ciao ciao, un beso fuerte, saludos a la gente alli, te quiero, ciao ciao, que dios te bendiga, un abrazo, ciao, adios
8.20.2007
8.16.2007
meat dreams
In Bolivia, I decided to stop eating meat. In Argentina, I decided to start again.
It was the first night in Argentina. After 30 hours on two freezing buses and a 5 am border crossing, you could say I wasn't conscious of what I was doing. I ordered a salad thinking my body needed cold raddishes and lettuce. Then Mario's plate arrived. It was a plate made out of meat. I judged him as he teared the flesh from the bone. But then he offered me a bite and like I said, I was not thinking, so I tried this dish that has made Argentina famous, and as Mario would tell it, light suddenly came into my eyes and it is very possible that due to the richness and flavor of that juicy carne, I cried...
and ever since I have been under the spell of the cow.
They are very proud of their meat in Argentina and reprimand the butchers for a bad cut. A good carne takes 2 hours to cook and is only permitted to come into contact with salt, no sauces, no salsas, no A-1. One evening, our gracious hosts had prepared a bbq and as we sat down to eat, I struggled a little cutting into it, my knife just not wanting to find the plate below. The usually robust table got quiet, and the host put down his fork and concentrated on me. I knew that I was clearly disrespecting his meat, same as if I were to paper his house or break his only son's heart. I got nervous, started sweating, sawing with all my might at this frustrating piece of blubber. He finally said, "That knife must not be cuttin´" and his wife quickly added "Sí, must be the knife, it's not the meat." "Not the meat" "Not the meat" everyone at the table rapidly chimed in from their bowed, embarassed, places over their meat plates. Finally, I freed the piece from its thick body and stuffed my mouth full, remaining silently chewing for several awkward moments. You don't disrespect the meat.
So, like that, I left behind the world of the round onion, the crisp carrot, the sleek green bean. I am a meat-eater. Each day at lunch, I eat a Steak Milanesa, at night, a dripping rack of ribs. I go to my bed and fall asleep and the meat visits me and gives me dreams more vivid, more disturbing, more real than any I have ever had. Literally, becoming ...
dreams incarnate!!!
It was the first night in Argentina. After 30 hours on two freezing buses and a 5 am border crossing, you could say I wasn't conscious of what I was doing. I ordered a salad thinking my body needed cold raddishes and lettuce. Then Mario's plate arrived. It was a plate made out of meat. I judged him as he teared the flesh from the bone. But then he offered me a bite and like I said, I was not thinking, so I tried this dish that has made Argentina famous, and as Mario would tell it, light suddenly came into my eyes and it is very possible that due to the richness and flavor of that juicy carne, I cried...
and ever since I have been under the spell of the cow.
They are very proud of their meat in Argentina and reprimand the butchers for a bad cut. A good carne takes 2 hours to cook and is only permitted to come into contact with salt, no sauces, no salsas, no A-1. One evening, our gracious hosts had prepared a bbq and as we sat down to eat, I struggled a little cutting into it, my knife just not wanting to find the plate below. The usually robust table got quiet, and the host put down his fork and concentrated on me. I knew that I was clearly disrespecting his meat, same as if I were to paper his house or break his only son's heart. I got nervous, started sweating, sawing with all my might at this frustrating piece of blubber. He finally said, "That knife must not be cuttin´" and his wife quickly added "Sí, must be the knife, it's not the meat." "Not the meat" "Not the meat" everyone at the table rapidly chimed in from their bowed, embarassed, places over their meat plates. Finally, I freed the piece from its thick body and stuffed my mouth full, remaining silently chewing for several awkward moments. You don't disrespect the meat.
So, like that, I left behind the world of the round onion, the crisp carrot, the sleek green bean. I am a meat-eater. Each day at lunch, I eat a Steak Milanesa, at night, a dripping rack of ribs. I go to my bed and fall asleep and the meat visits me and gives me dreams more vivid, more disturbing, more real than any I have ever had. Literally, becoming ...
dreams incarnate!!!
