Jungle Poems and Stories out of Peru [In English and Spanish]
Poeta Laureado de San Jeronimo de Tunan, Perú
Jungle Poems and Stories
Out of Peru
—And Other Selected Prose and Poetry
By Dennis L. Siluk
In English and Spanish [Español]
Copyright © 2006Dennis L. Siluk
Jungle Poems Out of Peru
[And Other Selected Prose and Poetry]
Dedicated to:
The General Consul of Peru in
Chicago: Efrain Saavedra;
To the City of Chachapoyas;
And
Mama Maria
[Who loved the Satipo Jungle]
Special thanks to:
Rosa Peñaloza and Nancy Peñaloza for editing and translating from English into Spanish this book of Jungle and Peruvian poems, as well as other poems; and to Maria Isabel Espinal Tapia for arranging such a good trip in The Amazonas, and to Archeologist, Julio Rodriguez, for his input of the sites in the areas we went, he was also a member of our small group, while in the Chachapoyas Region, and well known throughout Northern Peru, and to our driver who made it through mud as thick as the walls of Kuelap, Mr. Gilberto Llaja.
Poeta Laureado de la Ciudad de San Jeronimo de Tunan
Introduction
By Rosa Peñaloza: in Dennis’ new book “Jungle Poems Out of Peru,” the poet delivers poems and a few expeditions, put into nonfiction short prose stories, along with a one act play; hence, he brings to life: the Amazon to Satipo to The Amazonas, to North-central Peru with his travels.
Dennis not only includes Peru’s jungles, but Venezuela’s Gran Sabana; also Northern Peru’s Amazonas; the Mantaro Valley, where he has a second home, loves the mountains, people; to Cuzco [Machu Picchu]; and the poet adds a few poems on San Juan Miraflores, where he lives in Lima, Peru; and also he includes The Galapagos in Ecuador. There are some 31-poems in all, done in English and Spanish. As always he uses imagery and intensification, with rhythmic flow to enhance the poems awareness for you.
One of the differences between Dennis’ poetry and other poets is: he has lived his, all-biographical insertions of his life. He went to The Amazonas after being inspired by the Consul General of Peru, Efrain Saavedra, a friend in Chicago, who was born there. And he has also expressed his enthusiasm for this book to Senator Keiko Fujimori (Previous First Lady of Peru) while in Chiclayo, Peru, March 2006, when they both met.
Spanish Version
Introducción
Por Rosa Peñaloza: En el nuevo libro de Dennis “Poemas de la Selva de Perú,” el poeta presenta poemas y unas expediciones, expresados en prosas de historias cortas de no fiction, junto con una obra de acto; de ahi, él trae a la vida: A la Amazonia, a Satipo, a El Amazonas, a la parte Central del Norte de Peru con sus viajes.
Dennis no sólo incluye la selva de Perú, sino tambien La Gran Sabana de Venezuela; también El Amazonas del Norte de Peru; el Valle del Mantaro, donde él tiene su segundo hogar, donde le gustan las montañas, la gente; a Cuzco [Machu Picchu]; y el poeta añade unos poemas sobre San Juan de Miraflores, donde él vive en Lima, Perú; y también él incluye Las Islas Galapagos en Ecuador. Hay unos 31 poemas en total, terminados en inglés y español. Como siempre él usa imágenes e intensificación, con el flujo rítmico para realzar la sensibilizacion de los poemas para usted.
Una de las diferencias entre las poesías de Dennis y la de otros poetas es de que él las ha vivido, todas son inserciones biográficas de su vida. Él fue a El Amazonas después ser inspirado al hablar con el Cónsul General de Perú, Efrain Saavedra, un amigo en Chicago, que nacio allí. Y él también le ha expresado su entusiasmo por este libro a la Senadora Keiko Fujimori (la ex-Primera Dama de Perú) mientras estuvo en Chiclayo, Perú, en marzo del 2006, cuando ellos se encontraron alli.
Indice
[Index]
*Out of order, philosophical or prose/short story
*Introductory Poem: “The Legends of Peru”
End of the Book
End Poem: Love and Butterflies
Other books by the Author
Reviews of the Author’s books
Jungle Poems
Part One
From Satipo to the Amazon
Satipo
1—Ode to Satipo:
Part one
Part Two
Part Three
[A Peruvian Jungle]
The Amazon
2—Lull of the Amazon [Peru]
3—La Gran Sabana [Venezuela]
4—Edge of the Amazon [Peru]
5—Pink Dolphins of the Amazon [Peru]
6—Little Kingdoms of the Amazon [Peru]
7—Giant Lilly pads of the Amazon [Peru]
.
Part Two
Provincia
[Peruvian]
Chachapoyas
The Amazonas of Peru
(From Lima to: Chicago, Kuelap and Karajia)
A narrated story [diary] into The Amazonas with poems.
8—An Afternoon in Chicago
(in Spanish and English)
9—The Kuelap Bum
10—The Chachapoyas
11—The Last Inca
12—The Flower Lady
13—Under the Kuelap Sky
14—Chachapoyas Mud
15—Kuelap, Crowned City of The Amazonas
16—The Five Expressions
17—Orquidiario
18—The Magic Well of Chachapoyas
[The Legend of: Yanayacu Well]
.
19—Night Sea-gulls over the Bow*
[Galapagos]
Part Three
Peruvian Poems
20—The Last Inca Hideout
[Cuzco, by Machu Picchu]
[In English and Spanish]
21—San Jeronimo Creek [Peru]
[Dedicated to the Mayor of Jeronimo, Jesus Vargas Párraga]
22—The Great Desert Kingdom of Peru
[Nazca] [In Spanish and English]
23—San Juan de Miraflores
[Lima, Peru]
[In English and Spanish]
24—Negrito, Little Negrito
[San Juan Miraflores; Lima, Peru]
In English and Spanish
25—The Bread Man of Miraflores
[In Lima, Peru]
26—The Papaya Man
[Lima, Peru]
27—Last Triumph in Cajamarca
28—Elegy for: The Lord of Sipan
29—Pigeons at La Favorita Café
30— The Chancay Maiden of the Supe Valley of Peru
[In Spanish and English]
31—Branches
[In Spanish and English]
32—The White Bobber Pigeon
33—The Jackal of Venezuela: Hugo Chavez
[Part I/For His Homeland]
34—The Panama Canal, 2006 (The Big Ditch)
A Poem with Commentary
*Expedition (or trips):
*The Green Sea of the Amazon [3/2001]
Afterward
The Canopy [Chapter 1]
Tarantulas [Chapter 2]
The Big Snake [Chapter 3]
Wine of the Amazon [Chapter 4]
Leaving the Amazon [Chapter 5]
[A short story/Expedition, by Chapters]
*The Amazonas Of Peru
[A short story/Expedition, by Chapters]
1—The Expedition
2—The Kuelap Bum
3—Chachapoyas
4—Chiclayo and Sipan
5—Walk around Chachapoyas
6—To Kuelap
7—Chicago to Chachapoyas
8—Up the Mountain
9—At Kuelap
10—Back Down
11—City Day
12—the Great Cross Over
13—A Legend of Sipan
*The Legend of Ernil Bernal [end chapter; Sipan]
*Karajia’s Sarcophagus
[And the Rio Utcubamba [Amazonas, Peru/3/2006]
1—Down the Road
2—The Rio Utcubamba
*Crossing of the Supe Rio
[A Private Tour to Caral]
[In North-central Peru] 4/12/2006
A short Play, in one Act 4/2006
*Poggi and the Cannibals
[Written 5/7/06/story took place: 1994]
*The Paper Pickers of Buenos Aires [Argentina,
2002/ short article on my observations]
*People of the Walk [Santiago, Chile/2003/ short article on my observations.]
[In Spanish and English]
*The Peanut Man
[Los Portal: —Plaza de Armes, Vera Cruz/ 3-2003/ a shrot article on my
obeservations.]
*Triumph of the Ghoul [Of: La Laguna de Paca]
A Play [In Spanish and English]
*Introductory Poem
“The Legends of Peru”
Where legends now flow and flow
And scattered pieces of the hero’s pyre,
sing: the stones of Kuelap, Chan Chan,
Cuzco—the Amazon ring and ring, as
Bards on windpipes blow their echoes…!
Thus, cords of music sweep into the jungles
And the Andes; here, —here dwells the city
Of the Andean sea—stone fortress, built
By the gods with stones, blood and clay,
— Machu Picchu! Here are the visions
— Of ecstasies; —sharper than a condor’s
Wings These legends flow and flow
And sing! — and flow and sing, and flow
and sing…infinity! “The Legends of Peru!”
#1286 3/23/06 Written while in Lima, Peru. Peru has a lot to offer the adventurous person from: legends from The Amazonas, to Cajamarca, Ancash, Lambayeque, La Libertad, Lima, Ica, Arequipa, Cusco, and Puno; to the far off places like Huancayo, Machu Picchu (by Cusco), Kuelap (in The Amazonas), Chan Chan (by Trujillo); and to Huacachina, las lineas de Nazca, to Tambo Colorado. Most of these places I have been to.
Wherever you go in Peru, you will find legends, and discoveries just being discovered; yes, you become a part of history just by being in Peru. Part of the adventure in Peru is, or can be trekking on routes; for me it is more archaeological sites, for others perhaps a magical journey with a personal itinerary. My vice is the ancestral legends perhaps, and the journey—I want the whole cup of coffee, or whole bowl of soup you could say, and in Peru you can have it. I do hope Peru remains the prize of South America—she is right now.
.
“Dost hear the…wind calling thee afar…”
—George Sterling
‘The Caged Eagle”
“It is time to get drunk!... with…poetry…!
—Charles Baudelaire
‘Twenty Prose Poems’
“I am writing these words with a pencil stub…”
—Robert Bly
‘The Urge to Travel Long Distances’
Spanish Version
Poema Introductorio
“Las Leyendas de Perú”
Donde las leyendas ahora fluyen y fluyen
y los pedazos dispersados de la hoguera del héroe,
cantan: ¡las piedras de Kuelap, Chan Chan,
Cuzco—El Amazonas suenas y suenas, como
Bardos en antaras soplan sus ecos …!
Así, las cuerdas de música barren en las selvas
y Los Andes; ¡aquí, —aquí mora la ciudad
de los Andes—fortaleza de piedra, construida
Por los dioses con piedras, sangre y arcilla,
—Machu Picchu! Aquí están las visiones
—de éxtasis; ¡-más agudo que las alas de un condor
Estas leyendas fluyen y fluyen
Y cantan! — y fluyen y cantan, y fluyen
y cantan…infinitamente! “¡Las Leyendas de Perú!”
#1286 23/Marzo/06 Escrito mientras estaba en Lima, Perú. Perú tiene mucho que ofrecer a la persona aventurera desde: leyendas del Amazonas, a Cajamarca, Ancash, Lambayeque, La Libertad, Lima, Ica, Arequipa, Cusco, y Puno; a los lugares muy alejados como Huancayo, Machu Picchu (por Cusco), Kuelap (en El Amazonas), Chan Chan (por Trujillo); y a la Huacachina, las Lineas de Nazca, a Tambo Colorado. En la mayor parte de estos sitios he estado.
En cualquier parte que te encuentres en Perú, encontrarás leyendas, y descubrimientos que recientemente fueron descubiertos; sí, te haces parte de la historia solamente estando en Perú. Parte de las aventura en Perú es, o puede ser un viaje largo y difícil en las rutas; yo prefiero sitios arqueológicos, otros quizás un viaje mágico con un itinerario personal. Mi vicios son conocer las leyendas hereditarias quizás, y los viajes—quiero la taza completa de café, o el tazon lleno de sopa, podrías decir, y en Perú puedes tenerlos. Realmente espero que Perú continue siendo el premio de Sudamérica—ella esta bien ahora.
From Satipo
Dedicated to Mama Maria
Ode to Satipo
[Part One/Jungle Eyes]
O Satipo, your jungle eyes—I see:
Lo, your life-filled warmth opens
Upon thy brow…
Be ye, open up—your jungle gates
For me,
Before—
Before the wild comes with new
And old roars
(and horrific drums from within
The deep…)!
I could feel and hear the jungle life
Within my veins—
Appeared images—within my brain.
Leafage, like peace offerings—
Silently—swayed,
Upon the shoulders of its kind—;
And here, here I stood, yes, here I stood
In paradise!
1/24/06 #1016
Ode to Satipo
[Part Two/Peru’s Abode]
Across her deep-paths of green
From rivers and valleys now
(from where I stand) unseen, —
thy heavens above, falls
forth
(in truth and trials, and long course)
I call you friend, and nobler than I,
Wherefore I stand, under your skies.
Wherefrom I saith, ‘Satipo!’—
Peru’s abode—
Precious as the Andean walls—
Be ye, lift up your gates:
Jungle (beauty),
For here is where stars are born!...
#1017 1/24/2006
Ode to Satipo
[Part Three/Shades of Green]
O, patient Satipo, in silent
Green!
Complexities, triumphs
Wings like engines
(everywhere)
And—, whatever way I look,
Shapes and wonders: bounties
Uproot—!
That thou with loving care
Created
A thousand colors of jade
Receding in your forest-green,
hence, I sense your bliss:
Within
Your wildness…!
#1018 1/24/2006/reeduted in Peru, 3/17/2006
Spanish Version
De Satipo
Dedicado a Mama Maria
Oda a Satipo
[Parte Uno/Ojos de la Selva]
Oh Satipo, tus ojos selvaticos—veo:
Mira, tu vida llena de calor se abre
Sobre tu frente…
Tengan ustedes, abiertas—sus puertas de la selva
Para mí,
¡Antes—
Antes que el salvaje venga con nuevos
y viejos rugidos
(y tambores horrendos desde
lo profundo..)!
Yo puedo sentir y oír la vida de la selva
Dentro de mis venas—
Imágenes aparecidas—dentro de mi cerebro.
Follajes, como ofrecimientos de paz—
Silenciosamente—balanceados,
Sobre los hombros de su clase—;
¡Y aquí, aquí estuve, sí, aquí estuve
En el paraíso!
23/Enero/2006 #1016
Oda a Satipo
[Parte Dos/Morada de Perú]
A través de sus caminos profundos verdes
de ríos y valles ahora
(desde donde estoy) no vistos, —
tus cielos encima, cataratas
en adelante
(de verdad y pruebas, y curso largo)
te llamo amigo, y mas noble que yo,
Por que estoy de pie, bajo tus cielos.
Por que yo digo, “¡Satipo!”-
La morada de Perú-
Precioso como las paredes Andinas—
Ten, levantadas tus puertas:
Selva (hermosa),
¡Porque aquí es dónde las estrellas nacen!...
Enero/24/2006 # 1017
Unos apuntes acerva de Mamá Maria: Ella vivió la mayor parte de su vida, no regularmente, en Satipo en la selva de Perú; esto talvez fue su tercer o cuarto amor: primero Dios, ella misma, su esposo e hijos, y luego la selva; yo creo que esto pudo ser en ese orden, o talvez su esposo e hijos, y luego ella misma, yo no se; pero lo que yo conozco es esto: si ella amo a la selva la mitad de lo mucho que yo amo escribir poesía: ella verdaderamente amo monumentalmente, entonces quien mas merece esta poema dedicado, yo no se si alguien mas además de ella.
To the Amazon
Little Kingdoms of the Amazon
In the Amazon
there are kingdoms
breathing, eating
roaming about
in perfect harmony
(insects and birds,
monkeys and wildcats
and macho black ants!)
that is why the
Amazon
is never quiet
it’s those foot-steps,
moving all night
and all day—long!
#1225 2/20/06
Giant Lily pads of the Amazon
Inches apart, they lie hot and lazy
On the water’s surface, shapes looking
all afternoon sky-ward at the sun
These, Giant Lily-pads, slim and green
Floating like kings, one after the other
Hidden in a pond, so it would seem—
Calm and Friendly, deep in the Amazon.
My wife is small, a Peruvian, I’m thinking:
(amazed at their size)—’she could fit on one,’
although that might not be to her liking.
Now the sun eases: the breeze comes, we
Have to paddle the boat out backwards—
I wonder if they’ve lived here very long?
Perhaps for centuries like the crocodile.
#1227 2/20/reedited: 06-3/14/06. The happening took place when my wife and I were in the Amazon, in 3/2001, I can still see her gazing at the lily pads, in amazement.
Pink Dolphins of the Amazon
My wife and I see a long arched fish
Pink—jumping like a spring:
Lifting from the water so all can see
The beauty of her sleek and pink body:
And back down she flops, headfirst
Onto, into the waters, of the Amazon.
She tossed water about our boat.
Splashed water on my throat.
She moves swifter than the wind
This pink dolphins of the Amazon…;
Swimming low, high, scouting the river,
Summoning whoever is nearby—.
#1226 2/20/06/ reedited 3/17/06; again this occurrence took place on our trip to the Amazon in 2001, and like everything else, in this jungle habitat; it was amazing to see and experience.
La Gran Sabana
[Salto del Angel]
(Advance) I left the madness of the city to seek out the jungle of the Gran Sabana that melts into the Amazon basin, in the year 2000—(year of ‘The Beast’ for me)) part of a honeymoon trip also)). How shall I tell you what I’ve learned? Its beauty is out of the order of the mind—a strange beauty indeed; thus, the verse blended in this poem here is the labor of a dim eye (a clap of the eye), in the back of the mind (the poem):
I did not go to the Gran Sabana, have Angel Falls touch me—for joy, or for the burning stars at night; nor did I expect to see mountains called: Tepuis—towering over the highlands, and its virgin terrain (a lost world). But rather, I went for quietness, which covered my wishful eyes: joy I found in natures wonders, amongst the winking star-lit-nights and the endless Jungle!
O’ yes, I’ve trekked through her rainforest; sat on the edge of her towering peaks, looking up and down Angel Falls (3000-feet). Walked her plateaus, descended her cliffs, retuning to civilization—with uplift. She is timeless, par excellence, and breathless: to anything on earth in the vein of a wonders dream!
Commentary: the jungles of Venezuela, where I was, were three areas enmeshed together called the Gran Sabana. The Gran Sabana meshes as others do, into the Amazon Basin. It is different than the Peruvian area where the Amazon River is —and its thick rainforest beyond its banks. Here you will also find the Orinoco Basin, again I say, enmeshed: again I say together, for there are no fences, as if thrown into a bowel of soup. This area was undisturbed by white men until the 1980s; there are a number of ethnic groups in this area, I saw a few groups, with their dug out boats, going about their business, as I was going about mine, and I did not invade their privacy. In contrast, the Peruvian Jungle and Amazon River, I went to, and down, and inland, I did join (go into) a few communities, observing their dwellings within the jungle, their habitat, customs, and way of life for the most part, by invitation. This area, the Gran Sabana is right out of Mr. Doyle’s story “The Lost World”; most incredible. This trip took place in May of 2000. It was a trip, or part of a four-part honeymoon trip that took a year to complete all four parts.
Note and short commentary on the Amazon: when I was in the Amazon, 2001, some of the great and breathtaking scenes were the Giant Lilies; young puma cats, cocoa plants, rubber plants, it was a world unto itself. I’m not a nature person, but I could become one after seeing the several jungles around the world I’ve seen. In the Amazon, its tropical look is all around you; paddle boats, boats of many kinds, going up and down the river. I talked about going to the Amazon for 10-years, my friend Diane Horton, retired school teacher, had reminded me of that when I was ready to go in 2001. It is a river full of Piranha, I ate the two I caught (my wife Rosa, ate the one she caught); and of course it is a land of snakes, and pink dolphins, as I saw them leisurely going down the Rio, and yes, I had to swim in the river, just to say I did it.
We went down the Amazon from Iquitos by boat, down the long wide river where I was going was about 125-miles, there are lodges for tourists, from primitive to a ting better. At nighttime I went tarantula hunting; they sleep under the big roots of giant trees, my wife hid behind me when our guide woke a couple up with his magical stick. Also in Iquitos, is where the Iron House is, designed by Mr. Eiffel, who designed the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Also, in the deep heart of the Amazon, is the world’s longest canopy, I went up its 115-foot height to the point I could peak over the top of the trees of the jungle, what a sensation.
Lull of the Amazon
[The Peruvian Amazon]
I know the Amazon, long and desolate she is:
I know her currents have stripp’d the sky’s blue.
Lo, my friends! Beneath her brutal waters weight
rests the crust of the earth—, there pink dolphins
Rest in grace; yet, yet I seek her fabled shores,
to pacify my curious desires, with her mystic lore.
I shall wander in her riddled labyrinth—here, in this land
—hypnotize (within my mind) for evermore.
#763 Written: 7/2005; Revised 1/2006; its originally named, “Magic of the Amazon.”
Note by the author, “I was in the Amazon March of 2001, a voyage of a lifetime of course, but it seems also to put an everlasting enchantment on you. Tedious was it long ride down its Rio, for an impatient poet, I can be, but its endless evening sounds, its never-ending tributaries they all engulf, envelop you: along with its sea of green, and its massive water supply is just mind boggling. It is close to 4200-miles long; supplies more water than The Mississippi, The Nile and the Yangtze combined.”
The Edge in the Amazon
One night after dinner we heard the wings of birds fighting in the dark: and with a few lit gas lamps along the wooden walkway, we still couldn’t see a thing, though, only the walkway. Past our hooch flowed the steady beating of the wings.
The Amazon is never quiet, gloomy at night it can be, the sounds dominate, takes the edge off a man—, possibly defeat.
A huge brown toad stood in the outhouse, looking at me, like a rhino, just staring (what a time to rush me, I thought)) now its toads I said to myself, what next?))
#1221 12/16/06
TheGreen Sea
Of the Amazon
Advance: Most of my stories or books have been mixed with characters and sunken into the imaginary (non-fiction that is into historical fiction). This one hasn’t. This writer has attempted to write absolutely a true story to see if it can match, or present, or compete with the work of the imagination. Also added to this story are a few poems to perhaps heighten the emotion, if that is possible (Time Period: AD 2000, March/Summer in South America).
Thoughts About the Amazon
I was smitten by The Amazon I suppose you could say, utter happiness, or perhaps it was gladness I was experiencing; I know my nostrils loved it, fresh oxygen all the time. One recognizes one’s self, or can when taking in the full elements of the Amazon, the: smells, sounds, fresh air, the hidden animals, the sights. A little bit of everything for the senses all pushed together into a ball you might say.
I had my doubts of how I’d like, or respond to the Amazon, that’s why it’s been five years in the waiting, for me to write about it. I did not think I should write about something of this nature unless it was extraordinary, then I thought: no, that isn’t a good enough reason for me not to write about it, so here it is. Nothing extraordinary, except it is the Amazon, and that is unique.
The Expedition
1
The Canopy
And the Village
We were standing 119-feet high up on a canopy that scientist had built of rope and boards, tied to towering jungle trees, and then I heard my guide below, talking to two visitors. It was too far away; I could not tell what was being said. Then the talking stopped, and I told my wife Rosa, ‘I hope he doesn’t leave without us, it gets dark here early…’ The canopy moved, swayed a bit to the right and left as we scaled its thin walkway here and there, up and down its wooden pathway: it was at this time the longest jungle canopy built in the world. I then motioned down to our guide—who had lived in this part of the jungle all his life, so he told us, and so it seemed—I motioned down to let him know, we were coming down. He was perhaps in his early forties, I, I don't know, was ten years older than he I suppose. He was broadly built, robust, and a likeable kind of fellow, assured, or self-confident in himself, and in no doubt, about his knowledge of the jungle.
“Anytime!” he said, Avelino yelled up to us, he meant it was up to us when we went back to our lodge in the thick of the Amazon jungle. It was to be an hour and a half walk back, the same it took to get here. And I knew a good portion of that walk would likely be towards dusk, or in the twilight of the evening, and much more, should we not get moving. I liked Avelino; he had spent forty-years and then some in this part of the Amazon, about 125-miles from Iquitos, Peru, where we got to spend a half day walking around Iquitos, but not much more; stopped at an old bar, from the booming days of the rubber plantations: when money was plentiful, so the barkeeper told me. Then we visited the Iron House, architecture by Mr. Eiffel himself, who created on paper the famous Eiffel Tower, in Paris, for the Worlds Fair, back in the 1880s. He also did the architecture work for the Iron Market in Haiti, where I had been in 1986, on another trip.
“Wait a minute,” I told Rosa, I wanted to make sure I had walked the whole canopy (she smiled as usual and followed me, every inch of it, every corner and by every tree that it was tied we walked), not sure why, perhaps to say I did it, like a mountain climber, I climbed to say I got to the top, in our case, around the top—and so I rushed that process up, so we could get on down and start our journey back. I could say now, without a doubt, I could say I had climbed to the top of the Jungle, looked over its roof, and saw its sea of green.
It was now conceivably, an hour or so before that last of light, when it would shrink into twilight, and then dusk: thus, our light would be gone. Frankly, I made a last look over the top of the jungle: while Avelino simply waited down in the opening of the area below. After a moment’s time gazing over the top, Rosa and I now were headed toward the rope ladder that lead down to the first platform, there were three platforms we had to descend to.
On the first platform, we stopped and hesitated a minute to get our balance, and take breaths, or at least I did, Rosa really didn’t need to I suppose, she seems to adjust in the jungle as well as she does in the high mountains of the Andes to its thick or thin air, quite well, in comparison to me. We had gone up once, or I suppose you could say several times, to heights in the mountains to exceed 16,500-feet, and she never groaned a bit, as thin as the air gets, she was like she was at sea level, while I’m gasping for air and trying to rid myself of the headache coming.
“Let’s go,” I said to Rosa, meaning to the second level, yet I wanted to make sure she knew I was about to descend, and that was the best way to inform her, so neither of us got in the other’s way as we climbed down.
“Yes,” she agreed, in her broken English, a native to the Spanish language, and about three years into speaking English as a second language. “It’s going to get dark soon,” she added.
“Yaw, I hope he knows the way back in the dark, but he does have that flashlight.” I said.
“I’m glad you pushed the fact we should take the flashlight along in the first place, he really didn’t want to, said he didn’t need it, but it makes me feel safer, even if he doesn’t need it. But I think he’ll need it,” Rosa said.
At that moment he glanced up at us, as I put my foot down into the next loop of the rope, as if to say: ‘here we come, we’ll soon see if you know your way back or not.’ (But of course I didn’t say that, I thought that, lest he hear me, and I disrespect his knowledge he so aspires to having of the jungle.) The last several steps were wooded ones, and then the end platform, and out into the open area.
As I caught my breath (for the second time) I waited for Rosa to adjust herself. Avelino approached us, the flashlight in his back pants pocket. I took a last look at the trees holding the canopy up, the ropes tightly wrapped around them: the ladder that went up, as well as down—then turned about, saw the path ahead of us, the same one we had come through, that would lead us back out and into the deep of the jungle—, it was dark in there, already; the rays of the sun were not piercing the openings of the foliage as it was doing a few hours ago I thought.
There had been rain a few days ago, but not enough to make the ground soggy, or difficult to walk on or through, yet it was not completely dry either, and it would make for a slower walk than what harder gravel would have allowed. I kind of was thinking of trying to walk at a faster pace back, and Avelino was thinking the same, and it would turn out we were thinking alike, and Rosa with her little legs, and me with my worn out lungs, ended up far behind him, with that flashlight still in the back of his pants pockets. As we walked through the jungle, there was no way to keep up with him; he was like a wildcat, and perhaps, perchance showing off a ting. But he slowed down then, allowed us to catch up, and I gave him a smile attached to a smirk.
