Ecuador´s New Constitution

The article below is from the New York Times.

September 29, 2008, 8:34 am

Ecuador Constitution Grants Rights to Nature
By Andrew C. Revkin

News accounts of Ecuador’s vote on Sunday approving a new Constitution mainly focused on how its terms could help the country’s leftist leader, Rafael Correa, an American-educated economist, gain and hold more power. Details are in Simon Romero’s article on the Ecuador vote and its implications.

But as I mentioned last week, the Constitution includes a novel set of articles that appear to be the first in any Constitution granting inalienable rights to nature. Cyril Mychalejko of UpsideDownWorld.org wrote an interesting column exploring the political subtext and explaining how realities on the ground in that turbulent country may limit the significance of the language. Still, the wording alone is fascinating, as is the simple fact that the provisions were included.

One passage says nature “has the right to exist, persist, maintain and regenerate its vital cycles, structure, functions and its processes in evolution.”

[UPDATED:] The language in these provisions was written by Ecuador’s Constitutional Assembly with input from the Community Environmental Legal Defense Fund, a Pennsylvania-based group providing legal assistance to governments and community groups trying to mesh human affairs and the environment. The group says it has helped more than a dozen communities in New Hampshire, Pennsylvania and Virginia draft and pass laws “that change the status of ecosystems from being regarded as property under the law to being recognized as rights-bearing entities.”

My guess is that Edward O. Wilson would love to see this language adopted everywhere.

Simon Romero, my colleague covering the news, told me in e-mail Sunday night that this particular provision “has been derided within Ecuador” given the history of pollution from state-run and private oil companies in the Amazon and the government’s need to keep oil flowing to sustain the economy.

Earlier this year, Nick Kristof, our peripatetic Op-Ed columnist, filed a column and nice video from the Ecuadorian Amazon showing one approach to economic development shaped around the living forest.

What’s your take on the Ecuadorian Constitution?

A Day in the Life of Two Gringos

So... Armstrong and I made it to Quito in one piece. Billy does not like to fly much. Usually, I do not like to fly either, but for some reason our flights into Panama City and Quito did not phase me. On the plane I was trying to drink some water out of my new filter bottle, but was having some trouble. I took the bite valve out of my mouth to see what the problem was, squeezed the bottle a bit, and absolutely soaked the guy sitting across the aisle from me. I literally sprayed the guy for ten seconds. I just watched the stream of water leap across the aisle in utter disbelief. He was a big dude. Thankfully, we both just started laughing hysterically. Other than this little incident, everything is going according to plan. Our transition from the airport to the Crossroads hotel was easy, and the atmosphere around the airport was nowhere near as chaotic as I anticipated.

After we set up shop at Crossroads, we went out to grab some dinner and a huge pitcher of margaritas. No sleep, altitude, and alcohol equals going back to the hotel and falling asleep at five thirty in the afteroon and waking up fourteen hours later.

We woke up this morning and hit the streets, grabbed breakfast in a local neighborhood near ´old town´, and walked our way into a few huge churches. Quito is suprisingly clean, easy to navigate, and amazingly beautiful. A taxi full of local girls shouted as they drove bye, ´Hey gringos´. This happened again a few minutes later by a shopkeeper sweeping the street. Billy proceeded to ask me, ´... come on Mayer, can´t you just be a little more blanco right now.´ This comment will likely continue for the next two weeks.

We made our way back toward our hotel through a giant central park. We haggled over some artwork with a shrewd little women. I did most of the haggling. Billy can only look confused right now, and his head hurts from trying to follow every conversation.

We continued on to a local mountain outfitter and planned a trip to climb Cotopaxi. After we squared everything away, we spent some time bouldering on the homemade climbing wall outside the shop. We´re leaving in the morning for the jungle. Apparently, we have only one major military checkpoint to go through before we need to get off the bus in a small town called Borja, follow a dirt road down to a bridge, cross a river, hang a left, and pick up our kayaks.

Piece of cake.

Home

Sometimes its all pretend, this life we live

My boots have walked for many days, soles are worn thin

Like mine, cracked in sunshine, wind, and rain

The flood grows with time, like the tears in my eyes

Childhood days spent listnening, to fire engines and leaves

It's time to let go of this melting stream of dreams

So they say, it's better off this way

You can rest your heart

But I swear, I won't believe it's true

Because I can feel fire in snow

And so can you, if you let go of the fear in your throat

Step to the edge, grab my hand

And we can finally fly home

Tree

Thoughts on Rainy Days

'Glow'

Silly sliding sideways down ramps of slick asphalt in the dim glow of lamplight
Wander bending skyward through black space and white gold stars
Horizon growing, speculating self loathing
Mind floating, never ceasing stopping flowing
Blue, red, green, thunder rolling steady going
Wonder where the next time takes me
Waiting watching, central nervous system short circuit
Blades mowing, smell of grass in spring
River tumbling, white froth turbulent echoing
Letting go, stable spaces, bales of hay
Pumpkin carving, faces melting, children crying, steel smelting
Gases building, planet warming, fathers on their knees
Praying, begging, hoping, wishing ,wanting yearning for it
Mouths opening, rain never falling
Corn cracking, dry heat illuminating dark corners
One more day with open arms we fall apart
Tears dripping and silence failing to keep us on our feet
Click clack rat a tat
Buttons pressing, functions working, mathematical genius
Mysteries fading, trees keep sleeping
Mothers being love
Death and destruction, sorrow and despair
Eyes gleaming, basket weavings, tapestries and gentle care
Figuring on steady soft winds whistling to take it all away
Days in absentia
Minds creaking, rocks leaking, sky sweeping
Seasons drifting, skin lifting
Whirlpool grabbing, hurricane thrashing
Edge of a building, we are jumping
Form disappearing, crazy clearly
In the disappearing glow

'A Different Wager'

The wars we wage
We wage them on ourselves
Toward the turning point of no return
Staring deep into the outer constellations
Wondering why we arrived at a point of empty space
Oh the wars we wage
Destroying ourselves piece by piece
Thinking of all the reasons we have to continue on
Building around the absence of compassion
In the shadows of debt and guilt
Scary moments when light illuminates walls once shroud in a different cloth
Tattered gray rags turn into colorful murals of blue, orange, yellow, and red
Turning our heads for a moment, we are still
Forever contemplating our place here on earth
It should be postponed

Wating until tomorrow
Happy to comply
Watching things slide slowly out of control

Night

We cannot stop darkness from filling empty space, but a mere flicker of light transcends the nature of absence. Our hearts grow faint, and as the ice gets thinner, we begin to slide into the chasm of a dark black void. Struggling to see, we cling to what we know, hoping we arrive safely on the other side. It is always the journey that transforms us, those moments sliding through space. We scratch and claw the air, nothing to hold on to, hurled in unforeseen directions, and whipped by the branches of misguided mistakes. We arrive with a sudden jolt, dumped on the soft wet mud, transformed, and riddled with new questions. We climb the mountain, and do it again. This is our nature.

