Vidante: Seeing

Quebrada de Humahuaca The restaurant, La Carmela, is nestled across the street from the main square...

Mon, 09 Apr 2012 14:59:10 -0400

Quebrada de Humahuaca

The restaurant, La Carmela, is nestled across the street from the main
square where disinterested sellers man the native artisan stalls. The
wind whips up the dust on the tiny main street that runs from the
highway to the small cathedral. It is mid-afternoon, around 2 pm., and
almost everything is closed except for La Cantina. Tilcara is an ancient
native village on the Quebrada de Humahuaca, a narrow mountain valley of
the Rio Grande. There is visible evidence in the form of walls and
irrigation system that dates it well before the height of the Inca
dynasties in nearby Bolivia and Peru to which they paid homage. It is
also is the home of the Pucara de Tilcara, an ancient stone and mud
fortress. The presence of tourists, mostly young couples from Buenos
Aires, does not seem to affect its daily life and charm, as in more
developed destinations such as Patagonia, Iguazu Falls, Mendoza and
Buenos Aires - all worthy destinations and more easily accessible.

Since the Quebrada had not been discovered by western tourists language
is a significant barrier to communication. I had already mis-ordered -
having received one cheese empanada for my wife, but no chicken empanada
for myself. The tamales I ordered with my mixed
Hispanio-english-pig-latin for my wife was to be with corn and cheese
but instead we got beef pureed into the corn, hardly appetizing for her
vegetarian palette. The white wine thankfully arrived as ordered though
it was unceremoniously dumped on the table in a small, chipped,
deformed, glass jug along with an upside down drinking glass. The
regional dish, Picenta Pollo (chicken) is bland and soupy with a yellow
-golden hue. It is served with local rice and a mixture of vegetables
that are largely indistinguishable and a boiled potato. It is not
unpleasant to the eye, and with each morsel, more of this dish became
discernible. The vegetables seem to contain finely scrambled eggs,
onions, small chunks of sweet potato, and green garnish - possibly
parsley.

The occasional dog, omnipresent in Argentina, looked longingly through
the open door and was driven away by the young waitress who should have
probably been in school. A bareback horse rider galloped past followed
by a cloud of dust and a retinue of dogs. The television is on but
thankfully on mute so the mournful but pleasant sound of native flutes
playing tunes from the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel waft over from
the square. The chicken dish, though mis-represented by the term
“picante”, was satisfying. The taste and presentation could be compared
to that of a well-made curry in North London to which the cook had
mistakenly forgotten to add salt and chili powder and possibly any
spices whatsoever. In the end the saving grace was the fact that the
chicken was fresh, as if it had just minutes before run past the door
like the horse and the dogs. The empanada was fresh as was the corn in
the tamale and the husk it was wrapped in. The white wine that was
poured from a barrel seemed pleasant after the three hour drive from
Salta though sweeter than I wished. The proprietor’s attempt to close
the frail and aged double doors is futile against the wind.

There is no sign whatsoever that the proprietor had any intention to
make this restaurant as rustic as it is - the lamp shades are made of
thin pieces of animal skin which are torn or missing, the “specials”
board with an image of Coca Cola hangs tilted and absent of any
specials. The flies that seem to appreciate the cool, dark, interior to
the bright sunny street are lazy, possibly because they seem well fed.
The Quebrada is in the province of Jujuy (pronounced who-whoee) in
Northern Argentina, and it is the least visited by foreign tourists. The
hotels and restaurants are aimed at Argentine sensibilities, or more
notably, sophisticated Buenos Aires sensibilities. The few hotels and
restaurants are small and in minimally refurbished old buildings and
those that are new are artfully integrated into the adobe style
buildings of the villages.

El Neuvo Progreso, where we ate in late in the evening, is an
avant-garde restaurant, with a menu of unique offerings to which the
young urban couples from Buenos Aires flock to night. Traditional
dishes, almost exclusively meat - lamb, llama, goat, and beef - are
prepared in creative ways and the desserts are superb, and although
expensive, well worthwhile. Yet, despite the remarkable quality of food
and service, several ceiling tiles are missing or badly torn but in the
soft candlelight, and low whispers of newly-weds and lovers, it is
perfect.