There were opening in the jungle where you could get a good look at the sky, but it was a quick look if you were walking at the pace Avelino was leading. A black cat, a pantera or panther had run by, in the not too far distance along side of us, I called to Avelino, and pointed it out, “Just gato [cat], in natural habitat, no more, dhats all…” he said as if it was an ant trying to find its way back to his anthill. Matter of fact, it was a while back when I saw those anthills, and they were two feet high, and four feet around, and a stream of ants were going to and fro, and I was going to kick it for the hell of it, to wake them up—or to simply see them go wild, and I got the smirk I gave him (Avelino) today, back. Not sure what would have happened, but I suppose, if they were hungry I’d not be alive to write this story.
The cat was gone now, perhaps it was 200-feet from us, too far to get a perfect picture of it with my old and aging eyes, but I suppose I need not had gotten a better glance, it was good enough, so I told myself.
There were a lot of dry leaves, and roots extending out of the ground, not as bad as when I was in the Gran Sabana, a year earlier: ‘Thank God for little favors,’ I told myself… those roots killed me, kind of. Broke some toenails, and a friend of mine, a little older than I, fell and broke his nose, and a few others got cuts, and so forth and so on, it was a three hour hike in the jungle back then, always going upward, upward, until you were on a ledge looking over at Angel Falls, 1500-feet high, and 1500-feet below you, and the water of the falls, slapping you in the face, it was the place Rosa wanted to go to for our honeymoon, we each selected one place, and then I added two more: Angel Falls was her place, Alaska was mine, and New York City and Tikal, were ours. After the honeymoon traveling I liked Angel Falls the best, and Rosa liked Alaska the best, and the Lord gave us each a cross for a compliment, but that is another story unto itself.
The roots, the wild cat, the ants, the canopy was not much compared to some of the things we had to put up with elsewhere. I shouldn’t say, put up with, it was all an adventure, was it not, one I begged for I suppose, and got. As I then looked up into the sky, I thought, ‘It would be dusk soon,’ and I was already getting tired, and we were perhaps one forth of the way back to the lodge. Avelino had one speed it seemed, high gear; the only way for him to slow down was to stop. To be quite honest, I think he wanted to make it back to the lodge before he’d have to show us he needed the flashlight.
Many things seemed to move in the threes, in the plant life, undergrowth in the not too far distance, nearby; sounds everywhere, movements, a few eyes I saw (I think they were eyes, the green of the jungle was getting blinding), although they didn’t look dangerous—only still, up in those tree-branches so I just kept moving.
The Jungle Path
So now going along the green path in the rainforest, I started to notice large toads, and a frog, a very small one, with a glowing yellowish shade on its back; I was told to leave them be (somewhere along the informational line)) Rosa informed me of its deadliness as I had leaned down to get a better look)), they were poisonous. You get, or I got anyways, the profoundest urge to grab that cute little frog and give him a lift; but I dared not, and of course we both knew of this already: my little angel, Rosa, mention me.
Rosa saw, what she called the big lazy bears resting on branches resting on branches here and there, a few more eyes here and there, and we all were getting hungry, and we knew the cook at the lodge was cooking Rosa’s and my piranhas, ones we caught yesterday. I was determined to eat them, not sure why (I had caught two, and Rosa had caught one), I suppose because they liked eating human flesh, and this was time to get even with them (eat them before they eat you—thing); but then I really liked eating anything that was fish, but somehow I predicted eating a piranha would be more glorifying, and taste better, even if it wasn’t tasty at all, and it was good, like a sunfish from a Minnesota stream.
In catching these piranhas I had used a pound of steak meat, yes one pound to catch three little big-mouthed piranhas. We caught them in the dark-waters, in one of the tributaries that connected into the Amazon River (the roots of the trees give off this chemical that makes the water darkened, and the piranhas seem to like this sort of water, akin to vampire fish they are, a mysterious breed indeed). Around our lodge there were many tributaries and streams, and ponds, all enmeshed into this basin area that was a little distance from the main Amazon River.
Rosa had brought some water along, she had insisted somewhat in doing this, I was thinking I would not need it, but a fresh drink of water was just what was needed, and I drank my share in one setting I do believe. The coolness was invigorating, and I needed to rest, and our guide was getting farther in the distance and we called out to him, and the night was creeping in, smelling the good smells from the Amazon. I was very happy, very glad to be here, I had thought about going into the Amazon for ten-years, ten long years; and here I was. People had told me: how can you afford it. I told them: stop drinking or smoking, and put your money together, and don’t buy that new car for another year or so. It is easy to save when you really want to save, just cut out your dirty habits, or perhaps your wants, and just deal with your needs. It was like going on a diet.
The Village
We had now come to a village…we had not stopped for a half hour straight walking, and we seemed to have taken a little side trip, yet still in somewhat of the same direction of the campsite, or lodge; Avelino wanted to introduce us to the chief of this village, who seemed also to be a seer; he greeted us, and Rosa talked to him in Spanish. He gave us a tour of the village, then I asked Rosa, “Tell him I want to take his picture,” and she asked the chief.
“But make sure,” he said, “to take my whole body, the spirits, the evil spirits are out for me, and want the chance to invade me, that would open a window for them,” and I assured him the picture would be of his whole body, I had a Polaroid camera in hand, and so he could see it immediately, and he was pleased with that.
“Do you think he will let me blow that six-foot, blow gun?” I asked Avelino.
“Sure,” he said, and walked over a foot or two, to where the chief was, and said something to him, and brought the blowgun back to me. I steadied it with two hands, and blew the dart through and out the tiny opening at its end, the hole, with all my might and breath, it went about three feet, that was it. Then the chief looked at me, trying to hold himself from laughing: he, the chief blew it, and I bet it went all of twenty-feet. I smiled at the old man; I was too embarrassed to try it again. I had stopped smoking fifteen-years prior to this event, but it didn’t do much good for air capacity in my lungs, so I found out.
Then we sat in a big open enclosure, and he talked to us, saying something in Spanish to my wife: it was an invitation to stay in the village the night if we wanted to, but I declined the offer; then Rosa asked him something about my illness, Multiple Sclerosis, and he asked questions about it, the symptoms: “In the morning,” he said, “you come back here in the morning, I have some sap from a tree I will drain tonight, it will heal his illness.”
Rosa translated this to me (what she had said): she had told the chief it was a neurological problem, that I was dropping things and got tired quickly, and my eyesight was half-hazard half the time, and I got tired often, and I needed to sleep for long periods, so forth and so on, etc., and it was making me unstable: all true I suppose. And he added it would cost ten-soles, or about 3.5 dollars. I assured him I return in the morning for the bottle and try it. Rosa smiled at him, and we said our goodbyes, but drank some coconut juice before we started our journey in the dark, and now our guide, pulling out the flashlight from his back pocket (humbly) indicated he indeed did need more light for the path we were about to trek back on, by saying: “I guess I am glad we brought it along…” he didn’t look at me when he said that, just said it, and just pulled it out of his back pocket, like John Wayne would in the cowboy movies pull out a gun around his hip; hence, he aimed it, and flashed it straight ahead.
We would return in the morning for the—whatever it was—substance the chief had for me, and I did use it for several months, and it did seem to stop the progression of the MS, not cure it, but slow it down, and stabilized me, more than what I saw for time I was taking it, I would perhaps have to go back there for more, I thought, after my return home. And after it was gone, it did get worse.
Chapter Two:
Tarantulas
We were out and under the light of the moon, a good distance from our lodge, in the thick of the jungle, the Amazon. This time there was no path to guide us, but Avelino assured me he didn’t need one, it was his ‘backyard,’ so he said, matter-of-fact, he said that too many times, it made me suspicious. Now we were in the dense jungle, a flashlight in his hands, and mine likewise, the moon over our heads we could hardly see, looking for—none other than the big spider, the Tarantulas. We were lucky in that we got our own guide, and the other group three or four couples to one guide for them all. It was, as I wanted it, if possible.
As we walked in the deep, we past many large trees, larger and thicker than the thickest pillars of any cathedral I had yet seen (except one), and I’ve been in many cathedrals around the world: from Istanbul to Rome, and throughout South, Central, and North America— (and the biggest pillars I’ve yet to discover I found in an underground cathedral, in Colombia, outside of Bogotá called: La Catedral de Sal; 83-feet round; second place St. Paul, Minnesota, Cathedral, 42-feet)) perhaps the Catedral de Sal had a larger circumference [was larger round] than the tree, if so it was the only pillars that could match these trees I saw)); all along our sides was entangled shrubbery, a wealth of green. Rosa and I walked shoulder to shoulder, and as far as I knew Avelino was walking every which way. But somehow we got him to slow down for me, and thus, I got to rest when needed. We had stopped earlier in the day at his home village, perhaps—two-hundred natives, several houses on sticks, or I should say, wooded beams; and a large school house, a square box type building, with a tin roof, and thin wooded sides for walls, not much but it served it purpose—were present.
It now came to mind, as we walked through this thick foliage of a jungle at night—, the story he told us: his village was along side the river, “We got to keep a good eye out on the children, they run off, and get into the bulky high grass, and the big cats come and pull them by the necks, or the snakes come and swallow them whole, but mothers can’t be everywhere all the time, can they…” so he said, rhetorically, with a look at me from the side of my eye as if to see if I was taken back by this. And then he introduced us to his sister-in-law.
All of a sudden we stopped by a big tree, its trunk was perhaps thirty feet round, and its roots extended a half foot out of the ground, and a big hole was under one root, the largest root it seemed of the tree, or what I could see of the tree.
“It’ll all work out,” he said looking at Rosa, and putting his stick into the hole, thinking perchance, Rosa might freak out or something. Rosa was behind me, I was about four feet from the hole, and of course our guide was almost on top of it, possibly two feet, with his stick inside of it.
Then I saw, and I’m sure Rosa saw legs coming out of the hole: extending out of the hole, not rat legs, but legs… “That’ll be ok,” he said, not sure if he was talking to us or the creature inside the hole; the legs turned out to be hairy, reddish-brown, huge spider legs, called a Tarantula: larger than my whole hand, legs longer than my fingers, as thick as my fingers. Rosa moved just a ting, “Where’d he come from,” she said.
“It’s his home,” said Avelino “I woke him up.”
Now Rosa stood still and I was amazed, as the eyes of the creature kept staring at me, or so it seemed, and Avelino waved his long magic wand (or stick) around its legs, as if it tranquilized it; or had him trained to stand down. Then another long legged tarantula came out, as if to either protect its mate, or join in on the festivities. But the second one never came out all the way, like the first one; it kept its guard, and remained halfway in the hole.
“Be calm Rosa,” I said, I could hear her heart beating, and her breathing heavy, but she is a good sidekick when it comes to traveling, she wants to be part of everything, I can only recall once when she panicked and I had to retreat from my forward advance: it was in Glastonbury, England, on the Tor, the Great Mound, known in ancient times as Avalon, when a herd of cows, huge cows came up, and she is a small woman, and they came blocking the walkway to the top, from the bottom upwards as we were coming down, and I grabbed her shoulders, as not to panic and started walking through the herd, and she pulled away and ran to the side of the mound, and I joined her (as she was starting to freeze up with alarm), and we climb down the mound sideways. And so I thought, once down the Tor: ‘…oh well, one out of a hundred is not bad.’
So here we were with two monstrous huge spiders, with beady eyes staring at us, and I guess it was to me, the funniest thing to see this stick tranquilize them to the point of curbing out the danger, to where there seemed not to be any.
It had been a full day, and therefore—after this escapade—we went back to the lodge and had a good nights sleep, but first we ate our fish.
Chapter Three
The Big Snake
So when we got back to the lodge that night, we ate our fish our piranha that is, and it was delicious; we also played the guitar, or I did I should say, in the main hall, and both Rosa and I painted a picture on a plaque, which was really a piece of plain wood, that they [they being: the lodge staff] hung up on the wall to let others know who you were, and when you had come to the lodge, they had plaques all around the lodge.
There was only gaslights throughout the lodge, inside and outside on the walkway. We had well water, and a tank, and we had big giant toad’s guarding our outhouse, as you’d go into it to take a dump. So to summarize the evening, we ate, played the guitar in the dark of the nightfall, with crickets and wings flapping here and there, and noises you’d never hear any other place except in the Amazon, painted a picture and said goodnight to the toads, and went to sleep.
The following night we started ahead of everyone else, to go find snakes, the great anaconda nonetheless. And at night is the best time I was told to look for them: they need sun to regenerate, being a cold blooded creature, and consequently, at night rests, they are at their weakest; we humans are just the reverse, in a part, we need rest, day or night; protean is what makes our bodies regenerate for the most part—, better put: both sleep and food produces the regenerating heat, which our body needs, and the sun for perhaps Vitamin D along with all those other happy feelings we get from the beams of the sun.
And so here we are, all regenerated from a previous nights sleep, and a nice dinner, and looking for Mr. or Mrs. Anaconda or even baby would do. We took a large boat, so they said it was large, it looked normal to me, the right size for three people, and we rowed with ores down the tributary of the Amazon near our lodge, looking for this snake of snakes half the night.
Not sure if the snakes were small or big, but every time, I mean every time we got near the banks of the river, the snakes would hightail-it out of the vicinity. Our guide had told us then, that—recently more people were coming down into the Amazon to where they knew [the snakes knew that is] when a boat [s] came near, especially these big boats, came near by banks of the river and would leave quickly. That there were not many large snakes around here anymore that we’d have to go to another location, but it would take a couple of days, not an evening. Plan B, was to get a smaller boat, and sneak in on the snakes, should we find one, and he assured me we would, providing we went along with his Plan B.
It was a hot evening, and it was only 11:00 PM, but very dark, as we got close to the bank again, for the umpteenth time. And again we heard the sounds of the high grass with movements: it was a big snake for sure, our guide assured us of that, but as he said before, he repeated again, “We need to go back and get the dugout.” It was a canoe of sorts, a tree I do believe just chipped out by hand and chisel—I saw one a few days ago it looked rough to me; and should you rock the boat, Rosa felt we’d end up swallowed up by the snake, especially Rosa, being 4’11”, she was a half meal for the big snake, me perhaps a meal and a half.
By the time we got back to the lodge, ready to take the dugout boat, I looked at Rosa, the boat, Rosa, the Boat, and said, “I can’t do it, it is just too thin and small, and it was made for the natives not for me.” I am not a big person, but the dugout couldn’t shelter me even for a coffin I do believe.
“Hell with it,” I said, “let’s go in, call it a night,” disappointed I was, but there is always reasons for things, and so I do not tempt fate, I just thank God for the moment.
Chapter Four
The Wine of the Amazon
In the following days I saw dozens of small animals, such as monkeys (small they where), birds, butterflies—, butterflies with eyes on their wings, most peculiar I thought, but interesting; ant hills, and macho ants, marching to and fro, carrying twigs like Hercules would carry a pillar from a Greek acropolis. Lazy-bears high up in the branches of trees sleeping away, big bodied birds they were. Then somewhere along the Amazon we stopped at a winery, built in the 1830s.
We walked around this old plant, made of thick old wood: the owner showed us where they crushed the grapes, and the old timbers they interlocked for the apparatus to run the winery. Again, it was most interesting. And I purchased two bottles of wine, gave it to my guide. I think it was more interesting to me on its historical basis than its winemaking capacity. I don’t drink anymore, so it was ridiculous to buy wine, other than to show appreciation for the tour.
When we arrived back to the lodge, there were two Amazonian women sitting in one of those dugout canoes, docked at the wooden pier that extended out into the somewhat looking Laguna that trailed off of the arm from the Amazon. I asked her (and my wife translated, although I think she understood my Spanish a ting, it is rough), I asked her if she had been here all day (several hours had passed since I’ve seen her last sitting here), it was know about 5:00 PM.
“Yes,” she said with a big smile.
“But why?” I replied; since we were the only ones at the lodge tell after 7:00 PM, when a new group would come. I really didn’t expect an answer, but she said nonetheless, politely, “Wait for you!” This somehow seemed to obligate me to buy something from her (as she had several items displayed on a board of some sort, tucked between her legs so the items would not fall off, to steady the showing, and it was a coconut, small in size, with its top cut off I purchased, to use it for –god knows what, I suppose to put change in, or my wife could put pins in it (in the long run it would be tucked away for five years until we moved it to our home in Lima, thus it went from the Amazon, to Lima, to Minnesota, and back to Lima, it is a world traveler I do believe; and has now its own history). In any case, she was happy as the lazy-bear sleeping in those lofty branches, we saw a while earlier: she gave me a big smile, and her and her female companion drifted out of the Laguna, to the tributary and on home—I expect. All in all, it was a most charming day to say the least.
“Another day,” I said to my wife, “another day and we’ll be going home,” and we walked up the wooden walkway to the lodge, and into the kitchen area for some coffee.
Chapter Five
Leaving the Amazon
I sat in the cafeteria area having coffee, it was 10:00 AM, the day we were to leave the lodge and go back to Iquitos, spend a few hours there, and then catch a flight back to Lima, where we had our second home, our other home was in Minnesota, we were on a thirty-day vacation, sort of. We used our home often in Lima as a stepping-stone to drift throughout South and Central America.
So here I sat, had breakfast, and now my coffee and I was bored, bored to death. And so I asked the manager of the place if we could catch an early boat back to Iquitos, it would be a four-hour ride in the boat. My boat was coming at 2:00 PM to pick us up, and I’d miss roaming around Iquitos, and I wanted to see the Iron House again, last time it was a quick, too quick, of a visit, and Alan Garcia was running for president of Peru, I should say, Ex President Alan Garcia (he wouldn’t make though, Toledo would), and was campaigning in Iquitos, staying at the main hotel, I wanted to go see if I could see him.
“It cost $200, to take an early boat out of the Amazon to Iquitos,” said the manager.
“What!” I said in disbelieve, “let me talk to the owner in Iquitos” and he did, via, by way of an old two-way radio: I’ve used them in the Army twenty-five years ago. Anyhow, they agreed to let us take a boat at 1:00 PM, thus, we’d get there an hour earlier than the 2:00 PM ride, and I’d still have a few extra hours to roam the city, just not as much as I wanted, plus it would not cost me an arm and leg for a ride a few hours earlier. Although I understood actuality, I was asking for something that was obviously not on the schedule, and perhaps they had cargo to bring back and forth, and that had to be taken into account, there is a cost to such things.
Anyhow, on our ride back to Iquitos, in a roofed boat, sides open, kind of square like, a big motor on the back, and it chopped though all the waves in front of us like butter, waves other boats were making we made good time, and got to Iquitos about thirty-minutes earlier than we expected.
The Amazon can get wide, up to forty-miles wide, but the widest I saw during our ride was perhaps four-miles wide, which is extremely wide I thought, a lot of water to say the least.
When we got into the city, we went to the Iron House, and to an old colonial bar around the corner, and had a coke, then to the new hotel, and I made it just in time to see the ex president, and now running for office again, Garcia was coming down the stairs with two bodyguards by his sides, we got into the hotel lobby, as the natives were outside waiting for him, I think the hotel people thought we were from the hotel, and I grabbed a quick picture of him as he almost stepped on my toes.
And so the trip was mild, but grand. We caught our flight back to Lima on time and went back home to a nice soft bed, and I must add, I slept twelve-hours.
Written in four days: 2/18 to 2/21-2006/rewritten 4/2006
Afterward
The Green Sea of the Amazon
So yes, the Amazon was oblivious to my being charmed by it, as perhaps I was living in those passing moments, and didn’t know it myself, but it was remarkable. But remarkable is of course just a word, it does not describe its meaning. When we had first went down the Amazon, we stopped at what I’d call a luxury lodge, with TV and all the amenities one may wish to have in the Amazon, or anyplace for that matter; we simply used the facilities for prepping for our adventure into the thicker part of the Amazon, perhaps we stayed three hours. Then we came to our lodge, which had none of the refinements the previous one had. And had we gone to the third one, which was deeper into the Amazon, we’d have been sleeping on a dirt floor, and ours might have looked like the Hilton, in comparison.
There were familiar flashes of darkness while going down the Amazon, which were simply shifts in the weather, from sunny, to sunny-pale with rain. I tried to enjoy the moment, grab the sky, and I suppose I was impolite at times in doing so, but I was busy writing down thoughts also. That is perhaps why it took over five years to write a simple story as this one. The subconscious has its own knee-deep pitch-black waters, where it hides its treasures until its time to pull them up, and write them out.
The thing I’m trying to say here, is that the Amazon is made for everybody to visit, and has degrees one can subject themselves to.
It is so true: you get what you pay for.
The overall feeling for me was mythological; the Amazon gives you no time to think of anything else, besides God and her. The passengers around me, on my way down the Amazon to the lodges were immobile, subdued by her.
Fastidiousness, is not necessary a quality in the Amazon, and if you’ve read about my yellow-bird in one of the previous chapters he was the point of discontent, or fact to this, but it fits well into creating this story, and is part of it (no matter if I like it or not), and even he (the bird: perhaps it was a she) had a charm that belonged to the Amazon, I hold him no grudges, he was as he was: he wanted attention, like my wife, like our God wants, and like I like. So it is all in the gamut of things, is it not?
.
Province
[Peruvian]
Chachapoyas
The Amazonas of Peru
[From Chicago to Kuelap]
Kuelap, in The Amazonas of Peru (Chachapoyas)
The Expedition
1
We caught a plane from St. Paul, Minnesota to Chicago, an early morning flight, one day in late February 2006. We were trying to set up our move to South America, Peru, and had to see the Consul General of Peru in Chicago; we had seen him a few years prior to this, when he was visiting in Minnesota, but our move was to take place in mid March (kind of a semi retirement shift), and we had to sign our marriage papers, it had been six years since we’d gotten married, thus, this would make it legal in Peru, since I would be seeking dual citizenship. I slept briefly on the plane, and we landed at O’Hare, around 8:00 AM, second class. Somewhere near the airport was the train station, we found our way to it, and my wife Rosa bought roundtrip tickets to downtown Chicago, we’d return after seeing the Consul, having late lunch and perhaps a walk around the windy city’s Michigan Avenue area. It was a special day you could say, not only in that we would sign all this documentation, but also it was Valentines Day, and the Consul General gave Rosa a suggestion where to take me, and she did, to a fine Italian Restaurant, and the food was great, I had lasagna. It was her gift to me; she always takes me to the best restaurants in town when we go on trips.
We headed right into the main building of the Consul General’s second floor office, Rosa was down to see him twice before, to vote for officials in Peru otherwise she would have to pay some kind of miserable small tax, for not voting: it is next to a minor crime not to vote, so I am told; on the other hand, perhaps no one would vote had they not anointed such a law. In any case, this time I was with her, as she had made an attempt before to have me go to Chicago, I suppose I was hoping we could do all the paperwork needed without me going, but it was impossible, I had to be there to sign the papers. So we caught the elevator to the second or third floor, and walked up to the window in the office of the Consul General, told the secretary who we were and to our surprise, or at least to mine, they had all the paperwork already made up; next, they called our names, and took us into the back room, sat us down, and we started filling in the blank spaces necessary.
The Consul General was a warm sort of fellow, cross-legged as he sat behind his desk, a nice looking older man, sound, healthy looking; after we had done all the signing, he invited us into his personal office, we didn’t have to wait like the others out in the small cramped hall area. His father was a poet, and so we got talking about poetry and I think special treatment, for meeting a poet he appreciated—as I was known to be, or at least showed his appreciation in the only way he could at the time, that is, allowing us the comfort of his soft office seats, until we had to go attend other business and ours was over; and being Poet Laureate of San Jeronimo de Peru at that, made things a little better between us. In the short-term of our meeting and free conversations he talked about his home in The Amazonas (in a few words adding bits and pieces of his childhood), and poetry of course. Rosa and I gave him the last three books I had written, two on Peru, one on Minnesota, all poetry (‘Last Autumn and Winter,’ ‘Poetic Images Out of Peru,’ and ‘Peruvian Poems’.)
“I’m from The Amazonas,” he said to Rosa, and they carried on a short conversation, then gave us a poster of Kuelap, it was the first time I had seen this location in the Andean-jungles of Peru, about 1000-miles from Lima. As I looked over the poster, I was quite impressed; it had a picture of a fortress I’d soon find out was called, “The Hidden Fortress,” or Kuelap.
He liked poetry so much he read out loud to us (my wife and I, and the secretary who stood behind us for that moment) my poem called: “The Ice Maiden, (well liked by many, and considered one of my best cultural poems on Peru), in the book, ‘Peruvian Poems;’ I thought at the time he could have been a second Dylan Thomas, he sounded quite dramatic and powerful, a good reader of poetry, a lot of emotion, but then Peruvians have an extra dose of that for some God given reason anyhow. (In a short time I’d find out more about Kuelap, and its 9th Century fortress; its wild warriors of antiquity—the Chachapoyas, and their warring with the Incas, all in due time.
And as I looked more and more into this area I got more excited about Kuelap and its ancient walled ruins (discovered less than a half century ago); by the research I had done on Kuelap, it seemed, or reminded me of, compare to or with: ‘The Great Enclosure,’ of Zimbabwe, in Africa. Of course that was just a mindset. I then had visions of grassy slopes, by the Navahos, as I’ve told my wife, time and again first you hear about a location of interest, then you dream about it ((find out things about it)) then you see it, and it become part of you.
An Afternoon in Chicago
The sun, like a deer trail—bit my brow,
Industriously, as my wife and I took the train
Back to O’Hare from downtown Chicago, —
Windy city, with stretched-up eyebrows
In its winter sleep.
We walked around, downtown: busy city—
From Washington Street to Michigan; across
The bridge, there on East Ontario, we
Ate at ‘Bice,’ Italian Restaurant (my wife
Paid the bill) her treat, Valentine’s Day.
I’m waiting for the plane now; it’s 5:00 PM;
It has been one of those happier days, moments,
In my life: strange, even with Northwest being late.
It is pale to dark now (6:00 PM)
Sitting on these worn-out seats…!
Thinking of nothing, like when you’re a little boy,
Spending the whole day rambling through the
City, on your high, two wheel bike!...
Whistling away a sunny day,
With nothing much to do or say.
My wife, sitting next me fell to sleep, hat on:
Holding my jacket in her two hands, sleeping;
Had to remove her coffee cup, in case it fell:
She’s in some joyful lofty solitude
While I’m sniffling away like hell.
It was nice, just being ‘we’ today
Before having to go back home, to St. Paul,
Go back to the kitchen—fixing things.
As I look about, everyone’s on cell phones.
Hurry-up—flight: NW 145!
Now that I think of it, one can smell the lake
The Great Lake Michigan; feel its pulse, its
Wind like tides in the air all about.
Soft dust, swirling along the citie’s streets;
Street people blowing brass horns for a meal.
Rhythmic packs, misplaced men and women:
Everywhere: like undergrowth, weeds not growing.
Drunks, and derelicts, eyes staring at your every move,
An endless forest of a city, with boulders,
Towering bricks, next to an unforgiving lake:
Chicago!...
Semi prose/ 2/14/06 #1208
In Spanish
Una Tarde en Chicago
El sol como rastro de ciervo—muerde mi frente,
Vigorosamente, mientras mi esposa y yo tomamos el tren
De regreso a O’Hara desde el centro de Chicago,—
Ciudad ventosa, con cejas levantadas
En su invierno dormido.