Once Upon a Time When the Wind Blows

In the moments when the rain falls and smears the muddle into puddles of brown, I stare into the mist, and breathe in the quiet breath of the storm. The rain softly slides into spaces of silence and grace as it drips off the the blades of fading green leaves, suspended in moments of artistic brilliance. The chocolate water paints itself into a froth of foam and indecision, yet moves forward with enigmatic determination.

Great friends share a house full of laughter as the colorful glow of the day etoliates into the darkness of night. A new day tomorrow, and a new chance to see the water dance again.

In bright tones of sunshine, in the midst of an ominous parade of dark skies, the wind softly blows blades of grass in a soft whisper of sense. Time is stone, and the waters lap our feet. The sun hits our necks, and turns our skin a more distant brown. Words are exchanged with the subtleties of vibrant emotion. Smiles, stones, and sun. Once upon a time when the wind blows, we understand we are all here for each other.

In all our decisions, in all our choice, in all our brilliance, in all our tears, in all our joy, in all our moments, if we could only understand that we need be nothing more than the wind blowing blades of grass in the faded summer sun and crisp fall air.

Perhaps we might understand that we cannot truly know. Perhaps we might be happy.

Swell

In all of our many moments in life, every now and then one comes along that offers something fresh. An open beach in the mellow glow of the pre dawn light. The never ending expanse of sea wandering off into distant horizons. The faint shadows of sea birds painted on wet sand, and the sound of a deep swell echoing in the sweet salt air. Boards plastered with a fresh coat of surf wax, the characteristic smell allowing your mind to dream in anticipation. The first set rolls in and wraps itself around your ankles. The board floats quietly beside you. A few steps further and you enter the break zone. The chill of the ocean sets into your pores. You lay down and begin to paddle. The first wave crashes over you. A million claps of thunder reverberate inside your skull. You reach the lineup and you can feel your soul smile. Your arms burn as you paddle to catch your first wave. Your feet rhythmically dance their way into position. You are standing, dropping down the face, and leaning into your first turn. It is at this particular instant, in this single moment, that you are truly in it, fully draped with the color, feel, and flow of your own life. In this moment, without even realizing it, you understand why your are alive, and laughter fills the void.

This one's for Drew...

Difficult Run Flood

The Nugent

In another moment of glory, we finished a beautiful paddle on the Upper Yough in Garret County, Maryland, only to find that Ted Nugent himself would grace the stage in Seven Springs, Pennsylvania that very evening. Billy and I looked at each other, and our smiles grew deep and wide. We turned and looked at Mark, our dear friend Mark, who knew very well the type of evening in which he was about to participate. He just stood and laughed. He was game.

The Upper Yough itself was without major incidence. I was able to run a few new lines including the boof at National Falls. I caught a long hole ride in Zinger, but was able to finally draw myself out, much to the chagrin of an onlooking pack of boaters. On Sunday, the mighty Savage was a bit different.

In any case, we finished our run of the Upper Yough and embraced the glorious news of the Nugent. We dined on truly tasty cuisine at a local vegetarian restaurant on the banks of the river. They brought bowl after heaping bowl of salad, soup, and fresh baked bread. We spent some time with Scott Anderson, Dave, and Jason, all guys from the Potomac. Billy and I paid homage to the great Nugent throughout the meal.

The sun was moving toward the horizon as we finished dinner, sprays of clear mellow light littering soon vanishing carpets of green. We headed toward Seven Springs.

We arrived to find the concert in full swing, tattoos, brews, plenty of biker dudes and gun racks in the parking lot. Twenty bucks a ticket, and the concert was quickly nearing an end. I spotted an entrance through the woods, and decided to clamber down a steep bank to have a better look. I sat quietly, perched on a small knob, watching the yellow, blue and red concert lights illuminate the leafy green canopy of trees. Mark and Billy soon followed. We named our wooded perch the 'Nuge Knob', and after a few moments of revelry, we decided it was time to make our entrance.

We emerged from the woods and walked straight into the depths of a sea of trucker hats, bandanas and a few eloquently sculpted mullets. Our eyes gazed upon the stage, the illuminated eys of die hard fans, and we caught our first glimpse of the Nugent, adorned in full Indian head dress, a giant mural of himself, muscle bound and intent, as he pointed at the crowd Uncle Sam style. In the same instant his fingers danced across the strings of his guitar, as he belted out the uber cult classic, 'White Buffalo'. Suddenly a compound bow appeared, an arrow was aflame, and he sacrificed his guitar for a good hunting season. Nothing short of pure artistic brilliance and magic.

The crowd dispersed and we were soon back in the car wandering toward New Germany State Park. Billy and Mark slept on the ground. I suppose I was determined to construct my tent in the wee hours of the morning. I awoke to the noise of Mark's voice, ushering me along, so we could achieve the glory of the 'hot' camp. I moved quick, and we were successful. A delicious breakfast of biscuits and coffee from the King of Burgers and we were headed to the put in for the Savage. The weather was gorgeous, blue skies, cold water, and warm sun. I decided it was fun to swim out of sticky unexpected ledge holes, especially when speared in the chest by oncoming Scott Andersons. We rescued three people. One clung to the safety of my arm as he leapt from a tiny tree in the middle of the river. I jumped off a rusty abandoned bridge into shallow water, and Mark did back flips from a riverside rope swing. A soon to be ultra classic weekend.

The Nugent never dies my friends... the Nugent never dies.

Peru Juntos

Peru Solamente

In the End...

Swiftly Tilting Worlds

Amidst the sharply rising jagged towers, cleverly situated above the town of Aguas Calientes, Machu Pichu rests, floating in a world of misty white vapor rising slowly from the deep green depths of forest. Early in the morning, the entire complex was shrouded in foggy white. I stared off into the distance to catch a few momentary glimpses of steep peaks swimming through a swiftly tilting world.

We struggled to understand our guide as he narrated the story of Machu Pichu and the Incas in badly broken English. The morning moved forward and the fog began to disappear with the onset of the rising sun. The fog gave way to granite rock, green trees, blue skies, steep terraces, and an example of the ingenious creation of a civilization that once stretched from present day Peru to the tip of South America.

Waynu Pichu, (young steep) stands close watch over Machu Pichu, (old steep), in perhaps the most seamless example of the integration of human architecture within the palette of the natural landscape. The near vertical rise of Waynu Pichu makes for a difficult climb, and offers a true sense of adventure. We ate our lunch at the top overlooking Machu Pichu, and afterwards several of us decided to take a look at Gran Caverna, a stone house built into a large cave. The backside of Wayna Pichu is perhaps more spectacular than the front, overlooking a vast expanse of green mountains, with giant waterfalls lurking within the heart of every valley.