Hotel Rincon de Fuego The hotel is barely discernible from the homes
around it, or what appears to be a small school house next to it. Even
the wooden sign with the name engraved into it is barely distinguishable
in the blowing dust. Inside, the young receptionist appears perplexed
that we wanted a room and immediately called someone to determine the
rate. Soon it became clear that the little eating area and kitchen, and
the few bottles of wine that lined the wall would not be enjoyed by any
other guests than us, perhaps because it is overpriced ($100 usd a
night) and/or because it is a quarter kilometer uphill from the main
square. The building is dark and quaint, built from local material in a
traditional adobe style - earth toned tiles and granite floor, thatched
ceiling with lines of local variant of bamboo, and mud walls tastefully
painted in shades of brownish white. The entire structure is naturally
cool and comfortable. The small courtyard surrounded by a low unfired
brick wall has a spectacular view to the eastern hills. The trees create
pools of shade and a giant cactus proudly dominates the assortment of
cosmos, geraniums, and marigold. The outdoor brick barbecue and the
neatly piled logs are customary for a country where parrilla - barbecued
meats - is by far the most favored, almost romantized, food. There are
several flaws - a finicky toilet, an inadequate breakfast, and unhelpful
staff but the greatest flaw maybe the rooster next door whose throaty
call at precisely 4:44 am had made me wish that it would find its way to
La Carmela’s table or a celebratory parrilla.

La Quebrada de Jujuy is one of four regions of the province of Jujuy by
the Argentine border to Bolivia. Humahuaca, a town of over 10,000 people
and small villages like Tilcara, Purmamarca, and Maimara are the main
attraction and for the more adventurous, a drive to Salinas Grande, the
salt flats across the mountain ridge from Purmamarca, we will be
worthwhile.

Maimara

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 19:53:11 -0400

Maimara

Buenos Aires

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 10:10:00 -0400

Buenos Aires. City of lovers and gentile people, but around the edges there is persistent, unseen potential for violence and theft. The security in buildings and businesses is firm and uncompromising, but the streets seem calm and the police far less visible than the streets of Santiago in neighboring Chile. The large, open spaces of Recolita and its well maintained parks and galleries with expansive inventories of Argentine and European art lends the country an air of civility. However the repeated warnings of purse snatchers, pick pockets and muggers, and the iron clad security in residences suggests a city that has a thin veneer of calm. The air of romance is pronounced by the public, unabashed display of affection between sexes and reveals the sentimentality and emotional quality of Argentinians. There is a deeply seated patriotism reinforced by government proclamations, but in private the apparent pride of country quickly yields to a grim acceptance that the country may never be the great nation the citizens wish. Argentina is country that wishes to be more like its European cousins than the neighbours in her own hemisphere. The cause of her longing is that she will never be what her citizens wish, and all her great gifts - mystic rain shrouded forest, vast plains, oceans, mountains and rich soil - will not be able to fill the void. For all the pride, her citizens will admire the discipline of Chile and the resourcefulness of America but will insist on imitating the imagined civility of the Europeans. Her cemeteries may forever be filled with what could have been.

Argentina

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 18:53:00 -0400

Strange bedfellows we make, Argentina

You speak in a tongue I barely know

You wish for things you cannot have

Your manicured brows and painted lips

Will always allure and hold my imagination.

Yet we are bedfellows because we’ve turned our hearts to common things.

All the while, vast rivers weave through rainforest,

Waters pour from the Andes to feed grapevines, and loamy soil.

Glaciers melt into massive lakes, and seas pound the endless coast.

And wherever one turns the soft footballs of the soul are left untended.

Perhaps we were meant to be bedfellows for I too forget.

My ears are stopped by pursuit of the ordinary,

My eyes no longer see, my touch has gone cold.

The movements of unseen truths, the beckoning of unrequited love,

the scent of subtle spirit elude me as much as you,

So cry for us, Argentina, for the power and wealth you seek passes by each living moment.

Puerto del Hambre

Today I have tasted the worst weather that Patagonia, and in particular - the Magallan Strait - can deliver. It is now easier to admire the knowledge and inventiveness of the Yamana to live here almost naked, and easier still to understand the fate of the Spanish navigator Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa and the 142 settlers who starved to death here in 1584, except for one survivor. That is how the area got its name, Puerto del Hambre (Port Famine).

Ode to a Nameless Soul

You had gone silent

it was the quiet of those saddened by neglect

and I had given you up for dead.

although your memory fell lightly in my dreams,

they were so easily wiped away at the first signs of day break

when the concerns of the world raged like a Patagonian storm.