Caminamos alrededor del centro de la ciudad: ciudad activa—
Desde la calle Washington hasta Michigan; a través
Del puente, allí sobre el este de Ontario, nosotros
Comimos en “Bice”. Restaurante italiano (Mi esposa
Pagó la cuenta) mi regalo por el Día de San Valentín.
Estoy esperando por el avión ahora, son las 5:00 PM;
Este ha sido uno de esos días muy felices, momentos,
En mi vida: curioso, incluso con Northwest retrasado.
Esta pálido casi oscuro ahora (6:00 PM)
¡Sentado sobre estos asientos desgastados!.
¡Pensando en nada, como cuando eres un niño,
Pasando el día entero divagando a través de
La ciudad, sobre tu alta, bicicleta de dos ruedas!..
Disfrutando de un día soleado,
Sin nada más que hacer o decir.
Mi esposa, sentada cerca de mí se quedo dormida, sombrero puesto:
Agarrando mi chaqueta con sus dos manos, durmiendo,
Tuve que retirar su taza de café, en caso que esta caiga:
Ella esta en alguna soledad alegre sublime;
Mientras estoy resoplando como infierno.
Fue hermoso, solo nosotros hoy dia
Antes de tener que regresar a casa, a San Pablo,
Regresar a la cocina—arreglar cosas.
Mientras miro alrededor, todos con celulares.
Apurense- vuelo: NW 145!
Ahora que pienso de esto, uno puede oler el lago
El gran lago Michigan; sentir su pulso, sus
Vientos como oleadas en el aire por todos lados.
Polvo muy suave, arremolinándose a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad;
Gente de la calle soplando cuernos de metal por una comida.
Paquetes ritmicos, hombres y mujeres extraviados
En todo lugar; como maleza, mala hierba sin crecer
Borrachos, y abandonados, ojos mirando fijamente a cada movimiento tuyo,
Un bosque interminable de ciudad, con pedruscos,
Torres de ladrillos, cerca de un lago implacable:
Chicago….
Semi Prosa 2006-02-14 # 1208
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon when we caught our plane back to Minnesota, and within the following month, March 9, we caught our plane to Peru, once we landed in Lima, I got word it had snowed eleven-inches in Minnesota, I was not surprised, but more than happy to have avoided the snow storm, I had my fill of them. It was within the following two weeks where I had bought tickets to fly to Chiclayo (on the 27th of March); from there we’d take a bus to the surrounding area of Kuelap: a four day trip. And this is where we stop for moment (for I am writing this in advance of that four day trip), for I will be taking that journey in a few days, tickets in hand. (Written March 25, 2006.)
2
The Kuelap Bum
[Of The Amazonas]
Come; share a wild Kuelap Bum’s sunny afternoon—
I sit here, sipping my coffee and coke waiting for my pollo saltado
[Chicken with potatoes and rice),
And hear voices, cars pass: sounds, coming from iron motors
Like purring cats and roaring mice, with squeaky feet for tires, race
Racing around the café ((El Parquetito, in Miraflores)() Lima)), Around the streets and park—; the sun boiling overhead, as I’m
Reading Jack Kerouac’s: “The Dharma Bums,”—I feel like one.
My date to return back into the Amazonian region—this time to the
Andean-jungle—is in five days. My mind is excited, here is
Where comes my beautiful vision of grassy slopes, by the Nevados,
And there ahead in front of me, are the ancient ruins of Kuelap
I can even see the wild warriors of antiquity: the Chachapoyas,
Fight the Incas in the wild deep, deep Andean-jungles of Peru.
I like the incredible peace here, lost in a maze of thoughts, looking for
No certain highway. Here I can sweat, drink my coke and coffee in peace, while I write and dream…and get ready for my next journey.
#1283 3/23/2006 Note by the author: I have been to the Andes and to the Amazon in Peru, and even to the Amazon as they are known for their sections, ranging from Ecuador to Peru, and Brazil and Venezuela, of which I have been to all these regions or sections except one, the one I am dreaming about, and will go in five days to, to what is known as the Andean-Amazonian region of Northern Peru, where elevation is part of the jungle equation, not so in the other regions. Thus, here is where the “Forgotten Fortress,” is located, similar to the ‘Great Enclosure,’ in Zimbabwe. The Forgotten Fortress dates back to about 800 AD.
The Chachapoyas
[and ‘The Forgotten Fortress’]
Advance: I don’t even know these people I talk about, I’ve seen the landscape they’ve live on only in books, rushed through, gritting their ivory teeth before they warred with the Incas in the 16th century (this pre-Inca civilization). But the more one studies this great civilization, the more one admires its fantastic powers of visualization, its psychic rulers, and wild bull like hearts, and the great fortress (labyrinth) they built in the middle of the Andean-jungles of Peru.
Today, the Chachapoyas still carry on in this area, with its pottery, and tapestry, garments, all highly prized; at onetime they worked for the Incas, and like today, gave them high quality. In a few more days, let’s say seven to be exact I shall be among them.
The Poem:
In the Andean-jungle—the Chachapoyas (the tree-cloud people)
Of the ‘Forgotten Fortress,’ of Kuelap (Amazonas de Peru) once
lived here—twelve-hundred years ago—perhaps 2000- or more
Lived in this straddled low-land jungle citadel —; bold and free:
cadaverous war like people, spirit filled: more fierce than the Inca.
Here is where they lived—in Kuelap, in limestone houses: under
conical thatched roofs—;
Houses of limestone masonry, in mud mortar plaster like tombs:
painted in rainbow colors; few if any windows.
The ravages of time have sadly seen the looting of the detailed
elaborate funerary architecture of the Chachapoyas race—;
Once decorated in rainbow shades, zigzag friezes, in cliff like caves.
#1287 3/20/2006 [Written before my trip to The Amazonas, of Northern Peru]
3
Introduction to Chachapoyas
(The following is taken from notes on my trip; only slightly modified for spelling errors, etc.)
It is funny how one thing leads into another. Someone gives you a poster; you hang it in your home; remember what he had to say about such historical sites as Kuelap, dating back to about 700 AD, with walls as thick as Troy’s, and legends as potent. Then you look a little deeper into this area the person has mentioned briefly, but enthusiastically, and find other sites that open your eyes to the bountiful, and most beautiful region known as The Amazonas of Peru, and find Carajia [also spelled with a ‘K’], dating back to the 13th Century. And on the journey you find much, much more. In this chapter, Chapter #3, and the following chapters, we shall take a quick trip to the region, with some poetic verse to help us drift along its watery roads, up its banks, through its small towns, and so forth and on; I am writing this on pieces of paper in my pocket, and my wife has a pad of paper she bought a few days ago, which I’ll use it when I get back to the hotel.
(Talking to my friend: Julio, the Archeologist) he says to me: “Kuelap, is called, The Forgotten City, discovered only forty-years ago, in The Amazonas in Northern Peru.” The area is wide open for and to new discoveries I see; I am sure there will be many also, so I tell myself, and my wife. (Later on during my journey I’ll find out ((added later on in the following evening)): in villages you can still find mummies in homes, and local mud built museums, and see them within caves on ledges of mountains. It is an archeological paradise, and one of the last frontiers for such discoveries in the world.)
Kuelap is cuddled in an odd way, cuddled over looking the Kuelap Valley, cuddled I say by the mist that surrounds her, as if she didn’t exist, and all of a sudden: there she is. The mist drifts and descends into the valley fully allowing Kuelap to be seen then, and once on top of her great walls, you can see on a clear afternoon, you can see a hundred-miles in all directions, East, West, and North South.
Kuelap is a sacred city to many in the region, a temple of or for the dead; yet some spirits still live there and are restless about the excavations going on there, I talked to two of them, one in particular who wanted to know what I wanted. And I asked him what bothered him? And he said: desecration (defilement); so there is fear in the shadowy corners of these cyclopean stones walls I do believe. In addition to being a temple of sorts, Kuelap is also a fortress, and surely at one time used as a city, for it has 400-stone houses in its small hilltop complex. The Inca Empire did dominate it, at its very end, by request of the Conquistadors, because Spain couldn’t.
Thus, the white cotton canopy that descends, also ascends above the luscious multi shaded green valley; above the wild berries my friend and organizer of this group: Maria, loved to eat; and there must exist every kind of plant a person can think of in this Amazonas’ Valley. (From notes on the trip: 3/30/06; #1295)
Julio Rodriguez, our Archeologist: while driving around the city, on a city tour, we talked about Carajia or Karajia, had some coffee in the small city of Chachapoyas (tomorrow we’d go to see Karajia); anyhow, when we got talking about the Inca Empire then, and he got talking about Huayna Capac, he called him the Last Inca, the Father to Atahualpa, the Inca king that is so well known; he was killed by the Conquistadors for not becoming a Christian; I have a statue of him in my library. Karajia is where the six-sarcophagus are entrenched into a mountain cave, a most lasting and irregular site.
After lunch and coffee, I quickly jotted down the information he gave me in a poem, I call:
“The Last Inca” (Huayna Capac)
Tall and handsome, built like a bull,
A warrior among warriors with long blond hair
Eyes like emeralds, tears of gold,
He was the King’s son—
(Atahualpa) now ruler of all Northern Peru;
And so it was, when the last Inca King died
The kingdom was split, like Alexander’s
Between two half brothers…!
#1294 3/29/06
4
Chiclayo and Sipan
[3/27-28-2006]
Flight to Chiclayo
(From diary notes)
It is the morning of the 27 of March, went to sleep about 9:00 PM, figured I’d wake up early, I did, 3:15 AM, thinking it was time to get the taxi to go to the airport, but it wasn’t. I tuned over saw my clock, a little black one, listening to Nat King Cole playing on my CD-player. I had the fan off, Rosa was ill the last few days; talked to Cody (my son) an hour last night. Anyhow, I looked at the clock and jumped out of bed, my wife jumped into the shower, all in fifteen minutes only to find out, it was 1:30 AM, not 3:30 AM—too early to go to the airport (I read the clock with my glasses off: woops, a mistake).
“Sorry, I think I read the clock wrong,” I said to my wife.
“Oh well, lots of time to get ready,” Rosa said
(Oh well, back to sleep: I told myself).
Waking up. It is 3/27/2006, 5:30 AM. Breakfast at the airport, a treat of my wife; they brought me a ham and cheese sandwich, it looked fresh in the glass showcase. She baked it, Rosa told her to bring it back (it was not what she ordered), she said she ordered it the way it looked in the glass case, uncooked.
“But you didn’t’ tell me you didn’t wanted it backed,” said the waitress.
“But you didn’t say you were going to back it…” Rosa said back to the waitress. It took a little longer, but I got a new sandwich, uncooked, out of the whole thing.
It is now 6:00 AM. Now waiting for ‘Star Peru (airplane)’. We will have a quick stop in Trujillo, then onto Chiclayo. There are perhaps eight stewardesses at the gate chatting away as if they are on a holiday, and everyone is going it seems, every one but the Peruvians and me, going to Machu Picchu. All the customers seem droopy, tired, no smiles on their faces. Flying is not like it used to be.
7:00 AM, I’m on the plane now, it seems Peruvians or perhaps it is Spanish related, but lots of fussing going on in boarding a plane. The plane looks filled; the sky is soupy this morning. Two or three planes took off with tourists to Cuzco. A stewardess asked me if I was going to Cuzco, thinking because I’m a gringo, I was about to miss my flight I suppose. I said ‘No, I’m going to Chiclayo,’ and she just walked away.
(28,000-feet in the air: thoughts) I wonder how many people believe in reincarnation would not prefer to come back again as someone else. Most seem middle class for Peruvians on this plane.
8:00 AM we are descending into Trujillo, got thinking of a little girl I met a few days ago in the plaza area in Miraflores, Lima, she was five years old, with a painter friend of mine, whom is about 35-years old: Chusty. He is going with her mother. She said, “I don’t understand all that is happening around me,” and Chusty said, “You’re not expected to at five years old.” Funny, I’m fifty-eight, and I feel like the little girl: I bought her some popcorn that night. By the time she’s old enough to vote, I’ll be long dead, and I wonder if she’ll remember what she said, and that bag of popcorn.
8:30 AM Stopped in Trujillo, ran to the privy. They gave someone my seat, sold my seat to another person, lucky there were empty seats; I told the man I was not moving, it was mine, and he’d have to talk to someone about it, he did, the stewardess, and ended up in a seat across from me. No fireworks. The sun is seeping through the open door of the plane, warm, getting closer to the equator.
.
(In Chicago) 1:30 PM went the site of Sipan, went to the top of the sun temple (pyramid) also, stood where kings were, and got a few ceramic vases, at the local merchants stand. It is a very hot day today.
The site dates back to before 200 AD. I looked down into the gravesite of Sipan, where the King’s tomb was, it was stirring; perhaps the discover of ‘The Lord of Sipan,’ back in 1987, who ruled in Peru around 200 AD, who ruled this land, is as an important discover as that of Tutankhamun in Egypt was, almost a century ago.
Back to Chiclayo: it was not a long ride out to the site, and perhaps 45-minutes back; we went across a 92-year old bridge: red cast-iron, bridge, across a Rio.
2:15 PM saw a blue-headed lizard at the site (just remembered that); Rosa was amazed, so was I. Going back now to have some coffee.
Had to have the waiter go back three times to make my coffee strong enough. Had chicken, it was good (it is really hot in Chiclayo today).
3:40 PM I’m sitting on a bench in downtown Chiclayo, many people, it seems a dozen elbows have hit me: cops walking all around. Chiclayo reminds me of San Pedro de Sula, in Honduras, not a good memory nor a real bad one, just a pale feeling of being unsafe. (I felt I needed to be extra guarded while in Chiclayo.)
The Bus Ride
“Nine hours,” someone told me it would take the bus to arrive in Chachapoyas from Chiclayo. It will be a long day. Met an Archeologist Julio, he will be accompanying us on our journey to Kuelap.
(Left Chiclayo at 8:00 PM) 9:00 PM this bus is bad news, no shocks, you feel every bump; and I learned it will be an eleven-hour ride, not nine. Everyone is like a sardine in this bus, packed tightly into a silver can. Maria talked to someone, and got me to sit up front, where I can stretch my legs a little. The lights are two dim for me to read or write.
(A few hours later, looking out the window in the dark) The bus almost went over the side of a cliff, a washed out road, several buses got stuck, but ours didn’t: the driver zoomed on through like a madman. The road looked like a river, it is a wild ride. (I got my adventure up to my nose this time, I do believe.)
4:30 AM, it is a new day, 3/28/06, and between yesterday and now it has been a long full twenty-four hours. The bus is going up a dirt road; everything rattles like a loose lawnmower. I can’t believe this bus will not fall apart before we make it to Chachapoyas—it is a death trap.
5
Walking Around Chachapoyas
[Walking around Chachapoyas: 3/28-3/31/06] While looking for a place to have coffee, and a light lunch, we [Maria, Rosa, myself, and Julio] walked past a church, there was a lady sitting there on the steps, head lowered, her daughter along side of her, dirty faced, flowers laying along side of her. It was a hot day, a moist day, and we walked past her, and after a hundred feet or so I asked my wife to go back and buy the flowers, all of them, then I joined her. Now writing this out, it is evening in our Spanish hotel (three Stars***: La Casona), and here is my poem about the Flower Lady:
The Flower Lady of Chachapoyas
The flower lady sat on the church steps…!
It was forenoon, the first week of summer—
In Chachapoya’s –square, daughter by her side
(both tired, almost withdrawn); the child dirty-
faced, eyes lowered weary and faded.
We walked past her, my wife and I—once, only
to return:
“How much for the flowers,” asked my wife?
“How much for the flowers!” she looks up
the second time:
“Three soles,” she said (about one-dollar).
After she paid, we walked away, but I had to
look back—
And saw them both rushing to a nearby store
hungry as two weary birds…in a storm!
#1296, 3/30/06; written in the afternoon when I had gone back to the hotel for rest.
6
On the Way to Kuelap
[Morning of: 3/28/06] It was a four-hour driver up and around the mountain (s) near Chachapoyas and a long four hours at that. It was like riding on the moon; there was Rosa my wife, our archeologist friend Julio, and Maria, the owner of ‘Sipan Tours.’ (I seem to have complained a lot as I find myself writing out these notes, but it was a great trip, and the problems that came about are expected in such areas as The Amazonas, especially in March, the rainy season. Actually, it all made my trip a bit more exciting.)
We have two assistants, what more could you ask for, Maria needs to see how things are in Chachapoyas for her business as well as being our organizer, and guide (she hasn’t been here she said going on two years though); so it is a little business, as well as being our other things. Julio is full of information on the historical elements of the region; thus, one could not ask for more as far as culture, and historical posterity goes.
The driver came with a station wagon, when in essence we needed something bigger; he went back, and just returned with a Van, thank god.
(The following poem was written after gathering information from our archeologist, written on the way to the site)
Under the Kuelap Sky
Under March skies,
In ancient ruins lies
(a fortress ((temple)) long deserted by the birds)
Here Chachapoyas gold of old in Kuelap’s leaves
Glow, in the nearby sacred dirt.
With hungry fearful words—,
Now, longing spirits, resting-silent, grieve
On desecrations, anticipated!
Note: While visiting within the Ancient Fortress of Kuelap, one of the spirits whispered a message to me, and it seemed to relate to the Archeologist, whom was having nightmares, and was an aid for me. In essence, he told me: we do not like the excavation in the area because of fear of desecration. The Archeologist assured the spirit, in the great walls of the fortress, an extended face from the wall came out from it, in stone, I had touched it, and thus came the message. Next, the nightmares seemed to stop concerning this issue. In addition to this, it is legend that says, there is much gold in the nearby dirt, in the Kuelap Valley region. I myself have grabbed some mud and could see it sparkling.
Although this is a relatively small poem, written a day after my return from The Amazonas (4/1/06), it says a lot I do believe on a simple fact, that many of the people already know in the area, of the Great Sacred Fortress of Kuelap, that rests on top of a mountain top (which the average person does not know), like a mesa [or table top]. The walls are high and it can house 8,000-people; it has 420-houses. It is a second Machu Picchu.
7
Chiclayo to Chachapoyas
(Notes from the evening: 3/28/06) We got off the bus, an eleven-hour ride, my buttocks were sore as if they were sunburned, and we had a special guide to take us to Sipan, in Chiclayo; now we were in Chachapoyas, and at a nice Hotel, and our trip started after we had breakfast, I bought it for everyone, American-style: eggs, ham, coke, coffee and potatoes (French-fries, that is), and toast. The price was right, it was about half the price it would have been in Lima or perhaps even less, maybe: $8.50 [25 Soles] for all, a good price; after breakfast we started up the mountain to the “Forgotten Fortress”: known as Kuelap.
But nothing is as easy as it should be, we had ended up with two young girls on our private trip, not sure how that happened, but our driver had found them someplace, and had—I guessed—offered them a ride for a price. To me it was the price I had to pay to ride in a Van, versus a car, and the car would not be comfortable with even four people (so I thought at the time), and two more sitting in the back of the wagon was two, too many people (and now that I’m looking back, the car would not have made the trip at all, even with just four of us, and now it was six; it was too wet, rainy and muddy on the way up to Kuelap).
Maria or Julio had thought to mention that we should purchase long rubber boots for the trip, and so we did; and I suggested a black sweater for Rosa who gets cold all the time, even in the desert sun. For myself, boots was fine; Rosa got some extra socks (and perhaps that was smart, my feet would get cold later on: and hers would not). In addition, Rosa suggested I purchase a nylon vest, and I did (and would find out later, it was a good purchase, worth it 25-soles; as were the boots).
When we got about one third of the way up the mountain, it started to rain unkindly, it had been raining but not to this degree, I mean, it was but a very light rain before.
The roads in this area were all dirt roads, and some of the tracks that trucks, buses and cars made—made in the mud—were over a foot high now, yet that didn’t stop our trip, or driver, or the van, it made its way through, that is until we got about thirty-minutes away from the site, we had been on the road nearly three and a half hours now; it was flooded, a mud slide covered the whole road, no way of getting through. Henceforward, Julio helped me through the mud by foot; foot by foot we pushed through its down pouring water from nearby, down it went across the road, and down a small embankment; a stream, I’d guess you could call it—somehow attached to the road, under the road that is; we had left the Van behind now, and then Julio went back for my wife, and Maria, and the two girls. He was Manco Capac (so Maria had nicknamed him for the event) the hero of the day. We were now on the other side of the road (somewhat safe); and here little girls (perchance: twelve or thirteen) who lived in the township called “Maria,” were walking across this disaster with no boots on, bare legged, were walking in mud up to their upper thighs, and beyond, making us look like amateurs, which I was.
Chachapoyas Mud
High in the mountains
Above the Kuelap Valley—
Be careful when you go:
Ride her old dirt roads!
Lest you find yourself like me
Stuck in mud beyond your knees
Trying to get to the old ‘Forgotten City’.
#1290 3/29/06 [Written after returning from Kuelap, at the hotel, in the late hours of the night, or early morning hours of the 29th of March.
8
Up the Mountain
(The Mudslide) Rosa saw me struggling to get across the rainy washed-out road (huayco), and had to tell one of the young girls hanging onto her to let go: she had to help her husband. The two girls worked in Lima, at a Tour Company, and were up for a day or two to see some of the sites, in particular, Kuelap. Next, Rosa rushed to me, but I was all the way through the 100-feet of the mud-crossing, mud almost to my knees. The boots turned out to be the best investment I have ever made, in travel adventures that is. The two girls small in size and stature, only had tennis shoes on, and now had mud filled shoes at that, and brown mud pants, they were in bad shape, and we had not yet made it to the top of the mountain, I think they wanted to stop right there, but somehow found more courage in belonging to our group, or feeling they did, and reversed their decision to turn back, and went up the mountain with us, bleak as it looked.
.
We now look as if we were are stuck in this little village called Maria (that is, if we were part of a movie it would have looked that way, and it kind of seemed so to me for a moment, we were); our van remained on the other side of the mudslide, along with our driver; Julio talked to a friend from the village, and he accepted the challenge to get us up the mountain the rest of the way to the archeological site. And this new driver in his white taxi-looking station wagon drove all six of us up the mountain to Kuelap, without incident. (At first his car would not start, then abruptly, and finally, it did.)
9
At Kuelap
Kuelap, Crowned city
Of The Amazonas
Likened to the Great Walls of Troy
Or the Sacred City of Machu Picchu,
Akin to a torch, she, Kuelap—towers
Over the Valley below.
This: ”Forgotten Fortress”;
Death Temple of Chachapoyas!
Crowned, by the maintain
Here she stands, cyclopean stones
Forgotten legends:
Here she sands alone!…
#1290 3/29/2006
Off and on the sun came out and off and on the rain poured, as if the two were having a contest who could beat the other, or some kind of timing game, but now we were at the site, yes, 1000-miles from Lima, at the Forgotten Fortress, de Kuelap, in The Amazonas of Peru, our destination.
It took 600-years (thereabout) to build this monstrous fortress, which is really a mausoleum now, for the dead occupy it, the Chachapoyas, from 1300-years past: who fought the Incas for 70-years and finally lost.
Inside the site one can witness 420-houses and towers, thick walls all around the city, and three entrances, an observatory, at its highest point.
When you walk around it, as we did for three hours, several hours ago, one feels the world has overlooked this site, that it should be given more attention, yet it was only discovered some 40-years ago. When I say discovered, I mean to the general public, or outside world; the Chachapoyas and many folks throughout Peru, knew about this wonder and empowering site long ago.
It was a long day: from Lima to Chachapoyas, to Kuelap, to this bed in our hotel room. Travel time alone has been 1 hour air time, 11-hours bus, four hours up the mountain in a van, and a taxi, and four hours (plus lunch) down, total: about 20-plus hours I’ve been in motion, one way or another.
10
Back Down
[And the Residue Spirit]
On the way back down the mountain, the men from the community about thirty of them in all, had gone and cleaned the mudslide, the road was passable now. Thus, we stopped at our driver’s house, the one that owned the Van, and his wife cooked the best Guinea pig I’ve yet eaten in Peru, and this was my third time. I had Guinea pig [Cuy] once in Cuzco, once in Lima, now in the village of Maria: in the Chachapoyas region. We all sat around a long table, the electricity went out, so we had to use candles on the table, and a doubled headed big flashlight to see what we were eating in this adobe house like café; it’s funny how God throws people together, it was a wonderful evening. The enchanting darkness of the night, the previous mudslide, which seemed to bring us all a little closer, achieving a mission, all nice people together, all with warm hearts, and a nice meal to boot (Cuy with potatoes, I loved those potatoes, wanted to bribe the cook for a few more, but left well enough alone; and I knew Rosa wouldn’t give hers up, and couldn’t blame her). I had mentioned I was so hungry I could eat a Guinea pig raw. A dog paced, by us, along the table, and was lead away from the table as we ate. Everyone kind of smiled; glad I think to be here, happy to have been to the mountaintop.
Julio had been having nightmares, and as we walked through the site (earlier), much of it being dug up, excavations, I touched a face carved into, or out of the stonewall: it said to me,
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” I said and walked away (returning to the stone face a moment later), then added, “what would make you happy?”
The Residue Spirit said, “…leave us buried proper!”
The spirit was fearful his resting spot would be disturbed. Rosa told Julio what I had told her, what the spirit had said to me, and Julio said in return:
“We have no intentions of moving things where they do not belong, we are being very careful about this.” (I had asked Julio during the following three days if he was getting any more nightmares concerning Kuelap and his soon to be: duties at the site, dealing with the excavations, and he said ‘no’. Perhaps, the spirits are willing to give him the benefit of misgivings: that is, maybe they will trust others (after hearing Julio) that they will do their best not to bring about defilement, ruination, to their resting place.
11
City Day
[3/29/2006; Morning of:] We are meeting many people on our trip into the northern part of Peru, known as The Amazonas.
Today we saw the five mummies at the museum, in the plaza area of town, then took a ride to a magic well that predates the Incas. Learned about the Serpents and the Jaguars, the two native groups who fought one another in the Chachapoyas’ area, and had renowned archeologist Julio help us understand the two groups.
This evening we visited a well-known photographer’s house: down a winding street, and under some foliage we went, through a gate, and into the house, where two of his sisters were, with friends. We talked and Maria was quite happy to be reunited with her friend, as I was to be introduced to him. He had great posters of the area, as well as his postcards were being sold in all the stores and cafes of the township, that is, the city of Chachapoyas [Martin Chumbe].
Tomorrow we go to Carajia, also spelled with a ‘K’; a site about two hours outside of the city by car, each way; and about a mile plus walk beyond that. (It would turn out that I’d have to have a young man rent me his horse to get me back up the long walk, we took down to get to this site, which would take place on 3/30/06; and it was a site to behold.)
The Five Expressions
(Mummies of Chachapoyas)
In the museum (INC), of Chachapoyas
reside five mummies:
Side by side—, five hundred years old:
one man, and four women…!
All carrying familiar expressions
of pain and hope.
Number one:
She had agony and pain in her face
Number two:
She had misery, from chin to forehead
Number three:
She was in despair, dejection,
Number four:
She was looking up, visualizing something
(perhaps hope)
Number five:
He was looking down, contemplating, perhaps
his new life to be (his: reincarnation)
All the mummies rested in a fetus position,
seemingly, all with pain and anticipation…!
Note: Thanks to Julio Rodriguez, much of this poem could be put together, our archeologist for he gave some good insight into this area of thought, mixed with psychology; and even helped name the poem. (#1291),
.