Most of the group decided to head back to Aguas Calientes after Waynu Pichu, but I stayed behind with two others, taking in every last bit. We took a nap on a small terrace situated on a cliff overlooking mountains which eventually give way to the vast Amazonian Basin.

There are many theories on why Machu Pichu exists. Whatever the reason, it seems to only make perfect sense that it has some spiritual significance. It is nestled in between three giant mountains, and although it is a human creation, offers the sense that it is truly part of the landscape, a creation inspired by an attempt to connect with what we cannot understand

We hopped a train out of Aguas and back to Ollantaytambo in the evening. In the morning, we took a bus back to Cusco, one step closer to home. In the swiftly tilting world of the Incas, I came to the realization that my own world has slowly tilted through the adventures of the past month. Perhaps not vastly different, but I am certainly no longer the same person I was when I left home, slightly changed, hopefully improved, and leaving this experience with a bit more wisdom and perspective on the world and the role I hope to play in the big picture.

Many men have the heart. Many men have the intellect. Many have the athleticism, the wit, the candor, the brilliance, the courage to change to the world, but none of these alone is enough. It is necessary to use these qualities to find compassion, and to gain perspective on the great inequities of our time. It is only when we see these inequities and face them with open arms and a bold heart that humanity may truly move forward.

I will do my best.

15,000

Our stay in Chilca is finally over. Although we will not soon forget our host families, and the incredible cross cultural impact we shared, it is fair to say most of us were ready for a change of scenery. Currently, we are in Aguas Calientes, a small town near the base of Machu Pichu, and tomorrow we will set out for a long day hiking the ruins. We finished our project in Chilca, and left behind a sustainable way for the community to earn money for their school. The guinea pig barn will be used to educate the children of Chilca on how to raise guinea pigs, and at the same time earn an estimated three hundred dollars per month, to be used for school supplies, and perhaps the possibility of an internet connection in the future.

I was able to attend a Peruvian baptism at a catholic church in the city of Urubamba with our host family. We spent most of the day at the family house in Urubamba, helping the family prepare a feast consisting of nine ducks, potatoes, noodles, and of course, a giant cake. We cooked the ducks in the town oven, sliding each one deep into the fiery furnace, the smell of an assortment of spices filling the air. The baptism was a simple ceremony, family members only. Afterward, the family opened the church doors and a small crowd of townspeople gathered around, hands in the air, waiting for the family to throw a collection of candies into the streets, celebrating the event, and marking the start of the party.

We walked through the narrow streets back to a large blue house tucked away in a quiet alleyway. The father of the baby was a lawyer, a proud father, and a gracious host. He welcomed us into his home with open arms, and we were promptly introduced to the entire extended family. The food was incredible, and was immediately followed by Peruvian music and dancing. We had our fair share of laughs as we joined in on the festivities.

Our host mother, Hilda, introduced us to her younger sister, and nephew, Ociel. Ociel was four years old, full of energy, and became a fast friend. After the party, we took Ociel with us, back to Chilca. We piled into a taxi and began the journey home. About halfway through our ride, the driver began to pray, sign hail marys in the air, and cross his chest. I quickly realized our seemingly trustworthy driver was likely a few six packs deep into the evening, and he was apparently unconcerned with what side of the rode we drove upon. Ociel sat on my lap and was fast asleep. It was a strange feeling, but I could not help but feel overwhelming responsible for this small child, a bit like his protector, his father. I later found out that his mother left his father because he abused him as a small child.

We made it home in one piece and fell fast asleep after a long day. A few days later left for what became the highlight of the trip, and a truly unforgettable experience. We piled into an old rusty truck and began an ascent high into the Andes. We started our hike near thirteen thousand feet, and summited around fifteen thousand where we pitched camp and slept for the night. The air was thin, and the terrain steep. Midway through the hike the entire group was enveloped in a snow storm. We spread across the open terrain and hiked through near white out conditions at time. We were invigorated by the challenge of the conditions and moved forward with smiles on our faces. After a quick stop for lunch, we made our final push for the summit, and our camp for the night. The effects of altitude set in, and conversations bordered on the absurd, as we laughed our way to the most glorious vista I have yet to witness.

When I arrived at the summit, I was overcome by a complex flood of emotion, the triumph of completing the hike, yes, but a sudden burst of much deeper thought. I thought about the time spent imagining this one particular moment, long ago inspired by childhood adventures. I thought about the world, this life, and the delicate balance of happiness for which most of us constantly seek to attain. Thoughts of death, tragedy, struggle, happiness, and joy swam throughout my head, comingling in an overwhelming moment of the most melancholy happiness I have ever experienced. I stood still, staring into the ephermal sky, and let every bit of the feeling melt over me like a quiet stone. I wept tears of joy, because for one brief moment, I felt that perhaps, I experienced some small piece of understanding.

A Brief Glimpse...

A Different Time and Space

Yesterday we arrived in Chilca. In the morning we set out for the Urubamba River. I finally got my chance to kayak in Peru. Although the whitewater is nowhere near the quality of the Apurimac, the trip down the Urubamba was perhaps the most scenic river I have ever paddled. There were also two quality rapids, one which included a big fifteen foot near vertical drop, where I tucked up, went super deep, and then torpedoed to the surface. Soon thereafter, we pulled off to the side of the river, ate some lunch, and played a series of games introduced to the group by the raft guides. We played a little dizzy paddle, (hold the paddle, look up at the sky, and spin in a circle twenty times as fast as you can). I raced Matt, and much to the chagrin of the crowd, we toppled immediately, and barely managed to stagger out and back to the finish. The Cassidy brothers went next, and in true style, dropped their paddles and went in completely opposite directions. Connor was headed straight for the river bank, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a small tree. He ended up with a few minor cuts and bruises on his shoulder, and we all had a great laugh.

I paddled the rest of the way to Chilca, another four or five kilometers, while the group walked alongside the river bank. The hike into Chilca offered the guys a great perspective of life in the countryside, as they strolled through fields of potatoes, quinoa, and plenty of livestock. Ben and Cullen were inspired by the mountains and the moment, and decided to trail run all the way to town. The mountains loomed over the valley, like sentinels on watch, offering a sense of protection and at the same time a burgeoning curiosity. I floated quietly along the banks, feeling the sun stretch across my back, while listening to the wind whip through the reeds lining the shore.

I stopped for a few moments to talk to a young woman with three pigs drinking from the river. She informed me that Chilca was just two more towns down river. I was not exactly sure where Chilca was, and figured I would know when I arrived. I drifted along staring at the giant white clouds, and my thoughts were soon interrupted by the whistle of the train. I turned to look, and at the same moment I saw the sign for Chilca, a fortuitous moment indeed.

The bridge appeared in the distance as I heard the rumble of the last rapid. I looked up and saw ten children standing on the bridge, some with bikes, others carrying soccer balls. They yelled out and asked me what I was doing on the river. I smiled and said, well, I am coming to live in your town. They ran up and down the bridge pointing to the spot where I could get out of my boat and climb ashore. I noticed Ross on the far side of the river, taking a few photographs of the whole moment.