7.29.2007
Bella Bolivia
Bella Bolivia. You have been a cold country. The rivers in your lowlands run warmer than the tap water that freezescalds my fingers. I still haven't recovered from that sting. Your hillsides are naked, exposed, small potato fields struggling to warm themselves in your rocky earth. Clouds scratched across blue endless skies. Faces made of leather, shoes made of tired tires. I can see the bones of your elbows, your ankles, chalky with cold. The wind leaves your cheeks a crackly red, and your eyes, dry ceramic pots.
Bella Bolivia. In your Spanish chapels, the gold peels and I see earth material underneath. Jesus hangs on a faded cross of leather canvas. In your once silver-coated mountains, Indigenous blood paints the rock. Your history is skin and bones.
Bella Bolivia. From my bus window, I see your day meet night on the horizon, smelling sweet. I see your trees bending into the sunset, beaming with the golden reflection. Your lakes are a sea of tos'd glitter. Your streets a stony hallway. Your ancients, dressed like dolls, sink deep into the puddle of their skirts, melt down into the earth from whence comes the warmth, like your adobe homes. I watch your youth digging at the earth, revolving the minerals found there. I watch your men, coca juice filling their mouths, moving to a rhythm birthed in their torsos, wrung from the sorrow of the zampoño.
Bella Bolivia. You ARE beautiful.
7.25.2007
7.23.2007
Roads like Journeys
Roads like journeys
there, always before you
A room like religion
dark, candlelit with waxy prayers
Hot water like democracy
promised, icy on your neck
Toilet paper like a journal
prioritized, when one runs out
Bolivia like a Texas landscape
conquered, still stubbornly sovereign
there, always before you
A room like religion
dark, candlelit with waxy prayers
Hot water like democracy
promised, icy on your neck
Toilet paper like a journal
prioritized, when one runs out
Bolivia like a Texas landscape
conquered, still stubbornly sovereign
7.09.2007
Bolivia
Bolivia lay at the top of the hill. Hidden from my view by the incline, I could only imagine it. Filled with mines and buried Eldorados? Indigenous women, babies slung cross backs. Socialist presidents. Cheap markets. I know that most of the people who knew about this trip, told me to skip it.
We changed our money in Peru. Bolivianos. Suddenly richer than we had been, the air felt lighter. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the coins that rattled there... 3 soles. I couldn't believe the coincidence. My spirit soared. I would carry these 3 soles with me through the rest of this journey and they would protect me and guide me. Later I would deliver them back to the USA to verify where I had been. I looked up at Bolivia. I contemplated how I would cross this imaginary line. Leaping. High on altitude and short on oxygen, we leaped our way from Peru to Bolivia.
On the other side, a new country, a new people, a new story... and a beggar. One of those women who look like they melted into their giant petticoats, bowler hat open and extended. I walked past her.
And stopped. I turned around. 3 soles. I turned them over in my hand before they fell soft on the dirty felt. She fingered them and looked up at me, then scuttled off. No Aymara blessing, no Spanish gracias. Just a lighter weight in my pocket, a story, and 3 soles given.
bubble babble
watching a group of middle aged english people blow bubbles at excited peruvian three year olds here in the plaza of Aguas Calientes, the mirrored joy on both sides of the magical globes, watching them fly, float, then foof! now this group of middle aged English people pull, like rabbits from a hat or dollars off a tree, new bottles of bubbles from their bundles tightly wrapped diagonally around their tall torsos and in so doing show these children what fantastical treasures lie in the foreigner's pocket.
the group of middle aged English people have left the plaza, gone to enjoy drinks and pizza in a balcony overlooking a river, but here in this plaza, bubbles continue to float above little heads, tiny eyes glistening, arms reaching up...
the group of middle aged English people have left the plaza, gone to enjoy drinks and pizza in a balcony overlooking a river, but here in this plaza, bubbles continue to float above little heads, tiny eyes glistening, arms reaching up...
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