During the day on 3/30/06, we also visited a homegrown, nursery, where Rosa Mesa (of: Chachapoyas), lived on this farm like garden center, showed us around her magical kingdom of plants; thus I should, and will dedicate this poem to her “Orquidiario”!
Orquidiario
I think, at Rosa’s plant-nursery, in Chachapoyas
In El Amazonas—there is a plant for most everything and occasion.
She showed me the fly plant—looked just like fly, to me:
Matter-of-fact, it looked so real I wanted to whack it,
But of course I let it be.
And then she showed me the San Pablo Plant,
It gives one an illusion, and then some.
And then there is the huevo plant (or: eggplant), little white eggs
Held in placed by green little hands of the plants
Not good to eat, or medicine—perhaps
Good for looks or nothing.
Then there was the Vitamin D-plant,
‘Good for the bones,’ I heard her say.
And the Tuna Cactus, is some kind of plant
Used for shoes (the Penca).
And then there is the Punishment Plant,
Not sure of its real name, but it is sour
All the same: used for bad children
Gives an acid taste.
The menthol plant, gives one fresh breath,
And the soap plant, looks like a cactus, is good for washing
Cloths or make shoes, and I saw one plant that was
Good for ailments, so I was told.
But, to tell you the truth, I liked the fly plant
The most, bar—I’d still like to swat it
If I could.
Notes: taken down during the tour of the nursery and conversations with Rosa Meza #1294.
.
During our day trip throughout the city and its surrounding area, we stopped at magic well, so it was told to me to be. I drank from it so perhaps I will gain youth back, or was it that I just wiped my face with its magical waters, I can’t remember. In any case, there is a legend here, and I got two versions of it, one from our driver: Gilberto Llaja, and the other from Julio, the archeologist; I will mold the legend into a poem the best I can with taking out what I feel are the best elements of both versions
(#1293):
The Magic Well of Chachapoyas
[The Legend of: Yanayacu Well]
Oh! He love her so
Ah! But she didn’t love him back
Ugh! So he went to the old Water Well
Of Chachapoyas
Where legend says: longing and
Love, does well…
And took some water back
To his sweetheart to drink
(and what do you think?)
Thereupon, once consumed, she
Fell in love with him—
Like paper on glue—;
Captured by the spell she was,
And they loved, and loved and loved!…
12
The Great Crossover
[The Midnight Mudslide]
[3/31/2006—Written while on the bus ride back to Chiclayo from Chachapoyas.] We rode out of Chachapoyas at 8:00 PM, on the 30th of March, an 11-hour ride to Chiclayo (so I thought, for it would be extended a few hours more).
It started raining about 11:00 PM, or three hours ago into this trip, heavy landslides [huayco/desprendimiento] all over the roads, just made it through one, now we are at another, the whole road is covered with rocks and mud; water pouring over a towering rock like waterfalls. I went outside to check it out, my wife and I, and a few others. The bus driver, and his female assistant would have simply let us all rot in this damp, and dark muggy bus, had I not insisted on her opening the door and giving us an explanation of what exactly was to take place. I should say, my wife related my inquiry. I don’t think she liked us leaving the bus, but then I don’t care what she likes at this point. I think we will miss the plane at 10:30 in Chiclayo, come early morning.
[Later on] We were stuck back there for one and half hours, waiting for the construction crew to come out and clean the road, saved after a bus took up the challenge and ran across the mudslide and he made it, I mean it was about thirty feet long, and the same width. Had we waited for the crew, knowing how slow folks are in South America, it would have taken several hours at best. I mean I saw people walking across the mudslide, and here Rosa is trying to convince me how dangerous it was. I told her at the time, I used to play in such things back home. A little exaggeration, but not much; thus, I have named this the Great Crossover, anointed and someone may make a movie out of it, according to Rosa’s worry. Anyhow, after our bus driver saw several buses go through it; he got enough nerve to crossover. I am writing this a few hours after the fact, still on the road, perhaps it is 5:00 AM, getting closer to our destination.
I told Rosa, we were not in a hurry, if we needed to stay over a few days more because of this mishap, or catch a late plane back to Lima, I mean, it is not the end of the world. Maria was also worried, I suppose for me a little bit, and Julio had a bad dream a while ago, nothing to do with bad spirits, perhaps a good one this time. He is not breathing well, I suggested it could be his heart; and he thinks his shadow spirit, or the shadow of his spirit, while he is sleeping is trying to tell him something on this order. Whatever the case, he gets tired quickly for a healthy looking man.
We will have to go directly to the airport once in Chiclayo, but we’ll make it back to Lima as scheduled it seems. It’s been a wild trip in a way. Our car broke down yesterday, the fan shut down, and our driver had to look constantly at the heat gage, and finally we got it fixed at some town where we had lunch: chicken soup for four people, and a main dish of chicken and rice or beef, with coffee and coke, all of 26-soles, about $8.75 cents. Not like at the Hilton, but it will do when you are hungry.
13
Closing Notes
A Legend of Sipan
What comes to mind right now, in closing this short story of my short trip into The Amazonas is a legend told to me by Julio Cesar our young guide at the Sipan site outside of Chiclayo, where we went the first day we arrived in Chiclayo; written at that time during the visit to the site (right on the site) on the 27th of March, in the morning (today being, 4/4/2006); I shall write it out as I felt it at the time, not necessarily as it was given to me (and jotted down on paper), although I will not distort what I feel to be fact (for this is suppose to be, in fact, a true story), and it should be said, this legend was handed down, not written prior to this; for I was on the site, looking down into the Sipan grave, feeling the moment, and had stepped upon the pyramid of the sun, looked over the Sipan Valley, and here is the legend:
*The Legend of Ernil Bernal
Advance/From my notes: Ernil Bernal, a nearby resident had dream that the pyramid had opened; Bernal’s nephew now [to this writing] paints pictures in blood. It has been said, the king, Sipan’s spirit, does not like being in a museum. (Well, I can attest to that, in that, the spirits of Kuelap have told me directly, they do not like being moved about, this, this must hold some truth to it, now that I look back on the trip.)
The Legend/Dream:
The dream told Bernal, he had to excavate, and that a bird would show him where to excavate, and that he’d find gold. The blackbird had a wide wingspan, several feet. Three days passed, and the dream continued to reappear, and then he excavated some seven meters, and found the tomb of Sipan, he took 70% of what was in the tomb to his house (later on things would be found there and brought to the museum). And the spirit of Sipan, perhaps its guardian, who sits above, several feet, within a cavern overlooking the tomb, told him, “What you take, things from me, I will take things from you.” That afternoon his pig died, and he died by a gun shot would by the police. (1987)
.
Karajia’s Sarcophagus
(Northern Peru/March, 2006)
Karajia, in The Amazonas of Peru (Chachapoyas)
1
Down the Road
Down the road about a mile and a quarter, down its rocky slop to a cliff area, scrambled rocks of all sorts linger about imbedded in the mud from the rains two days previous. Down this path, or trail resides the famous Karajia site, of the Chachapoyas from 800-years ago, or at least their remains, and their standup coffins in the shape of odd looking hollow statues of their ancestors, or perhaps themselves, where their remains rest in a fetus position in the center of these hollow statues: embedded into the cave of the cliff. Here six- sarcophagus remains looking west, down toward the valley below, where the river runs.
We all, all five of us are in the middle of the Northern Amazonas of Peru; we’ve struggled through the mud to get to the bottom of the road here, the path that is, tumbling along the side fields of corn and potatoes fields (of this long enduring mud path), and at times we had to walk along the inner side of these vegetable farms, for the grass was more solid than the deep rooted mud packed trail, which had big fissures we had to step over, around, or walk through.
Then we crossed over to the rocky bridge, where the cliffs are, and below us, the valley is. But it is the cliffs that are home to the sarcophagus, called Karajia (also spelled with a ‘C’). Henceforward, we climbed down further looking up and there they were (a few minutes ago: as I take these notes whenever I can), the sarcophagus, all six of them with three skulls, two above them, one on the cliff floor, beside them.
Upon knowing around the bend the site would be, I leaped to see it, walked up and down the side of cliff to get a better view. [Now I making my notes again.]
Stone Seats
(Karajia)
A mummy is sitting in a stone cave, perhaps fifty-feet up and into, and onto the cliff, as if it is watching over the site, and the valley at the same time, as if it is the guardian; as if he’s in a theater—and to its right, three more tombs are standing upright, as if they were statues, not as impressive as Karajia’s six, but worth a moment of my time.
[Written afterwards] In a blink of the eye, one could see this whole arrangement. We, the archeologist and I tried to figure out how they got down into the cave to cultivate such a scene. My suggestion was: perhaps they built a tunnel on top of the Mesa above them, and used a ladder to bring down the tombs, and placed them accordingly; it sounded better than trying to lug them up that cliff. In any case, they could fill the tunnel back up, and cover the spot, and no one would be the wiser. In eight hundred years, perhaps other rocks would crisscross, blocking the tunnels once hollowness, or once dugout dirt, making it harder like it previously was; or perhaps they threw rocks back into the tunnel and filled it up with soft dirt. But like everything, or almost everything, it was a theory, and we all had one.
I could see the river below, the Utcubamba; I was full of pure happiness, gladness to have made such a hard trip. I could not make it back up that road, my condition was not good, thus, we found a young man with a horse, and he rented it to me for 10 s/. Double the price he usually got, and to boot, he made the cane for me to assist me in my daily adventure further, and it helped.
2
The Rio Utcubamba
As I looked down upon the river Utcubamba—running back through the gorges, into unpeopled water-land, everything around me was drying up from a heavy rains two days ago, and as a result, everything was sparkling green and healthy looking. All the different shades of green faded into the snake-like canyon, where the river was. I kept thinking: here I was up on this cliff, with 800-year-old mummies buried in shell like tombs, a breeze shifting the heat, warm air pushing warm air, the closer one gets into this environment, the more enmeshed one becomes with nature, the more spiritual one feels with the world.
Back in St. Paul
I wondered what everyone was doing back at the bookstore in St. Paul, Minnesota (At the Har Mar Mall in Roseville, Barnes and Noble, bookstore café: Gene, Johannes, Cindy, Jerry the Café manager, Erica, Gary and Sue, and the Professor: oh, the whole lot of them, all book lovers, and Jessica and Tom and Kathy, all bookworms) had they come with me, they’d be enjoying this moment. I picked up my thoughts and moved on, looked for that young man with a horse ready to bring me back up that muddy pathway to the small village we had originally parked our vehicle at. (Then made some notes in my notebook).
.
Night Sea Gulls over the Bow*
[The Galapagos/Dedicated to Cody, lover of animals]
The ship-danced alongside the sea-gulls, so
Proud they were, they could keep up—
Not far away, an Island of sea lions, awaited
… (On top of land and under the sea).
At daybreak they followed us absorbedly.
At night, darkness fell upon our ship, gulls
And all; sailing from island to island
Density had prevailed, as beauties befell.
This dark and strange beauty, weaved within
Our minds, that which we take…!
Never leaves, proudly they remain.
#1119 1/29/06; another wild trip of sorts, where we went to several islands, in the fall of 2003, after my mother had passed away, that summer. It was a trying time for me, and I suppose the trip was worth its cost which was high, but I think I could had gotten more out of it had I taken it after a longer grieving period. We went to four islands. Revised 3/17/2006
Peruvian Poems
The Last Inca Hideout
[Machu Picchu]
It’s been 400-years since those dark—
and evil days when the mice from Spain
came over to claim and attacked Peru!
Attacked, they did, the Inca-Elephant.
Years passed: by and by, the Spanish
collaborated with the Peruvian cats, the
subjugated groups, of the Inca’s past;
they had thought wrong, when they
thought, they’d be loyal and true, to a
a kingdom that put them under their yoke.
With a stroke and spark the Spanish won
the treasures of Peru; and so came down
the legendary town, called Cuzco: below
Machu Picchu, the Last Inca Hideout.
#1113 1/30/2006. Note by the author: in 1999, I went to South America, my first trip that would be perhaps 20-more by 2006. My mission was to experience the ruins of Machu Picchu, and all I could in the process, but of course I met my wife on the way, and she shared those 20-trips with me.
In Spanish
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza
El último escondite del Inca
(Machu Picchu)
¡Han sido 400 años desde aquellos oscuros-y
Fatídicos días, cuando las ratas de España
Llegaron para reclamar y atacar Perú!.
Atacando, ellos hicieron, el elefante Inca.
Pasaron años: con el tiempo, los españoles
Colaboraron con los traidores peruanos, los
Grupos subyugados, del pasado del Inca;
Ellos habían pensado mal, cuando ellos
Creyeron, que deberían ser leales y verdaderos,
Para, un reino que los puso bajo su yugo.
Con un golpe y la chispa los españoles ganaron
Los tesoros del Perú; y entonces se vino abajo
El legendario pueblo, llamado Cuzco: debajo de
Machu Picchu, el último escondite del Inca.
San Jeronimo Creek
[Dedicated to the Mayor of Jeronimo,
Jesus Vargas Párraga]
I walked up and down, the
Side of the creek
It cares—less, nor watches me.
Rich
With blue—life, surrounded by
Shadows and
Green….
How wise she seems, living its
Blue-rich life…,
Water flowing over smooth bare
Rocks,
Dripping down from mountain
Tops…,
(three miles high).
She looked terrible alone, when
I last saw her
She has no voice, so I couldn’t
Ask….
Perhaps she speaks to the infinite
sky, the sun on high—
(as we live and die);
How brave she is, all alone,
But at Home!...
#1103 1/26/06
Note by the Author: If you have ever walked along this creek in the Mantaro Valley, which is lean, you will have noticed the red and light colored clay all about, on the side of the mountains, as well as by the creek, it is used for making bricks in that area. It is a quiet place in the Valley.
The Great Desert Kingdom of Peru
In the spring of 2000, I flew over
The desert kingdom of Peru,
The Nazca-Lines carve (or etched),
Bearing symbolic images (in
The desert sand), in the
Desert kingdom of Peru.
Our plane was but a hundred
Feet above this desert temple
(perhaps a shrine);
Streams of lines, carved out of
An ocean of dirt and clay,
(so it seemed), looked as if it’d
been burnt with sun beams:
Reds, yellows, brownish clays
(beyond the Pacific Ocean
((it laid)).
I looked down as
I sat by the window and saw through
The bronze light that pierced
The atmosphere, under the wing of
Our plane:
Reflections, scares—ripped
Open on the desert plateau, akin to
Flesh, tattooed all around us
Designs called: Nazca-Lines,
Lines in a rage…!:
The condor, the astronaut, the spider,
Hummingbird, the monkey,
Airstrips (or runways)) or so it
Seemed)), 2000-years old; faceless
I was, in awe—trying to swallow.
Blinded I was, by its surreal-ness.
It had occurred to me, perhaps
The inhabitants were marked by
Misfortune—
And carved those images to the gods,
Pleading for rain (or something).
Now a refuge, saved from the ravages
Of time: these scars remain—.
It is but a grave to the eyes
That carved them, I do believe.
#1238 2/23/06 The Author flew over the Nazca Lines in February of 2001, it was a marvelous experience.
El Gran Reino del Desierto de Perú
En la Primavera del 2000, yo volé sobre
El reino del desierto de Perú,
Las Líneas de Nazca tallado (o grabado),
Marcando imágenes simbólicas (en
El la arena del desierto), en el
Reino del desierto de Perú.
Nuestro avión estuvo solo a cien
Pies sobre este templo desierto
(Talvez un santuario);
Arroyuelos de líneas, talladas fuera de
Un océano de suciedad y barro,
(Así parecía), parecía como si esto
Estuviera ardiendo con los rayos del sol.
Rojos, amarillos, barros parduscos
(Más allá del Océano Pacífico)
((Tendido Esto)).
Yo mire para abajo mientras
Me senté por la ventana y vi a través
La luz broceada que penetraba
La atmósfera, entre las alas de
Nuestro avión:
Reflexiones, miedos- rasgando
Abiertos sobre el desierto totalmente, semejante a
Carne, tatuada todo a nuestro alrededor
Diseños llamados las Líneas de Nazca,
¡Líneas en un resplandor!
El cóndor, el Astronauta, la araña,
El colibrí, el mono,
Pista de aterrizaje (o pista)) o eso se
Parecía), 2000 años de edad; anónimo
Yo estuve, admirado tratando de tragarlo.
Enceguecido estaba, por su sur realidad-
Se me ocurrió a mi, talvez
Que los habitantes hubieron marcado por
Desgracia-
Y tallado esas imágenes para los Dioses,
Suplicando por lluvia (o alguna cosa).
Ahora un refugio, redimido por estragos
Del tiempo; las cicatrices permanecen-
Esto es solo una sepultura, para los ojos
Que los tallaron, yo creo.
#1238 2/23/06 El autor voló sobre las Líneas de Nazca en Febrero de 2000, esta fue una experiencia maravillosa.
San Juan de Miraflores
(Lima, Peru)
Beyond the thick windows
Of my house (Casa)
Brown children play across
The street in the park
By the church: play
In the dirt…!
A Christian parade—in the
Evening goes up and down
The neighborhood’s streets—
Stopping at certain houses,
Hoping to Christianize!
There is dancing and drinking
At the new Nightclub
Up the road, by the Tram—
Echoes of music ‘til 2:00 AM
Neon lights blinking—
Laughter, love, religion—
It is all here, all part of life
In this one little corner of the world
In San Juan de Miraflores,
In the summer of 2006.
#1276 3/12/2006 Note by the author: no one lives on the mountain looking down into the city, usually they live in the little corners of the city, looking up at the mountains, and so it is in Lima, Peru, all surrounded by mountains, and I, like all the others have my little corner in the city, looking up.
In Spanish
Translated by Rosa Penaloza de Siluk
San Juan de Miraflores
(Lima, Peru)
Afuera de las ventanas gruesas
De mi casa
Ninos bronceados juegan cruzando
La calle en el parque
Por la iglesia: juegan
En la tierra…!
Una procession Cristiana—en la
Noche va arriba y abajo de
Las calles, por la vecindad—
Deteniendose en ciertas casas,
Esperando Cristianizar!
Hay baile y bebida
En el nuevo Nightclub
Arriba del camino, por el tren—
Ecos de musica hasta las 2:00 AM
Luces de neon parpadeando—
Risas, amor, religion—
Esta todo aca, todo parte de la vida
En esta pequena esquina del mundo
En San Juan de Miraflores,
En el verano del 2006.
#1276 12/Marzo/2006 Apuntes por el autor: nadie vive en las montanas mirando hacia abajo dentro de la ciudad, generalmente ellos viven en las pequenas esquina de la ciudad, mirando arriba a las montanas, y por eso asi es en Lima, Peru, todo rodeado por montanas, y yo, como los todos tengo mi pequena esquina en la ciudad, mirando arriba.
.
Negrito, Little Negrito
(San Juan Miraflores; Lima, Peru)
Negrito, and his son, little Negrito (and often with his wife) walk the streets, collect trash; not sure what they do with it: bike-wheel attached to a cart behind its back, up and down the streets of Miraflores they walk, sound a horn, let folks know they’re coming, put trash scraps in their cart—move on.
He is a simple man I see, plain, small, three children I have learned, a wife that cares. He, like me came out of a mother naked, and both of us will be naked when we return: the main difference, my mother was born in America, I suppose. Other than that, I don’t know.
All around him are brown people, he is black I am white. I hired him today, in the middle of the heat, he and his children to clean, to clean up the garbage behind our home. Gave him water and a coke, a hat for his child, a towel, and twenty-soles. He said he didn’t need it, the towel, he was black already: looking at his dirt covered hands.
He will come back Monday, this prideful man, a man of God, to sweat some more, to make a few more dollars: cut the branches off our tree, it is almost hanging over our doorframe. There is no black silo inside of him; he is a pure man, with a shadow, lean, like so many in Peru, just trying to make a living.
#1282 3/18/06 Prose Poetry. Negrito, of Miraflores, so he is known, his real name is Mark, not sure if he knows he is called Negrito, but no one seems to hide the nick name, yet, he is called Mark to his face. He seems pleasant enough, and being black is not a bourdon to him, like it seems to be to so many in the United States; he seems to go along with God’s calling, and does not give off that ore of: intolerance, as so many blacks in America do today. And so I thought this little sketch of a man I met once and will meet again, would be of interest to my readers.
Spanish Version
By Rosa Penaloza de Siluk
Negrito, Pequeno Negrito
(San Juan de Miraflores; Lima, Peru)
Negrito, y su hijo, pequeno Negrito (y a veces con su esposa) caminan las calles, recogen basura; no estoy seguro que hacen con esto: carruaje atado detrás de este con una bicicleta con ruedas, arriba y debajo de las calles de Miraflores ellos andan, sonido de una bocina, hacen saber a la gente que ellos estan viniendo, poner restos de basura en su carruaje—continuar yendo.
El es un hombre simple yo veo, plano, pequeno, tres hijos me entere, una esposa que se preocupa. El, como yo vino desnudo de una madre, y ambos estaremos desnudos cuando volvamos: la mayor diferencia, mi madre nacio en America, me imagino. Otra cosa aparte de esta, no lo se.
Todos alrededor de el son personas bronceadas, el es Negro y yo soy blanco. Lo contrate hoy dia, en el medio del calor, a el y su hijo para limpiar, para limpiar la basura detras de nuestra casa. Le di a el agua y Coca Cola, un sombrero para su hijo, una toalla, y veinte-soles. El dijo que el no necesitaba esto, la toalla, dijo que ya era negro: mirando a sus manos cubiertas con suciedad.
El volvera el lunes, este orgulloso hombre, un hombre de Dios, para sudar algo mas, ganar unos cuantos dolares mas: cortar las ramas de nuestro arbol, que esta casi colgandose encima del marco de nuestra puerta. No hay rasgos de negro dentro de el; el es un hombre puro, con una sombra, delgado, como muchos en Peru, solo tratando de ganarse la vida.
#1282 18/Marzo/2006 Poema en Prosa. Negrito, de Miraflores, asi el es conocido, su nombre verdadero es Marco, no estoy seguro si el sabe que lo llaman Negrito, nadie parece ocultar este apodo, sin embargo, el es llamado Marco en su cara. El parece suficientemente agradable, y ser negro no es un problema para el, como parece ser para muchos en los Estados Unidos; el parece que va de acuerdo con los llamados de Dios, y no da muestras de da give off that ore de: intolerancia, como muchos de los negros en America lo hacen hoy. Y por eso pense que este sketch pequeno de un hombre que conoci una vez y lo volvere a ver de nuevo, seria interesante para mis lectores.
The Bread Man of Miraflores
[In Lima, Peru]
I’m learning the sound of the bread man’s horn
when he squeezes it with his right hand, it sounds
like a sick mule; small it is, and weak in sound,
but it has its tongue, like a lizard it reaches the ear
nonetheless. More kid than man I should say he is.
If he could only put a motor on that old bike of his,
old rusted black framed bike, with a basked attached
in front; with two front wheels holding a black metal
frame that holds the white wooded bread box of bread
in place (a box with windows for all to look in, and see
those little puppies just waiting to be bought); if only
he had a motor on it, he’d make some time, a faster
pace that is around the neighborhood; but then of course,
it would be more overhead, and those little potato like
loafs of bread [those puppies] would no longer be cheap.
In any case, should he lean too far either way (considering
the weight of the box and basket), right or left, I fear it would
all end up on the street, an early career—indeed . I shall pray
he buys a new model before it is too late, before that is,
before he is too old to keep that old bike balanced: in place.
Woops, somebody—, my neighbor waved him over, I think
Jenny, she wants a few of those puppies, she can see
through those porthole windows (likened to a ships), in
the white box…
in the damp air he shifts and shovels away several
loafs, catches a few of those puppies under a ton of others,
he’s picking out the big ones I think. He likes Jenny perhaps.
I’ll have to remember this, in case my wife buys some from
Him; it’s who you know in this town, that works. And it is wise
to keep good tidings with the bread man.
Now he’s leaving the scene, as I’m looking out my second
story window. Time to take my shower; it’s 8:00 AM. Looks
like it’s going to be a good day in Lima, Peru.
#1284 3/10/06 Morning in Lima, Peru; dedicated to my wife Rosa, she had asked me when I was spying out the window, “Are you thinking of a poem?” which I wasn’t at the time, until she said that, and so she was my inspiration for this poem.
The Papaya Man
[of: Lima, Peru]
The Papaya Man, He carts his fruits and vegetables around with an antique motorcycle-drawn-cart: papayas, grapes, oranges, this and that, so forth and on. He broadcasts his coming from house to house by way of a loudspeaker: up and down and around my casa [my house], in San Juan Miraflores (Lima, Peru): he looks up at me, as I’m looking down at him, from my second story window, he stops…got my attention, he is better than a security guard, knows what is happening around him.
He wears a blue rosary around his thick brown neck, short in stature, broad and robust; he looks kindly at my wife, now looking at the fruit and vegetables: he picks out the biggest and most yellowish-green papaya—weights it, he is smiling; ah! he made the sale, blessed be to the rosary.
He then starts his motor-cart back up again (it is 11:30 AM); not sure how it stirs, no handlebars, but nonetheless, he stirs it away, and down the street he sways, hands on the side of the cart…! The moment has passed, God has feed, both him and my wife, and perhaps me tonight!
#1287 3/24/2006 Note by the author. The nice thing about Peru, and Lima, is the old traditions are still alive, especially if you live here; the Papaya Man, the Bread Man, the Soda man, and so for and so on, come around and sell their goods, like it used to be back in the United States in the 50s.
Last Triumph in Cajamarca
Weep for the one you slay today! The one you found at last.
Mourn for Atahualpa, for war has come and passed—;
It was he who flamed the hearts so deep, with heroic
Breath, and now—
Now Pizarro’s sword is laid and armor hangs in the house
Of Cajamarca….
Weep for the one so swift to slay, whom they shall hang
Today—in Cajamarca!
#1305 4/8/06 Note: Atahualpa, was king of the Incas, perhaps the most noted one in Inca history, or one of the most famous Incas at least. He was killed in Cajamarca, Peru, in the 16th Century, and of course there are many legends that surround his last days; those days in a Spanish Prison, in this Northern Peruvian city. I suppose, if the city is famous for anything, it is famous more for the death and incarceration of Atahualpa, than anything else. I am not here to judge history, or to say how bad the Spanish were, or how cruel the Incas were. And I’m sure we could point fingers at both of them for their atrocities, for the Inca Empire did not acquire its grand conquering status (likened to the Romans) by being less cruel than the Spanish, but it was Atahualpa, who was the headlines of the day, and all the gold the Inca world could gather, did not save him.
Elegy for:
The Lord of Sipan
Embrace the soundless dignity of death
For now his name be with the passing dead.
Grieve not because Lord Sipan has died
Under Peru’s amber vernal, open skies:
Unlike turquoise in a cloudless sky
His jewels and gold splendid they lay.
Here, his tomb faces the divine silent sky,
In the Sipan Valley, where vultures fly.
Still on the Northern verge a sunset looms:
Sipan’s glory on pyramid tombs.
Beyond our loss is a potent recompense
A newborn loneliness for soul and spirit:
Thrown through the lofty, cloudless heavens
To earth’s ephemeral fading Rose—Sipan!