Joaquin waited with his truck. We loaded the kayak and gear. They introduced me to my host family. Jason and I are staying in an abandoned hostel behind the family home. The Inca trail used to begin in Chilca, but in recent years the trailhead has moved further down the valley. There is little use for the hostel now, but the building is still in great shape and equipped with beds and showers. The mother has dark weathered skin, beautiful black hair, and looks very healthy for her age. Her children were visiting from Cusco for the holiday weekend. Her two daughters brought their two young babies, one almost a year, and the other just two months old. We all conversed for a bit, talking about our trip, and their plans for la dia de independencia.

The mother is the only one in the house for most of our stay, along with the grandmother. The father of our host family passed away many years ago. The grandmother is senile, and is constantly filled with laughter. Her eyes have a deep complexity, and offer an immediate sense that her mind exists only partially in our reality. In the presence of old age she is slipping into a time and space quite different from our own.

The food is incredible. The difference between our culinary lives in Chilca and those at home is quite outstanding. In most of the homes in Chilca there are chickens, pigs, roosters, guinea pigs, and family gardens. The whole process is quite sustainable and the origins of our food are immediately evident. The cuisine is intense, flavorful, and everything is prepared fresh by hand. In our house we dined on fried chicken, and upon a quick visit to another homestay we noticed they were eating fresh trout. The Urubamba is full of delicious trout.

This morning I woke up at seven o’clock and headed in for breakfast, an incredible omelet. The foreman was arriving around eight o’clock at the work site. Our first order of business was to finish the guinea pig pen that the last group started. All the guys seemed to truly enjoy their first night with their families, ate very well, and were already making fast friends with all the little kids in town. We started hauling adobe bricks, lying in bottom land about ten meters below the guinea pig structure. I imagine many were not expecting the work to be so difficult, but found it to be truly challenging labor. The adobe bricks are quite heavy and coarse to the touch. All thirteen of us started a long assembly line passing the bricks after walking short distances. In a matter of hours we moved a significant amount of adobe bricks and it was evident guys were beginning to tire. I was truly proud as we passed the large mud bricks along the line, reflecting on the many months of preparation, work, and anticipation proceeding this first moment of work.

We stopped for a quick break around noon before beginning work on the actual foundation. The foreman created a nice batch of mud used for the mortar. Matt and I took off our shoes, hopped in the middle of the mud pit, and began to fill buckets full of mud. We laid the mortar, stacked the adobe, and began to add another layer to the structure. It was one o’clock before we knew it, and time for some lunch. We all returned back to our families for a brief respite from work.

It seems a lifetime since I left my home, and as I travel farther and farther into the depths of Peru, and the heart of the Sacred Valley, I am only beginning to understand the complexities of the intersection of my own thoughts, hopes, dreams, and ideas with those of a people who exist in a very different time and space.

Tessellate

We hauled adobe bricks in the hot morning sun. I drifted into far away places and childhood memories as I picked each brick off the damp green grass. I thought of the time I stood on an old weathered wooden dock fishing for sunfish and bass with my friend Justin. We were about ten years old. I was tying a knot on the end of my fishing line, and took out my friend Glen’s knife to cut the excess line. The knife had a smooth handle that looked and felt like bone. The blade was sharp. I cut the end of the line and held the knife in my hand, the blade glistening in the afternoon sun. The lake water rippled in a calm summer breeze, and the leaves of the oaks twisted in apprehension of the rise of an afternoon storm. “Throw it in the water”. The words cut the silence and peace of an afternoon intended to be about fishing.

I stood there holding the knife, pondering Justin’s request. He giggled in delight at the thought of the knife drifting through the cool black waters and resting on the bottom in a shallow muddy grave. My head was steady and the knife lay gently in my palm. I asked him if he thought I should really do it. His response was wild and inviting, invoked by thoughts of the laughter we would achieve by hurling the knife into the watery abyss. I stood there stoically, a statue of stone, resilient in his long years of staring into the eternal space of time. I could feel the sun pressed against my darkened skin, the wind blowing my hair across the sweat of my brow.

My fist clenched the knife, the grit of my palm pressed into the bone white handle. In one swift motion my hand dropped back, my body turned and hurled forward, the point of the knife whistling through the air, a warrior with no cause. My hand released. The knife twisted into outer space and an irreconcilable moment of youth. The point pierced the black surface and in an instant began its descent into the shadowy depths. An echo of thunder pierced the air, and rain clouds were fast approaching. I stared into the depths contemplating my illicit deed of deceit. Justin’s laughter filled the air with a hollow dissatisfaction. There was no laughter that echoed from my belly, just an empty box, once filled with the trust of childhood friends.

I turned around and took a step toward the lakeshore. The clap of thunder reverberated in the distance, and the smile of the afternoon sun melted in the rain and the rise of the wind. The pedals on my bike were covered with a thin layer of rust. I held my fishing pole in my right hand and began to the journey home. We took the short cut through the tunnel, the mellow yellow lights casting shadows on the silver metal tube. The rain dripped from the leaves and bright white bolts of lightning illuminated the dark sky. I rounded the last curve in the road and rolled down the last steep hill where my house sat at the bottom.

The smell of fresh cut grass filled the air. I leaned my blue bike against the red garage door. I pulled open the screen door and walked inside. I looked at my mother, her bright smile stretched across her face, and my lip began to quiver. The tears rolled down my face, and I paid the price of my actions with biting guilt.

I woke up this morning thinking about my life back home, friends, and family. As far as childhood friends go, we made up through a short game of basketball, and remain good friends today. Still, the memory sticks with me, and every so often I think back to that afternoon on the lake, the colors and smells still as strong as they were when I was ten.

Every brick cut a little deeper and wore into my forearms leaving the imprint of a new memory. Three of us stood atop the walls of the structure, filling buckets of mud, and spackling the cracks between layers. The rest of us passed the large mud bricks in a line, slowly building a stockpile of bricks that will eventually be used to begin the cafeteria.

That afternoon I took a walk with Connor. We hiked about a thousand vertical feet and a mile or two into a valley previously unseen from our vantage point of the school. We talked about our families, life back home, and where we thought our lives might be heading. We wandered into the unknown valley and stopped short, knowing this time, we eventually had to return back to meet the group. All of us are looking for something. All of us came to Peru for different reasons. I believe all people ultimately spend most of their lives looking for some sense of home, a sense of place, and of purpose. Perhaps our time here may shed some light on what haunts us most.

All of us are faced with choices in life, and our actions at many times have unforeseen consequences, perhaps some that we may not see or understand until many years later. As we stand together and lift mud bricks from fields of grass, beneath mountain gods and the hot Andean sun, I can only hope that whatever these eleven individuals think of this experience now, it will impact them in invaluable ways in years to come.

