave the lodge and go back to Iquitos, spend a few hours there, and then catch a flight back to Lima, where we had our second home, our other home was in Minnesota, we were on a thirty-day vacation, sort of. We used our home often in Lima as a stepping-stone to travel throughout South and Central America.

So here I sat, had breakfast, and now my coffee and I was bored, bored to death. Next I asked the manager of the place if we could catch an early boat back to Iquitos, it would be a four hour ride in the boat. My boat was coming at 2:00 PM, and I’d miss roaming around Iquitos, and I wanted to see the Iron House again, last time it was a quick, too quick of a visit, and Garcia was running for president of Peru, and was campaigning in Iquitos, staying at the main hotel, I wanted to go and see if I could catch a glimpse of him.

“It cost $200, to take boat early,” said the manager.

“What?” I said in disbelief, “let me talk to the owner in Iquitos?” and he did, via, by way of an old two-way radio; I’ve used them in the Army twenty-five years ago. Anyhow, they agreed to let us take a boat at 1:00 PM, thus, we’d get there an hour earlier than the 2:00 PM ride, and I’d still have a few extra hours to roam the city, just not as much as I wanted, plus it would not cost me an arm and leg for a ride a few hours earlier. Although I understood, I was asking for something that was obviously not on the schedule, and perhaps they had cargo to bring back and forth, and that had to be taken into account.

Anyhow, on our ride back to Iquitos, in a roofed boat, sides open, kind of square like, a big motor on the back, and it chopped though all the waves in front of us, waves other boats were making, so we made good time, and got to Iquitos about 30-minutes earlier than we had expected. The Amazon can get wide, up to 40-miles wide, but the widest I saw during our ride, was perhaps four-miles wide, which is extremely wide I thought, a lot of water to say the least.

When we got into the city, we went to the Iron House, and to an old colonial bar around the corner, and had a coke, then to the new hotel, and I made it just in time, to see the ex president, and now running for office again: Garcia was coming down the stairs with two bodyguards by his sides, we got into the hotel lobby [we: being my wife and I], as the natives were outside waiting for him, I think the hotel people thought we were guests from the hotel, and I grabbed a quick picture of him as he almost stepped on my toes.

And so the trip was mild, but grand. We caught our flight back to Lima on time and went back home to a nice soft bed, and I must had slept twelve-hours.




8.

The Green Sea of the Amazon [Part one of two Parts]

Afterward:

Enthrallment of the Amazon

Every well-traveled person knows such trips (such as the Amazon) are a fix, a mixture of many things, besides a high, it is fatigue and novelty mixed with apprehension. There is such also a thing called enthrallment involved, and the Amazon has this in buckets.

Not all adventures have a full dose of charm, or enthrallment, in degrees I suppose, but not in buckets; and some of the reasoning is because of the timetable does not allow one to inhale this. An example might be, is when I went to Guatemala, to Tikal, the folks in the tour company, the guides in particular, rushed me and my wife to be through the trip so fast, it became dull, fast; overheated. They wanted to get the job done, not caring about enthrallment for its customers, and so like a herd of cows they pushed us through from one point to another with little regard for our capturing anything, we’d have to deal with looking at pictures in the future, and say: “Look at this,” and try to remember the moment if we could.

This trip to the Amazon was not like that, not so: in the unlikely event something like this could happen again, I simply told myself: I’d leave the tour and go on my own. And In Cuba, Santiago, and Easter Island, I did just that, and salvaged the trip before they could spoil it, and they can spoil it. Believe me, there is a skill, art, or craft, if not philosophy in traveling, and you must have a plan B, at all times and hope you can have the edge, and live up to your philosophy, which is what you want out of the trip, lest you end up in a melodrama you will regret.

The Amazon

The Amazon I suppose you could say I was smitten by, utter happiness; I know my nostrils loved it, fresh oxygen all the time. One recognizes himself, or can when taking in the full elements of the Amazon, the: smells, sounds, fresh air, the hidden animals, the sights. A little bit of everything for the senses all pushed together into a ball you might say.

I had my doubts of how I’d like, or respond to the Amazon, that why its been five years in the waiting for me to write about it. I did not think I should write about something of this nature unless it was extraordinary, then I thought: no, that isn’t a good enough reason for me not to write about it, so here it is. Nothing extraordinary, except it is the Amazon, and that in itself is unique.

