This adventure,
I think, starts the night before. It is
late and I feel uneasy; there are couples hanging around the hostel and I don’t
particularly feel like attempting to socialise in Spanish, though I know it is
always good for me. Instead, I drink
some beers, hack away at the computer which seems to be intentionally and
continuously shitting itself just to spite me (sometimes even attempting to eat
my writing, the bastard; though I guess for three-hundred bucks I can’t ask for
much). Anyhow, I decide that climbing a
little way up that mountain in the dark is a grand idea; and it turns out I was
extremely correct. With a plain old
bread roll, a pack of nuts and a beer I head up, in the pitch black, not really
waiting for my eyes to adjust. It’s a
challenge but I feel my way, I see the shadows that represent the paths
meandering up and gauge the loose soil beneath my feet, all the while managing
to stargaze at the same time. Walking in
the dark can be surprisingly easy, if you get a feel for it; I think you can
kind of extend yourself out into it, feel for safety rather than think for it. I stop several times: once to eat the
peanuts, which proved to be an amazingly noisy activity in that extreme
tranquillity; another time to lie down and stargaze; and one last time to
meditate. What seems like tiny noises
emit from the little town below. Barks,
laughter, conversation; some car and bus noises. It’s a magical feeling being in total
darkness on a mountain, sitting above a town listening to bits and pieces of
noise float about, while the galaxy hovers above, stars shoot across the
sky. I feel a bit like everything,
actually. The presence of the mountain
is more evident, too, in this stillness.
I see it in a different light, so to speak. It shows me new things, this time; it is I
and it, together in a more intimate way.
Sort of like going home with your lady-woman, as opposed to being with
her in a social situation (excellent analogy, Chris). Getting closer. And we’re all together actually, She the
mountain, She the infinite sky, She the endless cordilleras; She the All. Paz. And a lot of it. And then that little voice: So here you are, old boy—what did you want to do now? My mind stills and the slight breeze which
would normally seem freezing is a soft hand, falling over my being. I feel the soft dirt with my hands and can
hear it avalanching down, a miniature landslide in the cold silent night. Everything is shaded with a blue, not from
the moon, but from all those fucking baffling and beautiful stars in the
sky. Estrelllas
is the word for ‘stars’ in Spanish; I really think it’s one of those words that
sounds like it should mean stars anyhow.
One of the ones which, if it sat amongst other Spanish words I wasn’t
familiar with, I could pick easily as meaning ‘stars’. After eating the peanuts I’m kind of glad
this oaf has stopped interrupting the peaceful night (there’s something about
the crinkling sound of a wrapper that just doesn’t fit in here…). I lie on back and watch, because my neck is
getting sore from being unable to take my eyes from the sky and its uncountable
sexy bits. So many shooting stars I feel
guilty for seeing them all. Cool mountain dirt.
Blissful. Thoughts come and go as
they do; things pop up. In a deep moment
of meditation I am awesomely interrupted by the boisterous squawking of some
mountain birds—they must nest nearby. My
heart bursts through my chest, veins and bits and pieces still connected, and
tries to make its way across the mountain and back down; but I pull it back,
like reeling a fishing line in. Lucky,
there is something on the end. I
re-settle as the noises of the birds echoes, fades. Passes.
Something more comes to me after some time and I take it as the thing I
came up here for. I stay forever, but
get up and leave to go back down. My
eyes are stuck in the sky but my feet have pre-organised this with my soul so I
can amble down safely, thoughtfully, empty.
Tomorrow, I will go to Cochiguaz.
I’ll get up early and despite my
concerns, hitch a ride. I sleep
peacefully and dream about lots of things.
Mejor.
—
I’m sweating
already and no one seems to be acknowledging my existence by the side of the
road. Except a friendly dog; but after a
while it frightens me because it’s eyes are red and it keeps howling at nothing
and quite frankly there is a part of me trying to remember the symptoms of
rabies. It drooled on me. Or did it?