Student Post... Evan and Ethan

It’s our 6th day in Chilca, our host family is great. Our mother is an excellent cook and there is never a shortage of food. One of the daughters, Shirley, is an English student who we have been tutoring in exchange for much needed Spanish help. We had been doing this a couple hours a day until she left two days ago to take her English exam in Cusco. She will return on Saturday.

The work is going really well. We’re making good progress hauling the 50 pound adobe bricks up to the school. Yesterday we had the day off due to rain, which allowed our sore muscles to heal up for a big day today of carrying dirt. During this day off we had a chance to either go fishing, sit in on classes at the school, hike around, or hang out with our host families a little more. I (Evan) got to see first hand the problems with education here in Peru. The second class I sat in on was an environmental studies class and the teacher just lectured the entire time. Half of the students decided not to go to school that day and half of the students that attended weren’t even paying very much attention.

It’s hard to believe that a week ago today we got on a plane at Reagan and departed for Peru. Our group, on the whole, has been getting along great. Everyone seems to really enjoy the trip so far. Jason and Brett have been helpful to have in the same house. They wake us up when we need to, translate all the Spanish we don’t understand, and keep us on schedule, which is tough when neither Ethan nor I have a clock. Today at work we are supposed to have many local students help us with our laborious activities. Hopefully this will allow us to get a substantial chunk of work done, and maybe even finish the guinea pig barn.

...Evan and Ethan

Student Post... Cullen Cassidy

It rained all night and throughout the morning so we did not have to work on the guinea pig barn. It was a lazy day for us gringos, but it was the first day back at school for the locals. Brian and I took advantage of the day off, and went fishing with our host brother Alex. We did not catch anything, but we did freeze in the stream of glacial melt. In general, my Spanish is coming along slowly, but somehow I pick up on the bad words which seem to stick. A bunch of the boys went to the school where we work, and sat in on a few classes. I made it to one class for 10 minutes, and did not understand one word. All of our families try to teach us a bit of Quechua. It is hard for them to understand that we cannot learn Spanish.

The food is tasty, and gets better by the day. However, the portion sizes seem to grow, the rice piles get bigger and bigger, and sometimes it is hard to eat everything. My family is very generous, and I am thankful. I really enjoy playing football with the local kids, and have lost every game so far. Ben has yet to clean any part of his body, and I think I can smell him in the breeze at night… seriously. Brian has somehow drawn the eyes of Janet, who happens to be 10 years old. Age aside, she will not let Brian out of her sight.

My family has welcomed me with open arms, but even still, I suppose I do miss home a bit. Our family warmed up to me and Brian right away. They truly seemed to enjoy seeing pictures of our family and life at home. Today I gave Alex a little demo of American music from my I pod. He seemed to like it. His favorites, in order, include 50 cent, Kanye West, and finally the Dave Matthews Band. The people here never seem to stop working, and I think they laugh at us for being so tired after only about 5 hours of work. Hauling 50 pound adobe bricks all morning makes seven thirty in the evening feel like midnight. I guess Cullen is very difficult to say in Spanish, so I asked Brian to ask Alex to give me an easier name. I now go by Juan. When I introduce myself, I sometimes get laughs because they expect my name to be Jimmy or Tom I guess. They keep asking me the name of the place where I live at home, because they cannot remember the name. Most of the people here live near the same fields they work, between two incredible mountains. My host mom is an unbelievable woman. She was working the fields two days prior to giving birth. Now she has a three week old baby sick with a cold. Her life is even busier, nursing the baby, cooking and cleaning non stop.

...Cullen Cassidy

The Sacred Valley

My students finally arrived. Ross and I spent an evening in Cusco in preparation for their arrival, and both had a difficult time sleeping that night. I woke up at four o´clock in the morning, restless, the wheels inside my head turning fast, imagining what the coming weeks would bring. I was happy that I arrived in Peru ten days before they arrived. I felt prepared and able to share my adventures and introduce them to Peru.

The guys were exhausted when they arrived, and we quickly transported them to a bus, and began to make our way to Ollantaytambo and the Sacred Valley of the Incas. Several passed out immediately, and the others stared wide eyed out the windows as the impressive landscape spread itself on the pallete of a brand new world.

We stopped the bus, a half mile short of Ollantaytambo and hopped out amidst towering Andean peaks, to catch our first glimpse of the extensive network of Incan aquaducts, and ceremoniously pass through the stone arch on the way into town.

Our hostel hosted gorgeous arrangements of various types of local botany, and a small lawn sat nestled in open air courtyard. In the center of the courtyard stood an immediately popular game, where players take turns throwing a series of gold coins in the air, attempting to land them on a small table with different sized holes, earning different amounts of points depending on where the coins land. In the center of the table sat a golden frog, with a wide open mouth. Sending a gold coin into the frog´s mouth almost guarntees an immediate win.

We walked into town for breakfast, and began to debrief the students on life in Ollantaytambo, Peru, and eventually their homestays in Chilca. Our project starts on Monday, la dia de independencia for Peru, a national holiday. Over the next two weeks we will finish a guinea pig farm, and construct a school cafeteria out of adobe bricks. The guys are an adventurous bunch, and I imagine this experience has the power to change their lives.

This morning we toured the Sun Temple, Incan ruins lying directly outside Ollantaytambo. The people in town still farm with the aquaducts built by the Incas several hundred years ago. I began work on a film I intend to create for the World Leadership School, highlighting the experience of the Landon students, and a documentary style account of what this trip has to offer schools back home.

Email and phone contact will be much more sparse over the next few weeks, but every few days, a few guys will head from Chilca back to Ollantaytambo to write an update on the trip and post it on the web.

I was able to bargain for a few items in the town square this afternoon, a few suprises for folks at home. It was a great transition moving from solo travel, back into the role of teacher and mentor, but I welcomed it wholeheartedly. The experience is truly a fantastic imagination of colors, cultures, hopes, and dreams, etched into ancient walls, and stretched across quiet blue skies and deep green fields.

Quiet Desert

I left Miraflores days ago. I had a flight leaving on the 18th of July en route to Cusco. I had yet to receive my bag, so when I arrived at the airport at a quarter to five in the morning, I went up to the airport office looking for it. Unfortunately, the airport office was closed. I was out of luck. Somewhere in the fray of me roaming around the airport, the travel agency I booked my ticket with spotted their logo on my ticket, and tried to help. It was a waste of time, and I ended up missing my flight. I sat on the floor in the airport. It was about five thirty in the morning, and I thought about what I should do. There was no way I was going to spend one more day in Lima. I walked up to the desk at the Budget rental car agency. My journey began.

