We are living in the wilderness, miles upon miles from civilization. When our supervisor, Viviana, asked us what she could bring us from town, we requested the following:
(1) 2 bottles of wine
(2) a remedy for foot fungus
(3) 4 santa hats
12.20.2010
A Home Among Towers
As I write I sit in an exorbitant hotel lounge. There's a Christmas tree with a broken string of lights, a blazing hearth, and a French family playing fuse ball. It's all very incongruous here in the national park. Soon I will have to steal myself for a ten minute hike through a gusty downpour to the tent where I sleep. With a full-sized mattress.
My volunteer stint here in Torres del Paine has been an exercise in strange contradictions and surreal beauty. Along with my fellow volunteers, I've destroyed bridges, analyzed worm census data, pretended to be an endangered deer in front of skeptical Chilean youth, and written found poetry from the back of a whiskey bottle while a band of damp Portuguese read heartfelt verse aloud. I've marveled at the improbable fairy-tale grandeur of this place, what with incandescent glacial lagoons and monolithic granite spears and mid-summer snowfall. I've marveled at my own freedom, at the moon, at the disconnected slide-show of odd and wondrous things that somehow must cohere into the trajectory of my existence.
So, you know, I've been living.
And the holidays approach! I will be 23 in a mere four days! There are a few strategically placed Christmas trees around the hotel, but I can't help but miss the smell of my mother's cinnamon rolls, ritualistic construction of paper snow flakes; stealthy attempts to flock my brother with fake snow. I've never spent my birthday and Christmas away from home before, and it's a lingering sort of homesickness. But we four volunteers are organizing a gift exchange that involves broken tent parts. We discuss our families' holiday traditions over tea, and asked our boss to bring us Santa hats from Punta Arenas. Something festive is happening, and it just might be that I'll grow closer to my family and its rituals through distance.
I'll conclude with a sneak preview of the pictures that we recently uploaded to Picasa. For the full exposition, visit this link.
My volunteer stint here in Torres del Paine has been an exercise in strange contradictions and surreal beauty. Along with my fellow volunteers, I've destroyed bridges, analyzed worm census data, pretended to be an endangered deer in front of skeptical Chilean youth, and written found poetry from the back of a whiskey bottle while a band of damp Portuguese read heartfelt verse aloud. I've marveled at the improbable fairy-tale grandeur of this place, what with incandescent glacial lagoons and monolithic granite spears and mid-summer snowfall. I've marveled at my own freedom, at the moon, at the disconnected slide-show of odd and wondrous things that somehow must cohere into the trajectory of my existence.
So, you know, I've been living.
And the holidays approach! I will be 23 in a mere four days! There are a few strategically placed Christmas trees around the hotel, but I can't help but miss the smell of my mother's cinnamon rolls, ritualistic construction of paper snow flakes; stealthy attempts to flock my brother with fake snow. I've never spent my birthday and Christmas away from home before, and it's a lingering sort of homesickness. But we four volunteers are organizing a gift exchange that involves broken tent parts. We discuss our families' holiday traditions over tea, and asked our boss to bring us Santa hats from Punta Arenas. Something festive is happening, and it just might be that I'll grow closer to my family and its rituals through distance.
I'll conclude with a sneak preview of the pictures that we recently uploaded to Picasa. For the full exposition, visit this link.
12.09.2010
A Brief Anthropomorphism of Birds
I have arrived at Torres de Paine National Park. My four days here have been strange for many reasons, one of which is imminent access to internet in the wilderness. There is also an eerie light at 11:30 at night and, fabulously, tea time.
I could say many things about this strange life that combines tent-dwelling with lounging in a high class hotel, but for now I want to reserve most of my commentary for my observation of Patagonian birds. Specifically, I want to observe that THESE BIRDS ARE THRILL SEEKING DANGER ADDICTS.
Nathaniel does not condone this claim, stating, and I quote, "There is no logic in the anthropomorphism of birds." However, I cannot help it, given the ridiculous weather in the Region de la Ultima Esperanza. The wind hear gusts at upwards of 100 miles per hour. Impelled by this preposterous force, the avian of life of Patagonia is wont to plummet horizontally across the ragged contours of the earth at velocities far greater than those induced by gravity. They careen through rain and sleet and wind and snow, and there is no way they are not having fun.
Sometimes I wish I could be a bird in Patagonia. That is all.