#1308 4/9/2006 [Written in Lima, Peru] Notes of: Old Civilizations: I have seen many of the world heritage sites, they are fading like the one in the Sipan Valley, where the Pyramid of the Moon and Sun, reside, and where the Lord of Sipan’s grave site remains; worn out by rain, and other elements, disappearing as man watches. Perhaps that is why it seems to some, I am on a mission to capture in pictures and verse their last morsel of flesh on their skeletons. I don’t blame anyone or thing, it is as it is. Life is a trail one is hiking on, some times you are in the dust of the road, sometimes in poison Oak, other times you’re in a mudslide, seldom, are we in the sun, in the valley, smoking a Havana Cigar, but when you are, grab the moment. Thus, are the world’s sacred sites is likening to us? We must not stop people from seeing them; they belong to them and that would be breaking the spirit of humanity: to save a stone, and slight man, as less worthy: he is worth more than the stone. Perhaps we can put them in the Valley with a Havana Cigar by their sides, and polish them up, so the next generation can afford to see them. Whatever the case is, Civilizations vanish and new ones emerge, we will rebuild them old ones should we feel it is necessary. But now it is our time, and we must, touch them: feel their power, grace, peace, and wisdom, it is all built within them.
Pigeons at La Favorita Café
Faintly, a scene of effects unfolds, awakens the eyes
And is soon forgotten, as it dies: the pigeons prance
Around parked cars, by the Café Favorita’s tables
in Lima, Peru!
Then they take off in flight, some remain, and prance under cars,
Out of sight: as they move in and out (the café is boarding
the street in Miraflores).
They prance, prance: pecking at crumbs on the ground, slowly
Winged, unhastening (as zooming cars pass by).
I watch these pigeons melt into the scene
nobody really notices them, but me…!
#1307 Written at the La Favorita Café, in Lima, Peru 4/8/06, while I was having coffee during the evening outside, with several tables full of Peruvians talking, drinking, eating; a TV in the Café going on, sports, news, etc. A mellow evening, and the I got focused on the pigeons for some reason. Perhaps something no one really notices, or if they do, it is almost subconsciously. And so I noticed life buzzing around me, the cars, at the tables of the café, the pigeons, it all makes for a complete package to a closing evening. The cool breeze, for it is fall in Lima now and the ocean is but a half mile away, the winds from the ocean seep up the streets, and impose their presence upon everyone. Sometimes I wonder why people eat or drink coffee inside cafes if they can go outside, it is perhaps one of the pleasures I have living here in Peru; after living in Minnesota most all my life, and having to eat inside seven months out of the year, it is a treat to breath in real air, instead of shifted air from the facility.
The Legend of:
The Chancay Maiden of the Supe Valley of Peru
Advance: before the Inca, Chancay, Moche, and Chavin there was the Caral civilization, in the North-central coast of Peru, five thousand years ago (3000 BC)) all these civilizations lived in the Supe Valley at one time except the Moche, who lived in Chan Chan, bordering the coast. Caral, a city-state you might say, or perhaps a small sanctuary along the Supe Rio (of which were perhaps some 3000-inhabidents at one time)) of which I first crossed by foot, and came back by horse)), in the Supe Valley, is most bravura, for I have been there and can bear this out. This civilization coexisted with that of Mesopotamia of the Near East, or Crete of Europe; perhaps built their pyramids at the same time Egypt did. The city is not only sacred, but it was political, with all its six pyramids, tucked away in a mountain like corral (so it got its name), in that it is surrounded by beautiful mountains, known as the. It is about 165-miles north of Lima; it is also the city known as ‘…dwelling place of the gods….’ You have three regions here: the Andean highlands, Andean jungle, and equatorial coastal area, of which now I have been to all three. It is close to the sea, the mountains look over it, and the jungle is not that far away. [Caral: in Quechua, is cabuya, or sisal, a dry fiber often used in weaving.] Pottery was not discovered until later to have been made at Caral, thus, no early dates for its baking process. One would have to date it perhaps between the Inca and Chavin cultures, or a better date might be the Chancay culture. It is known that the Chancay culture lived right on the site of the Caral Culture between 900 and 1300 AD.
The Poem:
She sat crossed legged: the Sacred Supe Rio to her right:
Small, sloping forehead: deep brown, secretive eyes;
Thin lips, slightly upward, triangular chin; thin hair.
Sparse outer eyebrows (beautiful) with a straight torso.
She was naked, arms stretched, crossed behind.
(She died according to her times.)
She sat crossed legged: the year 1102 AD, among her
Lay, unbaked clay figurines; color cotton textiles;
Head adornments: were two circular headdresses
Linked-and-twisted, made out of totora reed, rush fiber
And cotton thread; a wooden comb by her knees.
Pieces of pottery lay by her side, in the warm valley sand
To the left of her were the Caral ruins, the old city.
(Four thousand years had now passed, her Ancestors long gone;
Gone, now dead, perhaps her blood was currently, intermixed
With the many cultures that once walked this land.)
She sat crossed legged and thought: how crafty she was
Compared to them, for she had made handles for her pottery,
And she was proud, so very proud, of being: Peruvian
(with 11,000-years of proven history). She brushed away the
Mosquitoes, watched her friends plant corn, hot peppers
Along the banks of the Rio, in the Sacred Valley of Supe.
She sat crossed legged until sunset: watching the reds and
Yellows and orange mist fade into the sun’s brightness:
Thus, she wept and wept, for someone or thing had broken
Her pottery, as she laid still from a blow to the back of the head,
Her face (her cranial traumatized); it was all she could see,
As they bound her knees, the way they did back in 3000 BC!…
(She was part of the Caral legend. I for one, picked up those
Pieces of clay, with handles, in the sands of the Supe Valley).
#1312 4/13/06
In Spanish
La Leyenda De:
La Doncella De Chancay del Valle De Supe de Perú
Avance: antes de la Inca, Chancay, Moche, y Chavín hubo allí la civilización de Caral, en la costa Centro al Norte de Perú, hace cinco mil años (3000 antes de Cristo) todas estas civilizaciones vivió en el Valle de Supe en cierta época excepto La Moche, que vivió en Chan Chan, bordeando la costa. Caral, una ciudad - estado usted podría decir, o quizás un pequeño santuario a lo largo de Río Supe (del cual eran quizás unos 3000-habitantes inhabidents en cierta época)) él cual yo primero crucé a pie, y volví a caballo)), en el Valle de Supe, esta la mayor virtuosidad, ya que he estado allí y puedo confirmar esto. Esta civilización coexistió con la Mesopotámica del cercano Oriente, o Creta de Europa; quizás construyó sus pirámides al mismo tiempo que lo hizo Egipto. La ciudad no sólo es sagrada, sino también fue política, con todas sus seis pirámides, metidas en una montaña como corral (Así esto consiguió su nombre), la cual está rodeada por montañas hermosas, conocidos así. Esto está aproximadamente a 165 millas al norte de Lima; esta es también la ciudad conocida como “…el lugar de morada de los dioses”. Usted tiene tres regiones aquí: las tierras altas Andinas, la selva Andina, y el área ecuatorial costera, de cual ahora he estado de todas las tres. Está cerca del mar, las montañas se ven sobre esto, y la selva no está muy lejos de aquí. [Caral: en quechua, es cabuya, o el sisal, una fibra seca a menudo usada en el tejido.] La Cerámica no fue descubierta hasta más tarde, para ser hecho en Caral, más, ningún dato reciente para su proceso de cocción. Uno podría tener un dato de esto talvez entre la Cultura Inca y Chavín, o una fecha mejor podría ser la cultura Chancay. Es sabido que la cultura Chancay vivió exactamente sobre el sitio de la Cultura Caral entre 900 y 1300 después de Cristo.
El Poema:
Ella se sentó de piernas cruzadas: El Río Sagrado Supe a su derecha:
Frente pequeña, inclinada: marrón profundo, ojos reservados;
Labios finos, barbilla ligeramente ascendente, triangular; pelo
Fino.
Cejas escasas externas (hermosas) con un torso erguido.
Ella estaba desnuda, brazos estirados, cruzados detrás.
(Ella murió de acuerdo a su época).
Ella se sentó de piernas cruzadas: el año 1102 después de Cristo, entre ella
Colocados, estatuillas de arcilla cruda; textiles de algodón coloreado;
Adornos delanteros: eran dos tocados circulares
Unidos-y-torcidos, hechos de la caña de totora, la fibra de junco
y el hilo de algodón; un peine de madera por sus rodillas.
Piezas de cerámica colocados por su lado, en la arena caliente del valle
A la izquierda de ella estaban las ruinas de Caral, la vieja ciudad.
(Cuatro mil años ahora habían pasado, sus Antepasados hace mucho tiempo
Idos;
Idos, ahora muertos, quizás su sangre estaba actualmente, entremezclada
Con muchas de las culturas que una vez anduvieron esta tierra.)
Ella se sentó con las piernas cruzadas y pensó: cuán astuta era ella
Comparada a ellos, ya que ella había hecho manijas para su
Cerámica,
y ella estuvo orgullosa, tan orgullosa, de ser: Peruano
(Con de 11,000 años de historia probada). Ella quitó los
Mosquitos, vio a sus amigos plantar maíz, pimientos
Picantes
A lo largo de las orillas de Río, en el Valle Sagrado de Supe.
Ella se sentó con las piernas cruzadas hasta la puesta del sol: mirando las rojas y
Amarillas y anaranjadas nieblas atenuadas dentro del resplandor
del sol:
Así, ella lloró y lloró, por alguien o cosa que había
roto
Su cerámica, mientras ella inmovilizada por un golpe taras de
La cabeza,
Su cara (su cráneo fracturado); ¡era todo lo que ella
Podría ver,
Mientras ellos ataron sus rodillas, del modo que ellos lo hicieron antes hace, 3000 antes de Cristo! …
(Ella era parte de la leyenda de Caral. Yo por uno, recogí
Aquellos
Pedazos de arcilla, con manijas, en las arenas del Valle
De Supe).
*1312 4/13/06
Branches
There is something that bothers my neighbor
That irritates her, makes her skin: jump, crewel
That creates a humming stammer in her voice
And even makes gaps, silent ones as she talks
To my wife, about the heap across the street.
Her kind of row is another thing indeed
Where she doesn’t let one idea, spin
Not even one iota of that fall
Lest she lose her focus once and for all.
We are talking about last week’s branches,
And what’s hiding under that heap I see.
To please my neighbor, the branches I mean,
I’d have to get rid of the pile of rubbish
The one, everyone tosses garbage underneath
That lays so crude across the street, in the park.
But if one looks around we find much more:
My wife let my neighbor know this, that day
By day, her dogs piss and shit on our lawn,
Even on the light pole, and into the heap—
The one she keeps talking about: an eye on.
She watches them all right, when you are looking.
To each this burden now has fallen, the branches:
We have to use nice words to keep the balance:
“The neighbor up the block has a junk car,” my
Wife complains to her, she has no more to say.
Oh, just another kind of neighborly game,
One to each his own, it adds up to little more:
She is all heap and we are all branches.
She will never understand my branches,
Nor I, her focus on the heap—that
We alone are responsible for its parting.
If I could put an idea in her head
“Should we not all work together to rid
Our neighborhood of branches, messy dogs
Loafing cars: making for good neighbors?”
Before I hired the branch cuter, I asked him:
“Please take the branches with you, when done!”
He also is a neighbor who lives nearby.
Something irritates my neighbor about us—
My wife and I, whom she gives offence to;
She moves with slyness it seems to me,
Not of concern over those dry old branches.
I’m sure she likes having thought she done well
For the Neighborhood: firmly defending her heap.
#1314 (From a morning dream came Branches 4/14/06)) Written in Lima, Peru))
Ramas [un poema amistoso]
Hay algo que le incomoda a mi vecina
Que la irrita, hace que su piel: salte, se enrosque
Eso crea un murmullo tartamudo en su voz
Y hasta hace espacios, silenciosos mientras ella habla
A mi esposa, sobre el montón al frente de la calle.
Su especie de escándalo es otra cosa en verdad
Donde ella no deja una idea, dar vuelta
Ni aún una pizca de aquella caída
A menos que ella pierda su enfoque de una vez por todas.
Estamos hablando de las ramas de la semana pasada,
Y lo que se oculta bajo aquel montón que yo veo.
Para complacer a mi vecino, las ramas pienso,
Yo tendría que deshacerme del montón de basura,
El que, cada uno lanza la basura por debajo de esto.
Aquel tirado tan crudamente al frente de la calle, en el parque.
Pero si uno mira alrededor encontramos mucho más:
Mi esposa le hizo conocer esto a mi vecina, que día
A día, sus perros orinan y defecan sobre nuestro césped,
Incluso sobre el poste de luz, y dentro del montón –
Aquel del que ella sigue hablando: vigilando.
Ella los vigila muy bien, cuando usted esta mirando.
Por cada uno esta carga ahora ha caído, las ramas:
Tenemos que usar palabras agradables para mantener el equilibrio:
“El vecino de arriba del edificio tiene un coche basura” mi
Esposa se queja a ella, ella no tiene nada más que decir.
Ah, solo otra clase de juego amistoso,
Uno para cada uno propio, esto añade un poco más:
De ella es todo el montón y de nosotros todas las ramas.
Ella nunca entenderá mis ramas,
Ni yo, su enfoque sobre el montón – aquel
Nosotros solos somos responsables de su separación.
Si yo pudiera poner una idea en su cabeza
“No deberíamos nosotros trabajar todos juntos para librar
a nuestro vecindario de ramas, perros sucios
fila de coches: ¿hecho por buenos vecinos?”
Antes de que yo contratara al cortador de ramas, le pedí:
¡“Por favor llévese las ramas, cuándo acabe!”
Él también es un vecino que vive cerca.
Algo le molesta a mi vecina sobre nosotros-
Mi esposa y yo, a quien ella ofende:
Ella se mueve con astucia me parece,
No concerniente por aquellas viejas ramas secas.
Estoy seguro que le gusta, habiendo pensado que ella hizo bien
para la Vecindad: defendiendo firmemente su montón.
*1314 (desde un sueño de mañana vino Ramas 4/14/06)) Escrito en Lima, Perú
The White Bobber Pigeon
[de: Favorita Café de Miraflores, Lima, Peru]
The White Bobber [Pigeon]
bobs (up and down), as he slowly walks
the sidewalk (in Lima, Peru):
pacing to and fro
(bobbing his head forward and back):
to and fro—eating crumbs
that Juan throws onto the walk
in the front of his restaurant;
amazing I think, to watch
this dumb creature
walk right up to him, eating
(not even chewing), swallowing
those big hunks of bread:
this white dirty-winged pigeon.
Somehow I get the notion this
White Bobber pigeon can reason:
is he entertaining me and Juan?
Perchance he has forgotten
he’s just a dirty winged pigeon?
#1346, 5/11/06 5:45 PM, Thursday at the Favorita Café, de Miraflores Lima, Peru.
The Jackal of Venezuela: Hugo Chavez
[Part I/For His Homeland]
Over the Venezuelan cliff
(Hugo Chavez: now president)
And under so much History!
They did not see him smirk,
Turn, like an animal,
In his cage of vulgar, his cage of scars:
He’d had so many wars!
The dark caves of his mind was
The real trigger—Russian roulette.
#1362 5/31/06
The Panama Canal, 2006 (The Big Ditch) A Poem with Commentary
[May 2006: Advance]: After visiting the Panama Canal, to see its worth, on the world stage, seeing it four times in four days, from the locks to the Bridge of the Americas, to the lakes, etc; spending hours each day at the locks, and islands thereabouts, and talking to the Panamanians. I wrote the following poem below, at the canal.
I was told this was the eighth wonder of the world, but then when I was in Haiti, in 1986, likewise I was told, their Citadel was the 8th Wonder of the world. I have traveled the world over, and perhaps we have nine wonders of the world, the Panama being perhaps number 1 to 3, and the Citadel number nine, and we’d have to take one other wonder and put it into the missing category; the Panama Canal is really in a class of its own.
A wonder of the world it is
Equal to 6000-plus, war ships
Six pyramids by the Gaza strip.
With all its tunnels, and locks,
Dams, lakes, fifty-one miles of it;
Buildings, mess halls, bridges—
Structures and more structures;
Spillways and much cartage;
Bulldozers, trains—ten-years of it,
Building:
Excavations, constructions—:
Like digging a big ditch, through
Mountains, valleys, lakes—all
All I say, all immense, immense
With tons of cement and steel,
Between silt and mud; and two
Oceans between: obstacles
One after another—yellow fever.
The Suez Canal is but a glimpse
Of this immense task, in Panama;
Unequal in every way, to its grandeur.
Afterwards: In building the canal, it took, ten years (by the Americans; the French, several); and cost $675-million dollars between France and America; 62,000-workers worked at any one time on the site (42,000 world die from disease, accidents, est.); the site being 51-miles long, and ten miles wide. There were three locks to build, a few dams, a lake or two, a mountain to blow up, and create a passageway through. The French sold the rights to build the canal to America for $40-million dollars, after they had failed in its completion, at a cost of $300-million. Today that price tag would be over 14-billion dollars. It took 1600-hundred pounds of gold to pay the workers each month; or 24-tons of Silver. They had to produce five million loafs of bread, 100,000 pounds of cheese, 9-million pounds of meat, and 300,000 chickens each year to feed the hungry works. In addition, they had to use 150,000-gallions of mosquito oil. Its construction matter is equal to five Suez Canals. The material taken out of the Panama Canal would be equal to six large –pyramids in Egypt. It was an immense task, perhaps the most perplexed since the landing on the moon; in all the history of mankind.
Note: Written in Panama, at the Canal, 5/24/06, #1360.
.
*Crossing of the Supe Rio
[In North-central Peru] 4/12/2006
A Play in One Act
It is light outside the sun is overhead and you can see and hear the rapids of the Supe Rio, in the Supe Valley of North-central mountainous area of Peru, about one-hundred and sixty-five miles from Lima. There are three people standing by the river, DLS (me), Rosa and Antonio, our guide. Antonio, short, thin, feministic characters; he is wearing mostly white today, along with white tennis shoes. He is talkative, like a female can be at times, but for the most part, a good guide, means well, and tries to accommodate. Across the river you can see one of the six ancient Pyramids, at the archeological site known as Caral. The site was discovered in 1992, and DLS is set on seeing the site, as Antonio can tell by his observations, and conversations he’s had with him in the Van, across the highways, and over the rough road to get to this river. The Van is a few blocks away, Manuel; the driver is waiting in it. But this is not important for the scene; it is only information for the reader of this story. The Caral culture dates to 3000 BC which makes it more intriguing for DLS to want to see it, but now all three are standing by the river, looking at the bridge that goes across to the site, it has collapsed. Rosa is wearing a yellow T-shirt, and vest, with short black pants on, and DLS, brown long pants, a vest and green hat. The rapids are wild, but in certain areas not deep, DLS picks up a few rocks and throws them into the river to see how deep it is, how far they sink. You can hear the rapids. On the faces of Antonio and Rosa, you see skepticism, on DLS’s face, determination: something Antonio notices. Antonio looks at DLS several times sees in his eyes he in searching for the right spot to cross.
Antonio. Where are we crossing?
DLS. I’m not sure, but …but somewhere along these banks there has to be an opportunity, more shallow water, where the rapids are weaker. [He is looking up and down the river for an opening]
Rosa. DLS o, what do you think?
DLS. We’ll cross it all right, but where…wish I could find a horse or two!
Antonio. Our driver will wait, but I can’t see any one with horses. [He looks a ting scared]
DLS. Yes, I see, let’s go up river some more, maybe it’s better.
[All three spot a local resident, Rafael, they wave to him, he joins the three]
Rosa. Senor, can you help us to cross the river, a horse would be great, if we could rent one from you?
[The guide is too scared to ask any questions, he stands still in some kind of stupor; DLS notices this, but says nothing, he senses he has more guts than what he knows himself, he will soon find out he figures, his eyebrow goes up, he has won a little respect from him already by measuring the water with a stick]
Rafael. [He walks into the water with a stick checking its depth; he address DLS] Senor, it’s not too deep here, yet farther out it’s not safe I fear it is deep there, up a little farther, maybe, I think it gets little shallower, not so deep, rapids not so strong.
[Rafael walks into the water the second time, measures it with a stick]
Rafael. Follow me please, we hold hands walk slow. [Rosa, DLS, follow Rafael into the deep of the rapids; DLS has a heavy looking branch off a tree, he is using as a cane to balance his weight shifting it forward as he takes slow steps sideways to break the power of the current, the rapids as they hit him, try to push him down; Rosa is holding onto his elbow, tightly, and Rafael holding on to hers]
DLS. [To Antonio standing back along the edge of the banks of the Rio; DLS, Rosa and Rafael have stopped in the middle of the river as DLS yells] Take my picture
[Antonio has DLS’s camera, pulls it out of his sack, and snaps a picture, he has not yet moved from his one little spot]
Rosa. DL, Don’t look at the water, it will make you dizzy, look straight ahead [DLS has both hands on the cane now]
[They are on the other side of the river now; Antonio is staring from the banks at all three of them, unsure of his next move. DLS waves him on as if it is nothing to cross the river, knowing he is now really scared; Rosa asks Rafael to go get him, you can’t make out what she has said, but you know she has told him something; Rafael looks at Rosa with a kind of dismay countenance, as if to say: I made it once, I don’t want to push my luck, but he heads back to get Antonio, nonetheless]
DLS. [To Antonio: he yells] Come one! [Rafael has walked back to get Antonio, scared, almost hyperventilating, yet Antonio grabs onto Rafael and slowly they walk across the river, as the rapids slash at them; it seems they made it across faster than the first time; later on, Antonio will explain to DLS, he does not remember crossing the rapids, of Supe, only leaving the bank, and arriving on the other side]
DLS. You made it, how was it?
Antonio. The man has magic, I can’t remember a thing except leaving the bank, and here I was across the river.
[Antonio smiles proudly of his quest, as does DLS, knowing it was perhaps a bigger achievement than what he ever expected to be faceed with, this young adult. Antonio is also surprised at Rosa’s bravura courage; and that for DLS, it only seems natural for him, he asks DLS, a question:]
Antonio. Did you think for a moment you might not make it, something might happen?
DLS. No, not once.
Antonio. Why is that?
DLS. Because, I suppose, I’ve always made it, I’ve never thought I wouldn’t.
[Having said that, they all walk through the bushes to a little bridge crossing a creek, and some fields of vegetable, up an embankment, end up at the far end of the site, where it is off limits to tourists. And within a few minutes are told so by the authorities, they had come in sideways, and got to see things that were not yet to be shown to visitors]
Poggi and the Cannibals
1
Poggi and Nelly
It is not a matter of choosing a time when the psyche of man (usually because of aging) goes haywire, and during this gap in a man’s life, or call it his changing of life, likened to the changing of seasons, he looks at opportunities; hoping to escape for one more run down youth’s lane. The man knows there is perhaps only one more chance to appear in the unrepentant world of youth; thus he must face fight or flight. Most do not leave the homestead, or comfort of the campsite to journey to the unknown, or unsafe areas, save they have plan A and B in place. Henceforward, he escapes, calls it what he wants, perhaps Indian summer, and goes astray, like a woman in menopause. Goes astray and does strange things. His body is changing, he wants to be young again (and he thinks he can), and like the young characters he watches on TV, the sports in particular: smooth bodies, muscles popping out: he can do it, just once more, this is the time, the one and only chance, if he is going to take it, it must be now or never.
Nelly, Poggi’s wife (a good woman, and hard to find), and even Poggi is unaware he is going through this stage of life. Who wants to admit it even if you know it, it is a launching pad for escapism, to live in the forbidden, the imaginary world; thus, in Lima they live a happy life, or as happy as they can make it. He once was a prominent psychologist, not so prominent nowadays, but surely infamous for his past exploits. And so this is where our story begins.
2
Poggi and the Cannibals: the Cannibals
“They will eat you,” said Victor, to Poggi, then un-expectant hope of deliverance from the cannibals in the deep jungles of Atalaya (by Satipo Jungle, in Peru) overwhelmed him but where would it come from?
“What can we do?” said Poggi (almost ready to run now, run where—in this dark deep jungle was a rhetorical question he brought forward to himself; it of course would be the unanswered question; statement-question).
There were perhaps, 200-native cannibals to the tribe, the Ashaninca. Now to be eaten out of his skin and perchance bones, his flesh, by these monsters, just didn’t seem right; yet he left his family on a quirk, idiosyncrasy, eccentricity, just up and left, that was it, no advise, or where he was going, just up and left and ended up in the jungle, journeyed to this land for whatever reasons, this hideous land of man eating primates, sinister as it was, it was: why, well, it has its own motivations, as I have said in the first part of this story.
So here he was, in the underworld of the jungle (the deep), the year was 1994, it would be a long year indeed; his nostrils filled with the jungle air; water falls running wild like unending corridors everywhere; sounds of water and birds everywhere. It was if anything, it was a strange new world undeniably.
Eccentric, perhaps he was, not a sin to be so; brave, indeed he was, for who would cherish such a dream; then Victor said, standing in front of the tribal leaders, whispered to Poggi, said in a low, very low voice, with a small bird in his hands [he was holding], “You must kill this bird in front of everyone, lest, you give them time to eat you, should you not.”
It was a tiny bird for sure, whistling a tune nonetheless, and a cut bird at that, yet it bestowed fear in the strongest of the natives, it was known to pick, and pluck out the eyeballs of their loved ones. Perhaps love is a strong word here: their comrades.
Poggi looked about, the natives were laughing (he would learn in the next year they laughed all the time, like monkey’s, all the time moving, laughing ‘ha, ha, ha…’ they bellowed it out constantly, with spears in hand, laughed with each other, not sure what they were laughing at, just laughing like lost souls, like idiots; painted up like devils, as he would be in time.
Now they were all looking at Victor and Poggi (Victor had proven himself to be a fearful friend, and was in no danger, as was Poggi).
“Eat the eyeballs out of humans, do they?” asked Poggi, as if to have it clarified (a rhetorical question at best).
‘Crack…!’ went the bird’s neck; Poggi had twisted it, broke its neck, and saved his life at the hands of these cadaverous jungle devils. He looked at the bird, as if it would whistle again, but of course it would not, and he knew that. And all the natives looked at him, he was one of them now. He painted himself likened to their kind, and lived with them for a year.
3
Salvaged From the Jungle
Advance: Jaime Bayli: TV commentator, and Nelly, Poggi’s wife, went looking for Poggi, wanting to find him, rescue him via helicopter. Bayli wanted an interview with him, and paid the expenses to find him.
Emerging one more time into the light of the full sun, was Poggi, after a year in the bowels of the jungle, likened to a long incarceration, he was now rescued by helicopter —Nelly, his wife Nelly and Bayli had hired a pilot and dissented into the camp area, compelled to bring back her estranged husband back home to Lima; he looked wild, when they saw him, accustomed to how he looked a year ago that is: he had changed.
The foliage of growing things of the jungle disappeared as the helicopter-ascended into the thick of the clouds, on their way back to Lima. He was now in the upper world you could say. Recaptured by the commentator and his wife. He wiped his eyes to look at Nelly; she was really the only one who seemed to understand him.
Below them a mighty forest became a story to be written (this story perhaps)) more perhaps to be written yet)), an interview in the makings. As they got close to Lima, one could see the haze from the pacific, in the distanced, faintly, then they descended, and in the mid-distance was Lima, spread out like a condor. Nelly pointed to the city, unknowingly, happiness was almost complete for her, and Jaime could see this in her actions, in her constancy.
[Hesitantly] “You’re not going to try to go back to the Jungle are you?” she asked her husband.