I calculated the mileage while I looked at the map of southern Peru. My friend from Holland that I met on my first day in Peru turned me on to the idea. He was a day ahead of me on the bus. Renting a car was expensive, but it gave me freedom. Plus, I was standing at the desk, and I did not want to go looking for the bus station. I weighed my options, rent the car and drive south, wait one more day for another flight to Cusco, or take the bus. I rented a small four wheel drive Suzuki. I bought a few maps in the airport gift store, took a glance, picked my first city, and hit the road.

Driving in Peru is insane. There are no rules. Well, I suppose there is one rule. Drive aggressively, never stop and wait for other cars, and try not to die. There are also no road signs, and if there are road signs they are usually covered in graffiti. My Spanish was getting better at this point, and I was confident I could get by, ask for a few directions and find my way around if I became lost. It seemed simple enough. There was only one road that I would take most of the trip. The Pan-American highway.

I entered the streets of Lima. I punched the gas and realized immediately that I was going to be lucky to navigate my way out of the city without making a mistake. Five minutes later I was in a bad neighborhood, with people, dogs, motorcycles, small children, large buses, bicycles, and street vendors all fighting for a piece of the road. Callao is a port in Lima. The buildings are run down, but as I soon came to realize, the buildings in Peru in most cities are only half constructed. Someone told me that if the building is still under construction, then one does not have to pay taxes on the building. I was driving fast through Callao, staring at the road, and trying to take a quick glance at my map. I was lost and frustrated. I desperately wanted to get out of the slums of Lima and on my way to anywhere more interesting and a bit safer. Luckily, I caught a street name on my map and at the same instant I saw a street sign for the road I was about to cross. I hung a right, cut across lanes of traffic, horns blaring, and ended up heading in the right direction. Twenty minutes later I was on the Pan-American and headed south. I was relieved.

Large sand dunes began to rise out of the desert, and on my right, the Pacific Ocean came into view. Most of my journey followed the coast south. Several times, the road was so close to the ocean, most of it was covered entirely in sand. The distances between cities were usually quite large, several hours on a stretch, with only small towns in between. I came to dread approaching a new city, because I never knew what to expect, or how difficult it was going to be to navigate my way to the other side. The first city on the map was Pisco. I knew nothing about, only that it was at the mouth of a national park that was supposed to be quite beautiful.

I drove through the streets of Pisco in utter disbelief. The city was in absolute ruins. Large piles of rock and debris lined the streets on both sides. The road was littered with potholes, and there were carcasses of dead animals lying in the streets. It turns out most of Pisco was destroyed about one year ago by a large earthquake that impacted much of southern Peru. Of course, there were no road signs, and the streets began to narrow and weave in all directions. I headed in the general direction of Paracas, using my map as a general indication for direction. I made it through and arrived in Paracas. I parked the car, and a man showed me the way to a restaurant where I had a large plate of cebiche. I wandered around for a bit, and encountered a man that made necklaces out of polished stones. I walked the beach through piles of seaweed that the local people collect and use to make shampoo. There were pelicans over head, and children playing in the sand.

I continued my journey to Ica, where I thought I made stay the night and go sand boarding. The town did not seem to safe, and it was still early, so after I got some gas, I decided to head south a bit further to Nazca. On the way, I went looking for el Lago de Huacachina. I ended up wandering down a road that disappeared into the sand dunes. I thought it was probably not a good idea to continue further, but I could not resist and drove into the dunes. Five minutes later, a small city nestled between mountains of sand appeared before my eyes. It was surreal. The air was still, and the town was quiet. Small trash fires burned in the streets, and I passed by a concrete soccer field where local children played an afternoon game. I explored for a bit, and decided I better move along. When I turned around there was a large truck stuck in the road. While I sat and waited for the traffic jam in the sand to clear up, a small child approached my car. Her clothing was an amalgamation of vibrant color, and her skin as dark as the sand. She smiled and her teeth glistened in the evening sun. Moments passed, and the two of us just stared, likely wondering what the other was thinking. Finally, I asked her name. Rosalita. We spoke a few words, and suddenly the car was free. I waved goodbye, her smile forever melted into my memory. I thought about how far from home I had traveled. The desert wind blew and I reveled in the peace of this quiet town, tucked so far away from anywhere.

The sky grew dark, and the terrain flat. Hours passed as I headed south toward Nazca. I watched the moon slowly rise above the mountains to the east. The black night sky was speckled with tiny white stars. The air was crisp, and for the first time I felt a slight chill in the air. Nazca soon appeared, and once again an explosion of people, noise, and chaos. I made my way and found a place to stop near a hostel. They were full, so I walked up the street and found a hotel. Luis was Peruvian, lived much of his life in Germany and spoke perfect English. Perhaps, the most educated inn keeper I have ever met in my life, his hospitality was something I will not soon forget. He gave me a simple room, and filled me in on all the details of Nazca. At the same moment I arrived, another guest was leaving. Jeremy was from Washington D.C. We sat and talked about Peru, traveling, and went out to get a bite to eat. He was nearing the end of several weeks on the road, hosting a group of teachers from the states. He started a non profit to make it easier for teachers to travel in the summer, with the idea in mind that if teachers experience different cultures and places, the classroom experience will be greatly enhanced for their students when they return. It is funny where life leads you when you move simply and without necessity.

The next day I hired a guide who took me into the desert to see the mummies of pre-Nazca culture. It was quite strange to stand and stare at something three thousand years old. The stark contrast between the present and past was painted throughout the desert. We wandered into some of the largest architectural ruins in the world, and I chartered a plane to see las lineas, the Nazca lines from the air. On the cab ride back from the airport, I met a guy from Whales. His name was Rhys. Rhys had been traveling in South America for several months and was nearing the end of his journey. We became fast friends and spent the entire night wandering around the town of Nazca, drinking Pisco Sours and Cusquena, Peruvian beer. We ended up at a discotheque before calling it a night. At one point during the evening we wandered down a small side street where there were hundreds of people playing bingo. It was a colorful scene, families, friends, and children loitering about, the smell of fresh popped popcorn in the air, with the echo of the game in the background. We stood directly in the midst of it all, giving the moment ample time to sink in. Nazca is a beautiful city, you can feel the life of the people in the air, and see it in the grit of the streets.

The next morning, I woke up and wandered down the road. I small a group of high school age kids playing soccer on a side street. I decided to wander down the road and join in. We juggled the ball for twenty minutes or so, and suddenly they were leading me to a game. The field was concrete, amidst piles of rock and rubble, an old basketball court with small metal soccer goals. There were four or five teams rotating on and off the field. I told them I was a goalie and they asked me to play. We waited for the game to finish, and the next thing I knew, I was making full out diving saves on concrete. The crowd seemed a bit suspicious of me at first, after all, I am a tall gringo in their eyes, nothing more than a tourist, but I won their favor when I tipped the ball around the bar, and they stood and cheered. We won the game. My legs were covered in blood. We walked through the dirt streets and no one on my team spoke a word. They just peeled off into the streets, and back into their lives.

