Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Interlude: Few Were We


Few were we, the wanderers, the lone, seekers of obscure fist-fights. Nomads who navigated entire continents disregarding all the maps that came before, knowing those could only lead down the path of another mans heart. Gypsy lovers of the broken branch, archers with our arrows drawn lit to guide the way. Desiring only to see with fresh eyes, intuitions filthy with experience, hides ruff, paws damp beneath the calluses, drunk on moonshine, teeth full with gristle. Few were we, who had gone to the ends of the earth only to tumble suspiciously down the deep ravines and hungry precipices. Our falling bodies clearing dust, thorn, and path, where even fewer still would leap willingly, with purpose. Not as guides but as battle hymns, singsong odes to great men, the campfire ghosts we honor. Few were we, so few not a single one of us could escape the sheet of loneliness that draped our wind-worn shoulders and raw eroded faces. That same sheet that kept our legs tangled in half slumber thru cold winter beatings. So few were we, a single glance from a stranger need not discern our sadness, we wore it with unmistakable identity like thieves of wine. We carried with us always the look of the hunted even while we tracked the great beast. We sang only the songs of the damned, the blues, the wild open storm we called home, lover, and adversary. We loved true, having one condition, that we would always leave, always return someday hiding strange gifts as better men.  Pulling foreign coin from behind the ears of our children. Grown in the eyes of the land, forged under the weight of her beauty. We died at dawn, stabbed thru the heart with elk antlers, thru the lungs with spades, thru the livers with thick oak barrel spinters, wearing only the names of our brothers. Need not bury us with our treasure; once the ashes scatter we are traveling her round legs once more. Let the funeral pyres burn and the great sea captains return to guide the tides again. Let the earth shake and rattle and kick the Rock'n'Roll back into the boots. The course is set for war, smile for it. Rush to it, leave your belongings behind. One kiss from her is worth more than all your life, absolves you of all you consider your debt. You need only to climb something very high, voyage steps to the edge with eyes closed and take a deep breath to see it. Hunker down low on your haunches between blades of desert grass and run to taste it. Lean and bury your face in the vineyard grapes, source of vagrant elation, to smell it. But you must leave, to be with it. It travels far and swings wide. So tell me goodbye, dear girl, dear campanero, like I tell you.  

-R. Vigilantics

            

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Chapter 18: From Condors to Doctors


