"There is nothing that will cure the senses but the soul, and nothing that will cure the soul but the senses."
-Oscar Wilde
Recently, due to an unexpected and most welcome generosity of an interested party of some means, the course of events led me, without undo or egregious circumstances whatsoever interfering, down a shady (or I should say sun-drenched) primordial path: to whit, a sojourn on the southern continent, that is, and more particularly, the clime and peoples, the flora and fauna, of one Republic of Ecuador; and to that same place (did indeed travel) with the aid of conveyances both modern and archaic, through, in, and over, land, sea and air as coming to a place of saying, indeed: I went there, and now have returned again ( to write you this travel-log).
Now. One might inquire as to more of the, shall we say, particulars of said journey. Very well, and all in good time, sir or madam, all in good time. For as a wiser man than I once said, the journey is the goal quite plain, there being no other. In short: all in due course; indeed it shall all be said, and detailed, agonized over, surveyed and survived, as it were and shall be. And, reader- take note: I have never been, nor will ever be, a willing slave to the bold and banal legibility of the World of Fact and Nothing But; a myth in any case. What I am saying is, that much of what you hold in your hand are lies, as all partial truths are; plain, simple and, I hope, well-crafted and useful, like an Amish rocking-chair; serving a noble purpose (if indeed those noble souls even avail themselves to such luxuries). I know that I do; and more.
Indeed some lies tell, or at least point toward, the truth. I hope to tell those and none other. Two guides, joining with me on this journey, might be of service to this end; two British Charlies from the 19th century- Mr. Darwin and Mr. Dickens- two men lying towards the truth; one through the art of science, the other through the science of art.
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Day One. Miami. I'm sitting in the airport bar, catching a quick two beer buzz for the flight to Quito. But not much time; soon I'm pressurized and shot like a cannonball out over the Keys. It's always tough forcing a 13 year old out of a window seat, but my 17 year old Sunset Mystic is bigger than he. So Phil, my nephew, is soon peering intently into his Game Boy slotted into the middle seat. Joe, my brother in law, a successful middle aged psychiatrist, anchors the aisle. And I'm in a you're-soaking-in-it reverie, lost in a sea of sensory saturation off the starboard wing, out towards Mexico. Thrusting up from this backlit golden orange sea of cloud sit distant thunderheads, diamond clear and distinct- seven or eight of them, 40 thousand feet high, hundreds of miles away over the gulf, of the same deep golden-orange- silent and eternal as they slowly darken, twist and fade.
There's a quality to the experience of Simple Distance to which I've always been a devotee. My practice is this: I gaze at an object (large distant pleasant ones being preferable) and simply feel the space, the gap, between it' and me'. Soon, and especially with the help of one or two beers, the felt sense of distance between us' becomes an immediacy, a presence; the gap closes, was never there. Which am I? Am I here, or there? I seem to be both here and there- or neither? Am I this or that? The cloud, the perception, the Factual and the Aware, all seem to merge, replace each other. How can any cloud, however golden-orange, be both in here' and out there'? Suddenly, neither place' seems to exist at all. But these thoughts are after the fact, for in the moment it's not a philosophical exercise but a Presence, sparked by feeling Distance with a faculty that quite evades analysis. It's akin to a dream- you're all the characters and the space between them at once, yet none of these at all- is it you that makes it all up? If not, then who?
Indeed. I hope my apparent abstractions haven't lofted you too into the clouds, dear reader, unless you would visit there happily as well. I'll speak of stone, and city, soon enough.
Day 2. Quito.
The outer face of star clocks wheeling overhead glow from the jeweled movement within, and not separate, from that same face. It is the same in Quito, if on a more frenzied schedule. But metaphors of stars and Swiss watches won't quite fly here. No star was ever so crowded; no watch was ever so full of naked re-bar sticking up from every rooftop, combing through exhaust fumes layering into thin air at 9500 feet, as Quito. Yet, in spite of the pollution and the usual third world poverty, it's a lovely city, especially at night, sparkling through a great Andean valley, 18 thousand-foot volcanoes rimming the horizon here and there. Cabs and busses swerve and compete; a timid driver might here as well walk than tempt fate, and even fail in that. The sidewalks gape with holes, and cars honk and keep right on coming- even as you step out at a stop sign. Drivers here will sense even an instant of fear or hesitation. Then they will write you off as weak and unfit, running you down like a dog, thinning the herd. The survival of the fastest. The selfish gene in action! Or perhaps in this case the selfish Juan.