“Look,” he cried, his eyes found her figure, “God gave you to me,” he exclaimed (then became lost for words), and as his voice went to a whisper, he leaped into her arms [swiftly].
Note: Story gotten while Poggi was visiting the author for breakfast at his house in Lima, 5/7/06.
.
*The Paper Pickers of Buenos Aires [Argentina, 2002]
I arrived in Buenos Aries four days ago and my first reaction to the paper pickers, as I call them now, was ‘b…ee careful. …—‘It was the same reaction a women on an elevator in our hotel, who had just arrived said she had; our hotel was right off the largest street in the world called ‘9th of-July Street’; a sovereignty thing, from what I was told.
I seem to keep looking at the obelisk out my hotel window: I like the obelisk, I told my wife, just down the street a ways, it seems rather close from our window on the 9th floor.
It was funny, or so it seemed, that when I first arrived I asked to get a room with a good view of it [the obelisk I’m speaking of], and now my wife keeps asking me, “What you looking at…” I keep saying “the…obelisk honey, the obelisk, of course…” Sometimes you get a fixation on something (or at least I do), and you end up marveling at it unknowingly, as I was doing, still am doing.
“You know, what’s new baby, the obelisk is,” is what I’d say to her, and add, “you’re the cutest little thing this side of the Universe.”
Anyway, as I was saying, or about to say, I watched these ‘Paper Pickers’, for a number of days now. I could see them from my 9th story window, and of course as we’d walk home during the evening they’d be by the hotel. They could be mistaken for bums, young ones. But they were working, so the bum thing went out the window. They knew you were walking by them, watching them, but they never caught your eyes, they wouldn’t look at you, just kept putting paper into sacks, and breaking down boxes, and then they’d put them onto a wheelbarrow and brought them across that busy long, very wide street (the 9th of July Street) to the other side and down a few more streets, and down an alley, hour after hour, after hour, they did this. But I’m getting ahead of my story I think.
They were as I had said, stuffing these huge bags full of paper, and tying the boxes tight, from 2PM in the afternoon, to 12:00 AM at night, a good ten-hour day work. The streets after 9:00 PM seems to bare most of the mountain of paper, as they do their work right off main street, across from our four-star hotel.
It was the forth day, and my Spanish-speaking wife and I stood by the hotel door watching them. It was about 10:00 PM. I started walking over to them—slowly, we approached the group whom where somewhat scattered within a thirty food row or line (stretched out against the wooded black backboard, used kind of as a fence of sorts), although they were stagnated several feet apart from one another: in groups of twos: as a consequence, they worked at their trade together this way, perhaps for support—
A few eyes started to stare at us as we neared them, and then looked another way, but Victor whom would speak to me in a moment stood kind of frozen, a little surprised that I was nearing him, or so it seemed as I caught his eyes. He was about twenty-two years old. As I stepped forward to greet him, he extended his hands in a most unchallenging way, and I introduced my wife and myself. He still was estranged from what was taking place, I think he was simply used of going through basic motions, and when you altered that, by and large, it stops within a person (sometimes) the whole process—not only his thinking, his sensory perception, he’s kind of stunned, and so he was. That is to say, not knowing what my intent was, and surely knowing from my blue eyes and auburn hair, and light complexion, I was a gringo, with a Spanish wife (which was suspicious in itself) he was curious I was approaching him, yet not sure if indeed it was him I was approaching.
“Hola (hello)!” he said, with a quite calm voice, standing by his cart, half filled with paper compound, as compared to the full carts of the other couples. He was alone.
“I see you’re alone, not like the others who have a companion to help?”
My wife said to him in Spanish.
“My partner got sick on me tonight, and so I have to work alone.” He commented.
“So you have to try and take care of business like normal, for you must have certain people that depend on your arrival?” He smiled. I had noticed he rarely made eye contact with me, but my wife and I kind of forced Victor’s hand. My wife told him, I had several questions I’d like to ask, if he didn’t mind accommodating me with the answers, and they all related to his work?
As we stood there talking, he explained to me he worked this ten-hour day, going from hotel to hotel, to apartment store to apartment store, collecting paper and cardboard. Bulking it together and tying it down, then delivering it in black twenty-five gallon bags.
When they got enough filled they would bring them to the tuck parked a few blocks away, the people would weigh them at .40-cents per each kilogram [two pounds]. In a day or evening he would make four pesos, equal now to $1.20 [US]; a few years back that might have been about $4-dollars but the pesos were really down in comparison to the dollar at the moment. But he was working, which he was proud to show, not begging like so many and wanting money for standing and doing nothing.
Victor explained also that plastic was also recycled, but they had to bring it to another location; Victor’s eyes were dark brown, small and round, almost hypnotic: a very pleasant lad, graceful. I’m sure his parents were proud of him, for he was proud of himself.
I pulled out a 10-peso bill, gave it to him. He looked at me as if he was in disbelief, not sure if he should accept it or not. But my wife assured him it was for the information he provided, and therefore was and had worked for it [of which this story came from]. He looked at it a second time and took it.
As we walked away, I stopped and turned around to see him one last time, he was talking to some of his comrades: in particular, two guys by him who where standing loosely, and he was showing them the bill, while holding the bill with two hands, still in disbelief I would guess that it was his. It was 2 ½ days pay, but well worth it for this story. And I’m sure he didn’t mind his friend being gone that night after all; for he had a good story to tell him tomorrow about the gringo and the Spanish lady.
*People of the Walk [Santiago, Chile/2003]
If you have ever been in Santiago, Chile and spent a week there you would have recognize the “People of the Walk.“ They are the ones that have a certain street by the Palace area, and I guess one would call it the merchant area and they start gathering there about 4:00 PM. Sometimes even earlier, let’s say 2:30 PM. I’m not sure if they have some kind of a deal or not with the police, but they really stick together on this one street. No cars, just a walkway for the most part.
I found it most interesting, also a little sad, a little frustrating, and a little impressed with the people, so many emotions for this group of slum merchants. Or call them down and out merchants. Or sole proprietors with little money. But whatever you call them, they are not afraid of work, and some of the Americans can take a good look at them, some of the lazy ones that is, who want a free ride all the time, and think society owes them something.
Each day my wife and I would walk down this street a few times, around 10:00 PM there were at least a hundred or more of these People on the Walk. They had a system, let me explain:
they, each had a bag, suitcase or some kind of carry case to haul there merchandise with, something that could be folded up in a hurry; the reason being, if the police came walking by, they could—quickly—fold their four-by-four foot-space area up, that they had their merchandise on (usually some kind of blanket or plastic material), and walk away, as if they were not doing business. Then when the police would go, they would put there goods back on the ground and sell them to the passerby, casual observer, and member of the public. I purchased a few things from these merchants, they were good folk, and like anyone else, trying to make a buck, —but in this case the hard way.
Sometimes you would look behind yourself and the whole street, four to five blocks (of which they were selling on) were clean of merchants; although if you looked harder, they were resting against the nearest wall, as if they had disappeared, that is when the police were nearby disappeared, for within a minutes time, it was business as usual: yes, after the police left, it was dizzying.
The people were a sample of the whole city I believe—as young as eleven or twelve and as old as sixty or more, male and female.
Another interesting fact is that they all seem to know one another and had there own little clicks, -- amazing it was. It seemed to be understood, if not well known, that if the police caught a person, s/he could lose their possessions, and be put into jail, or simply have their things taken away from them. And that was their fear. But on the other hand, they had formed a kind of pack among themselves, a union of sorts, and when a few of the policemen took the merchandise, or was about to take it from a certain individual, they’d beat the policemen up, or try. I guess it had been done. And here I was watching this from the second floor of McDonald’s (and at other locations depending on the time of day).
And so my trip to Santiago, Chile, had one interesting element to it.
And to the “People of the Walk,” God bless you, and instead of stealing or robbing or selling drugs, Chile should be proud you are at trying to sell something to stay alive. I do realize there are no taxes being paid by you folks, and some of the items being sold are stolen from the local stores they are standing and selling in front of, but nothing is perfect, is it.
Gente del Paseo [Santiago, Chile/2003]
Si usted ha estado alguna vez en Santiago, (Chile) y pasó una semana allí, usted podría haber reconocido a la "gente del paseo”. Ellos son los que tienen cierta calle por el área del palacio, y supongo, que uno podría llamarlo el área mercantil, ellos comienzan a reunirse allí cerca de 4:00 PM. Algunas veces aún mas temprano, digamos 2:30 PM. No estoy seguro si tienen alguna clase de trato o no con la policía, pero realmente ellos se juntan en esta única calle. Ningún carro, solo un paseo principalmente.
Encontré esto lo más interesante, también un poco triste, un poco frustrante, y un poco impresionado con la gente, Así muchas emociones para este grupo de comerciantes de los tugurios. O llámelos comerciantes extremadamente pobres. O propietarios únicos con poco dinero. Pero cualquier cosa que usted los llame, a ellos no les asusta el trabajo, y algunos de los americanos podrían echarles una buena ojeada a ellos, algunos de los perezosos es decir, quiénes desean pasear libremente en todo momento, y piensan que la sociedad les debe algo.
Cada día mi esposa y yo caminábamos bajo de esta calle un rato, alrededor 10:00 PM. Allí estaban por lo menos cien o más de esta gente en el paseo. Tenían un sistema, déjeme explicar:
Cada uno de ellos, tenía un bolso, la maleta o una cierta clase de maletín para arrastrar con la mercadería, algo que se podría doblar en un apuro; siendo la razón, que si la policía venia caminando cerca, ellos-rápidamente-doblaban su área de aproximadamente cuatro-por-cuatro pies, en donde tenían su mercancía (generalmente cierta clase de manta o material plástico), y escapaban, como si no estuvieran haciendo ningún tipo de negocio. Luego cuando la policía se iba, ponían su mercancía nuevamente sobre el suelo, y así para venderlos a los transeúntes, observadores casuales y miembros del público. Compré algunas cosas de estos comerciantes, eran buena gente, y como cualquier persona, intentando hacer un dólar - pero en este caso de manera dura.
A veces usted miraría detrás de usted mismo y toda la calle, cuatro a cinco bloques (en los cuáles ellos estuvieron vendiendo) estaban limpios de comerciantes; sin embargo si usted miraba más minuciosamente, ellos estaban descansando contra la pared más cercana, como si hubieran desaparecido, eso era cuando la policía estaba cercana, desaparecidos, pero en pocos minutos, era nuevamente negocios como de costumbre: sí, después que la policía salía, esto era vertiginoso.
La gente era un ejemplo de la toda la ciudad yo creo-tan jóvenes como once o doce y tan viejos como sesenta o más, masculino o femenino.
Otro hecho interesante es que todos parecían conocerse el uno al otro y tenían allí sus propias señales pequeñas, -- sorprendente era esto. Parecía ser entendido, si no bien conocido, eso si el policía cogia a una persona, él o ella podría perder sus posesiones, y ser puesto en la cárcel, o simplemente quitarles sus cosas. Y ése era su miedo. Pero por otra parte, habían formado una clase de pacto entre sí mismos, una clase de unión, y cuando algunos de los policías tomaban la mercancía, o estaban para tomarlo de cierto individuo, ellos darían una paliza a los policías, o intentarían. Conjeturo que esto sido hecho. Y aquí yo estaba mirando esto desde el segundo piso de McDonald´s (y en otras localidades dependiendo de la hora y día).
Y así mi viaje a Santiago, (Chile), tuvo un elemento interesante de esto.
Y a la "gente del paseo " que Dios los bendiga, y en vez de asaltar o de robar o de vender las drogas, Chile debe de estar orgulloso que usted está intentando vender algo para sobrevivir. Me doy cuenta que hay impuestos que no son pagados por ustedes amigos, y algunos de los artículos que son vendidos, son robados de los locales de almacenes que venden ubicados al frente , pero nada es perfecto, ¿verdad?.
The Peanut Man
[Los Portal: —Plaza de Armes, Vera Cruz]
About anytime after 6:00 PM – the Peanut-man [Enrique] can be found in the Plaza-de Arms, (Antique) in Vera Cruz, Mexico; actually it is called [the] Los Portal, the location of the Plaza that is.
A baseball cap on his head, about twenty-three years old, blue jeans, white T-shirt, he carries a plastic-crystal-clear box of peanuts; —several selections, a wide assortment of peanuts; a belt [leather strap] crosses his chest and back—, attached to his box of peanuts of course: he walks this walk daily-–at great lengths he makes his way in and out, and around the tables that line up the north side of the chain of Cafés, that support the plaza area: like a Mexican style-New Orleans, one might say.
Actually, Vera Cruz, has a little of everything, not only peanuts [ruins, the Gulf of Mexico, live music nightly in the Plaza, etc]; but as I was saying, in and out, around and through the tables and chairs the Peanut-man goes each night; --fifteen pesos for a small assortment of peanuts on a small plastic dish, and 20-pesos for a larger plate. All in all, you get your money’s worth; in addition, for that price, you would get five-different kinds of peanuts; some round and brown looking, that look like peanuts, another kind that is long and thin, and it these to me, do not look like peanuts, but I suppose they are, and they it tasted good, it was more like a long sunflower seed, he called them peanuts anyway (so I will let it go at that of course).
And then there was that fat looking peanut, that had a light shell on it, my wife took them off for me, they were frustrating, I think I might have broke the table had she not rescued me: and I didn’t want to end up in jail, and court and all that kind of stuff, over peanuts. For some odd reason, she had the technique in shelling peanuts: my wife has good dexterity (I do not): what a blessing she can be. They were all salted and oiled.
He was (he being: the peanut man), was a friendly sort of chap, with a humble smile, --a brightness to it. Each night I would buy a plate of his peanuts, eat them later, bring them to the hotel room, when I got hungry, and I always get hungry at night in this Mexican New Orleans, or so it seemed, I looked forward to those peanuts.
Now back at the table, as I would sit and take in the night, I’d drink my espresso with a side order of hot milk, maybe some soup, and a pork sandwich, and of course those peanuts, those addicting peanuts.
Written while in Vera Cruz, Mexico, 3/2003 [revised/reedited 1/25/2006 in St. Paul, MN]
♥
Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk my mother]
She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left —
Where once there was plenty.
And so, poised and dignified
She said, farewell in her own way—
And left behind
A grand old time,
Room for another: —
Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.
Dlsiluk 7/03
◊
Reviews of the
Author Dennis L. Siluk
Awarded by the city and its Mayor, in December 2005, Poet Laureate de San Jeronimo de Tunán, Peru; in which he dedicated the book, ‘Poetic Images out of Peru,’ to the City and its Mayor.
From the author and poet, E.J. Soltermann, commented on Dennis' poem in his new book, "Last Autumn and Winter,” called "Night Poem, In the Minnesota Cold," he said: "That is Poetry." I know that is not a lot of works per se, but a powerful statement it is, coming from someone who can judge poetry for its worth; as Dennis once said, “Only a poet is suitable to critique a poet’s poetry.” Rosa Peñaloza
By Rosa Peñaloza,
I have in the past written many comments about Dennis’ work, and today I want to share with you some of his reviews and comments other people have had. He has a variety of literature out there, from short stories (over 225 now), to articles (over 825), to poems (over 1300), to chapbooks (he has done about 13-chapbooks) —and of course his 34-books, and he is working on four other books. Most of this work has been done in the past six years, minus three books, six chapbooks, and about 300-poems (along with some miscellaneous poetry).
For the most part, I think Dennis is best know for his travels and poetry; he has traveled the world over, now it is almost 27-times around the world, or as he said: 687,000-air miles; not to include all the travels he has done cross-countries, on the road, etc., he did when he was young, going to: San Francisco, Omaha, along with Seattle, and the Dakotas; he lived in all those places in the 60s; in the 70s he traveled throughout Europe for four years, during this time he went to Vietnam, in 1971, and came back to Europe thereafter. Now he has spent, or taken eight trips to South America, where he has his second home, and where he loves the Mountains by Huancayo.
Here are some of his reviews:
Note 1: Recent interview on Radio Programas del Perú, concerning his two publications: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”; reaching five countries, and three continents; over 15-million people; by Milagros Valverde, 11/15/2005, 11:00 PM. (Milagros read poems from both of Mr. Siluk’s books: “Spell of the Andes” and “The Ice Maiden”.)
Note 2: “Spell of the Andes,” recommended by the Cultural Agency in Lima- Peru; located in Alfredo Benavides # 605 - Apartment 201, phone number 2428942
Note 3: Interviewed by JP Magazine, interviewer Jose Luis Pantoja Ventocilla, who had very positive comments and appreciation for Dennis’ Poetic Peruvian Traditions and Contemporary way of Life; 10/26/2005.
Note 4: Mayor of San Jeronimo, Peru, Jesus Vargas Párraga, “All mayors should recognize Dennis’ work (on his Poetic Traditions of Peru; and favorable articles for the Mantaro Valley Region) and publicize it.... (paraphrased: we should not hide his work)”
Note 5: 91.7 Radio “Super Latina”, 10/19/2005, interviewer Joseito Arrieta, reaching 1.2 million people in the Mantaro Valley Region about the book “Spell of the Andes” (paraphrased): the Municipality and the Cultural House from Huancayo should give an acknowledgement for the work you did on The Mantaro Valley.
Note 6: Channel #5 “Panamericana” 10/16/2005, “Good Morning Huancayo” (in Huancayo, Peru ((population 325,000)); interviewed by reporter: Vladimir Bendezú, on Mr. Siluk’s two books: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”: also on, Mr. Siluk’s biography.
*Note 7: Cesar Hildebrandt, International Journalist and Commentator, for Channel #2, in Lima, Peru, on October 7, 2005, introduced Mr. Siluk’s book, “Peruvian Poems,” to the world, saying: “…Peruvian Poems, is a most interesting book, and important….” (Population of Lima, eight million, and all of Peru: twenty-five million)) plus a number of other Latin American countries: reaching about sixty-three million inhabitants, in addition, his program reaches Spain)).
Note 8: More than 240,000-visit Mr. Siluk’s web site a year: see his travels and books…!
Note 9: Mr. Siluk received a signed personal picture with compliments from the Dalai Lama, 11/05, after sending him his book with a letter, “The Last Trumpet…” on eschatology.
Note 10: Ezine Articles [Internet Magazine] 11/2005, recognized by the Magazine Team, as one of 250-top writers, out of 14,700. Christopher Knight, Editor; annual readership: twelve-million (or one million per month). Dennis has about 10,000 readers of his articles, poems and stories, alone on this site per month.
Note 11: Dennis L. Siluk Columnist of the Year, on the International Internet Magazine, Useless-knowledge; December 5, 2005 (Annual Readership: 1.5 million).
Note 12: Dennis L. Siluk was made Special Author, status, for the site www.Freearticles.com
Note 13: Mr. Siluk’s works are on over 400-web sites worldwide as of (early 2005)
☼
More Reviews:
Benjamin Szumskyj: Editor of SSWFT Magazine Australia
“In the Pits of Hell, a Seed of Faith Grows”
"The Macabre Poems: and other selected Poems,"
“…Siluk’s Atlantean poems are also well crafted, from the surreal…to the majestic…and convivial…” and the reviewer adds: “All up, Siluk is a fine poet…His choice of topic and theme are compelling and he does not hold back in injecting his own personal thoughts and feelings directly into his prose, lyrics, odes and verse…” (September 2005)
“…I liked your poem [‘The Bear-men of Qolqepunku’] very much. It is a very poignant piece.”
Aalia Wayfare
Researcher on the Practices
Of the Ukukus
“I just received your book ‘Spell of the Andes,’ and I like it a lot.’
—Luis Guillermo Guedes, Director
Of the Ricardo Palma Museum-House
In Lima, Peru [July, 2005]
“The Original title of the book Dennis L. Siluk presents is ‘Spell of the Andes’ which poems and stories were inspired by various places of our region and can be read in English and Spanish. The book separated in two parts presents the poems that evoked the Mantaro Valley, La Laguna de Paca…Miraflores, among other places. The book is dedicated to ‘the beautiful city of Huancayo’…”
By: Marissa Cardenas, Correo Newspaper,
Huancayo, Peru [7/9/05]
Translated into English by Rosa Peñaloza.
Mr. Siluk’s writings, in particular the book: ‘Islam, in Search of Satan’s Rib,’ induced a letter from Arial Sharon, Prime Minister of Israel, along with a signed picture. [2004]
“You’re a Master of the written world.” [Reference to the book: ‘Death on Demand’]
—Benjamin Szumskyj,
Editor of SSWFT-magazine out of Australia [2005]
A poetic Children’s tale “The Tale of Willy, the Humpback Whale” 1982 Pulitzer Prize entry, with favorable comments sent back by the committee.
“Dennis is a prolific and passionate writer.”
—Matt James,
Editor of ‘useless-knowledge,’ Magazine [2005]
“The Other Door,”…by Dennis L. Siluk…This is a collection of some 45 poems written…over a 20-year period in many parts of the world. Siluk has traveled widely in this country and Europe and some of the poems reflect his impressions of places he has visited. All of them have a philosophical turn. Scattered through the poems—some long, some only three lines—are lyrical lines and interesting descriptions. Siluk illustrated the book with his own pen and ink drawings.” —St. Paul Pioneer Press [1981)
“Your stories are wonderful little vignettes of immigrant life….
“… (The Little Russian Twins) it is affecting….”
—Sibyl-Child (a women’s art and culture journal) by Nancy Protun, Hyattsville, Md.; published by the Little Peoples’ Press, 1983
“The Other Door, by Dennis L. Siluk-62pp. $5….both stirring and mystical….”
—C.S.P. World News [1983]
“For those who enjoy poetry…The Other Door, offers an illustrated collection…Reflecting upon memories of his youth, Siluk depicts his old neighborhood of the 1960’s…Siluk…reflects upon his travels in poems like: ‘Bavaria’s Harvest’ (Augsburg, Germany and ‘Venice in April.’’’
—Evergreen Press
St. Paul, Minnesota [1982]
“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”
—The Sunday Forum
Fargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]
“Dennis Siluk, a St. Paul native…is the author of a recently released book of poetry called The Other Door….The 34-year old outspoken poet was born and reared in St. Paul. The Other Door has received positive reaction from the public and various publications. One of the poems included in his book, ‘Donkeyland-(A side Street Saga)’, is a reflection of Siluk’s memories…in what was once one of the highest crime areas in St. Paul.” [1983]
—Monitor
St. Paul, Minnesota
“This entertaining and heart-warming story …teaches a lesson, has all the necessary ingredients needed to make a warm, charming, refreshing children’s animated television movie or special.” [1983]
—Form: Producers
Report by Creative
Entertainment Systems;
West Hollywood, CA
Evaluation Editor
The book: ‘The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,’ writes Pastor Naason Mulâtre, from the Church of Christ, Haiti, WI; “…I received…four books [The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon…]. My friend it’s wonderful, we are pleased of them. We are planning to do a study of them twice a month. With them we can have the capacity to learn about the Antichrist. I have read all the chapters. I have…new knowledge about how to resist and fight against this enemy. I understand how [the] devil is universal in his work against [the] church of Jesus-Christ. Thanks a lot for your effort to write a so good book or Christians around the world.” [2002]
☼
Additional (mixed) Notes and Reviews:
Mr. Siluk was the winner of the magazine competition by “The Eldritch Dark”; for most favored writer [contributor] for 2004 [with readership of some 2.2-million].
And received a letter of gratitude from President Bush for his many articles he published in the internet Magazine, “Useless-knowledge.com,” during his campaign for President, 2004 [1.2-million readership].
Still some of his work can be seen in the Internet Ezine Magazine, with a readership of some three-million. [2005, some 350 articles, poems and short stories]
Siluk’s poetic stories and poetry in general have been recently published by the Huancayo, Peru newspaper, Correo; and “Leaves,” an international literary magazine out of India. With favorable responses by the Editor
Mr. Siluk has been to all the locations [or thereabouts] within his stories and poetry he writes; some 683,000-miles throughout the world.
His most recent book is, “The Spell of the Andes,” to be presented at the Ricardo Palma Museum-House in October, 2005, and recently reviewed in Peru and the United States.
From the book, “Death on Demand,” by Mr. Siluk, says author:
E.J. Soltermann
Author of Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War:
“The Dead Vault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better.” (Feb. 2004)
♥
Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk my mother]
She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.
And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another
Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.
—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03
Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.eldritchdark.com www.swft/writings.html www.abe.com www.alibris.com www.freearticles.com and many more
Books by the Author
Out of Print
The Other Door, Volume I [1980]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1981]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]
Presently In Print
The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon
Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants
Tales of the Tiamat [not released]
Can be purchased individually [trilogy]
Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast
Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib
The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:
A Path to Sobriety,
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery
Autobiographical-fiction
A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV
Romance:
Perhaps it’s Love
Cold Kindness
The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:
Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]
Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]
The Mumbler [psychological]
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]
Poetry:
Sirens
[Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [2004]
Spell of the Andes [2005]
Peruvian Poems [2005]
Last autumn and Winter [2006]
[Poems out of Minnesota]
Poetic Images out of Peru
[And other poem, 2006]
Jungle Poems Out of Peru
[And Other Poems, 2006]
The Sergeant’s Verses
(Last Minnesota Coffeehouse poems)
[2006]
The Fruit-cake
(Narrative ((story)) written for the Screen)
((2006))
∆
Dennis with Senator Keiko Fujimori (Previous First Lady of Peru) in Chiclayo, Peru
Back of the book
Jungle Poems and Stories
Out of Peru
—And Other Selected Prose and Poetry
By Dennis L. Siluk
In English and Spanish [Español]
Copyright © 2006Dennis L. Siluk
Jungle Poems Out of Peru
[And Other Selected Prose and Poetry]
Dedicated to:
The General Consul of Peru in
Chicago: Efrain Saavedra;
To the City of Chachapoyas;
And
Mama Maria
[Who loved the Satipo Jungle]
Special thanks to:
Rosa Peñaloza and Nancy Peñaloza for editing and translating from English into Spanish this book of Jungle and Peruvian poems, as well as other poems; and to Maria Isabel Espinal Tapia for arranging such a good trip in The Amazonas, and to Archeologist, Julio Rodriguez, for his input of the sites in the areas we went, he was also a member of our small group, while in the Chachapoyas Region, and well known throughout Northern Peru, and to our driver who made it through mud as thick as the walls of Kuelap, Mr. Gilberto Llaja.
Poeta Laureado de la Ciudad de San Jeronimo de Tunan
Introduction
By Rosa Peñaloza: in Dennis’ new book “Jungle Poems Out of Peru,” the poet delivers poems and a few expeditions, put into nonfiction short prose stories, along with a one act play; hence, he brings to life: the Amazon to Satipo to The Amazonas, to North-central Peru with his travels.
Dennis not only includes Peru’s jungles, but Venezuela’s Gran Sabana; also Northern Peru’s Amazonas; the Mantaro Valley, where he has a second home, loves the mountains, people; to Cuzco [Machu Picchu]; and the poet adds a few poems on San Juan Miraflores, where he lives in Lima, Peru; and also he includes The Galapagos in Ecuador. There are some 31-poems in all, done in English and Spanish. As always he uses imagery and intensification, with rhythmic flow to enhance the poems awareness for you.
One of the differences between Dennis’ poetry and other poets is: he has lived his, all-biographical insertions of his life. He went to The Amazonas after being inspired by the Consul General of Peru, Efrain Saavedra, a friend in Chicago, who was born there. And he has also expressed his enthusiasm for this book to Senator Keiko Fujimori (Previous First Lady of Peru) while in Chiclayo, Peru, March 2006, when they both met.