Do I have any open wounds? But it
is friendly; and it doesn’t seem to crazy, just a little weird. I know heaps of weird people who don’t have
rabies. Hmm. I am still thinking of Rodrigo’s words: something bad could happen to you; or
something good. Pretty ambivalent,
right? But it was more the way he said
it. Far more there than the surface
buns. And here I am, failing a bit; but
it’s still early and I am determined to get to Cochiguaz; I can’t leave this place without getting there. I think of the quirky restaurant in the
centre; the weird healing aspects of the place and the strange people. I will be surprised, however. Finally a ute stops. The old man yells something and I go to open
the door to hear him and realise there’s an old lady in the passenger seat and
she’s probably terrified that some dude is trying to open her car door, so I
assume he said ‘Cochiguaz’ and jump in the back. My first hitch! I feel as safe as a child in a pram being
pushed by some unknown Chilean people.
Actually, I’m not as afraid as I thought I’d be. The old hitchin’ has been built up a bit for
me; much fear, but in reality, if you get a ride with some peaceful people, and
it feels right—todo bien! And so we tumble on down the road and I gaze
at the mountains slack-jawed. Blissful
sighs. We stop—not in Cochguaz. O well, only five kilometres more. I start walking. I go past some hippy-lookin’ Chileans and ask
how much further and the chick one speaks real slowly, like a Chilean hippy
probably does; she mentions the restaurant and the spa. Hmm.
Not much more. I say hola to the dude who smiles and we have
a little mutual laugh at our respective situations: he and her waiting for a
ride in the dust, me charging on through the dust. Nice.
Onwards I go and eventually there is the sound of a car, which I didn’t
expect this far out. I was set to walk. I stick my thumb up and the ute pulls over
and so begins my day. A young man is in
the drivers’ seat, though he doesn’t look that young; he’s chewing something
and a great bulge protrudes from the side of his mouth and his teeth are all
caked with something green, but his smile is very friendly. There appears to be an entire family in
there. He asks where in Cochiguaz I want to go and I so no se, no se! Because I don’t actually know. So after a few seconds of non-communicating
he gestures for me to just jump in the back, which I happily do. We go through the town, which seems pretty
dull really; oddly, we don’t stop, and this concerns me initially, but then the
feeling passes and I feel fine. He’ll
probably just drop me somewhere at the top, so I can walk back down. He does stop.
But he gets out and approaches me and after establishing that I speak
English asks me whether I want to go with him and his family to their place,
chew some coca leaves, some natural tobacco and some Argentinian tea. I mumble in hesitation, pensive, thinking and
ask him about the town. He says all
there is is a big rock (gestures toward the mountains) and some restaurants and
spas. Which is I guess what was
expecting. So I say yeah I’ll come with
you. It’s six kilometres further
on. Mother, you would surely kill me;
but when you get a feel for someone, especially a feeling they won’t murder
you, it’s okay to go ahead with things like this. It felt fine so off we went,
rough-and-tumbling it up the road. More
scenery, slacker jaw. Dogs chase the
ute. Where am I going? Something
bad could happen to you; or something bad.
Hmm. Or something beautiful. We get out at a property right at the top of
what seems to be a poorer area. There is
a grand-looking half-construction atop a hill, next to which appears to be a
small camp. Which it is. A man is atop the construction, which is
something like hexagonal with a smaller protruding second story in the
middle—almost ceremonial. I help unpack
all their things. I was half-expecting
to arrive at a camping ground, but alas, it’s just a camp next to a
home-in-progress. The guy’s name is
Emmanel. He is twenty-five. Up on the second story is his step-father, Pato (Patricio). Out of the care come his two sisters and his
mother. I will later learn that these
people are infinitely warm, interesting and skilled in various ways. After we unpack the gear I feel sort of
awkward, but apparently I’m the only one feeling that way. Emmanuel shows me around the house. It’s been under construction for two years
and they hope to have it done in another year.
Pato, at around fifty-five
years, has built this house more or less single-handedly. I’m later told he is an amazing man in
varioous, freakishly strong for his age (stronger then Emmanuel), self-educated
in—apparently—building houses, and almost anything else. Except driving; that he’s only just learning
now. Emmanuel’s mother, whose name slips
my memory, is a Kundalini Yoga maestra
who has been practicing and teaching for something like twenty-five years. One of her daughters, Ser (which means ‘to be’ in Spanish) is following in her footsteps,
and will soon return to the United States for a second time to teach
Kundalini. The other daughter, Cielo (which means ‘sky’) is very little
and it practicing her English skills for a spelling bee. I help her at one point, reading out English
words so she can spell them back at me.