But, hell, it's a city. I mean, what do you want?- Euro-beat pounding late into the night is what I got, till 3 am in my hotel room. What are you going to do? Sleep? Dance? But the food is good and cheap in Quito- the service is very formal, supremely elegant, while still friendly- almost cute. Joe, Phil and I had a fine meal one evening at the French Café, in one of the most elegant hotels in Quito- polished marble and every allowance- while a big screen TV blared wrestling from the States across the room. Such incongruity! Such banality! And it wasn't even that good a match- plus, I think it's faked. O.k., hell, we enjoyed it anyway. Really enjoyed it. And let me just say that it's plain as white on rice- Stone Cold Steve Austin cheated his way to the title, and the belt. Words cannot convey the hatred I feel towards that man, and I will, alone or through my allies, crush him- like the tiny, pathetic insect he is. And one other thing- the heart-punch should be banned. Banned I tell you!
But I digress. A few more musings, then it's off to the Galapagos! There are no furnaces or air conditioners in Quito to speak of- a testament to a high altitude city on the equator, with temps in the 60s year round. Day and night are roughly equal, all year. The sun sails by pretty much overhead all the time; now a bit north, now a bit to the south of straight up, as the wobbly earth spins around the sun. At sunset, it plunges swiftly into the Pacific; a quick dusk tending to quell most poetic indulgence, as if to appease the restless Children of the Night- but more about them later, in the Darkening Jungle. On the northern horizon lies the Big Dipper, hinting toward Polaris, the pole star, just out of sight. In the extreme southern sky rests the Southern Cross, that hemisphere's reference constellation, and pretty, too. The Milky Way stretches lazily between them. The Swiss watch metaphor works here on the equator beautifully- predictability a plus, no messy oblique angles. The word season' here is mostly reserved for Chile; Ecuador lies under mostly vaguely shifting moods of cloud and sun, year round.
The natives are friendly- even the passport guy at the airport seemed human, if barely. A taxicab bus strike silenced the streets to some extent during our stay (beautifully cleaning the air); yet despite this, and the country's recent economic meltdown, things felt calm- although military fatigues and sawed off shotguns on most street corners might have had something to do with that. And every Burger King and Hagen Daz had it's own little soldier too. It's good to know that in Ecuador, the ice cream is safe, and every corporate burger is well guarded. Cordon off the buns! Protect the french fries at any cost!
Small fires burned in the middle of some streets, and bushes were tied to bumpers, sweeping nails away from tires the strikers had scattered on the roads. But everyone seemed relaxed with the whole thing; another day on planet earth with a passionate shrug. Whadaya gonna do . As we left, the strikers finally got their government price rollback on gas, and the meters, and the wheels, were rolling once again.
The week before the trip, as I had wandered a bookstore back home looking for good trip reads, Dickens jumped off the shelf, most unexpectedly- I'd never read or felt called to read him. Puzzled, I bought "Great Expectations". Reading it during the taxi strike in Quito, Dickens feeling and passion for the soul of all men and women became manifest around me. Stars may dazzle and prejudice the senses, but soul sees the common human spirit in all however humbled or exalted. Having spent the last year in Asheville driving a truck and swallowing my pride, my arrogance staring me in the face, Dickens and the cab drivers opened my heart a bit more. And so leaving the city and the human race in general, we flew west toward the islands. Off the left wing rose the dkdkdkdk volcano, lifting massively from the surrounding cloud cloaked Andes, 20,000 feet into the sky, piercing the heavens. Leaving the troubled Tower of man, the sight of the Mountain moved me to tears.