Spanish Version
Introducción
Por Rosa Peñaloza: En el nuevo libro de Dennis “Poemas de la Selva de Perú,” el poeta presenta poemas y unas expediciones, expresados en prosas de historias cortas de no fiction, junto con una obra de acto; de ahi, él trae a la vida: A la Amazonia, a Satipo, a El Amazonas, a la parte Central del Norte de Peru con sus viajes.
Dennis no sólo incluye la selva de Perú, sino tambien La Gran Sabana de Venezuela; también El Amazonas del Norte de Peru; el Valle del Mantaro, donde él tiene su segundo hogar, donde le gustan las montañas, la gente; a Cuzco [Machu Picchu]; y el poeta añade unos poemas sobre San Juan de Miraflores, donde él vive en Lima, Perú; y también él incluye Las Islas Galapagos en Ecuador. Hay unos 31 poemas en total, terminados en inglés y español. Como siempre él usa imágenes e intensificación, con el flujo rítmico para realzar la sensibilizacion de los poemas para usted.
Una de las diferencias entre las poesías de Dennis y la de otros poetas es de que él las ha vivido, todas son inserciones biográficas de su vida. Él fue a El Amazonas después ser inspirado al hablar con el Cónsul General de Perú, Efrain Saavedra, un amigo en Chicago, que nacio allí. Y él también le ha expresado su entusiasmo por este libro a la Senadora Keiko Fujimori (la ex-Primera Dama de Perú) mientras estuvo en Chiclayo, Perú, en marzo del 2006, cuando ellos se encontraron alli.
Indice
[Index]
*Out of order, philosophical or prose/short story
*Introductory Poem: “The Legends of Peru”
End of the Book
End Poem: Love and Butterflies
Other books by the Author
Reviews of the Author’s books
Jungle Poems
Part One
From Satipo to the Amazon
Satipo
1—Ode to Satipo:
Part one
Part Two
Part Three
[A Peruvian Jungle]
The Amazon
2—Lull of the Amazon [Peru]
3—La Gran Sabana [Venezuela]
4—Edge of the Amazon [Peru]
5—Pink Dolphins of the Amazon [Peru]
6—Little Kingdoms of the Amazon [Peru]
7—Giant Lilly pads of the Amazon [Peru]
.
Part Two
Provincia
[Peruvian]
Chachapoyas
The Amazonas of Peru
(From Lima to: Chicago, Kuelap and Karajia)
A narrated story [diary] into The Amazonas with poems.
8—An Afternoon in Chicago
(in Spanish and English)
9—The Kuelap Bum
10—The Chachapoyas
11—The Last Inca
12—The Flower Lady
13—Under the Kuelap Sky
14—Chachapoyas Mud
15—Kuelap, Crowned City of The Amazonas
16—The Five Expressions
17—Orquidiario
18—The Magic Well of Chachapoyas
[The Legend of: Yanayacu Well]
.
19—Night Sea-gulls over the Bow*
[Galapagos]
Part Three
Peruvian Poems
20—The Last Inca Hideout
[Cuzco, by Machu Picchu]
[In English and Spanish]
21—San Jeronimo Creek [Peru]
[Dedicated to the Mayor of Jeronimo, Jesus Vargas Párraga]
22—The Great Desert Kingdom of Peru
[Nazca] [In Spanish and English]
23—San Juan de Miraflores
[Lima, Peru]
[In English and Spanish]
24—Negrito, Little Negrito
[San Juan Miraflores; Lima, Peru]
In English and Spanish
25—The Bread Man of Miraflores
[In Lima, Peru]
26—The Papaya Man
[Lima, Peru]
27—Last Triumph in Cajamarca
28—Elegy for: The Lord of Sipan
29—Pigeons at La Favorita Café
30— The Chancay Maiden of the Supe Valley of Peru
[In Spanish and English]
31—Branches
[In Spanish and English]
32—The White Bobber Pigeon
33—The Jackal of Venezuela: Hugo Chavez
[Part I/For His Homeland]
34—The Panama Canal, 2006 (The Big Ditch)
A Poem with Commentary
*Expedition (or trips):
*The Green Sea of the Amazon [3/2001]
Afterward
The Canopy [Chapter 1]
Tarantulas [Chapter 2]
The Big Snake [Chapter 3]
Wine of the Amazon [Chapter 4]
Leaving the Amazon [Chapter 5]
[A short story/Expedition, by Chapters]
*The Amazonas Of Peru
[A short story/Expedition, by Chapters]
1—The Expedition
2—The Kuelap Bum
3—Chachapoyas
4—Chiclayo and Sipan
5—Walk around Chachapoyas
6—To Kuelap
7—Chicago to Chachapoyas
8—Up the Mountain
9—At Kuelap
10—Back Down
11—City Day
12—the Great Cross Over
13—A Legend of Sipan
*The Legend of Ernil Bernal [end chapter; Sipan]
*Karajia’s Sarcophagus
[And the Rio Utcubamba [Amazonas, Peru/3/2006]
1—Down the Road
2—The Rio Utcubamba
*Crossing of the Supe Rio
[A Private Tour to Caral]
[In North-central Peru] 4/12/2006
A short Play, in one Act 4/2006
*Poggi and the Cannibals
[Written 5/7/06/story took place: 1994]
*The Paper Pickers of Buenos Aires [Argentina,
2002/ short article on my observations]
*People of the Walk [Santiago, Chile/2003/ short article on my observations.]
[In Spanish and English]
*The Peanut Man
[Los Portal: —Plaza de Armes, Vera Cruz/ 3-2003/ a shrot article on my
obeservations.]
*Triumph of the Ghoul [Of: La Laguna de Paca]
A Play [In Spanish and English]
*Introductory Poem
“The Legends of Peru”
Where legends now flow and flow
And scattered pieces of the hero’s pyre,
sing: the stones of Kuelap, Chan Chan,
Cuzco—the Amazon ring and ring, as
Bards on windpipes blow their echoes…!
Thus, cords of music sweep into the jungles
And the Andes; here, —here dwells the city
Of the Andean sea—stone fortress, built
By the gods with stones, blood and clay,
— Machu Picchu! Here are the visions
— Of ecstasies; —sharper than a condor’s
Wings These legends flow and flow
And sing! — and flow and sing, and flow
and sing…infinity! “The Legends of Peru!”
#1286 3/23/06 Written while in Lima, Peru. Peru has a lot to offer the adventurous person from: legends from The Amazonas, to Cajamarca, Ancash, Lambayeque, La Libertad, Lima, Ica, Arequipa, Cusco, and Puno; to the far off places like Huancayo, Machu Picchu (by Cusco), Kuelap (in The Amazonas), Chan Chan (by Trujillo); and to Huacachina, las lineas de Nazca, to Tambo Colorado. Most of these places I have been to.
Wherever you go in Peru, you will find legends, and discoveries just being discovered; yes, you become a part of history just by being in Peru. Part of the adventure in Peru is, or can be trekking on routes; for me it is more archaeological sites, for others perhaps a magical journey with a personal itinerary. My vice is the ancestral legends perhaps, and the journey—I want the whole cup of coffee, or whole bowl of soup you could say, and in Peru you can have it. I do hope Peru remains the prize of South America—she is right now.
.
“Dost hear the…wind calling thee afar…”
—George Sterling
‘The Caged Eagle”
“It is time to get drunk!... with…poetry…!
—Charles Baudelaire
‘Twenty Prose Poems’
“I am writing these words with a pencil stub…”
—Robert Bly
‘The Urge to Travel Long Distances’
Spanish Version
Poema Introductorio
“Las Leyendas de Perú”
Donde las leyendas ahora fluyen y fluyen
y los pedazos dispersados de la hoguera del héroe,
cantan: ¡las piedras de Kuelap, Chan Chan,
Cuzco—El Amazonas suenas y suenas, como
Bardos en antaras soplan sus ecos …!
Así, las cuerdas de música barren en las selvas
y Los Andes; ¡aquí, —aquí mora la ciudad
de los Andes—fortaleza de piedra, construida
Por los dioses con piedras, sangre y arcilla,
—Machu Picchu! Aquí están las visiones
—de éxtasis; ¡-más agudo que las alas de un condor
Estas leyendas fluyen y fluyen
Y cantan! — y fluyen y cantan, y fluyen
y cantan…infinitamente! “¡Las Leyendas de Perú!”
#1286 23/Marzo/06 Escrito mientras estaba en Lima, Perú. Perú tiene mucho que ofrecer a la persona aventurera desde: leyendas del Amazonas, a Cajamarca, Ancash, Lambayeque, La Libertad, Lima, Ica, Arequipa, Cusco, y Puno; a los lugares muy alejados como Huancayo, Machu Picchu (por Cusco), Kuelap (en El Amazonas), Chan Chan (por Trujillo); y a la Huacachina, las Lineas de Nazca, a Tambo Colorado. En la mayor parte de estos sitios he estado.
En cualquier parte que te encuentres en Perú, encontrarás leyendas, y descubrimientos que recientemente fueron descubiertos; sí, te haces parte de la historia solamente estando en Perú. Parte de las aventura en Perú es, o puede ser un viaje largo y difícil en las rutas; yo prefiero sitios arqueológicos, otros quizás un viaje mágico con un itinerario personal. Mi vicios son conocer las leyendas hereditarias quizás, y los viajes—quiero la taza completa de café, o el tazon lleno de sopa, podrías decir, y en Perú puedes tenerlos. Realmente espero que Perú continue siendo el premio de Sudamérica—ella esta bien ahora.
From Satipo
Dedicated to Mama Maria
Ode to Satipo
[Part One/Jungle Eyes]
O Satipo, your jungle eyes—I see:
Lo, your life-filled warmth opens
Upon thy brow…
Be ye, open up—your jungle gates
For me,
Before—
Before the wild comes with new
And old roars
(and horrific drums from within
The deep…)!
I could feel and hear the jungle life
Within my veins—
Appeared images—within my brain.
Leafage, like peace offerings—
Silently—swayed,
Upon the shoulders of its kind—;
And here, here I stood, yes, here I stood
In paradise!
1/24/06 #1016
Ode to Satipo
[Part Two/Peru’s Abode]
Across her deep-paths of green
From rivers and valleys now
(from where I stand) unseen, —
thy heavens above, falls
forth
(in truth and trials, and long course)
I call you friend, and nobler than I,
Wherefore I stand, under your skies.
Wherefrom I saith, ‘Satipo!’—
Peru’s abode—
Precious as the Andean walls—
Be ye, lift up your gates:
Jungle (beauty),
For here is where stars are born!...
#1017 1/24/2006
Ode to Satipo
[Part Three/Shades of Green]
O, patient Satipo, in silent
Green!
Complexities, triumphs
Wings like engines
(everywhere)
And—, whatever way I look,
Shapes and wonders: bounties
Uproot—!
That thou with loving care
Created
A thousand colors of jade
Receding in your forest-green,
hence, I sense your bliss:
Within
Your wildness…!
#1018 1/24/2006/reeduted in Peru, 3/17/2006
Spanish Version
De Satipo
Dedicado a Mama Maria
Oda a Satipo
[Parte Uno/Ojos de la Selva]
Oh Satipo, tus ojos selvaticos—veo:
Mira, tu vida llena de calor se abre
Sobre tu frente…
Tengan ustedes, abiertas—sus puertas de la selva
Para mí,
¡Antes—
Antes que el salvaje venga con nuevos
y viejos rugidos
(y tambores horrendos desde
lo profundo..)!
Yo puedo sentir y oír la vida de la selva
Dentro de mis venas—
Imágenes aparecidas—dentro de mi cerebro.
Follajes, como ofrecimientos de paz—
Silenciosamente—balanceados,
Sobre los hombros de su clase—;
¡Y aquí, aquí estuve, sí, aquí estuve
En el paraíso!
23/Enero/2006 #1016
Oda a Satipo
[Parte Dos/Morada de Perú]
A través de sus caminos profundos verdes
de ríos y valles ahora
(desde donde estoy) no vistos, —
tus cielos encima, cataratas
en adelante
(de verdad y pruebas, y curso largo)
te llamo amigo, y mas noble que yo,
Por que estoy de pie, bajo tus cielos.
Por que yo digo, “¡Satipo!”-
La morada de Perú-
Precioso como las paredes Andinas—
Ten, levantadas tus puertas:
Selva (hermosa),
¡Porque aquí es dónde las estrellas nacen!...
Enero/24/2006 # 1017
Unos apuntes acerva de Mamá Maria: Ella vivió la mayor parte de su vida, no regularmente, en Satipo en la selva de Perú; esto talvez fue su tercer o cuarto amor: primero Dios, ella misma, su esposo e hijos, y luego la selva; yo creo que esto pudo ser en ese orden, o talvez su esposo e hijos, y luego ella misma, yo no se; pero lo que yo conozco es esto: si ella amo a la selva la mitad de lo mucho que yo amo escribir poesía: ella verdaderamente amo monumentalmente, entonces quien mas merece esta poema dedicado, yo no se si alguien mas además de ella.
To the Amazon
Little Kingdoms of the Amazon
In the Amazon
there are kingdoms
breathing, eating
roaming about
in perfect harmony
(insects and birds,
monkeys and wildcats
and macho black ants!)
that is why the
Amazon
is never quiet
it’s those foot-steps,
moving all night
and all day—long!
#1225 2/20/06
Giant Lily pads of the Amazon
Inches apart, they lie hot and lazy
On the water’s surface, shapes looking
all afternoon sky-ward at the sun
These, Giant Lily-pads, slim and green
Floating like kings, one after the other
Hidden in a pond, so it would seem—
Calm and Friendly, deep in the Amazon.
My wife is small, a Peruvian, I’m thinking:
(amazed at their size)—’she could fit on one,’
although that might not be to her liking.
Now the sun eases: the breeze comes, we
Have to paddle the boat out backwards—
I wonder if they’ve lived here very long?
Perhaps for centuries like the crocodile.
#1227 2/20/reedited: 06-3/14/06. The happening took place when my wife and I were in the Amazon, in 3/2001, I can still see her gazing at the lily pads, in amazement.
Pink Dolphins of the Amazon
My wife and I see a long arched fish
Pink—jumping like a spring:
Lifting from the water so all can see
The beauty of her sleek and pink body:
And back down she flops, headfirst
Onto, into the waters, of the Amazon.
She tossed water about our boat.
Splashed water on my throat.
She moves swifter than the wind
This pink dolphins of the Amazon…;
Swimming low, high, scouting the river,
Summoning whoever is nearby—.
#1226 2/20/06/ reedited 3/17/06; again this occurrence took place on our trip to the Amazon in 2001, and like everything else, in this jungle habitat; it was amazing to see and experience.
La Gran Sabana
[Salto del Angel]
(Advance) I left the madness of the city to seek out the jungle of the Gran Sabana that melts into the Amazon basin, in the year 2000—(year of ‘The Beast’ for me)) part of a honeymoon trip also)). How shall I tell you what I’ve learned? Its beauty is out of the order of the mind—a strange beauty indeed; thus, the verse blended in this poem here is the labor of a dim eye (a clap of the eye), in the back of the mind (the poem):
I did not go to the Gran Sabana, have Angel Falls touch me—for joy, or for the burning stars at night; nor did I expect to see mountains called: Tepuis—towering over the highlands, and its virgin terrain (a lost world). But rather, I went for quietness, which covered my wishful eyes: joy I found in natures wonders, amongst the winking star-lit-nights and the endless Jungle!
O’ yes, I’ve trekked through her rainforest; sat on the edge of her towering peaks, looking up and down Angel Falls (3000-feet). Walked her plateaus, descended her cliffs, retuning to civilization—with uplift. She is timeless, par excellence, and breathless: to anything on earth in the vein of a wonders dream!
Commentary: the jungles of Venezuela, where I was, were three areas enmeshed together called the Gran Sabana. The Gran Sabana meshes as others do, into the Amazon Basin. It is different than the Peruvian area where the Amazon River is —and its thick rainforest beyond its banks. Here you will also find the Orinoco Basin, again I say, enmeshed: again I say together, for there are no fences, as if thrown into a bowel of soup. This area was undisturbed by white men until the 1980s; there are a number of ethnic groups in this area, I saw a few groups, with their dug out boats, going about their business, as I was going about mine, and I did not invade their privacy. In contrast, the Peruvian Jungle and Amazon River, I went to, and down, and inland, I did join (go into) a few communities, observing their dwellings within the jungle, their habitat, customs, and way of life for the most part, by invitation. This area, the Gran Sabana is right out of Mr. Doyle’s story “The Lost World”; most incredible. This trip took place in May of 2000. It was a trip, or part of a four-part honeymoon trip that took a year to complete all four parts.
Note and short commentary on the Amazon: when I was in the Amazon, 2001, some of the great and breathtaking scenes were the Giant Lilies; young puma cats, cocoa plants, rubber plants, it was a world unto itself. I’m not a nature person, but I could become one after seeing the several jungles around the world I’ve seen. In the Amazon, its tropical look is all around you; paddle boats, boats of many kinds, going up and down the river. I talked about going to the Amazon for 10-years, my friend Diane Horton, retired school teacher, had reminded me of that when I was ready to go in 2001. It is a river full of Piranha, I ate the two I caught (my wife Rosa, ate the one she caught); and of course it is a land of snakes, and pink dolphins, as I saw them leisurely going down the Rio, and yes, I had to swim in the river, just to say I did it.
We went down the Amazon from Iquitos by boat, down the long wide river where I was going was about 125-miles, there are lodges for tourists, from primitive to a ting better. At nighttime I went tarantula hunting; they sleep under the big roots of giant trees, my wife hid behind me when our guide woke a couple up with his magical stick. Also in Iquitos, is where the Iron House is, designed by Mr. Eiffel, who designed the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Also, in the deep heart of the Amazon, is the world’s longest canopy, I went up its 115-foot height to the point I could peak over the top of the trees of the jungle, what a sensation.
Lull of the Amazon
[The Peruvian Amazon]
I know the Amazon, long and desolate she is:
I know her currents have stripp’d the sky’s blue.
Lo, my friends! Beneath her brutal waters weight
rests the crust of the earth—, there pink dolphins
Rest in grace; yet, yet I seek her fabled shores,
to pacify my curious desires, with her mystic lore.
I shall wander in her riddled labyrinth—here, in this land
—hypnotize (within my mind) for evermore.
#763 Written: 7/2005; Revised 1/2006; its originally named, “Magic of the Amazon.”
Note by the author, “I was in the Amazon March of 2001, a voyage of a lifetime of course, but it seems also to put an everlasting enchantment on you. Tedious was it long ride down its Rio, for an impatient poet, I can be, but its endless evening sounds, its never-ending tributaries they all engulf, envelop you: along with its sea of green, and its massive water supply is just mind boggling. It is close to 4200-miles long; supplies more water than The Mississippi, The Nile and the Yangtze combined.”
The Edge in the Amazon
One night after dinner we heard the wings of birds fighting in the dark: and with a few lit gas lamps along the wooden walkway, we still couldn’t see a thing, though, only the walkway. Past our hooch flowed the steady beating of the wings.
The Amazon is never quiet, gloomy at night it can be, the sounds dominate, takes the edge off a man—, possibly defeat.
A huge brown toad stood in the outhouse, looking at me, like a rhino, just staring (what a time to rush me, I thought)) now its toads I said to myself, what next?))
#1221 12/16/06
TheGreen Sea
Of the Amazon
Advance: Most of my stories or books have been mixed with characters and sunken into the imaginary (non-fiction that is into historical fiction). This one hasn’t. This writer has attempted to write absolutely a true story to see if it can match, or present, or compete with the work of the imagination. Also added to this story are a few poems to perhaps heighten the emotion, if that is possible (Time Period: AD 2000, March/Summer in South America).
Thoughts About the Amazon
I was smitten by The Amazon I suppose you could say, utter happiness, or perhaps it was gladness I was experiencing; I know my nostrils loved it, fresh oxygen all the time. One recognizes one’s self, or can when taking in the full elements of the Amazon, the: smells, sounds, fresh air, the hidden animals, the sights. A little bit of everything for the senses all pushed together into a ball you might say.
I had my doubts of how I’d like, or respond to the Amazon, that’s why it’s been five years in the waiting, for me to write about it. I did not think I should write about something of this nature unless it was extraordinary, then I thought: no, that isn’t a good enough reason for me not to write about it, so here it is. Nothing extraordinary, except it is the Amazon, and that is unique.
The Expedition
1
The Canopy
And the Village
We were standing 119-feet high up on a canopy that scientist had built of rope and boards, tied to towering jungle trees, and then I heard my guide below, talking to two visitors. It was too far away; I could not tell what was being said. Then the talking stopped, and I told my wife Rosa, ‘I hope he doesn’t leave without us, it gets dark here early…’ The canopy moved, swayed a bit to the right and left as we scaled its thin walkway here and there, up and down its wooden pathway: it was at this time the longest jungle canopy built in the world. I then motioned down to our guide—who had lived in this part of the jungle all his life, so he told us, and so it seemed—I motioned down to let him know, we were coming down. He was perhaps in his early forties, I, I don't know, was ten years older than he I suppose. He was broadly built, robust, and a likeable kind of fellow, assured, or self-confident in himself, and in no doubt, about his knowledge of the jungle.
“Anytime!” he said, Avelino yelled up to us, he meant it was up to us when we went back to our lodge in the thick of the Amazon jungle. It was to be an hour and a half walk back, the same it took to get here. And I knew a good portion of that walk would likely be towards dusk, or in the twilight of the evening, and much more, should we not get moving. I liked Avelino; he had spent forty-years and then some in this part of the Amazon, about 125-miles from Iquitos, Peru, where we got to spend a half day walking around Iquitos, but not much more; stopped at an old bar, from the booming days of the rubber plantations: when money was plentiful, so the barkeeper told me. Then we visited the Iron House, architecture by Mr. Eiffel himself, who created on paper the famous Eiffel Tower, in Paris, for the Worlds Fair, back in the 1880s. He also did the architecture work for the Iron Market in Haiti, where I had been in 1986, on another trip.
“Wait a minute,” I told Rosa, I wanted to make sure I had walked the whole canopy (she smiled as usual and followed me, every inch of it, every corner and by every tree that it was tied we walked), not sure why, perhaps to say I did it, like a mountain climber, I climbed to say I got to the top, in our case, around the top—and so I rushed that process up, so we could get on down and start our journey back. I could say now, without a doubt, I could say I had climbed to the top of the Jungle, looked over its roof, and saw its sea of green.
It was now conceivably, an hour or so before that last of light, when it would shrink into twilight, and then dusk: thus, our light would be gone. Frankly, I made a last look over the top of the jungle: while Avelino simply waited down in the opening of the area below. After a moment’s time gazing over the top, Rosa and I now were headed toward the rope ladder that lead down to the first platform, there were three platforms we had to descend to.
On the first platform, we stopped and hesitated a minute to get our balance, and take breaths, or at least I did, Rosa really didn’t need to I suppose, she seems to adjust in the jungle as well as she does in the high mountains of the Andes to its thick or thin air, quite well, in comparison to me. We had gone up once, or I suppose you could say several times, to heights in the mountains to exceed 16,500-feet, and she never groaned a bit, as thin as the air gets, she was like she was at sea level, while I’m gasping for air and trying to rid myself of the headache coming.
“Let’s go,” I said to Rosa, meaning to the second level, yet I wanted to make sure she knew I was about to descend, and that was the best way to inform her, so neither of us got in the other’s way as we climbed down.
“Yes,” she agreed, in her broken English, a native to the Spanish language, and about three years into speaking English as a second language. “It’s going to get dark soon,” she added.
“Yaw, I hope he knows the way back in the dark, but he does have that flashlight.” I said.
“I’m glad you pushed the fact we should take the flashlight along in the first place, he really didn’t want to, said he didn’t need it, but it makes me feel safer, even if he doesn’t need it. But I think he’ll need it,” Rosa said.
At that moment he glanced up at us, as I put my foot down into the next loop of the rope, as if to say: ‘here we come, we’ll soon see if you know your way back or not.’ (But of course I didn’t say that, I thought that, lest he hear me, and I disrespect his knowledge he so aspires to having of the jungle.) The last several steps were wooded ones, and then the end platform, and out into the open area.
As I caught my breath (for the second time) I waited for Rosa to adjust herself. Avelino approached us, the flashlight in his back pants pocket. I took a last look at the trees holding the canopy up, the ropes tightly wrapped around them: the ladder that went up, as well as down—then turned about, saw the path ahead of us, the same one we had come through, that would lead us back out and into the deep of the jungle—, it was dark in there, already; the rays of the sun were not piercing the openings of the foliage as it was doing a few hours ago I thought.
There had been rain a few days ago, but not enough to make the ground soggy, or difficult to walk on or through, yet it was not completely dry either, and it would make for a slower walk than what harder gravel would have allowed. I kind of was thinking of trying to walk at a faster pace back, and Avelino was thinking the same, and it would turn out we were thinking alike, and Rosa with her little legs, and me with my worn out lungs, ended up far behind him, with that flashlight still in the back of his pants pockets. As we walked through the jungle, there was no way to keep up with him; he was like a wildcat, and perhaps, perchance showing off a ting. But he slowed down then, allowed us to catch up, and I gave him a smile attached to a smirk.
There were opening in the jungle where you could get a good look at the sky, but it was a quick look if you were walking at the pace Avelino was leading. A black cat, a pantera or panther had run by, in the not too far distance along side of us, I called to Avelino, and pointed it out, “Just gato [cat], in natural habitat, no more, dhats all…” he said as if it was an ant trying to find its way back to his anthill. Matter of fact, it was a while back when I saw those anthills, and they were two feet high, and four feet around, and a stream of ants were going to and fro, and I was going to kick it for the hell of it, to wake them up—or to simply see them go wild, and I got the smirk I gave him (Avelino) today, back. Not sure what would have happened, but I suppose, if they were hungry I’d not be alive to write this story.
The cat was gone now, perhaps it was 200-feet from us, too far to get a perfect picture of it with my old and aging eyes, but I suppose I need not had gotten a better glance, it was good enough, so I told myself.
There were a lot of dry leaves, and roots extending out of the ground, not as bad as when I was in the Gran Sabana, a year earlier: ‘Thank God for little favors,’ I told myself… those roots killed me, kind of. Broke some toenails, and a friend of mine, a little older than I, fell and broke his nose, and a few others got cuts, and so forth and so on, it was a three hour hike in the jungle back then, always going upward, upward, until you were on a ledge looking over at Angel Falls, 1500-feet high, and 1500-feet below you, and the water of the falls, slapping you in the face, it was the place Rosa wanted to go to for our honeymoon, we each selected one place, and then I added two more: Angel Falls was her place, Alaska was mine, and New York City and Tikal, were ours. After the honeymoon traveling I liked Angel Falls the best, and Rosa liked Alaska the best, and the Lord gave us each a cross for a compliment, but that is another story unto itself.
The roots, the wild cat, the ants, the canopy was not much compared to some of the things we had to put up with elsewhere. I shouldn’t say, put up with, it was all an adventure, was it not, one I begged for I suppose, and got. As I then looked up into the sky, I thought, ‘It would be dusk soon,’ and I was already getting tired, and we were perhaps one forth of the way back to the lodge. Avelino had one speed it seemed, high gear; the only way for him to slow down was to stop. To be quite honest, I think he wanted to make it back to the lodge before he’d have to show us he needed the flashlight.
