Sex, Drugs, and Public Health

We find ourselves with a little unexpected time on our hands in this really fascinating town. So we climb to the incomplete Temple of the Sun, which, in spite of the aborted construction, is such an exemplary piece of classical Inca architecture, that it’s billed as “second only to Machu Picchu” by some.

Decided to rent a guide, which was a good move. He was a handsome Quechua guy, very well spoken in Spanish, well educated in the history, and obviously proud of his heritage. Both Sarah and I felt we learned more about that 500 plus year old culture here than we did in M-P.

Three notables:

One – Ollantaytambo is laid out in the form of a tree (the Sacred Tree of Life). Not obvious from the ground, but very evident from mountaintop or airplane (Inca era Quechua had only one of these). Similarly, Cuzco is laid out as a Puma, Pisac abuts a mountain sculpted by terraces into a condor, and a mountain in Ollantaytambo is terraced and stone-sculpted into the constellation of the Llama (we plan to climb the adjacent mountain to get that view, if the airline wrangling doesn’t use up all 48 hours).

Here’s the Llama:

Two – the (very) incomplete Temple of the Sun is breath-taking (in two ways). Only six slabs, but they are MASSIVE, even by M-P standards. They are PINK (rhyolite, not granite). They were quarried and carved on the mountain across the river, then each piece (up to 50 tons) was brought down from that mountain, across the river, and up this mountain to be placed at the top. Stone workers from Tiahuananku (near Lake Titicaca – no snickering) were “enlisted” in the work. The slabs not only have the classical ‘can’t fit a credit card between the joints’ tightness, they have male-and-female fittings carved into the abutting (hidden) sides. Moreover, they have carved receptacles on the abutting sides into which was poured molten brass. Earthquake-proof. The astronomers had it perfect, of course, the rose-colored stones catch the rising sun and glow. There is conjecture that the Inca had learned to “vidrify” the stones’ surface with glass for enhanced reflection (echoes of the Maya).

Three – in 1537, Manco Inca, wise to Pizarro’s deceit (he witnessed the previous Inca’s public murder after the requested ransom of an entire room filled to the ceiling with gold was fulfilled by the people), escaped Cuzco, the Inca capital before the “Spain-people” came. He retreated to Ollantaytambo, knowing Pizarro would hunt him down.  But Ollantaytambo is strategically placed on a narrow plain at the confluence of three valleys.

He turned the agricultural terraces above the city gate into fortifications. He turned the unfinished temples and/or buildings of Pachacutec into fortresses. He amassed an army.

Pizarro’s brother came with cavalry, footsoldiers, and their European armaments.

Manco’s men rained down on them rocks, boulders, bolas, spears, and, from the Inca of the forests beyond Machu Picchu, arrows. Hand-to-hand combat was with clubs, and a kind of battle ax with multiple points.

Pizzaro was losing. He turned to retreat to Cuzco. Manco was ready for this. His men diverted rivers (and may have dammed the Urubamba) which flooded the narrow plain below the city gate. The horses floundered in mud. Manco’s men persued. Pizzaro nearly lost all his men.

The Spanish eventually returned. When they did, it was in such numbers, that Manco knew he couldn’t defeat them. He retreated to Vilcabamba in the jungle, and burned the storehouses of Ollantaytambo to leave no food (we saw the black layer on the interior stucco of such a building).

The rest of the history is known, and tragic.

But Ollantaytambo, impacted by tourists mostly en-route to M-P, is not an Aguas Calientes (the tourist destination town at the foot of M-P, recently re-constructed from flood and ramshackle). The 500-plus year old town here of narrow streets, stonework houses, and running water for all is largely unchanged. Just behind the little town square and its increasingly numerous pizza parlors, only a one block walk takes you back 500 to 1000 years, and if you look up, the rose colored wall of the Temple of the Sun glows in Inti’s light, reminding the people who speak Spanish with Quechua intonation, that this is their Earth. Their Pacha.

Buenos Aires saw its best days over a century ago. The city is energetically moving into the 21^st century, in parallel with Europe. Malbec united both cities for us.

When we landed in BA to begin this trip, we did the planned tour of the city’s famous sites. But we finished in a steak house, where Sarah declared that the recommended Malbec was the best she’d ever tasted. It was, indeed, smooth, free of sharp edges or acidez, earthy, full, and pleasant in the nose.

Returning after the Antarctica experience, we hooked up with a couple from the ship, and toured the grand opera house, Teatro Colon. It was built in 1908, when Argentina was ranked as one of the wealthiest countries in the world. It is a masterpiece of Italian marble, custom brass fittings, and Spanish velvet, financed by Argentine beef. It still ranks as one of the world’s best opera houses. The Costume Designer found spectacular creations and we all marveled at the ornate details.