I could say many things about this strange life that combines tent-dwelling with lounging in a high class hotel, but for now I want to reserve most of my commentary for my observation of Patagonian birds. Specifically, I want to observe that THESE BIRDS ARE THRILL SEEKING DANGER ADDICTS.
Nathaniel does not condone this claim, stating, and I quote, "There is no logic in the anthropomorphism of birds." However, I cannot help it, given the ridiculous weather in the Region de la Ultima Esperanza. The wind hear gusts at upwards of 100 miles per hour. Impelled by this preposterous force, the avian of life of Patagonia is wont to plummet horizontally across the ragged contours of the earth at velocities far greater than those induced by gravity. They careen through rain and sleet and wind and snow, and there is no way they are not having fun.
Sometimes I wish I could be a bird in Patagonia. That is all.
12.02.2010
Cochamó to The End of the World
Oh dear. I need to update this blog more often... Shall I recount how it is to herd geese on a swimming horse in a beautiful bay at sunset? What it feels like to reconnect with beautiful long lost friends beneath impossible granite megaliths? What about my experiences as a recent victim of theft and impermanence, or my 30 hour long existential bus ride South, or the way in which Nathaniel and I battle travel-weariness by scrambling chocolate chip cookies on the stove top?
In the face of profound absurdity I suppose I will start with Thanksgiving. On November the 25th I found myself with one of my best childhood friends in the Chilean equivalent of Yosemite, a 10 mile mudslide away from civilization. There in the wilderness a French woman had taken it upon herself to recreate the North American holiday of Thanksgiving by employing pack horses to cart in turkeys, wine etc. We were an eclectic Thanksgiving bunch, and the motif of bubbles pervaded our conversation as we consumed a miraculously delicious, abundant, and authentic Thanksgiving meal. When it was my turn to say what I was thankful for I said freedom.
And then it began: the sudden dessimation of my most valuable possesions. While hiking down a step slope I fell directly upon my high-falootin-oh-so-convenient electronic reader and shattered any hope I had of finishing Cat´s Cradle. Then in the Puerto Montt bus station some light-fingered asshole lifted my small backpack whose contents included but were not limited to my computer, my camera, my iPod, and a significant written segment of my soul.
Luckily travel insurance will cover some portion of the loss, but my journal is the really big heartbreaking problem. I had been writing in this journal for the past three years. I had filled up all the fronts of its 180 pages with the tiniest handwriting I could muster, and I was starting to fill up all the backs of the pages too. It contained the only truly selfish writing I´ve ever created, and all of my secrets, exaltations, and tragedies that seemed too raw or trite (or maybe too true) to share with another human being. It was often sad and rambling but sometimes it was beautiful and I loved it because it was a part of me. It was like a fucking Horcrux.
And then some dude in a bus station stole it and he probably can´t even understand English. As our Patagonia-bound bus pulled out of the station I cried for the first time on the trip, and I also wondered about the deliberate construction of ego, attachment, and suffering. Ah, impermanence, when you strike you strike hard, you bastard.
A thousand miles and 14 degrees of latitude later I find myself in Punta Arenas, a bleak windy outpost city that overlooks the Straight of Magellan. The wind is so strong here that the trees are bent, and geographical phenomena are named things like "The Last Hope." The times have been a bit demanding lately, what with the theft of my things and a pesty stomach illness of Nathaniel´s. We have consoled ourselves with culrinary adventures and incredibly improbable duels with fate and fortune. Most notably, we have scrambled cookies, purchased scratch-it lottery tickets, and composed a letter to an admiral of the Chilean navy explaining why he should grant us passage on a naval vessel bound for Antarctica.
.
In three days we are going to be commencing a three-week volunteer position in Torres de Paine national park. I have no idea what we are going to be doing. All I really know is a) it is supposed to be jaw-droppingly beautiful and b) we will be living in tents. Hopefully I´ll also befriend a gaucho with a horse, meet some other interesting people, and find something vaguely festive to do for the holidays.
And thus live continues to be vivid, overwhelming, beautiful, unexpected, and all that jazz. To Freedom. Cheers.
In the face of profound absurdity I suppose I will start with Thanksgiving. On November the 25th I found myself with one of my best childhood friends in the Chilean equivalent of Yosemite, a 10 mile mudslide away from civilization. There in the wilderness a French woman had taken it upon herself to recreate the North American holiday of Thanksgiving by employing pack horses to cart in turkeys, wine etc. We were an eclectic Thanksgiving bunch, and the motif of bubbles pervaded our conversation as we consumed a miraculously delicious, abundant, and authentic Thanksgiving meal. When it was my turn to say what I was thankful for I said freedom.