Day 3-9. The Galapagos Islands.
These Islands, a thousand kilometers off the coast of Ecuador, lost in the vast western ocean, are mostly associated with Charles Darwin and the Nature Channel. Suffice to say that they are beautiful, sparsely populated with people, dry, and seething with lizards. And birds. And sea lions, the most utterly dog like of all marine creatures; indeed, perhaps more dog-like than even dogs themselves, especially poodles. They love nothing better than to swim right towards you at 30 miles an hour, doing a radical flip inches from your mask, and grinning loopily at you as they turn around for another run.
But I'll spare you, dear reader, from any endless recounting of the creatures encountered here. Judging by the sheer numbers of paparazzi that roam these shores, clicking away, you've probably seen it all before. Suffice to say that, contrary to these animals being afraid of Man, they seem to sense their salvation lies with him, and preen and waddle towards you, if anything; they love the camera. Without tourists, they would probably be hunted down mercilessly for lunch, profit and Parisian hats.
But if I noticed any one thing about any one species on the Galapagos, it was the human obsession with getting the shot', especially among men; no doubt a thinly veiled sublimation of the ancient desire to hunt down prey. Not much sport here, although that didn't seem to cool anybody's fervor. One man in our group shot video of everything that crossed his line of sight and God help the poor folks back home in Kansas. The twin concern was an almost fanatical desire to label and know' what things are'. Sample question:
Tourist: "What's that black billed bird with the yellow wings?"
Guide: " That's a Black Billed Yellow Wing."
Tourist: "Oh. I wondered what it was! Where's my notebook?!"
Not that there's anything wrong with that. My complaint, (one of few on the trip) was that in the desire to know the trees, we might miss the forest; the subtle, mostly intuited sense of connection and Life in its endless expressions, the energy behind the various objects'. I find the Serious Birder to be the most deserving of our pity and help. Most likely the treasurer and comptroller of his local Anal Society, the Serious Birder suffers from a tragic pathology, like obsessive hand washing, or train spotting. This Serious Birder, with his Life Lists and his 30 pound, 5 foot, 6000 dollar spotting scopes, will spend a sum equal to Bill Gate's utility bills to maybe, just maybe- spot a variation of the Variegated Desert Rain Thrush (a shy, smallish, rather confused brown bird) that might, just might- have been spotted last week in southern Chechnya. And if he does just happen to spot it .be still my heart ..he gets to put a little check next to it in his book, and make all the other Serious Birders very, very, jealous indeed. Hurrah!
A Zen aphorism offers that it's the space within a tea cup which makes it useful; even a road sign next to a Southern Baptist church I saw the other day had the Taoist temerity to proclaim "the empty vessel rings loudest". Pretty sublime stuff here in the chicken n waffles South. Weaned on the television nature shows, we in the west seem to stick pretty closely to visual and intellectual modes of understanding, filling ourselves up with light meters instead of light; family genus instead of daimons. Or even pure aesthetic pleasure; something quite apparent in a group of Americans out in the sticks. But facts and photographs constitute but a small, expensive zone in the bandwidth that we could explore and enjoy. And this was my frustration on the trip; I sensed, and grieved, my own loss of connection and loss of richness, cut off from Greater Self as embodied in the Blue Footed Booby, the Storm Petrel, and even the sea and sky themselves. I would try, often in vain, to check my own tendency to grasp and label, by labeling it grasping'. What a head trip that got to be.
And so the specter of Charles Darwin hung over me on those islands; one of the poster children of scientism. This modern religion decries life as a random mutation wandering blindly down the narrow aisles of history, now stumbling here, lucking out there, coming up with an eye, or an I, purely by chance- kind of like a tornado in a junk-yard making a Swiss watch, or chimps typing up The Tempest if you give them a few eons. Now, I don't know how far Mr. Darwin took his own discovery down the dark halls of nihilism, and I take nothing away from the value of that discovery- certainly old church dogmas needed, and need, some serious monkeywrenching so to speak. And, I believe the discovery of evolution to be one of the truly great contributions the West has given the world. Even in regards to it's lowest level of understanding, surely mutants throwing dice have their place in creation; yet to call evolution blind and the world-as-machine The Final Statement is pretty goddamn depressing if you ask me.