Our empassioned guide explained how the busts of Wagner and Verdi, reputed enemies in life, were placed opposite so they’d be forced to recognize each other for eternity (the expected lifespan of the Teatro Colon). But the Argentineans, soft-hearted beneath, allowed the two to look away from each other.

For the opera lovers back home, here’s the Teatro’s recognition of the creator of “The Elixer of Love.”

Stalking the greatest short story writer of the 20^th century, we came to the 150 year old Gran Café Tortoni. Too early for Malbec. We settled for a Don Pedro – ice cream, walnuts, and whiskey.

I paid a reverent visit.

We made plans with the couple to have as typical an Argentinean dinner as possible: a parillada in Palermo Soho that evening. Malbec, surely, would attend.

Getting from downtown to Palermo was like an acid trip between 1858 and 2014.

We kept our stomachs empty, waiting.

Nite.

The big dinner looming.

“Hey! There’s a white Malbec on the wine menu. What’s that?”

No one (not even the guy the others stared at just because he speaks a little Spanish) knew what ‘Blanc de Malbec’ was. But we all knew the aromatic, full, Argentinean taste associated with the name. So, of course, we ordered a bottle.

The waiter, a proud and distinguished gentleman proficient in his occupation for at least 40 years, said:

not   “como no”

not   “por supuesto”

but   “Blanc de Que?”

Apparently, it had rarely been ordered in this very busy, very popular parillada. We added a bottle of what he recommended as his best red Malbec, as well.

Then, the food. A groaning table. I saw no vegetables available, so I ordered chicken. Just to balance out the beef and bacon.

They actually did provide some green beans, delicately arranged in a thimble.

Stuffed, groaning as much as the table of Argentinean wood had been, we somehow ordered dessert.

The Blanc de Malbec was interesting. But, order the red.

Pachacuti turned over in his grave. A challenging maneuver, since a tree root had been growing right thru his chest for the last 150 years.

“Why don’t they pave over these irregular steps?” he heard the Argentinean woman , walking on the ground above him, complain.

“Can you believe it? That Guard guy told me not to touch the rock,” a European man growled. “It’s a rock, for christ’s sake!”

Pachacuti twisted harder against his anchoring root, trying to remove himself further from this craziness.

Rocks are gifts to us,    he tried to yell to the tourist.    Gifts from the Earth – from the Pachamama – to us. She died trying to save her children, and she became the mountain. The rocks are Her body!

He twisted in furious frustration. The rocks are for creating. For building our city. The filth you slather on your hands from those little tubes will hurt the rocks. Why can’t you understand something so obvious?

“Where do they sacrifice the virgins?” a middle-aged North American woman twanged.

We are not animals! he tried to scream from below the earth. We are not Mayans. We are the civilized descendants of Inti, the Sun. we do not sacrifice people.

“They need to air condition the bus. This is intolerable.”

You sit. You let the oil from deep inside Pachamama carry you, while your muscles turn to flab. And you complain?

“We got an AWEsome photo of us flying the Seahawks 12^th Man flag from one of them temples!”

Such low aspirations! We covered these stones with woven fabrics of magnificent colors. With Inti’s blood – with gold – we reflected Inti’s  face from our temples! These stones were covered in gold,. We polished the silver in these buildings until it was worthy of the sons and daughters of this city. And you can only fly a flag?

“They give you a little box lunch to take to Machu Picchu. It’s so cute!”

Pachacuti is amused by your description of your food. Ours, too, can be “cute.”

 But mostly, it’s quinoa. Please tell me why, after you eat, you drop your garbage on our city?

“Keep a lookout. I’m going to score some of the sacred water from the ritualistic fountain, and take it home in this glass vial. It’ll be mystical.”

‘Ritualistic?’ ‘Sacred?’ It is our drinking water. Please, help yourself. Drink some.

“Dude! Check it out! I’m the first one in at six A.M. and I’m gonna set the record for running up Huayna Picchu and back. Meet me at the gate at seven-thirty!”

A lot of MACHO.  But no PICCHU.

Ah. I see you are not all worshipers of Inti.

“You come quickly! I stamp passport. Say ‘Machu Picchu’ Hurry. Bus waiting.”

So, you are proud that the silver bird, drinking up Pachamama’s oil, brought you to our city. And you will display many pictures for your friends. But, tell me. Will you understand what you have seen? Understand, even deeper, how, we, too, have a connection to your Asia homeland from thousands of years ago?

“Ah’m tarred, Maude. Let’s us git back to the ho-tel fer a Pisca Sour.”

Inti is disappearing again as He has 205,860 times over this city. My comfort is that these people called tourists will leave for a few hours.  But they will return tomorrow. More than two times as many people as when our city was alive. Viracocha, the Creator, must have a Great Plan to allow such insanity. I will wait to see what it is. I will wait so long this root will die of old age and become the soil. But I will be here, waiting.