Am I in an awesome dream? So,
initially, after saying hello to everyone and having a quick look at the house,
Emmanuel starts work. I am not obliged,
but he invited me to help, which I’m more than happy to do. It all interests me quite a bit. The house is primitive by some standards, but
extremely well-built away from those standards.
The methods are just different and there are a few things I learned
which were really interesting. It has a
concrete base, above which is a wooden frame, with posts running up the main
corners. Wire grills run across the
walls, between which long sticks are placed, some horizontal, some vertical,
some diagonal. Later, mud-brick will be
applied to consolidate the walls, as well as so foam insulation at some
points. The roof is corrugated
iron. Parts of the house needed to be
bought, obviously; but much of it was gathered around the property, which is
surrounded by nature, beyond which the Andes lay until Argentina in one
direction and vertically up and down Chile in the other directions. Emmanuel first takes me up an improvised
ladder to the second floor, where this amazing native-looking fellow works
tirelessly. They move some corrugated
iron together while I take in the view up here.
Emmanuel rolls some cigarettes and insists on some coca leaves, both of
which I accept. Before I know it I’m
charging on natural tobacco and coca. He
prepares the coca using a white powder which I initially speculate could be
cocaine; but I doubt that would even make sense. I ask him about it and he says that the coca
is acidic while the powder (like flour) is alkaline and that the reaction
between them is good for chewing coca.
I’d heard that people mix growth from rocks with coca for the reaction
so it seems to make sense to me. He
chews a tonne at a time and apparently I’m obliged to chew his way. It’s pleasant and the charge is pretty darn
evident. I sit for a while longer. Pato
loves old rock music and Pink Floyd’s Money
screams from a small player.
Awesome. He has a kind soul, this
old man; and an air of deep mystery, kind of like them all actually. After he starts cutting the corrugated iron I
descend, using a rope to guide my light-headed self back down to the
ladder. Emmanuel then gives me a spade
and takes me a few metres from the house, down some stones and into some bushes
(where luckily, he doesn’t kill and bury me).
All the while I can’t keep my eyes off this whole scene. What a place!
So over next to the fresh water stream, from which fresh mountain water
comes, there is a big pile of stony sand and a large frame with wire mesh. We talk a while between shovelling the sand
through the mesh, which filters the bigger stones out and makes a fine powdery
sand which is going to be used to make a cement for the walls of the
house. This comes free of charge, from
the mountains up above; it is washed down the stream and shovelled out and then
put through the mesh. Endless
supply. I’m more than happy to help
shovel it through, collect the finer sand and carry it up to the house in a
bucket. It feels good to do this
work. It doesn’t feel like work. We go slow and stop and chat all the time,
drinking mate, chewing coca and
smoking tobacco. Emmanuel tells me a lot
about himself. He used to take a lot of
psychtropics, as he terms it; and smoke a bit of weed (there is a green leaf on
his shoulder). But not any more. He comes across as a very hard-working man,
fairly rational—but the more I speak to him, the more I see his rationality is
counterbalances by a thick spirituality, an all-pervasive spirituality which is
not really named anything but is just the way it is. He talks of the energy of the mountains and
the water around us; we speak about religion and how what he partakes in is not
religion, but gnosis, or learning of
all different types of wisdom. Pato is apparently very Hinduistic in his
ways, like his wife; but they are not religious. They seem to breathe the spirits of this
natural place the same way a lot of us breathe the dirty air in the city. He talks of his addictive personality,
admitting a pretty heavy propensity for coca leaves, but only in the last seven
months. He talks of other types of
addictions, always referring back to his addictive personality. He talks like someone older and I often find it
hard to accept that he’s my age. He
lives with his girlfriend who teaches Arabic dance and has a child from a
previous relationship; together, they have two kids. He tells me about how Pato built their house, again single-handedly, and how Pato is his best friend and an amazing
man (at this point I really wanted to have more tools in my Spanish tool-kit,
because this Pato guy was not only
giving off an air of brilliance, but seemed to have affected Emmanuel in some
pretty heavy ways—and he looked like Miagi from The Karate Kid!). I ponder
it all and ask a thousand questions. Now,
he says, he lives his life for his family, for work—he is a very hard
worker. But not in a senseless laborious
way; he has passions. He has worked in
agriculture, has helped with various houses in construction, works presently at
the biggest observatory in the region (where they do ground-breaking scientific
research) where he gets paid quite a lot for what sounds like odd jobs, even
when he isn’t actually at work (awesome).
