Saturday, April 5, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Saturday, May 26, 2007
The Road Less Travelled
Some how I found myself in Lomas, a small fishing village on the west coast of Peru. The streets are bare and smell of fish. The side alleys are littered with skeletons of boats, indicating a longstanding yet descending industry. 
I went down to the ocean to take a few deep breaths of fresh air. This proved difficult due to the large fish processing plant fifty meters away. I was however able to photograph the water fowl, including large pelicans drawn here by the odor and the opportunity to clean the shoreline of rotten carcasses.
So why am I here? I am here on a hunch, a little idea that was given to me by someone that I met in a hostel in Arequipa, a hunch that I might find something incredible. This idea came from a Portuguese photographer who told me about his mission to photograph as much as he could of Peru (taking almost a year and a half).
He told me about a little village where he spent time with the locals and did incredible things, including fishing and hunting for fossils. I immediately changed my plans and decided it was time to escape the grasps of Lonely Planet and take a road less traveled in the hope that it would make all the difference. Help me find what I was looking for (I didn’t really know). It was really an epiphany. WTF am I doing heading to a beach town when I could take a risk and maybe have an experience like this guy!
After making this decision, I made my way to the bus station to check departure times to Lomas (or rather Sacaco the town near Lomas on the PanAm). I walked through the terminal asking every bus company about buses Sacaco. No-one had heard of it let alone had buses going there. I went to the info desk and asked to see a map. She showed me a fairly extensive road map and to my dismay Sacaco was not on it. She had however randomly heard of Lomas and told me what bus to catch and when to get off. Great im sorted.
After two bus cancellations, a bit of waiting, someone asking me if I wanted to make the eight hour trip in aisle and a bit of research, I found a bus that was heading in the right direction. After a lot of pleading, I convinced the bus driver to make the unscheduled stop. I was promptly dumped on the side on the road and told ¨Ten cuidado con tus coasa¨ or ¨Be careful with your things¨ It was 430 am and I was at a crossroads in the middle of the desert. I sat there for a few minutes thinking about what I was going to do here. Do I start walking? I have no idea how far it is down that road. I decided I would do what every respectful person would...start knocking on doors. There was only two or three (explaining why Sacaco was no on the map) but I had luck at the first door. The was guy home and was actually willing to drive me for a fee.
With the stearing wheel embedded in his stomach, we screamed toward Lomas. Im not too sure how he was able to see the large potholes in the road as one of his headlights was fixed 45 degrees to the right of the car ( I think it was the left one) and the other was stargazing. He seemed to know when they were coming. Long before I could see anything, I would hear the rubbing sound of wheel on belly as he began to take evasive action. We arrived in town and he took me to one of the two places with rooms. Upon knocking for about 15 minutes, (I wasn’t to sure why we weren’t giving up, perhaps he knew something I didn’t, or perhaps for lack of alternatives) and yelling Paisa! Which is slang for countryman, one of the drunkest men I have ever seen opened the door. We bartered on the price a bit and he showed me to my room, which was for all intents and purposes, under construction.
I awoke very early to the sound of Spanish music blaring from a stereo (I assume the caretaker was trying to wake himself up, perhaps not remembering anyone was there??). I wasn’t sure if the guy was going to remember me let alone remember our decided price on the room. In any event, I walked out the door and was ignored (fine by me).
After walking around for the better part of the day, and asking people about “the guy who goes into the desert and looks for fossils” (My Portuguese friend didn’t remember his name), I found Pizza. He was very excited about the premises of taking me. We decided to head out the next day into the desert to see what we could find..jpg)
We left early in the morning, caught a car out to the cross roads of the Pan Am and from there headed out into the desert. After a few hours of walking, we started to arrive in a strange terrain. It was blowing like a MF and my skin was burning from the sand. As we walked he explained to me that this whole area was once under water. The whole desert was once a see bed and now the wind excavates fossils every day. He showed me all types of animals that he had found but left in their places. Among some of the most interesting were the Dolphins and whales. Whales! Full skeletons. Massive. In the middle of the desert. As we walked all around us there were beds of fossilized plants and shells. We even found sharks teeth, fossilized, just lying in the desert.
The next few days I spent walking around by myself, along the beach, and into the desert.
On the first day, I was snapping shots in the dunes not to far from the town and I came across some bones. They looked fairly large. I wasn’t sure what they were but they sure looked human to me. I kept looking. I wasn’t long before a found myself in the middle of a half-unearthed graveyard, with white bones glistening in the desert sun. Some of them still wearing clothes and some of their skin, others had nothing but gold plates in their skulls (evidently put there by some sort of surgery). Upon returning to the village, I inquired about this eerie place. I was told that it was a cemetery from the time of the Incas, unearthed by the wind and erosion.