And thankfully, not accurate it would seem. One example here: John Cairns of Harvard University in 1988 presented three different experiments involving E. coli bacteria, suggesting "bacteria can choose which mutations they should produce" in response to unfavorable environmental conditions, even specifically changing two separate sets of genes in much less time than random mutation would permit. Caims, astonished, said "That such events ever occur seems almost unbelievable, but we have also to realize that what we are seeing probably gives us only a minimum estimate of the efficiency of the process".
Take that, you bad ol' nihilists. But if bacteria are that smart, why such vast human misery? If a rude little germ is so clever, how come I can't program my VCR? And this might also serve as a cautionary tale, as the hubris and hoo-haw of the War on Microorganisms" supersedes the wisdom of living in harmony and balance with the rest of the world; indeed, ourSelves. Rust, and microorganisms, never sleep. Illness seems more of a sign of a weak immune system than malignant design on the part of micro-nature. Maybe they don't want our lives (well, ok, maybe eventually-they're welcome to have mine, after I'm dead); only our attention. We couldn't even digest our Whoppers without them.
But really, back to the damn trip. Ok, I admit this whole thing is an excuse to shove my philosophy down your throat, dear reader. So I'd better come up with some amusing anecdotes in a hurry, eh? How bout swimming with a Manta ray? Did it. It was cool, as you might expect. Big old thing, flying in slo-mo, lampreys riding shotgun on each jowl. Impressed by seeing an owl catch a storm petrel on the wing? Well I saw that too. Plus, so many creatures- hammerhead sharks cruising, fin slicing along just like in the movies, green marine iguanas clinging to black volcanic rock wreathed by bright red crabs, washed in the blue surf. Affectionate (and monogamous) pairs of nesting albatrosses, rubbing great yellow seagoing bills together like love swords. And the Boobies, silly blue and red footed things, shooting down into the brine from above like hungry feathered missiles. I saw all these things and more. And one or two penguins besides. Of course, it's always better being there, but if you too would like to see such marvels, I offer three words: The Nature Channel. Or even your backyard- for the marvel at home is often not seen as such. And then there're all those frustrated hunters on leave from the cube farms with all those pictures- one's probably living next door to you right now- and I'm sure he'd be thrilled to show them to you. ALL of them.
On these types of cruises, you stay with the same group the whole trip. You see them a LOT. You eat together, at the same table, every meal. You huddle on the trail together. You ooh and ah together, you wait in line together; you worry about malaria together. If you're single and lucky, you might even sleep together. So you might want to get along, even like these people. My group was mostly middle-aged folks, able to pony up the 4 grand or so a trip like this requires.
First there was Larry. No stranger to the facts of this, and other, worlds- both natural and man made- Larry played the part of the Adventurous Professor. A balding man in his late 60s, he seemed a veritable Action Model of the Hal 9000 computer. Athletic- I envied his long 40 foot deep dives far below where I labored for breath- he frolicked with the fishes, startling sleepy sharks. His motto- look out for number one. And talk about smart- indeed, his grasp and reach of the Real seemed only bettered by ol' Jehovah himself. There was no story he couldn't top; no puzzle or sea he hadn't fathomed already. Been stung by jellyfish at Ocean City New Jersey? He'd been menaced by Man O' War off the Great Barrier Reef. Frightened by a small Whitetip in the distance while snorkeling? He'd grappled with the Great Whites hand to fin while bringing up Doubloons off the coast of Labrador. Nodding sagely, nothing our guide (and no stranger to a fact himself) would say could possibly surprise him. Once, in exasperation, I racked my brain for something, anything, he might find obscure- blurting "well gee, Larry, I bet you've mastered the mechanical design of F-111 jet engines!" And here, dear reader, his response: "Well, not so much the F-111 " You can guess the rest, or go look it up yourself.