At any rate, it captured me, and the source of my first attraction was simply resided in its mystic appeal, its legends and lore, its impressiveness to have the capacity to hold more water than the largest seven rivers in the world; to be forty miles wide at one angle; to have one forth the worlds medicines. To be the home of so many species, animals, birds, cats, etc. Whatever ichthyic it was, it was a good one, and it broke he ice for me, and got to me to step into her wild wilderness. While Iceland is a unique place to be, and it has it many wonders likewise, it did not absorb me, as did the Amazon.

You might say, the Amazon took liberties with me, a violation if you will. It seeped into my being, off-balanced my oxygen intake, by me smelling harder, more. In essence, it demands more from you, and takes it, and you have little choice but to give it. It sharpened my sense you could say. I seen total freedom in many cases, perhaps one of the few places left in the world, where the inhabitants don’t know there are wars going on here and there around the world.

It all felt—arriving in the Amazon—unknown, alien time, a world away form the normal world, I was at its mercy, I did not for once in my life, did not have the edge, or for that matter, an edge to create. Perhaps it [it being: the Amazon] knew this, but I for once didn’t care.

As I first arrived going down the Amazon, perhaps the second day, going from one lodge to the other, the sky was full of beautiful clouds, liken to neon lights, except with shades: blurred into to sun beams shooting across the sky, and into and around a seemingly bouquet of puffy white clouds. One gets the feeling I do believe, he or she could get lost at any given moment, and that eyes are looking at you from all directions, ones you cannot see, sometimes ice-glazed eyes.




The Green Sea of the Amazon (Part Two of Two: Afterward: Enthrallment of the Amazon#8)


So yes, the Amazon was oblivious to my being charmed by it, as perhaps I was living in those passing moments, and didn’t know it myself, but it was fabulous. But fabulous is of course just a word, it does not describe its meaning. When we had first went down the Amazon, we stopped at what I’d call a luxury lodge, with TV and all the amenities one may wish to have in the Amazon; we simply used the facilities for prepping for our adventure into the thicker part of the Amazon, perhaps we stayed three hours; the we came to our lodge, which had none of the refinements the previous one had. And had we gone to the third one, which was deeper into the Amazon, we’d have been sleeping on a dirt floor, and ours might have looked like the Hilton, in comparison.

There were familiar flashes of darkness while going down the Amazon, which were simply shifts in the weather, from sunny, to sunny-pale with rain. I tried to enjoy the moment, grab the sky, and I suppose impolite a times in doing so, but I was busy writing down thoughts also. That is perhaps why it took five years to write a simple story as this one. The subconscious has its own knee-deep pitch-black waters, where it hides its treasures until its time to pull them up, and write them out. The good thing I’m trying to say here, is the Amazon is made for everybody to visit, and has degrees one can subject themselves to. As I previous mentioned, for those wanting to visit, and not rough it at all you got the first lodge, just got to endure the boat ride. And the third one is for those madmen who what to live like apes, you can go to that hole in the ground and live; for myself, I prefer the in-between, and got it. It is so true; you get what you pay for.

The overall feeling was mythological; the Amazon gives you no time to think of anything else, besides God and her. The passengers around me, on my way down the Amazon to the lodges were immobile, subdued by her.

Fastidiousness, is not necessary a quality in the Amazon, and if you’ve read about my yellow-bird in one of the previous chapters he was the point of fact to this, but it fit well in creating this story, and even he had a charm that belonged to the Amazon, I hold him no grudges, he was as he was: he wanted attention, like my wife, like our God wants, and like I like. So it is all in the gamut of things, is it not?

posted by dlsiluk @ 5:34 PM 0 comments

Chachapoya Countryside [Peru]

As one rides by in a car, visits a house or two on foot, a few shops in the villages and towns of the Amazonas, whole families walk by with mules and cows, along the roads to these locations: farmers on battered dusty carts, wagons with wooden wheels; no clocks in the city squares, some houses have no glass windows, nor screens: everything’s bare; some horses with no saddles, just a blanket; ploughs-gear old as the houses, a century or two. You can tell by their faces: their ancestors lived here for a thousand years, perhaps still walk the ground far and near. At the end of the road, or the road leading in (at the other end) of each town it seems to have chickens and dogs running around, laying down in the dust for coolness; mules stray.

Here in the Amazonas you wear long rubber boots for mud is unavoidable; women wear derby hats; landslides are like muck pies, thick and troublesome: everywhere, gangs of workmen cut through them: shovel-by-shovel: it’s another world.


Note: #1328 [4/23/06], Lima, Peru, Written at the Author’s home in the evening.