And then it began: the sudden dessimation of my most valuable possesions. While hiking down a step slope I fell directly upon my high-falootin-oh-so-convenient electronic reader and shattered any hope I had of finishing Cat´s Cradle. Then in the Puerto Montt bus station some light-fingered asshole lifted my small backpack whose contents included but were not limited to my computer, my camera, my iPod, and a significant written segment of my soul.
Luckily travel insurance will cover some portion of the loss, but my journal is the really big heartbreaking problem. I had been writing in this journal for the past three years. I had filled up all the fronts of its 180 pages with the tiniest handwriting I could muster, and I was starting to fill up all the backs of the pages too. It contained the only truly selfish writing I´ve ever created, and all of my secrets, exaltations, and tragedies that seemed too raw or trite (or maybe too true) to share with another human being. It was often sad and rambling but sometimes it was beautiful and I loved it because it was a part of me. It was like a fucking Horcrux.
And then some dude in a bus station stole it and he probably can´t even understand English. As our Patagonia-bound bus pulled out of the station I cried for the first time on the trip, and I also wondered about the deliberate construction of ego, attachment, and suffering. Ah, impermanence, when you strike you strike hard, you bastard.
A thousand miles and 14 degrees of latitude later I find myself in Punta Arenas, a bleak windy outpost city that overlooks the Straight of Magellan. The wind is so strong here that the trees are bent, and geographical phenomena are named things like "The Last Hope." The times have been a bit demanding lately, what with the theft of my things and a pesty stomach illness of Nathaniel´s. We have consoled ourselves with culrinary adventures and incredibly improbable duels with fate and fortune. Most notably, we have scrambled cookies, purchased scratch-it lottery tickets, and composed a letter to an admiral of the Chilean navy explaining why he should grant us passage on a naval vessel bound for Antarctica.
.
In three days we are going to be commencing a three-week volunteer position in Torres de Paine national park. I have no idea what we are going to be doing. All I really know is a) it is supposed to be jaw-droppingly beautiful and b) we will be living in tents. Hopefully I´ll also befriend a gaucho with a horse, meet some other interesting people, and find something vaguely festive to do for the holidays.
And thus live continues to be vivid, overwhelming, beautiful, unexpected, and all that jazz. To Freedom. Cheers.
11.13.2010
Puerto Varas to Chiloé
So I wasn't sure what to expect when Vicki, the owner of the hostel we were looking over in Puerto Varas, suggested that we go "canyoning." "It will be so much fun!" she said with a smile, "you get to play in the river and go repelling and I'm pretty sure I can get you two in for half price."
And thus I found myself in a wetsuit jumping off a 40-foot waterfall with a little Frenchman that may or may not have been part frog. For those who do not know, I have an aversion to jumping off of things into water. It's the feeling of falling. I really, really dislike the feeling of falling.
"Come on!!" said the Frenchman, "launch from zee rock! Come!"
And I did, much to my own dismay and exhilaration. In the midst of a steady spring downpour I closed my eyes and leaped, falling down and down into an icy pool. I bobbed to the surface and then prepared myself to repel down a legitimately huge cascade, which I did while the volcanoes watched, peeping their snowy faces through the rain.
In Puerto Varas we were also witness to a marauding Andean Condor. We were rambling about on the slopes of the Osorno Volcano when this bird of immense proportions circled us so closely that we could hear the wind whistling through its feathers. After I was certain that the bird's intention was not to claw out my eyes, I began to understand why people worship the condor.
Her property is on the northern tip of the island of Chiloé, in a bay called Caulín that is acclaimed for it's fabulous oysters:
Of course, as always, the answers remain elusive. At least for me there's reverence embedded in the questions, and their daily asking seems right, even if intellectual 'progress' infinitely repeats like the One Great Story that I'm not sure I believe in.
Anyway, it's been beautiful. I thought I'd list a few extra links here at the end for those who are interested:
Our Most Recent Picasa Web Album
The YouTube Video of the Condor Sighting
Nathaniel's Awesome Blog
Slide Show of People Canyoning Where We Canyoned
And thus I found myself in a wetsuit jumping off a 40-foot waterfall with a little Frenchman that may or may not have been part frog. For those who do not know, I have an aversion to jumping off of things into water. It's the feeling of falling. I really, really dislike the feeling of falling.
"Come on!!" said the Frenchman, "launch from zee rock! Come!"