Larry was the sort of man born to be an American, to shoulder the corporate burden responsibly and enjoy the profits with gusto and good humor, reveling in the senses, laughing too loud and long for my tastes. Helen, on the other hand, was as unworldly as a sandalwood rosary, playing the MaryAnne role (ok go with me on this Gilligan's Island metaphor- they were somewhat deserted isles after all- and there were seven of us). Modest, virginal, (literally I would assume, being a nun) devoting her life to the nurture of the soul, she seemed to make the trip largely to be with her father, Alec. She seemed unable to lose at cards, especially the luck games; thereby firing another shot in the war against nihilism. Solidly rounded, almost butch (sans the attitude), she stood unshakably in her faith; but without theistic rigidity altogether. One day as we listed along yet another lizard strewn trail she spoke of her brothers and sisters, all devout Catholics, all still living within 20 miles of each other in Missouri, and all yet close and supportive of each other. Always one to probe controversy, I offered "I'll bet you and your whole family reincarnated together on purpose, in order to be there for each other in your faith." Her surprising, casual reply- "Sure. That makes sense." O.k. Not the response I expected. To Helen, her faith was not a Final Statement of Truth, but a path she had utter devotion to, as her path. As the trip grew towards it's end, she became restless, ready to get back to the needy folks in her seedy and dangerous corner of Kansas City. Let her go, dear reader; she is more needed there than here on these superfluous pages. And listen: the Great Jungle beckons in a great cacophony of splendid orderly chaos.
Day 10-14. Amazonia.
After a one night stopover in Quito, we hurried to the airport, only to languish in the waiting room watching the luggage being stowed aboard and removed several times, weighed and re-weighed for our small turboprop; we were a hundred pounds over the plane's limit. Finally, a kindly, or frightened, soul finally opted out of the flight, and we were soon buzzing down the eastern flanks of the Andes and leveling out over a dense green canopy below. A bumpy landing on an aging runway found us in Coca. A small, dirty, concrete and re-bar affair, we thankfully didn't stay there long, and were soon zipping down the broad Napo River in a hefty motorized canoe.
My imagination had spun the jungle as a fetid, death dealing and utterly claustrophobic web, ready to kill a man in a thousand ways, at any moment in time. Or, over an agonizing infinity of moments; as the slow poisons and septic assassins crept in towards the heart, liver and brain; or at least the intestines. The Horror. The Horror. To my relief, however, I took to it like a 5-year-old in ToysRUs. I found the pupils dilating and the senses sharpening; like being under the influence of a mild hallucinogenic.
The lodge sat on the edge of a blackwater lagoon, calm and coffee colored. That first night I drank a Pilsner on the dock, peering down into the milky way; the water mirroring the sky flawlessly without the slightest ripple or wave. I felt both underwater and spread through the cosmos at once. Pulsing around and through me, the rhythms of the jungle night circled and ran; the long dreamlike buzzing of the cicadas, the quacking and high pitched tock tock' of frogs, the calls of night birds. I felt fast asleep and wide awake at once; both Right Here and Immeasurably Distant. Even the mosquitoes, having been the ruin of many a nature quest in my past, lay low. I was left alone, and paradoxically, aloneness was transcended. For a few scattered, brief eternities, there was no-one left to even be alone.
But even eternity empties back into the clock-infested day, and at five the next morning someone knocked firmly on my door, telling me simply to get up- ostensibly for my own pleasure and edification, as was outlined in the brochure. The next couple of days found us doing a lot of standing around in mud in our Wellingtons, peering up into the tree-tops as Barry, our guide, patiently and endlessly, often fruitlessly, tried to steer our untrained eye to the flora or fauna above. Typical exchange:
Barry: There's a Toucan there up there, see?
Me: Where?
Barry: Up there .ok ..do you see that tree in front of us?
Me: Barry, I see LOTS of trees in front of us.
Barry: Uh ok see that vaguely whitish branch above us where that other branch is kind of crossing it? Just to the right of that just slightly darker area?