Two days ago, I was hanging around on the docks, talking to the fishermen and I was offered a unique experience: to go out with them as they hunted Pota. I wasn’t exactly sure what Pota was but it sounded interesting. They told me that we would be back the next morning around nine. I agreed and ran back to my room to get my things together. The boat left at 3 in the afternoon. At about dusk we arrived at the fishing grounds. The fishermen began to prepare their gear, which essentially consisted of a rather thick line with a device that looks like an elongated egg that glows, attached to a menacing barbed hook. They threw them overboard and began to feel the lines for bites. The first one bit fairly violently. The fisherman fought with it for some time pulling it in bit by bit. As it arrived at the side of the boat, a huge column of water was shot about 10 feet in the air. I looked overboard and saw the Pota. Giant squid. This one was about 2 meters long and very angry.
It made sounds like a broken brass instrument as it was pulled into the boat. This process went on all night. Every time one came to the surface it flushed its internal canal of all of its water to try to deter its captor. They worked for about 12 hours non-stop until the hold was almost full, and the sun had risen. When dawn was upon us, the captain of the boat (it was only about 25 feet long). Sat down next to me and said. “Mi amigo Andrés, eso es nuestra vida… es un poco triste” or “Andrew my friend this our life… its a little sad”. They do this every day. Leave at three in the afternoon and return at nine in the morning and repeat.
I left Lomas with a really good feeling about the people and the place. An undiscovered treasure of Peru.
I went down to the ocean to take a few deep breaths of fresh air. This proved difficult due to the large fish processing plant fifty meters away. I was however able to photograph the water fowl, including large pelicans drawn here by the odor and the opportunity to clean the shoreline of rotten carcasses.So why am I here? I am here on a hunch, a little idea that was given to me by someone that I met in a hostel in Arequipa, a hunch that I might find something incredible. This idea came from a Portuguese photographer who told me about his mission to photograph as much as he could of Peru (taking almost a year and a half).
He told me about a little village where he spent time with the locals and did incredible things, including fishing and hunting for fossils. I immediately changed my plans and decided it was time to escape the grasps of Lonely Planet and take a road less traveled in the hope that it would make all the difference. Help me find what I was looking for (I didn’t really know). It was really an epiphany. WTF am I doing heading to a beach town when I could take a risk and maybe have an experience like this guy!After making this decision, I made my way to the bus station to check departure times to Lomas (or rather Sacaco the town near Lomas on the PanAm). I walked through the terminal asking every bus company about buses Sacaco. No-one had heard of it let alone had buses going there. I went to the info desk and asked to see a map. She showed me a fairly extensive road map and to my dismay Sacaco was not on it. She had however randomly heard of Lomas and told me what bus to catch and when to get off. Great im sorted.
After two bus cancellations, a bit of waiting, someone asking me if I wanted to make the eight hour trip in aisle and a bit of research, I found a bus that was heading in the right direction. After a lot of pleading, I convinced the bus driver to make the unscheduled stop. I was promptly dumped on the side on the road and told ¨Ten cuidado con tus coasa¨ or ¨Be careful with your things¨ It was 430 am and I was at a crossroads in the middle of the desert. I sat there for a few minutes thinking about what I was going to do here. Do I start walking? I have no idea how far it is down that road. I decided I would do what every respectful person would...start knocking on doors. There was only two or three (explaining why Sacaco was no on the map) but I had luck at the first door. The was guy home and was actually willing to drive me for a fee.
With the stearing wheel embedded in his stomach, we screamed toward Lomas. Im not too sure how he was able to see the large potholes in the road as one of his headlights was fixed 45 degrees to the right of the car ( I think it was the left one) and the other was stargazing. He seemed to know when they were coming. Long before I could see anything, I would hear the rubbing sound of wheel on belly as he began to take evasive action. We arrived in town and he took me to one of the two places with rooms. Upon knocking for about 15 minutes, (I wasn’t to sure why we weren’t giving up, perhaps he knew something I didn’t, or perhaps for lack of alternatives) and yelling Paisa! Which is slang for countryman, one of the drunkest men I have ever seen opened the door. We bartered on the price a bit and he showed me to my room, which was for all intents and purposes, under construction.
I awoke very early to the sound of Spanish music blaring from a stereo (I assume the caretaker was trying to wake himself up, perhaps not remembering anyone was there??). I wasn’t sure if the guy was going to remember me let alone remember our decided price on the room. In any event, I walked out the door and was ignored (fine by me).
After walking around for the better part of the day, and asking people about “the guy who goes into the desert and looks for fossils” (My Portuguese friend didn’t remember his name), I found Pizza. He was very excited about the premises of taking me. We decided to head out the next day into the desert to see what we could find.