And I did, much to my own dismay and exhilaration. In the midst of a steady spring downpour I closed my eyes and leaped, falling down and down into an icy pool. I bobbed to the surface and then prepared myself to repel down a legitimately huge cascade, which I did while the volcanoes watched, peeping their snowy faces through the rain.
In Puerto Varas we were also witness to a marauding Andean Condor. We were rambling about on the slopes of the Osorno Volcano when this bird of immense proportions circled us so closely that we could hear the wind whistling through its feathers. After I was certain that the bird's intention was not to claw out my eyes, I began to understand why people worship the condor.
Later, while walking down the sunny streets of Puerto Varas, Nathaniel and I discussed our upcoming move to the island of Chiloé. Work with snails was rumored to be a part of the farm job we were taking on the island, but I didn't really believe it. "Nathaniel," I said, "if we really do have intimate contact with snails at this Chiloé place we should put them on our faces. Pinky swear?"
I don't know exactly what inspired me to say this, but, to Nathaniel and me, the pinky swear is sacred.
On Friday afternoon a bus dropped us off on the Chiloé coast in a rainstorm, and by Sunday we were massaging snail bellies. Inés, the owner of the farm/restaurant/hotel where we are working, also makes and sells snail-based cosmetics. It was our noble task to clean filthy snail habitations and otherwise commune with our new mollusk friends. This is just one of our many jobs at Inés's, which have also included making marzipan, painting, moving firewood, pouring cement, and cutting Styrofoam with hot knives.
I don't like oysters, but I do like the spectacular sunsets that unfurl on rain-free evenings. Everything turns purple, and Nathaniel and I have far-discussions as the algae oxen bring home their last cart-fulls of algae. Is every story some iteration of One Great Story that infinitely repeats? What does it mean to have a moral compass? How should we think about the laws of nature? Is enlightenment related to mollusks? What the hell are we going to do with our lives once we get back to the Northern Hemisphere?
Of course, as always, the answers remain elusive. At least for me there's reverence embedded in the questions, and their daily asking seems right, even if intellectual 'progress' infinitely repeats like the One Great Story that I'm not sure I believe in.
Anyway, it's been beautiful. I thought I'd list a few extra links here at the end for those who are interested:
Our Most Recent Picasa Web Album
The YouTube Video of the Condor Sighting
Nathaniel's Awesome Blog
Slide Show of People Canyoning Where We Canyoned
10.31.2010
Rain and Questions
This is a rainy Halloween, with fat drops trickling down the windows of a big restored mansion. Nathaniel and I are still in Puerto Varas--we're watching over a bed and breakfast that is owned by my fifth grade teacher's high-school best friend. Right now "watching over" means reading Vonnegut in the common-space and waiting for guests. Also, thinking about questions.
Lately, you see, I've been faced with questions that are very difficult to answer. Here is a list:
(1) What did you study? ("Religion and Neuroscience" doesn't translate well into Spanish, and it also doesn't make very much sense.)
(2) What are you going to do with your education? (I either get quiet and awkward or say that I want to become a cat because felines in general seem to be enlightened.)
(3) What is your occupation? (This is often encountered when we have to check in places--Nathaniel and I share terrified eye-contact and freeze. Last time we wrote "itinerant vegetable worker.")
(4) What did you do to deserve this profound freedom? (I ask myself this one, and then struggle to remind myself that, in Tibetan, the word "guilt" doesn't exist.)
(5) Are we just walking non sequiturs? (Nathaniel just asked me that now, over his copy of The Grapes of Wrath. I kinda like it.)
This list is by no means comprehensive. In other news, Chile's only astronaut lives upstairs. Apparently he won some contest, so he got launched up above the stratosphere and gets to take part in the pilot project for a space-tourism agency. He may even go to the moon, and he's one of the happiest people I've ever met.
And I think that this Halloween is going to be pretty quiet. Although the holiday has certainly taken hold here in Chile, Nathaniel and I are going to stay at the guest house and protect it from marauding hooligans (read: we are lazy and might wear some silly hats). It's funny to compare this Halloween to my last, when I bade a confused Indian tailor to made me a sugar-glider suit:
Lately, you see, I've been faced with questions that are very difficult to answer. Here is a list:
(1) What did you study? ("Religion and Neuroscience" doesn't translate well into Spanish, and it also doesn't make very much sense.)
(2) What are you going to do with your education? (I either get quiet and awkward or say that I want to become a cat because felines in general seem to be enlightened.)