When I did remember, I sought you in my work,

in the faces of those I love and even those I don’t, but to no avail.

Now you come to me when the Patagonian storms

physically tear into each bone with sleet and rain,

but instead of seeking shelter, I am still.

When your finger stirs, my entire body turns to you

and will accept the pelting rain and stormy winds as mere nuisance.

How could I forget over and over again that if there are laws by which you live,

they will forever be unknown to me.

You will not know death as I will

nor will you know the pain of separation.

Our loved ones and our enemies march steadily into oblivion,

each certain that they would be spared.

Yet, don’t pity us since it is you that ache, nameless soul.

You have given us everything to remember you

and you have nothing left to give.

But we, who have been given, beg for more

another year of profit, successful children, better health and a deathless life.

Gape as you will from our cavernous hearts, but do not laugh at us for we are both vulnerable.

Rio de Las Minas Floods Punta Arenas

Mon, 12 Mar 2012 12:23:00 -0400

The river runs through the centre of the downtown core and appeared well contained with in its deep and wide concrete banks, but with the relentless rain in the past 2 days it broke its banks and flooded the entire downtown. The response of the officials seems thorough and organized, the police are managing the crowds who have emerged with their cameras, the work crew are diligently and with commitment plying the thick sludge that jammed against the bridges, and there are military personnel and firemen everywhere. A steady stream of trucks weighted down with sand bags is winding through town.

Flooding from over flowing river in Punta Arenas

Mon, 12 Mar 2012 12:09:22 -0400

Flooding from over flowing river in Punta Arenas

Photo

Mon, 12 Mar 2012 06:43:49 -0400

Photo

Sat, 10 Mar 2012 13:19:30 -0500

Puerto Williams

Sat, 10 Mar 2012 13:11:00 -0500

The airport is a small room with a single bathroom and enough seats for ten travelers each of which seems to be accompanied by well wishers. The doors opened fifteen minutes before the flight and the passengers - whose names are ticked off a list - and their baggage are loaded on without security or tickets. Most of the people have some native ancestry but the only genuine natives are the approximately twenty people who live in a tiny community at the edge of town past the ferry station in Villa Ukika. There Christina Calderon, the last surviving speaker of Yaghan, their language, lives at the age of 80. She has worked with her granddaughter, Christina Zarraga, to publish a book of Yaghan stories, Hai Kur Mamashu Shis (I Want to Tell You a Story).

Other than few hundred Chileans who migrated from the north, the main residents are Chilean naval personnel and a few sailors from Europe, Australia, America, and at least one from Canada, all of whom ply their robust, sea worthy sailboats in challenging conditions.

Ben Garrett, a veteran navigator, boat builder, electronic engineer, and inventor, came to these waters in mid-seventies on a concrete boat he built near Los Angeles. His investors fell on hard times and withdrew their funding, leaving him with the prospect of bankruptcy. He retreated to his mother’s and followed her advice to turn his life to Jesus. “Then,” he told me in his bedridden condition, “like a flash of light, everything became clear, and I knew I had to go away wherever he led me. I ended up on Easter Island, and in 1977 had my accident. My lung collapsed when I dove too deep for lobsters.”. The sun poured into his bedroom across his kind and weather beaten face. There is a quality of resignation in his eyes but the deep lines in his face still wrinkled into a bemused smile - almost one of recognition that the cancer that possessed him could only be cured by God’s hands. “I came here as a missionary, and knew all the Yamana villagers to whom I brought the Word. Now I was lying here waiting for a miracle.” I told him that I would like to tell his story. “It is simple with Christ,” he said, “Just do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” He smiled broadly, and the lines itched into his forehead and the corners of his eyes deepened. His face seemed carved and torn into shape by the elements of Patagonia that have embraced him.

After his accident, in 1986, he withdrew to Puerto Montt, where he bought drawings and built the Tall Ship S/V Victory - a Schooner made of cypress and redwood from the Chilean coast. The Victory would sail the entire 2600 mile coast of Chile and Ben realized his dream to help people from all over the world to experience the rugged beauty of Cape Horn, Terra Del Fuego, and Antarctica. He sailed the Victory to Puerto Williams, well before it was discovered by the few tourists, and began a series of enterprises including giving sailing tours to the Antarctic, repairing boats, the first Internet provider on the island, and a B&B. He has the calm of a man who has experienced God and surrendered his will.