Me: Hmmm ..THAT one? ( I have no idea .just taking a guess not to seem stupid)
Barry: Yeah. Now look down it kind of to the right, until you see a slightly bigger branch behind it, then look up about 20 fee or so see it?
Me: Uh ..no. Where?
Barry: (patiently; takes deep breath). Uh .Ok. Do you see that tree in front of us?
Me: Barry . I see LOTS of trees in front of us .
But I did end up seeing many of the classics- mischievous squirrel monkeys, marmosets (tiny little monkeys, like small rats with a human face), Howler monkeys (I dubbed them Tree Potatoes- all they seem to do is fill their belly full of leaves and hang out all day, digesting) to name a few. I can say that I swam with the Piranhas in the black lagoon, their legendary ferocity (a myth) notwithstanding. I must say, however, that the presence of electric eels and a little sucker called a Hole fish gave me pause. These eels can give a jolt of up to 1000 volts. Nuff said on that one- luckily, they're nocturnal. And I won't give away the Hole fishes nasty little habits- but let's just say after being warned by a guide I quickly slipped my underwear back on and let the skinny dipping notion go in a hurry.
The birds amazed us. We climbed 150 feet to the top of a massive Kapok tree one morning, to a platform overlooking the canopy around us, watching a who's who of tropical color feed on figs and other treetop delicacies. No room here for exhaustive descriptions; go find a Serious Birder for that. But do ponder the amazing Leaf Cutter ant. Walking through the jungle, one comes upon a jerky, pulsating river of leaves moving along as if by magic. A closer look reveals the tiny beasts; tireless, relentless in their determination- all that you might expect in an ant. But check out the technology: these ants take up to 15 percent of all the vegetation in the jungle down into their lairs; then plant, fertilize and harvest a nectar rich fungus on the otherwise inedible leaves. They apply a fertilizing bacteria, which doubles as protection against another fungus that would destroy the crop if left unchecked. I suppose they're pretty darned pleased with themselves; but as far as mono-crop corporate agriculture is concerned, I would hope humans would be less so. I recently read that the US government is funding corporate research into developing seed that produces a sterile crop; farmers will have to go back to the company, year after year, for new seed. While certainly boosting profits, it could prove disaster for the farmer. Imagine a bad year, a famine or drought. There's no crop to sell; but even worse, no seed to salvage for next year. At least the ants have social security; we have Willie Nelson.
Finally, there are but slowly fading memories. On my last day in Quito before winging back home, I watched thousands of Indians march into town from the countryside, protesting government policies towards them. I watched along with the lighter skinned crowd on the sidewalk for a while, marking the many smirks, scowls, muttered comments, and blank stares; then joined with the marchers, feeling only a bit less out of place. I was told they had been walking for many miles, and planned to spend the night in the city's central park; yet there wasn't a bag or backpack to be seen, only thin jackets to ward off the high desert chill. Here, Darwin met Dickens. Lower caste, poor, obviously proud and determined, they came on, the strong helping the weak, arm in arm, determined to survive.
And so, my journey came to an end. Even as I write these last words, and even as you read them, the bulldozers push deeper into the forest. Even the fittest and the richest among us will be hard pressed to survive too much of this; and yet this destruction is often wreaked by the hungry, looking to scrape one more year of survival from the thin jungle soil before being forced to move on, again. Indeed, hunger drives us all, perhaps all of evolution- the hunger for experience; be it transcendent or profane. It's up to us as individuals to choose- to perhaps relax with all of it, while still using our critical intelligence to make wise choices in each moment- that builds the great movements of history that push us forward like a wave, evolving. This trip helped deepen my awareness that whatever struggle we might face, whatever swell we might surf, however the Tower might struggle against the Mountain, whenever Evil takes issue with Good; a greater, yet not separate, Reality is always present. Call it God, call it Spirit, call it Love; but call it and listen for it, if you would find Self. And the world of nature, while ultimately no closer to that awareness than a Chicago meat packing plant, still somehow whispers more loudly of it, at least to me. And that whisper, however faintly heard, is the most powerful, yet gentle, thing that there is.