(3) What is your occupation? (This is often encountered when we have to check in places--Nathaniel and I share terrified eye-contact and freeze. Last time we wrote "itinerant vegetable worker.")
(4) What did you do to deserve this profound freedom? (I ask myself this one, and then struggle to remind myself that, in Tibetan, the word "guilt" doesn't exist.)
(5) Are we just walking non sequiturs? (Nathaniel just asked me that now, over his copy of The Grapes of Wrath. I kinda like it.)
This list is by no means comprehensive. In other news, Chile's only astronaut lives upstairs. Apparently he won some contest, so he got launched up above the stratosphere and gets to take part in the pilot project for a space-tourism agency. He may even go to the moon, and he's one of the happiest people I've ever met.
And I think that this Halloween is going to be pretty quiet. Although the holiday has certainly taken hold here in Chile, Nathaniel and I are going to stay at the guest house and protect it from marauding hooligans (read: we are lazy and might wear some silly hats). It's funny to compare this Halloween to my last, when I bade a confused Indian tailor to made me a sugar-glider suit:
10.25.2010
Odes
I sit now in the home of a kind lawyer in Puerto Varas, Chile. Snow-frosted volcanoes loom surreal over an indigo lake, and I’m sipping tea, reflecting. As always there is too much to recount. We’ve worked for two weeks for a old man from Ohio, we visited my old friends in Temuco and danced until 5 a.m. through an earthquake, and now we’re here, in the picturesque tourist haven of Puerto Varas, discussing religion and politics with our wonderful Couchsurfing host.
I have mentioned, I believe, that the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda is the shit. In one particular anthology, Neruda writes every poem as an ode to something: “Ode to the Bicycle,” “Ode to the Artichoke,” “Ode to the Onion,” etc. In this spirit, I am going to try to allude to my experiences of the last couple of weeks in a brief series of odes. Enjoy.
Ode to Thistle
We are now intimate enemies, Cirisium arvense. Farmer Daniel calls you "Canadian Thistle," but I know that you're really called "Cursed." After spending untold hours chopping your invasive thorny hide into bits with a hoe in the cherry orchards, I'm confused. I think I've come to love you as much as I hate you. There's something almost proud about your spiny face under a gray spring sky. You know what "green" means. Your evil is pure.
Ode to Steinbeck
You genius, you. Of course it’s strange to be reading your North-American epic East of Eden, being on the wrong continent and all, but it’s so true and mythic. I can’t stop. You are my company during lazy afternoons on the Valdivia farm, where I read post thistle-murder with tea. I binge on your words, wonder where I come from, get lost in your universe. Pristine phrases float through my mind like clouds… “I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul.”
Ode to the Sea
You must be tired of odes by now, you infinite expanse of base-notes and lights. I can't help it, though—you're too beautiful outside of Validvia, framed as you are by the ramparts of old forts and yellow flowers. As pelicans muse like old men above your turquoise tufts, Nathaniel and I talk about the grandiose intangibles of life. God becomes a hypothetical mollusk, and we wonder what we can know.
Ode to Beer
European immigrants pander your strange golden rainbow, and we sample every variety in little plastic cups. I didn't think that you could come honey-flavored; thick and sweet like syrup. The "Gran Torobayo" is clearly the best, but I don't know where the name comes from and you're not nearly as good as your Oregonian cousins. I love your improbability, however, and I laugh to myself as I sip something so rich and brown and German.
Ode to Marcelo
“Temuco.” We wanted to go there, but the gleaming labeled bus wouldn’t stop for two grungy backpackers waving their arms on the side of the Pan-American Highway. You stopped, though, with your giant empty tea truck. We didn’t think that our shyly waving thumbs would yield any results, but you stopped and you saved us. You honked for us to come and then threw our backpacks where the tea used to be. For two hours you ferried us, laughed and chain-smoked, shared pictures of your son. You asked to friend us on Facebook and showed us how people are good.
Ode to Coffee
Grounding beautiful delicious dirt—I could write an anthology just for you (poor Nathaniel listens to excerpts daily). Everyone here drinks Nescafe, which isn’t coffee at all, and you’ve become a distant dream during the last few weeks. But then Vickie, a fascinating entrepreneur, serves you up steaming as we talk about chocolate and organic food and entertaining the prince of Monaco. Maybe we will work for Vickie arranging her porch and watching after her bed and breakfast. Maybe I will drink more of you, you beautiful bevarage. The possibilities are delectable.
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