That afternoon, I met up with a family I met the night before from Switzerland. Their son was a famous painter in Europe. He was only ten years old. They call him the little Picasso. His mother, Eneida, showed me his artwork. It was truly unbelievable. I realized I was staring at more than just paintings, but something incredibly unique, and in Gian Franco´s words, ´When I paint, I feel like a dolphin in the sea´. We traveled the countryside together, looking at ancient aqueducts, several farms, life giving trees, and cock fighting roosters.

That afternoon I left Nazca and headed south. I drove through the night, nearly on the beach at many times, and through treacherous winding hills. Around nine o´clock I made it to a town called Camana. I decided to call it a night. I was exhausted. I took a quick walk through town, but it was Sunday night and quiet. I got a good night sleep and continued on in the morning. I found the hotel when I stopped at a gas station on the way in to town. I stopped and asked for directions and bought some orange flavored crackers. The shop keeper wanted to practice English, so we sat at a table while he showed me pictures of his family and told me about his life in Camana. He was very proud of his family.

In the morning, I headed out for my first view of the Pampas, and into Arequipa. Along the way I saw Vicunas, Llamas, and Alpacas. I arrived in Arequipa. Again, no road signs, and I realized I was lost. I stopped outside a store and studied my map for a bit. The majority of my trip was spent in silence up until this moment, because there are no radio stations in the middle of the desert. The store I happened to stop in front of sold music. I asked for directions, and several townspeople walked up to help show me the way, drawing me maps, while I tried to keep up with their Spanish. I bought several cd´s for a grand total of about five dollars. A young boy sold me a cable to connect my camera to a computer, and I walked across the street to buy blank discs to transfer the pictures from my camera. I spoke with the shopkeepers for a bit, when a girl walked in to buy something. She wanted to practice English and we started talking. It turned out we were the exact same age. She left and walked around the corner, and I thought, it would be nice to talk with her some more, and maybe get some lunch. I followed her around the corner and yelled out her name, Ysenia. She had already eaten lunch, but invited me inside to eat, and introduced me to her sister and father. Her sister was visiting from New York City where she was a nurse. We talked while I ate, and before I knew it, they had me singing karaoke in their family room. We had such a nice time they invited me to spend the night at their house. That evening, they took me into Arequipa to show me the city, and we ate a traditional Peruvian dinner at their home. Although I just met them, I felt strangely at ease, and truly enjoyed my time.

The next morning I drove to Lake Titicaca. The drive was stressful, and I was tired. I finally arrived in the town of Puno late in the afternoon. I got a room at a nice hotel, and took a tour to see the Uros, people that live on floating islands in the middle of the lake made of reeds. I ate a nice dinner, caught some sleep, and hit the road for Cusco in the morning. I arrived in Cusco around three and said goodbye to the rental car. I was happy to be finished with the solo leg of my journey. I will never forget my time alone, the lessons I learned along the way, and the smiles of the people who were so willing to share their hearts and souls.

Cerca del Mar

I made it to Peru. The flight was interesting. The first several hours were a mixed bag of bumps, and a reroute to Freeport, in the Bahamas because of bad weather in Ft. Lauderdale. My seat on the plane was tight, but it doesn't really matter anyway, because I simply do not like to fly. The layover in Ft. Lauderdale was shortened because we arrived almost three hours late. I grabbed a sandwich, drank a beer to calm my nerves, and sat on the floor. I received a call from Ross, and talked a bit about trip details. It was hard to hear him amidst the noise of the terminal, but I made out something about a travel agency meeting me in Lima with my ticket to Cuzco on the 18th. Time passed quickly, and before I knew it, the flight was boarding. I said goodbye to my cellular device, and promised I would reunite with him in a month. The phone cried and resisted my decision to leave, but I bid him farewell anyway. I promised I would return, and that to celebrate, we could drink beers and make inappropriate phone calls for hours. He giggled in delight.

The flight to Lima was great for the first twenty minutes and then we hit a fairly rough patch of turbulence. I glued my face to window, ordered a small drink, and listened to my heartbeat race inside my chest. The steward dropped off the vodka and smiled at me. I think he liked me. There was no time to feel awkward, only time to panic. The plane rattled and shook a bit more. No one seemed to care. In reality these collosal bumps were probably small. Nonetheless, in the moment, I was concerned only with the horrid fear of being trapped inside a speeding metal box, with not a damn thing to do for five hours but agonize over the shape of every cloud in the sky. It was too much to bear. I reached for my bag. It must have fallen out. I dumped out the contents of my bag on the seat next to me. I forgot to mention the steward gave me an entire row of seats all to myself. Lucky me. I cared nothing about my seating arrangement at the moment. I found my lucky dinosaur. This was small consolation at the moment. Finally I found it.

Ten minutes later I was drawing strange shapes on my arm with my favorite blue pen. I unfolded the tray table and set my lucky blue dinosaur on the table. I started talking to the dinosaur. My body melted into the chair. The plane bumped around the sky. It felt wonderful. I started writing messages to myself in my blue spiral notebook. Fly like an eagle.

I read the latest issue of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated from cover to cover. I am now educated on the greatest tennis match of all-time, the current melt rate of the Greenland ice sheet, Beck's new album, 'Modern Guilt', and the politcal wizardry of Barrack Obama. Change we can believe in.

The magic spell is slowly wearing off. I close my eyes for a brief moment. The captain comes on the airwaves and annouces are initial descent into Lima. It dawns on me that I have absolutely no plan when I get there. I laugh.

The plane lands. I am alive and extremely tired. I go through customs. The people in customs never seem to be very friendly. They always give me this heir of supremacy, like, oh great, more of you people visiting our country again. Whatever. He signs my ticket and off I go to get my backpack. I decide to exchange my money at the bank. You do not need to go to the bank, you can simply obtain the money from the international style automatic teller machines. Pick your language, insert your card, select your cash amount in the local currency and wallah, you are now in proud possession of Pervian Soles, (suns for laypeople). I am happy now. My wallet is full of suns.

I walk over to the conveyor belt that convincingly states on screen that my flight number and bag are on their way. The conveyor belt moves. I see no bags. My flight number disappears, and a new one from Miami appears. Now there are bags on the conveyor belt with tags from Miami. Apparently my flight only existed for a mere moment, and everyone on the plane had no bags. I fill out a form for lost baggage. Janette was partially friendly, and only partially cute. It is now very late. I am very tired and the room is starting to spill. I wonder if I am experiencing momentary magic withdraw. I walk through the exit. Everyone in all of Peru is waiting on the other side. Girls are whistling at me. They are ten. I almost leave the airport and decide I have no clue what I am doing. I start speaking to a nice old lady in Spanish. My brain hurts as I navigate my way through the conversation. A nice old man walks up. I decide this is good. Two old people. Old people are safe and cannot hurt me. I am bigger than both of them combined and they smell a little funny. They are promoting a local hotel. It seems like a good deal, forty dollars for a room with a bed, shower, and access to the internet.