.jpg)
We left early in the morning, caught a car out to the cross roads of the Pan Am and from there headed out into the desert. After a few hours of walking, we started to arrive in a strange terrain. It was blowing like a MF and my skin was burning from the sand. As we walked he explained to me that this whole area was once under water. The whole desert was once a see bed and now the wind excavates fossils every day. He showed me all types of animals that he had found but left in their places. Among some of the most interesting were the Dolphins and whales. Whales! Full skeletons. Massive. In the middle of the desert. As we walked all around us there were beds of fossilized plants and shells. We even found sharks teeth, fossilized, just lying in the desert.The next few days I spent walking around by myself, along the beach, and into the desert.
On the first day, I was snapping shots in the dunes not to far from the town and I came across some bones. They looked fairly large. I wasn’t sure what they were but they sure looked human to me. I kept looking. I wasn’t long before a found myself in the middle of a half-unearthed graveyard, with white bones glistening in the desert sun. Some of them still wearing clothes and some of their skin, others had nothing but gold plates in their skulls (evidently put there by some sort of surgery). Upon returning to the village, I inquired about this eerie place. I was told that it was a cemetery from the time of the Incas, unearthed by the wind and erosion.Two days ago, I was hanging around on the docks, talking to the fishermen and I was offered a unique experience: to go out with them as they hunted Pota. I wasn’t exactly sure what Pota was but it sounded interesting. They told me that we would be back the next morning around nine. I agreed and ran back to my room to get my things together. The boat left at 3 in the afternoon. At about dusk we arrived at the fishing grounds. The fishermen began to prepare their gear, which essentially consisted of a rather thick line with a device that looks like an elongated egg that glows, attached to a menacing barbed hook. They threw them overboard and began to feel the lines for bites. The first one bit fairly violently. The fisherman fought with it for some time pulling it in bit by bit. As it arrived at the side of the boat, a huge column of water was shot about 10 feet in the air. I looked overboard and saw the Pota. Giant squid. This one was about 2 meters long and very angry.
It made sounds like a broken brass instrument as it was pulled into the boat. This process went on all night. Every time one came to the surface it flushed its internal canal of all of its water to try to deter its captor. They worked for about 12 hours non-stop until the hold was almost full, and the sun had risen. When dawn was upon us, the captain of the boat (it was only about 25 feet long). Sat down next to me and said. “Mi amigo Andrés, eso es nuestra vida… es un poco triste” or “Andrew my friend this our life… its a little sad”. They do this every day. Leave at three in the afternoon and return at nine in the morning and repeat.I left Lomas with a really good feeling about the people and the place. An undiscovered treasure of Peru.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
The Air Up There.
I would like to extend my solemnest regrets that this blog has laid dormant for so long. Sorry to my avid reader (Hi mom).
The truth is that I have been really busy. This compounded with the fact that I felt like a latency period for reflection was in order.
I will start from the beginning. It was a few days after my last entry that I attempted to tackle the hardest physical challenge I have ever faced. The stage was perfectly set: The closest point to the sun on earth on the day when the sun was the closest to the earth. Mount Chimborazo´s Summit.
In the afternoon of the 20th of March, Brenden and I made the journey to the first refuge of Chimborazo, at 4800 meters. Since the morning, Brenden had been feeling rotten. He vomited multiple times throughout the day and his face had a color that I had never seen before in a human being. I was very preoccupied.
We were to begin our clime at approximately midnight. As I lie in my bed, watching my breath dissipate into the air above me, my stomach starts to churn. At first, I embrace the feeling because I assume that it is the altitude and this means that if Brenden is experiencing it as well, and not vomiting, he has surely overcome his grippe. As the departure time approaches, my ache gets worse and worse. At 11:35 pm, I can no longer maintain my illusion. I make my way outside into the dark moonscape that encompasses the refuge and vomit for about five minutes until my stomach is in a retched knot. 12:00 am. I have decide that despite my illness, there is no F´n way I am going to loose my payment with out a solid shot. As we start to walk, I begin to question myself. I am essentially bent double at this point and fighting back nausea.
Despite this, I just concentrate on following the footsteps in front of me. The rocks turn to snow and the snow to ice.
A strange thing happens to the human body when you remove it from the climactic equilibrium to which it is so accustomed. Altitude. Your hands and feet swell and tingle. Your respiration increases to a constant pant at rest. You body revolts. The mind functions at about 50% capacity. Some people say that it is like being drunk, but I have never felt so helpless in my life. The dizziness incapacitates. The delirium tries to steal what sense of reality you have left. The lack of coherent though makes you take risks that you otherwise never would. All of the comforts that are afforded by you natural internal balance of chemicals and metabolic processes are stripped of you when you need them the most.
We press on.
