So I just hitchhiked from northeastern Argentina to northwestern Argentina, and I'm bound for Bolivia in just two days. However, for this post to make sense, I must briefly revisit my Junior year of college in Minnesota and recount a brief story:
I had stayed up until the nether-hours of the night writing a paper for my existentialism class. It was about Nietzsche and the death of God... how can we create a framework of morals in a word devoid of transcendent truth? I sure as hell didn't know, but I typed something thesis-driven and exited Carleton's computing center to the sleepy cheeping of birds and pre-dawn darkness. I wasn't only tired--I was beaten. Those unsettling unanswerable questions (you know, the ones that are so mighty at night when everyone else is sleeping?), they had stomped down on my sleep-deprived soul and ground in their heals. I walked slowly across the quad through solitude and confusion... And then it happened, The Miracle: A barely-visible figure in the middle of the grassy quad began to play the bagpipes. Passionately. The notes of the bagpipes rose bravely through the night. Lofty. Absurd. Almost-clashing. Epic. It was a little bit otherworldly, but it was human in a way that puts a pang in your chest. I forgot my deep fatigue and was moved. In that moment, I loved the anonymous player of pipes.
OK, fast-forward one and a half years to today, the 30th of January, 2011. Nathaniel and I have been on the move through Argentina since January 8th, and we're getting pretty tired of being tourists. I mean, we've seen some spectacular things, but a couple of weeks of spectacular-thing-guzzling can bring you down... you start to miss the trappings of community and get the urge to dig your feet into a place and get beyond the superficial "spectacular things." Last time we were weary like this we were at the southern tip of this continent, and we scrambled cookie dough on a stove top to console ourselves. Today, however, we decided to visit some painted hills. And they were, well... spectacular. It's like, God accidentally spilled all these oceanic turquoises and fiery reds and yellows on some random cliffs in the Argentine desert and forgot to clean up after himself. Giant cacti stood like sentinels as Nathaniel and I relished the quiet of the high desert. And then, out of nowhere, a man started playing the bagpipes. He walked slowly, belting out beautiful alien bagpipe twangs that were absolutely out of place in the Andean highlands. The painted cliffs were his intended audience, and I loved him. After a performance that was both heart-wrenching and silly, he packed his pipes back into his sports car (they wheezed as they deflated into the back seat) and explained that he was from Buenos Aires and yes, he did often travel with his bagpipes. Then he drove away.
I had stayed up until the nether-hours of the night writing a paper for my existentialism class. It was about Nietzsche and the death of God... how can we create a framework of morals in a word devoid of transcendent truth? I sure as hell didn't know, but I typed something thesis-driven and exited Carleton's computing center to the sleepy cheeping of birds and pre-dawn darkness. I wasn't only tired--I was beaten. Those unsettling unanswerable questions (you know, the ones that are so mighty at night when everyone else is sleeping?), they had stomped down on my sleep-deprived soul and ground in their heals. I walked slowly across the quad through solitude and confusion... And then it happened, The Miracle: A barely-visible figure in the middle of the grassy quad began to play the bagpipes. Passionately. The notes of the bagpipes rose bravely through the night. Lofty. Absurd. Almost-clashing. Epic. It was a little bit otherworldly, but it was human in a way that puts a pang in your chest. I forgot my deep fatigue and was moved. In that moment, I loved the anonymous player of pipes.
OK, fast-forward one and a half years to today, the 30th of January, 2011. Nathaniel and I have been on the move through Argentina since January 8th, and we're getting pretty tired of being tourists. I mean, we've seen some spectacular things, but a couple of weeks of spectacular-thing-guzzling can bring you down... you start to miss the trappings of community and get the urge to dig your feet into a place and get beyond the superficial "spectacular things." Last time we were weary like this we were at the southern tip of this continent, and we scrambled cookie dough on a stove top to console ourselves. Today, however, we decided to visit some painted hills. And they were, well... spectacular. It's like, God accidentally spilled all these oceanic turquoises and fiery reds and yellows on some random cliffs in the Argentine desert and forgot to clean up after himself. Giant cacti stood like sentinels as Nathaniel and I relished the quiet of the high desert. And then, out of nowhere, a man started playing the bagpipes. He walked slowly, belting out beautiful alien bagpipe twangs that were absolutely out of place in the Andean highlands. The painted cliffs were his intended audience, and I loved him. After a performance that was both heart-wrenching and silly, he packed his pipes back into his sports car (they wheezed as they deflated into the back seat) and explained that he was from Buenos Aires and yes, he did often travel with his bagpipes. Then he drove away.
Mmmmm!!
ReplyDeleteYears ago when I was jogging in Avery Park an early morning bagpiper sounded through the fog. Never did see him but loved that fog-cutting sound.
Grandma Peggy
At Wooster, bagpipes become a sign of the normal rather than the absurd. Which, I suppose, in itself is absurd. But we lack God's finger-painting accidents (though this morning's sunrise was pretty great).
ReplyDeleteIn Europe we never hitched so great a distance as 2800km, but I definitely have good memories of the shorter, desperate sprints we took.
Here's to vicarious adventuring, my friend.