I am not sure, if there is a God, but I am sure of the need for one. To have a dialogue with something higher, and commune with life in this way seems to weaken common fears.

The Last Yamana

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 20:40:00 -0500

The Last Yamana:

She is the last of her people, the only living native that speaks the language since her sister-in-law died in 2005. They had lived in this harsh, cold climate naked and the women (only the women) dove into the frigid waters to hunt shellfish. They had survived by smearing animal grease on their bodies and huddling around fires in natural rock shelters. It is claimed that they had a remarkably high internal body temperature. The early European explorers, and later, even Charles Darwin, looked upon them as savages. Robert Fitzroy, captain of the HMS Beagle, captured and took four Yamana to be “civilized” in England and brought the three that survived back to be missionaries. On the subsequent trip the only one they found, Jemmy Button, had returned to his traditional ways and told them, in perfect English, that he did not wish to return to England. Darwin, upon meetng the Yamana, remarked in astonishment that the difference between “savages” and “civilized man” was greater than that between wild and tame animals. Thomas Bridges (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Bridges), whose descendants still live in the 200 sq km ranch on the Argentinian side, tried diligently to preserve the Yaghan language and culture, even forsaking mission work. His son Lucas, continued the work and developed a complete Yaghan- English dictionary.

Photo

Wed, 07 Mar 2012 16:38:25 -0500

Upsala

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 11:18:00 -0500

There is little art in living other than to invite the world to breathe into us its profound essences. The tired arguments of those short on love, that perpetual economic growth be the single determinant of happiness, seem bleak in the Patagonia landscape. But to be in this temple of profound beauty is not enough, because despite her majestic power she is as much in need of man’s willingness to supplicate rather than master, and in need of touching that chord in man that still venerates. There is a holy quality in vast beauty that requires humble acceptance and serene surrender.

Cathedral

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 07:20:00 -0500

The sweeping horizons of the Upsala Glacier and channel with rushing turquoise waters, mist covered mountains and sweeping clouds broken by beams of sunlight have the power to make the mind still and silence the travelers on the boat. The space is untouched by human works - save the lone boat that is ecologically well managed - and the Argentine government has done a remarkable job preserving what is justly a human heritage. There are few thoughts, analogies, or words that could capture the spirit of this space. Perhaps the greatest poets of the world should be brought here to tell humanity of vast beauty and its power to transform and humble the human mind. If the body were a cathedral, the air as pure as the winds of Patagonia, and its blood as clean as the waters, and its being as still in the midst of movement as the sky, and soul as stirring as the deep blue icebergs and its limbs as profoundly quiet and strong as the glaciers, then mankind would count each of its days, its hours and seconds like deeply devote monks running beads through their fingers with love and care.

Falling Glacier

Sun, 04 Mar 2012 21:34:00 -0500

The massive glacier, merely a hundred yards away is still reverberating from the great collapse of the glacial bridge on two sides of the 50 foot divide of Lake Argentina. It had been breaking every 12 years for several decades but now breaks every 4 years as the waters from one side become higher and pressure the bridge to collapse. We arrived the morning of the greatly anticipated event. And the force of the break still shook the supported structure which continues to crumble.

Please see the next 2 pictures of this sequence

Sun, 04 Mar 2012 21:26:00 -0500

Please see the next 2 pictures of this sequence

Photo

Sun, 04 Mar 2012 21:24:41 -0500

Photo

Sun, 04 Mar 2012 16:46:36 -0500

We can only clean the flute, care for it and prepare, and then wait. You, master flutist, may not...

Fri, 02 Mar 2012 17:07:00 -0500

We can only clean the flute, care for it and prepare, and then wait. You, master flutist, may not come, yet, we begin and prepare and wait again and again. Perhaps you will come in an hour, a week, a year, or perhaps never. But what right have we but to prepare and wait. You have left us with little choice, other than to be a servant or slave. We strive to master the world only to surrender to a life of waiting for your breath.

Photo

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 16:49:41 -0500

The mathematics of seeing

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 16:26:00 -0500

The mathematics of seeing in inexplicable, its laws indiscernible, its manifestation unpredictable. It is the mathematics in which to empty oneself is to be filled with hope, where to give of oneself is to receive immeasurably more. To come again to grandeur, knowing the work of our hands begins in failure, yet, in increments, the soul will stir and see itself.