            I reached into my pockets to find them holding little less than enough for another glass of whiskey if the bartender favored me, I told him the best story I had on me and put the rest of what I had in front of me. A few soles short. He threw a little shine on me as the closing lights went up and my glass filled amber brown and sticky one more time. It was 5 in the morning and I was tired, the rest of my cash along with my backpack was locked away in a dingy room on the other side of the city. Everyone I knew was a day in front of me. I decided to stay on in Cusco another night alone and wait for Halloween to die down.
            I posted up outside the hostel across the street and threw rocks until the guard got distracted, then I slipped by him and grabbed the first empty bed I could find.
            I woke to find myself in the women’s dorm and girls in towels surrounded me with a playful curiosity. One of them immediately remembered me from Colombia and they all welcomed me to breakfast, told me I smelt like booze and offered to dress me up for Halloween. I declined the wardrobe but took em up on the eggs and marijuana. Despite my small protests the night ended well with my face painted like a lion, it felt good to participate again. It’s been years since I’ve dressed up. I stayed out till my bus left at 7AM. Forgetting to wash off the make-up, or not caring, I can’t remember which. I entered my 10-hour ride full of mariachi music and the same damn Adam Sandler movie. I probably look like I make more sense down here this way. A more tangible circus act covered in tattoos with a lions head.
            I show up in Puno to meet up with Ben, Chad, Elizabeth, get off the bus and realizing what a shit-hole the place is, I just get back on and leave. I see Lake Titicaca from the window and don’t feel like I’m missing much but Disneyland style reed islands, frustration, and Bolivia, which I want to go to but refuse to get the vaccines for.
            In Arequipa I can feel Peru coming to a close. This will be my last stop here before I enter Chile, I am excited to go again and long only for Colombia now and her. Although Arequipa reminds me of home as all deserts do. I can smell the sage, feel the cacti, rub the dirt into my pores, close my eyes and imagine the land where I was born with ease. Homesick remedies have to be creative these days.
            I go again to see the doctor here. Where he has me diagnose myself and then gives me medication according to what I think is wrong with me. He tells his assistant to have me pull my pants down and lie ass up on the table and then he comes in and asks me what the fuck I am doing with my pants off. We laugh about it and talk bout bad US movies and tattoos. As the girl at the reception begins to print me my bill he pats me on the back and says this one is on the house. Best hospital experience ever. He still doesn’t fix me. The sides of my legs feel like they have a million ants fighting and dying in them.
            Me and Ben take a taxi out so some local bullfight where two bulls are encouraged to battle each other by having their handlers grab their balls, finger their asses, and excite them in other such old school fashions. The betting system is you yell out a bet and another man takes it or raises it. The first bull to walk away looses. We end up with the old school papas who run this place and I earn their respect by picking the bulls better than they do. I try to trade my I-phone for the most amazing bolo tie I have ever seen and am laughed at, its on a golden rope with a pre-incan coin and I will find my own if it’s the death of me. Treasure has killed many men.  They take us past the gates and introduce us to the refs, the bull owners, the champions. In the middle of the winners circle in the middle of the ring we get prestige placement, hold trophies and are bought drinks.
            The fights come to an end and we hitch a ride in the dark in the back of a deep-dish truck with one of the bulls out to a bar in the barrio where we drink with the prizewinners from the night until everything and everyone feels good and celebrated. Walking back into town we stumble upon a punk rock show with only four people in attendance. Finally I can dance. We bounce the place off the walls and make the band feel like they are better than the Ramones. In the moment it’s true.
            In the morning we pack our bags for a three-day excursion to hike Colca Canyon, the deepest canyon in the world. Excitement runs. I love condors and they fly so close here. The canyon doesn’t disappoint me. The condors don’t leave me. A little oasis lies at the bottom for us to rest and make spears. The vastness of this place dwarfs even the biggest story. On the third day I hike the entirety out of  the canyon from the bottom without stopping once. I am proud of myself for this, I know my will is strong for this.
            Another 24-hour bus ride and now I am in Chile. We rent a car and Chad drives us out to one of the best observatories in South America. I can see distant nebulas that no longer exist anymore and shooting stars plainly fire blind every few minutes. I have seen some of the details of these other galaxies in my ayahuasca ceremony, and know things about their positions I didn’t recognize I knew before. I can locate the Andromeda Galaxy with a blindfold on. We keep driving another 5 hours south to the Capitol city of Santiago, a riot is taking place as we enter…police are firing water cannons and tear gas, several walls have been knocked over and most of the public building are covered in graffiti all of the statues are being held hostage. I like it here. The parks are full at night and the people seem to be constantly up to activities. I’ve been here three days all full of soap-box derbies, hells angels tattoo conventions, rude-boy festivals, car shows.  My days in South America now lie severely numbered, after the new year I will go to Amsterdam, two months after that I will be riding a motorcycle from LA to New Orleans with Josh Mills…I hope to get a return flight to Colombia though. I hope between here and there I find it. It’s almost time to put out a new record. I can feel it, but I can’t quite see it. I know it has to be good and I can’t settle. I never do but I tend to rush things. Maybe between all the 20 hour bus rides, bad Spanish, and blank stares…I have learned enough patience to make it work.
The Colombian government has a bounty out on a herd of Pablo Escobar’s escaped hippos. They don’t care what happens to them, they just want them gone. I pull my hat down a little lower and think about the possibilities.

Signing out from the thick my campaneros,

R. Vigilantics