Pretty much what’s happening from the moment we touch down.

Miraflores is nice: clean, good restaurants, safe to walk at nite, the ocean nearby. But you have to run a gauntlet to get there.

”I don’t like air conditioning,”the driver announces. “That’s just the fan – ” he points at the brutalized dashboard which is responsible for bringing in the hot, humid air. “I used it once – cold in car; hot when you get out; cold when you get back in – – – I got a horrible pharyngitis.”

So we roll down the windows to get a breeze from the movement of Lima’s February sweat as we pass broken-down vehicles clogging lanes, street vendors weaving among the cars, and street after street of decaying buildings.

The chofer leans back toward the door where Sarah sits. He pushes down the lock.

“Bueno,” he declares. “Mejor.”

Then he spots her backpack on the seat beside her.

“Put that on the floor,” he animates urgently with his hand. “It’s not a good neighborhood.”

Forty-five minutes later, we’re in Miraflores.

Reversing the process to return to the airport, we lock doors, stash our backpacks, but keep the windows open so we can breathe.

Finally: “Aereopuerto 1 Km,” reads a sign, its lettering undulating slowly in the heat.

Then my nose has a flashback: penguins. Penguin poop, specifically.

Must be an olfactory hallucination. I decide to ignore it. But it’s there with the next breath. And the next. I turn around to Sarah.

“Penguins?” I test her. The heat in this place tells me my nose is geographically confused.

Sarah, however, says “yep.”

“Hay un olor de pescado?” I check in with the chofer.

“Si,” he affirms. “A factory of fish meal. Next to the airport.”

Indeed. The entire international airport is engulfed in a hot, viscous   cloud of regurgitated fish. Like some mother penguin feeding her little Happy Feet.

They assign gate 16. We go there and find they have closed doors to gates beyond 15 and posted ominously officious written warning against opening them. Finally, ten minutes before boarding time, someone opens the doors and the Machu Picchu hoard pours in.

Then they call Sarah’s name to come to the desk. Is she willing to change seats? For the convenience of someone?

We board. There’s a recorded announcement (they obviously use it a lot). It’s the only airplane announcement about seat belts I’ve ever heard where they direct you to NOT buckle your seat belt:

“We are re-fueling the plane. Please to not smoke or using electronic devises. Be seated, but do not buckle your seat belt. Thank you.”

Leaving Lima.

Disappointing Drake; Exhilarating Experience

For over forty years, I’ve heard from sailing friends of the notorious “Roaring Forties” and “Furious Fifties.” Unrelenting winds and massive waves in the latitudes of those numbers, off Cape Horn, let alone the Shrieking Sixties of Antarctic waters further south. But the return voyage to Ushuaia just gives us rolling, episodic disequilibrium, and 2 or 3 green-faced guests.

With the whales, penguins, and icebergs far beyond our wake, they entertain us with lectures, underwater movies, and quasi-scientific demonstrations:

• the Andes arise in Venezuela, run like a spine down South America, dive into the southern ocean at Ushuaia, then erupt again to become the Antarctic Peninsula. There, snow and ice weld the mountains of rock into the northern-most piece of Antarctica – the piece we partially explored.

• about 500,000 years ago, Antarctica was the location of the magnetic North pole. The electromagnetic polarity of the Earth switched subsequently to what we have today.

• If, from the interior of the continent, you head to a coast in any direction, you are always heading North.

• Continental Drift, which broke Antarctica free from other land masses millennia ago, and continues to forge dynamic change, is making the Atlantic Ocean larger, and the Pacific smaller.

• Lisa, the SCUBA queen, shows us the ocean bottom of Cierva Cove where multiple icebergs float and, frequently, become grounded. There are far fewer invertebrate animals on this floor – an area she calls “the Scour Zone,” where ‘bergs have scraped the animals away.

• Eric, the “Ice Man” pulled a floating remnant of a berg from Paradise Harbor two days ago to show us that, upon removal from the water, air would soon cloud the crystal transparency of the ice. It did – within 15 minutes. The same phenomenon, he says, occurs as the pressure of tons of ice above a glacier are released with calving.

• This same Eric shows us a Japanese movie made about him and his hobby of exploring ice caves in glaciers. He has photographed many of these caverns carved by melt water, and they are eerie and beautiful.

• And finally, Eric again, naturally inquisitive and energetic, pumps me for info on the “Diving Reflex,” then sets up a demonstration. One of his fellow Naturalists immerses his face in ice water while a volunteer from the audience reads the Naturalist’s pulse rate. Luckily for Eric, the reaction is textbook, the guy’s pulse rate falling constantly as long as he holds his breath and keeps his face submerged.

We all erupt in applause, not just for the wet-faced Naturalist, not just for Eric’s success, but for the entirety of the experience, enjoyable and educational right down to the relatively tame behavior of Drake’s Passage.