The darkness cloaks and laps at us when we are not looking. I move my head lamp every once and a while to try to fight it off. To my right and left are drop offs. The light provides just and five meter taste of the 200 more that lie beneath.
Every sound cuts through the air. We can hear the mountain taunt us with avalanches off in the distance. The thin air allows them to travel to our ears, un-muffled, uncensored from the placed of origin.
5500 meters - Each step burns. I struggle to lift one leg after another, supporting myself with my ice axe. My breathing intensifies to the point where during my brakes I cannot catch my breath. My eyes roll back in my head and I just lie there.
5600 meters -. I am essentially crawling; my arms don’t leave the ground for a second. I dare not or I will topple down.
5700 meters - I sit down to take a rest, and by an account from our guide pass out and go into a dreamy, euphoric state.
I have a moment of clarity in which I decide that I can go no further.
I rest for a few minutes and try to let it all sink in. We begin our decent. This is not as easy as I had hoped; in fact it is in some ways harder than the incline and takes much more concentration.
On the way down, Brenden´s crampons lock together and he falls onto a sharp rock. He is in a similar state to my own and does not realize the injury that he has suffered. Upon returning to the refuge, he pulls up his pant leg to reveal a cut on his shin about two inches wide to the bone. Hospital here we come.
I walk away from this experience with a valuable lesson. I can confidently say that Mount Chimborazo afforded me two of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Make it as far as I did and accept defeat.
The truth is that I have been really busy. This compounded with the fact that I felt like a latency period for reflection was in order.
I will start from the beginning. It was a few days after my last entry that I attempted to tackle the hardest physical challenge I have ever faced. The stage was perfectly set: The closest point to the sun on earth on the day when the sun was the closest to the earth. Mount Chimborazo´s Summit.
In the afternoon of the 20th of March, Brenden and I made the journey to the first refuge of Chimborazo, at 4800 meters. Since the morning, Brenden had been feeling rotten. He vomited multiple times throughout the day and his face had a color that I had never seen before in a human being. I was very preoccupied.
We were to begin our clime at approximately midnight. As I lie in my bed, watching my breath dissipate into the air above me, my stomach starts to churn. At first, I embrace the feeling because I assume that it is the altitude and this means that if Brenden is experiencing it as well, and not vomiting, he has surely overcome his grippe. As the departure time approaches, my ache gets worse and worse. At 11:35 pm, I can no longer maintain my illusion. I make my way outside into the dark moonscape that encompasses the refuge and vomit for about five minutes until my stomach is in a retched knot. 12:00 am. I have decide that despite my illness, there is no F´n way I am going to loose my payment with out a solid shot. As we start to walk, I begin to question myself. I am essentially bent double at this point and fighting back nausea.
Despite this, I just concentrate on following the footsteps in front of me. The rocks turn to snow and the snow to ice.
A strange thing happens to the human body when you remove it from the climactic equilibrium to which it is so accustomed. Altitude. Your hands and feet swell and tingle. Your respiration increases to a constant pant at rest. You body revolts. The mind functions at about 50% capacity. Some people say that it is like being drunk, but I have never felt so helpless in my life. The dizziness incapacitates. The delirium tries to steal what sense of reality you have left. The lack of coherent though makes you take risks that you otherwise never would. All of the comforts that are afforded by you natural internal balance of chemicals and metabolic processes are stripped of you when you need them the most.
We press on.
The darkness cloaks and laps at us when we are not looking. I move my head lamp every once and a while to try to fight it off. To my right and left are drop offs. The light provides just and five meter taste of the 200 more that lie beneath.
Every sound cuts through the air. We can hear the mountain taunt us with avalanches off in the distance. The thin air allows them to travel to our ears, un-muffled, uncensored from the placed of origin.
5500 meters - Each step burns. I struggle to lift one leg after another, supporting myself with my ice axe. My breathing intensifies to the point where during my brakes I cannot catch my breath. My eyes roll back in my head and I just lie there.
5600 meters -. I am essentially crawling; my arms don’t leave the ground for a second. I dare not or I will topple down.
5700 meters - I sit down to take a rest, and by an account from our guide pass out and go into a dreamy, euphoric state.
I have a moment of clarity in which I decide that I can go no further.
I rest for a few minutes and try to let it all sink in. We begin our decent. This is not as easy as I had hoped; in fact it is in some ways harder than the incline and takes much more concentration.
On the way down, Brenden´s crampons lock together and he falls onto a sharp rock. He is in a similar state to my own and does not realize the injury that he has suffered. Upon returning to the refuge, he pulls up his pant leg to reveal a cut on his shin about two inches wide to the bone. Hospital here we come.
I walk away from this experience with a valuable lesson. I can confidently say that Mount Chimborazo afforded me two of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Make it as far as I did and accept defeat.
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