He wants to start preparing land he has at his home further south,
growing chillies and fruit trees. But
all this slowly, he says. Poco y poco. They’re all vegetarians here, except him, but
he only eats a tiny bit of meat, he says, and only fresh. We have lentils for lunch, but not Emmanuel
because he chews coca all day and eats in the afternoon. I sit with the family for a bit and we talk
in broken English and Spanish for a while.
Ser needs to learn some English for when she goes to the U.S but she
seems reluctant. Amazing goat cheese
from down the road and an off-tap lentil dish with dried fruits. Amazing meal.
Earlier, Emmanuel took me to a little lake nearby which he said had
immense healing powers; it was water from the icy mountains and was extremely
cold. I wasn’t going to go in, but he
insisted and I felt like I needed to for some reason. He assured me it would cleanse me. So we stripped down and in he went, not
seeming to feel the cold. I was about to
jump in when he mentioned casually that it’s best without ‘my boxer shorts’;
and just now I remember his earlier comment about killing off the e-go (the ego), which clearly remains
somewhere beneath my underwear. Oddly,
it feels perfectly natural to take them off.
He literally does not blink an eye lid; it’s like bathing with an
indian. But fuck, that water was
cold. I have never, ever felt such
coldness. My bones ached. I felt the cold slither through my soul and
into my brain and every internal organ.
Gasping uncontrollably he tells me I have to go under the water three
times, so I do, very dementedly. Christ,
I will never forget that feeling.
Something certainly happened when I entered that water. Such intensity. I didn’t feel the same all afternoon. I still don’t. So I helped him a while longer before sitting
down a bit, gawking around the property and at the machine-man up there on the
second story, smashing together a beautiful house like it ain’t no thang. What a family. The sun slowly falls and I’m told that Petro needs to practice his driving, so
they’ll drive me all the way back to town.
Such people. We all sit together
at their little camp and I ask Emmanuel’s mother about Kundalini and she says
one thing that sticks in my mind because it’s something that makes endless
sense to me in many ways. It has to do
with posture. She put her hands on my
head and my back and straightened me out and pushing her chest out in
demonstrations said, most important is HEART
FIRST. So many levels run through
me. Heart first. Straighten the fuck up and put your heart
first. I’m keen to learn more. We wait by the fire for Petro to finally descend but he seems to be enjoying air-guitaring
to rock music instead of coming down.
What a guy. Finally he descends
and we sit around a while more, chatting.
I speak to Petro quite a bit,
despite not understanding him. Such a
kind man. There is so much peace
here. It makes me think of a lot of
things about myself and my life (how could it not?). They start the car and Emmanuel’s mother gets
me to translate some lyrics from a beautiful Kundalini-inspired song by an
English singer. The littlest sister, Cielo, reads it easily. Clever folk.
I thank them vigourously and me, Emmanuel and Petro get in the car. They
invite me back when the house is done and I get some contact details. We drive bumpily off into the night, Petro fumbling through gears across
unsealed mountain roads. I am tired but
I feel great and am happy to be silent the whole trip while Emmanuel directs Petro in operating a manual car—the car
is Petro’s mind you, but he hasn’t
yet learned how to use it. Amazing for a
man who seems so adept at everything else!
We say some serious goodbyes and they both have a sincerity to them
which saddens me a bit to leave. As I
wait at the bust stop to catch the bust one town across, some dogs come and sit
with me; I think they just like the company around here. Then the father of the family that owns the
hostel I’m staying at pulls up in his car and like clockwork the days ends with
a free ride back. There are butterflies
flying about inside my head and I feel rejuvenated. Something
bad could happen to you; or something good.
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