I agree to the deal and we walk out of the airport. The air is heavy and sticky. The season is winter in Peru and the garua, fog, is thick. We hop in the cab and twenty minutes later we arrive at the hotel door. I have absolutely no idea where I am. Actually, I know that I am in Miraflores, but this currently means nothing to me. I have no perspective. I pay everyone. They seem happy. I am a tired bastard and follow a silent mime up to my room. He opens the door for me and immediately turns on the television. I think he believes this is a gesture of good faith. I thank him and sit down on the bed. I decided to leave the television on. Even at home I do not have cable, just a few fuzzy channels that come in for free. I take of my clothes, take a shower, and climb in bed. I flick through the channels for a while and laugh at the absurdity of my situation. I traveled to another continent to watch Vh1 by my naked self, in Spanish. I find this hilarious and start singing along to the sick line up of eighties American pop music. The novelty wears off and I begin to drool on my pillow.

The sun shines through my bedroom window. I wake up and put on my clothes. I peak out the window. I feel as if I've been captured by aliens and I am now about to escape, hoping I do not get caught. I look around at the buildings surveying the scene. I open the door, turn right, and head down the hallway. I see a hole in the roof with a ladder. I climb up the ladder. I stand on top of the roof at turn around in a circle starting off in all directions. I spot the mountains and the ocean. I get my bearings straight. I tiny man sneaks up on me. I briefly fear for my life. I am an idiot. I climb back down the ladder and down the five flights of stairs for the free complimentary breakfast. I am so excited and hungry. The breakfast is a four ounch glass of juice and a roll with jelly. Very tasty my friends.

A man tries to convince me to let him take me on a tour. I say no. I hop on the computer and send out some emails. A lady arrives an hour later with my ticket to Cuzco. She was not in the airport like she was suppossed to be the night before. I guess my Spanish is good enough to figure a few things out. I feel a little more sure of myself. I decide I might be ready to leave the hotel soon. I go upstairs and put the few belongings I have in my night table drawer. I throw my small bag over my shoulder with my wallet, passport, and keys and head out the hotel door. I have no plan. I make every decision in an instant and stick to it like glue. No second guessing, only direct and simple purpose. I make a left. I make another left. My head bobs about taking in the sights and sounds. The sun really begins to shine and the fog lifts. I start to smile and melt into the moment. I am hungry. Even though that roll with jelly was so delicious, I need a few more calories. I ask for directions to the grocery store. Lucky me, I am already headed in the right direction.

I enter the grocery store and go into near sensory overload by the variety of sights, sounds, and frenetic pace of the store. I wander through the aisles perusing unfamilar goods. I buy some mango yogurt in a bottle and two litros of guarana. They are both delicious. I decide to walk to the beach. It is a nice walk and I take pictures along the way, making sure to capture the clouds. I really like clouds in pictures. Es muy importante. Still no plan. I spot a jetty with a flag at the point and a restaurant nearby. I want to eat cebiche, raw seafood marinated in lime juice. This is the national dish and I hear it's delicious. I walk out toward the flag pole first. The waves roll by and I stare back at the city. Some dude is sitting on the rocks doing the same. I speak to him in Spanish, and then in English. He is Dutch, but speaks good English. We muse about the world, Europe, America, war, environmental issues, contemporary music, a little politics. The conversation is intersting and after a while we wander in the restaurant.

Cebiche is one of my new favorite dishes, crazy good food. I also try my first pisco sour the national drink, chock full of alcohol. The waiter is friendly and brings me a second one on the house. My new friend and I sit and talk for a while near the sea.

Soon we decide to pay the check and formulate a plan to possibly head south the very next day to a town called Ica and go sandboarding. We start to walk back toward my hotel and end up wandering into the heart of Miraflores. We wander for an hour or so. Now we are hungry again. We forget about the internet for a while and look for anothe restaurant. The streets are filled with activity. It is almost too much too process. My Spanish is improving by leaps and bounds, and by this point I am able to hold a decent conversation. We end up on a street that seems to sell nothing but pizzas, but we do not want American style pizza. We find a restaurant with a wider variety of fare and sit down. This time I eat a heaping plate of meat, french fries, and rice with a brown sauce. Two for two on the day. The food was great.

At this point I am not sure about going to Ica yet. I still do not have my bag from the airport and need to get my bag. We exchange emails and decide to email our plans. I think about taking a taxi, but decide against it, considering travelers are warned of imposter taxis that take people away from the city or into dark alleys and beat you for your money. I think about the dark tunnel I need to walk through to make it home. When I finally get there it is not so dark. My first day in Peru is great. Still no plan, just split second decisions. Perhaps I should live my entire life this way. Thinking too much only gets in the way of following the way. Besides, just like the dark tunnel on my way home tonight, once you get to wherever your going, it's usually not as dark as you imagined anyway.

Summer Days

Billy Armstrong 'Grace Under Pressure'

Secret Spot

First Timers



Difficult Run Gorge

Caving

Lately, I am getting a chance to enjoy a few lazy days of summer before heading out to Peru. Actually, I leave tomorrow morning. I finally took my first anti-malaria pill this morning. Admittedly, I was a bit nervous about taking it because they have a fairly high incidence of side effects including delirium, delusions, anxiety and depression. Currently, I am not experiencing any ill effects. A little nervous about the plane flight, I do not really like to fly... control issues I suppose. I managed to procure some 'fear of flying' pills, just in case I freak out on the plane. Good thoughts only though... calm, cool, and collected.

The Potomac in the summer is a great escape, and lately, the flows have been superb... options of Center Lines, Virginia Lines, Fishladder, and high water Maryland Lines. Billy and I caught laps on 'Grace Under Pressure' and the 'Fingers' all afternoon and managed to capture a few great pics.

Mid-week last week I took a few newbies out and taught them to roll. We took a stroll through the gorge, replete with numerous 'deep water escapes', and an adventured into the depths of the cave behind the Difficult Run waterfall in the gorge. I even caught a rare run on a small side creek, about one hundred yards long, ending in a ten foot waterfall that drains a small lake in the gorge.

Suenos Bonitos...

Red Creek

After many months and attempts to paddle Red Creek, we finally got our chance in the most unexpected of moments. A strong line of summer thunderstorms brought inches of rain to the Dolly Sods and Canaan Valley. Most of the creeks had strong flows, especially for summer. We hopped in the car around eight in the evening on the fourth of July and headed west. We arrived in Davis, West Virginia around midnight, caught some sleep beside the Blackwater, and were up on the early side of morning.

We grabbed a quick bite to eat and headed up to the take out to drop a car. It was an amazing day, blue skies, white clouds and plenty of sun. The hike in through the Sods was definitely one of the best parts of the run. After a brief paddle in through some shallow sections, the river narrowed and the bottom dropped out.

Five hours later we were finishing a truly memorable run with great big smiles stretched from ear to ear.