Many things seemed to move in the threes, in the plant life, undergrowth in the not too far distance, nearby; sounds everywhere, movements, a few eyes I saw (I think they were eyes, the green of the jungle was getting blinding), although they didn’t look dangerous—only still, up in those tree-branches so I just kept moving.
The Jungle Path
So now going along the green path in the rainforest, I started to notice large toads, and a frog, a very small one, with a glowing yellowish shade on its back; I was told to leave them be (somewhere along the informational line)) Rosa informed me of its deadliness as I had leaned down to get a better look)), they were poisonous. You get, or I got anyways, the profoundest urge to grab that cute little frog and give him a lift; but I dared not, and of course we both knew of this already: my little angel, Rosa, mention me.
Rosa saw, what she called the big lazy bears resting on branches resting on branches here and there, a few more eyes here and there, and we all were getting hungry, and we knew the cook at the lodge was cooking Rosa’s and my piranhas, ones we caught yesterday. I was determined to eat them, not sure why (I had caught two, and Rosa had caught one), I suppose because they liked eating human flesh, and this was time to get even with them (eat them before they eat you—thing); but then I really liked eating anything that was fish, but somehow I predicted eating a piranha would be more glorifying, and taste better, even if it wasn’t tasty at all, and it was good, like a sunfish from a Minnesota stream.
In catching these piranhas I had used a pound of steak meat, yes one pound to catch three little big-mouthed piranhas. We caught them in the dark-waters, in one of the tributaries that connected into the Amazon River (the roots of the trees give off this chemical that makes the water darkened, and the piranhas seem to like this sort of water, akin to vampire fish they are, a mysterious breed indeed). Around our lodge there were many tributaries and streams, and ponds, all enmeshed into this basin area that was a little distance from the main Amazon River.
Rosa had brought some water along, she had insisted somewhat in doing this, I was thinking I would not need it, but a fresh drink of water was just what was needed, and I drank my share in one setting I do believe. The coolness was invigorating, and I needed to rest, and our guide was getting farther in the distance and we called out to him, and the night was creeping in, smelling the good smells from the Amazon. I was very happy, very glad to be here, I had thought about going into the Amazon for ten-years, ten long years; and here I was. People had told me: how can you afford it. I told them: stop drinking or smoking, and put your money together, and don’t buy that new car for another year or so. It is easy to save when you really want to save, just cut out your dirty habits, or perhaps your wants, and just deal with your needs. It was like going on a diet.
The Village
We had now come to a village…we had not stopped for a half hour straight walking, and we seemed to have taken a little side trip, yet still in somewhat of the same direction of the campsite, or lodge; Avelino wanted to introduce us to the chief of this village, who seemed also to be a seer; he greeted us, and Rosa talked to him in Spanish. He gave us a tour of the village, then I asked Rosa, “Tell him I want to take his picture,” and she asked the chief.
“But make sure,” he said, “to take my whole body, the spirits, the evil spirits are out for me, and want the chance to invade me, that would open a window for them,” and I assured him the picture would be of his whole body, I had a Polaroid camera in hand, and so he could see it immediately, and he was pleased with that.
“Do you think he will let me blow that six-foot, blow gun?” I asked Avelino.
“Sure,” he said, and walked over a foot or two, to where the chief was, and said something to him, and brought the blowgun back to me. I steadied it with two hands, and blew the dart through and out the tiny opening at its end, the hole, with all my might and breath, it went about three feet, that was it. Then the chief looked at me, trying to hold himself from laughing: he, the chief blew it, and I bet it went all of twenty-feet. I smiled at the old man; I was too embarrassed to try it again. I had stopped smoking fifteen-years prior to this event, but it didn’t do much good for air capacity in my lungs, so I found out.
Then we sat in a big open enclosure, and he talked to us, saying something in Spanish to my wife: it was an invitation to stay in the village the night if we wanted to, but I declined the offer; then Rosa asked him something about my illness, Multiple Sclerosis, and he asked questions about it, the symptoms: “In the morning,” he said, “you come back here in the morning, I have some sap from a tree I will drain tonight, it will heal his illness.”
Rosa translated this to me (what she had said): she had told the chief it was a neurological problem, that I was dropping things and got tired quickly, and my eyesight was half-hazard half the time, and I got tired often, and I needed to sleep for long periods, so forth and so on, etc., and it was making me unstable: all true I suppose. And he added it would cost ten-soles, or about 3.5 dollars. I assured him I return in the morning for the bottle and try it. Rosa smiled at him, and we said our goodbyes, but drank some coconut juice before we started our journey in the dark, and now our guide, pulling out the flashlight from his back pocket (humbly) indicated he indeed did need more light for the path we were about to trek back on, by saying: “I guess I am glad we brought it along…” he didn’t look at me when he said that, just said it, and just pulled it out of his back pocket, like John Wayne would in the cowboy movies pull out a gun around his hip; hence, he aimed it, and flashed it straight ahead.
We would return in the morning for the—whatever it was—substance the chief had for me, and I did use it for several months, and it did seem to stop the progression of the MS, not cure it, but slow it down, and stabilized me, more than what I saw for time I was taking it, I would perhaps have to go back there for more, I thought, after my return home. And after it was gone, it did get worse.
Chapter Two:
Tarantulas
We were out and under the light of the moon, a good distance from our lodge, in the thick of the jungle, the Amazon. This time there was no path to guide us, but Avelino assured me he didn’t need one, it was his ‘backyard,’ so he said, matter-of-fact, he said that too many times, it made me suspicious. Now we were in the dense jungle, a flashlight in his hands, and mine likewise, the moon over our heads we could hardly see, looking for—none other than the big spider, the Tarantulas. We were lucky in that we got our own guide, and the other group three or four couples to one guide for them all. It was, as I wanted it, if possible.
As we walked in the deep, we past many large trees, larger and thicker than the thickest pillars of any cathedral I had yet seen (except one), and I’ve been in many cathedrals around the world: from Istanbul to Rome, and throughout South, Central, and North America— (and the biggest pillars I’ve yet to discover I found in an underground cathedral, in Colombia, outside of Bogotá called: La Catedral de Sal; 83-feet round; second place St. Paul, Minnesota, Cathedral, 42-feet)) perhaps the Catedral de Sal had a larger circumference [was larger round] than the tree, if so it was the only pillars that could match these trees I saw)); all along our sides was entangled shrubbery, a wealth of green. Rosa and I walked shoulder to shoulder, and as far as I knew Avelino was walking every which way. But somehow we got him to slow down for me, and thus, I got to rest when needed. We had stopped earlier in the day at his home village, perhaps—two-hundred natives, several houses on sticks, or I should say, wooded beams; and a large school house, a square box type building, with a tin roof, and thin wooded sides for walls, not much but it served it purpose—were present.
It now came to mind, as we walked through this thick foliage of a jungle at night—, the story he told us: his village was along side the river, “We got to keep a good eye out on the children, they run off, and get into the bulky high grass, and the big cats come and pull them by the necks, or the snakes come and swallow them whole, but mothers can’t be everywhere all the time, can they…” so he said, rhetorically, with a look at me from the side of my eye as if to see if I was taken back by this. And then he introduced us to his sister-in-law.
All of a sudden we stopped by a big tree, its trunk was perhaps thirty feet round, and its roots extended a half foot out of the ground, and a big hole was under one root, the largest root it seemed of the tree, or what I could see of the tree.
“It’ll all work out,” he said looking at Rosa, and putting his stick into the hole, thinking perchance, Rosa might freak out or something. Rosa was behind me, I was about four feet from the hole, and of course our guide was almost on top of it, possibly two feet, with his stick inside of it.
Then I saw, and I’m sure Rosa saw legs coming out of the hole: extending out of the hole, not rat legs, but legs… “That’ll be ok,” he said, not sure if he was talking to us or the creature inside the hole; the legs turned out to be hairy, reddish-brown, huge spider legs, called a Tarantula: larger than my whole hand, legs longer than my fingers, as thick as my fingers. Rosa moved just a ting, “Where’d he come from,” she said.
“It’s his home,” said Avelino “I woke him up.”
Now Rosa stood still and I was amazed, as the eyes of the creature kept staring at me, or so it seemed, and Avelino waved his long magic wand (or stick) around its legs, as if it tranquilized it; or had him trained to stand down. Then another long legged tarantula came out, as if to either protect its mate, or join in on the festivities. But the second one never came out all the way, like the first one; it kept its guard, and remained halfway in the hole.
“Be calm Rosa,” I said, I could hear her heart beating, and her breathing heavy, but she is a good sidekick when it comes to traveling, she wants to be part of everything, I can only recall once when she panicked and I had to retreat from my forward advance: it was in Glastonbury, England, on the Tor, the Great Mound, known in ancient times as Avalon, when a herd of cows, huge cows came up, and she is a small woman, and they came blocking the walkway to the top, from the bottom upwards as we were coming down, and I grabbed her shoulders, as not to panic and started walking through the herd, and she pulled away and ran to the side of the mound, and I joined her (as she was starting to freeze up with alarm), and we climb down the mound sideways. And so I thought, once down the Tor: ‘…oh well, one out of a hundred is not bad.’
So here we were with two monstrous huge spiders, with beady eyes staring at us, and I guess it was to me, the funniest thing to see this stick tranquilize them to the point of curbing out the danger, to where there seemed not to be any.
It had been a full day, and therefore—after this escapade—we went back to the lodge and had a good nights sleep, but first we ate our fish.
Chapter Three
The Big Snake
So when we got back to the lodge that night, we ate our fish our piranha that is, and it was delicious; we also played the guitar, or I did I should say, in the main hall, and both Rosa and I painted a picture on a plaque, which was really a piece of plain wood, that they [they being: the lodge staff] hung up on the wall to let others know who you were, and when you had come to the lodge, they had plaques all around the lodge.
There was only gaslights throughout the lodge, inside and outside on the walkway. We had well water, and a tank, and we had big giant toad’s guarding our outhouse, as you’d go into it to take a dump. So to summarize the evening, we ate, played the guitar in the dark of the nightfall, with crickets and wings flapping here and there, and noises you’d never hear any other place except in the Amazon, painted a picture and said goodnight to the toads, and went to sleep.
The following night we started ahead of everyone else, to go find snakes, the great anaconda nonetheless. And at night is the best time I was told to look for them: they need sun to regenerate, being a cold blooded creature, and consequently, at night rests, they are at their weakest; we humans are just the reverse, in a part, we need rest, day or night; protean is what makes our bodies regenerate for the most part—, better put: both sleep and food produces the regenerating heat, which our body needs, and the sun for perhaps Vitamin D along with all those other happy feelings we get from the beams of the sun.
And so here we are, all regenerated from a previous nights sleep, and a nice dinner, and looking for Mr. or Mrs. Anaconda or even baby would do. We took a large boat, so they said it was large, it looked normal to me, the right size for three people, and we rowed with ores down the tributary of the Amazon near our lodge, looking for this snake of snakes half the night.
Not sure if the snakes were small or big, but every time, I mean every time we got near the banks of the river, the snakes would hightail-it out of the vicinity. Our guide had told us then, that—recently more people were coming down into the Amazon to where they knew [the snakes knew that is] when a boat [s] came near, especially these big boats, came near by banks of the river and would leave quickly. That there were not many large snakes around here anymore that we’d have to go to another location, but it would take a couple of days, not an evening. Plan B, was to get a smaller boat, and sneak in on the snakes, should we find one, and he assured me we would, providing we went along with his Plan B.
It was a hot evening, and it was only 11:00 PM, but very dark, as we got close to the bank again, for the umpteenth time. And again we heard the sounds of the high grass with movements: it was a big snake for sure, our guide assured us of that, but as he said before, he repeated again, “We need to go back and get the dugout.” It was a canoe of sorts, a tree I do believe just chipped out by hand and chisel—I saw one a few days ago it looked rough to me; and should you rock the boat, Rosa felt we’d end up swallowed up by the snake, especially Rosa, being 4’11”, she was a half meal for the big snake, me perhaps a meal and a half.
By the time we got back to the lodge, ready to take the dugout boat, I looked at Rosa, the boat, Rosa, the Boat, and said, “I can’t do it, it is just too thin and small, and it was made for the natives not for me.” I am not a big person, but the dugout couldn’t shelter me even for a coffin I do believe.
“Hell with it,” I said, “let’s go in, call it a night,” disappointed I was, but there is always reasons for things, and so I do not tempt fate, I just thank God for the moment.
Chapter Four
The Wine of the Amazon
In the following days I saw dozens of small animals, such as monkeys (small they where), birds, butterflies—, butterflies with eyes on their wings, most peculiar I thought, but interesting; ant hills, and macho ants, marching to and fro, carrying twigs like Hercules would carry a pillar from a Greek acropolis. Lazy-bears high up in the branches of trees sleeping away, big bodied birds they were. Then somewhere along the Amazon we stopped at a winery, built in the 1830s.
We walked around this old plant, made of thick old wood: the owner showed us where they crushed the grapes, and the old timbers they interlocked for the apparatus to run the winery. Again, it was most interesting. And I purchased two bottles of wine, gave it to my guide. I think it was more interesting to me on its historical basis than its winemaking capacity. I don’t drink anymore, so it was ridiculous to buy wine, other than to show appreciation for the tour.
When we arrived back to the lodge, there were two Amazonian women sitting in one of those dugout canoes, docked at the wooden pier that extended out into the somewhat looking Laguna that trailed off of the arm from the Amazon. I asked her (and my wife translated, although I think she understood my Spanish a ting, it is rough), I asked her if she had been here all day (several hours had passed since I’ve seen her last sitting here), it was know about 5:00 PM.
“Yes,” she said with a big smile.
“But why?” I replied; since we were the only ones at the lodge tell after 7:00 PM, when a new group would come. I really didn’t expect an answer, but she said nonetheless, politely, “Wait for you!” This somehow seemed to obligate me to buy something from her (as she had several items displayed on a board of some sort, tucked between her legs so the items would not fall off, to steady the showing, and it was a coconut, small in size, with its top cut off I purchased, to use it for –god knows what, I suppose to put change in, or my wife could put pins in it (in the long run it would be tucked away for five years until we moved it to our home in Lima, thus it went from the Amazon, to Lima, to Minnesota, and back to Lima, it is a world traveler I do believe; and has now its own history). In any case, she was happy as the lazy-bear sleeping in those lofty branches, we saw a while earlier: she gave me a big smile, and her and her female companion drifted out of the Laguna, to the tributary and on home—I expect. All in all, it was a most charming day to say the least.
“Another day,” I said to my wife, “another day and we’ll be going home,” and we walked up the wooden walkway to the lodge, and into the kitchen area for some coffee.
Chapter Five
Leaving the Amazon
I sat in the cafeteria area having coffee, it was 10:00 AM, the day we were to leave the lodge and go back to Iquitos, spend a few hours there, and then catch a flight back to Lima, where we had our second home, our other home was in Minnesota, we were on a thirty-day vacation, sort of. We used our home often in Lima as a stepping-stone to drift throughout South and Central America.
So here I sat, had breakfast, and now my coffee and I was bored, bored to death. And so I asked the manager of the place if we could catch an early boat back to Iquitos, it would be a four-hour ride in the boat. My boat was coming at 2:00 PM to pick us up, and I’d miss roaming around Iquitos, and I wanted to see the Iron House again, last time it was a quick, too quick, of a visit, and Alan Garcia was running for president of Peru, I should say, Ex President Alan Garcia (he wouldn’t make though, Toledo would), and was campaigning in Iquitos, staying at the main hotel, I wanted to go see if I could see him.
“It cost $200, to take an early boat out of the Amazon to Iquitos,” said the manager.
“What!” I said in disbelieve, “let me talk to the owner in Iquitos” and he did, via, by way of an old two-way radio: I’ve used them in the Army twenty-five years ago. Anyhow, they agreed to let us take a boat at 1:00 PM, thus, we’d get there an hour earlier than the 2:00 PM ride, and I’d still have a few extra hours to roam the city, just not as much as I wanted, plus it would not cost me an arm and leg for a ride a few hours earlier. Although I understood actuality, I was asking for something that was obviously not on the schedule, and perhaps they had cargo to bring back and forth, and that had to be taken into account, there is a cost to such things.
Anyhow, on our ride back to Iquitos, in a roofed boat, sides open, kind of square like, a big motor on the back, and it chopped though all the waves in front of us like butter, waves other boats were making we made good time, and got to Iquitos about thirty-minutes earlier than we expected.
The Amazon can get wide, up to forty-miles wide, but the widest I saw during our ride was perhaps four-miles wide, which is extremely wide I thought, a lot of water to say the least.
When we got into the city, we went to the Iron House, and to an old colonial bar around the corner, and had a coke, then to the new hotel, and I made it just in time to see the ex president, and now running for office again, Garcia was coming down the stairs with two bodyguards by his sides, we got into the hotel lobby, as the natives were outside waiting for him, I think the hotel people thought we were from the hotel, and I grabbed a quick picture of him as he almost stepped on my toes.
And so the trip was mild, but grand. We caught our flight back to Lima on time and went back home to a nice soft bed, and I must add, I slept twelve-hours.
Written in four days: 2/18 to 2/21-2006/rewritten 4/2006
Afterward
The Green Sea of the Amazon
So yes, the Amazon was oblivious to my being charmed by it, as perhaps I was living in those passing moments, and didn’t know it myself, but it was remarkable. But remarkable is of course just a word, it does not describe its meaning. When we had first went down the Amazon, we stopped at what I’d call a luxury lodge, with TV and all the amenities one may wish to have in the Amazon, or anyplace for that matter; we simply used the facilities for prepping for our adventure into the thicker part of the Amazon, perhaps we stayed three hours. Then we came to our lodge, which had none of the refinements the previous one had. And had we gone to the third one, which was deeper into the Amazon, we’d have been sleeping on a dirt floor, and ours might have looked like the Hilton, in comparison.
There were familiar flashes of darkness while going down the Amazon, which were simply shifts in the weather, from sunny, to sunny-pale with rain. I tried to enjoy the moment, grab the sky, and I suppose I was impolite at times in doing so, but I was busy writing down thoughts also. That is perhaps why it took over five years to write a simple story as this one. The subconscious has its own knee-deep pitch-black waters, where it hides its treasures until its time to pull them up, and write them out.
The thing I’m trying to say here, is that the Amazon is made for everybody to visit, and has degrees one can subject themselves to.
It is so true: you get what you pay for.
The overall feeling for me was mythological; the Amazon gives you no time to think of anything else, besides God and her. The passengers around me, on my way down the Amazon to the lodges were immobile, subdued by her.
Fastidiousness, is not necessary a quality in the Amazon, and if you’ve read about my yellow-bird in one of the previous chapters he was the point of discontent, or fact to this, but it fits well into creating this story, and is part of it (no matter if I like it or not), and even he (the bird: perhaps it was a she) had a charm that belonged to the Amazon, I hold him no grudges, he was as he was: he wanted attention, like my wife, like our God wants, and like I like. So it is all in the gamut of things, is it not?
.
Province
[Peruvian]
Chachapoyas
The Amazonas of Peru
[From Chicago to Kuelap]
Kuelap, in The Amazonas of Peru (Chachapoyas)
The Expedition
1
We caught a plane from St. Paul, Minnesota to Chicago, an early morning flight, one day in late February 2006. We were trying to set up our move to South America, Peru, and had to see the Consul General of Peru in Chicago; we had seen him a few years prior to this, when he was visiting in Minnesota, but our move was to take place in mid March (kind of a semi retirement shift), and we had to sign our marriage papers, it had been six years since we’d gotten married, thus, this would make it legal in Peru, since I would be seeking dual citizenship. I slept briefly on the plane, and we landed at O’Hare, around 8:00 AM, second class. Somewhere near the airport was the train station, we found our way to it, and my wife Rosa bought roundtrip tickets to downtown Chicago, we’d return after seeing the Consul, having late lunch and perhaps a walk around the windy city’s Michigan Avenue area. It was a special day you could say, not only in that we would sign all this documentation, but also it was Valentines Day, and the Consul General gave Rosa a suggestion where to take me, and she did, to a fine Italian Restaurant, and the food was great, I had lasagna. It was her gift to me; she always takes me to the best restaurants in town when we go on trips.
We headed right into the main building of the Consul General’s second floor office, Rosa was down to see him twice before, to vote for officials in Peru otherwise she would have to pay some kind of miserable small tax, for not voting: it is next to a minor crime not to vote, so I am told; on the other hand, perhaps no one would vote had they not anointed such a law. In any case, this time I was with her, as she had made an attempt before to have me go to Chicago, I suppose I was hoping we could do all the paperwork needed without me going, but it was impossible, I had to be there to sign the papers. So we caught the elevator to the second or third floor, and walked up to the window in the office of the Consul General, told the secretary who we were and to our surprise, or at least to mine, they had all the paperwork already made up; next, they called our names, and took us into the back room, sat us down, and we started filling in the blank spaces necessary.
The Consul General was a warm sort of fellow, cross-legged as he sat behind his desk, a nice looking older man, sound, healthy looking; after we had done all the signing, he invited us into his personal office, we didn’t have to wait like the others out in the small cramped hall area. His father was a poet, and so we got talking about poetry and I think special treatment, for meeting a poet he appreciated—as I was known to be, or at least showed his appreciation in the only way he could at the time, that is, allowing us the comfort of his soft office seats, until we had to go attend other business and ours was over; and being Poet Laureate of San Jeronimo de Peru at that, made things a little better between us. In the short-term of our meeting and free conversations he talked about his home in The Amazonas (in a few words adding bits and pieces of his childhood), and poetry of course. Rosa and I gave him the last three books I had written, two on Peru, one on Minnesota, all poetry (‘Last Autumn and Winter,’ ‘Poetic Images Out of Peru,’ and ‘Peruvian Poems’.)
“I’m from The Amazonas,” he said to Rosa, and they carried on a short conversation, then gave us a poster of Kuelap, it was the first time I had seen this location in the Andean-jungles of Peru, about 1000-miles from Lima. As I looked over the poster, I was quite impressed; it had a picture of a fortress I’d soon find out was called, “The Hidden Fortress,” or Kuelap.
He liked poetry so much he read out loud to us (my wife and I, and the secretary who stood behind us for that moment) my poem called: “The Ice Maiden, (well liked by many, and considered one of my best cultural poems on Peru), in the book, ‘Peruvian Poems;’ I thought at the time he could have been a second Dylan Thomas, he sounded quite dramatic and powerful, a good reader of poetry, a lot of emotion, but then Peruvians have an extra dose of that for some God given reason anyhow. (In a short time I’d find out more about Kuelap, and its 9th Century fortress; its wild warriors of antiquity—the Chachapoyas, and their warring with the Incas, all in due time.
And as I looked more and more into this area I got more excited about Kuelap and its ancient walled ruins (discovered less than a half century ago); by the research I had done on Kuelap, it seemed, or reminded me of, compare to or with: ‘The Great Enclosure,’ of Zimbabwe, in Africa. Of course that was just a mindset. I then had visions of grassy slopes, by the Navahos, as I’ve told my wife, time and again first you hear about a location of interest, then you dream about it ((find out things about it)) then you see it, and it become part of you.
An Afternoon in Chicago
The sun, like a deer trail—bit my brow,
Industriously, as my wife and I took the train
Back to O’Hare from downtown Chicago, —
Windy city, with stretched-up eyebrows
In its winter sleep.
We walked around, downtown: busy city—
From Washington Street to Michigan; across
The bridge, there on East Ontario, we
Ate at ‘Bice,’ Italian Restaurant (my wife
Paid the bill) her treat, Valentine’s Day.
I’m waiting for the plane now; it’s 5:00 PM;
It has been one of those happier days, moments,
In my life: strange, even with Northwest being late.
It is pale to dark now (6:00 PM)
Sitting on these worn-out seats…!
Thinking of nothing, like when you’re a little boy,
Spending the whole day rambling through the
City, on your high, two wheel bike!...
Whistling away a sunny day,
With nothing much to do or say.
My wife, sitting next me fell to sleep, hat on:
Holding my jacket in her two hands, sleeping;
Had to remove her coffee cup, in case it fell:
She’s in some joyful lofty solitude
While I’m sniffling away like hell.
It was nice, just being ‘we’ today
Before having to go back home, to St. Paul,
Go back to the kitchen—fixing things.
As I look about, everyone’s on cell phones.
Hurry-up—flight: NW 145!
Now that I think of it, one can smell the lake
The Great Lake Michigan; feel its pulse, its
Wind like tides in the air all about.
Soft dust, swirling along the citie’s streets;
Street people blowing brass horns for a meal.
Rhythmic packs, misplaced men and women:
Everywhere: like undergrowth, weeds not growing.
Drunks, and derelicts, eyes staring at your every move,
An endless forest of a city, with boulders,
Towering bricks, next to an unforgiving lake:
Chicago!...
Semi prose/ 2/14/06 #1208
In Spanish
Una Tarde en Chicago
El sol como rastro de ciervo—muerde mi frente,
Vigorosamente, mientras mi esposa y yo tomamos el tren
De regreso a O’Hara desde el centro de Chicago,—
Ciudad ventosa, con cejas levantadas
En su invierno dormido.
Caminamos alrededor del centro de la ciudad: ciudad activa—
Desde la calle Washington hasta Michigan; a través
Del puente, allí sobre el este de Ontario, nosotros
Comimos en “Bice”. Restaurante italiano (Mi esposa
Pagó la cuenta) mi regalo por el Día de San Valentín.
Estoy esperando por el avión ahora, son las 5:00 PM;
Este ha sido uno de esos días muy felices, momentos,
En mi vida: curioso, incluso con Northwest retrasado.
Esta pálido casi oscuro ahora (6:00 PM)
¡Sentado sobre estos asientos desgastados!.
¡Pensando en nada, como cuando eres un niño,
Pasando el día entero divagando a través de
La ciudad, sobre tu alta, bicicleta de dos ruedas!..
Disfrutando de un día soleado,
Sin nada más que hacer o decir.
Mi esposa, sentada cerca de mí se quedo dormida, sombrero puesto:
Agarrando mi chaqueta con sus dos manos, durmiendo,
Tuve que retirar su taza de café, en caso que esta caiga:
Ella esta en alguna soledad alegre sublime;
Mientras estoy resoplando como infierno.
Fue hermoso, solo nosotros hoy dia
Antes de tener que regresar a casa, a San Pablo,
Regresar a la cocina—arreglar cosas.
Mientras miro alrededor, todos con celulares.
Apurense- vuelo: NW 145!
Ahora que pienso de esto, uno puede oler el lago
El gran lago Michigan; sentir su pulso, sus
Vientos como oleadas en el aire por todos lados.
Polvo muy suave, arremolinándose a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad;
Gente de la calle soplando cuernos de metal por una comida.
Paquetes ritmicos, hombres y mujeres extraviados
En todo lugar; como maleza, mala hierba sin crecer
Borrachos, y abandonados, ojos mirando fijamente a cada movimiento tuyo,
Un bosque interminable de ciudad, con pedruscos,
Torres de ladrillos, cerca de un lago implacable:
Chicago….
Semi Prosa 2006-02-14 # 1208
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon when we caught our plane back to Minnesota, and within the following month, March 9, we caught our plane to Peru, once we landed in Lima, I got word it had snowed eleven-inches in Minnesota, I was not surprised, but more than happy to have avoided the snow storm, I had my fill of them. It was within the following two weeks where I had bought tickets to fly to Chiclayo (on the 27th of March); from there we’d take a bus to the surrounding area of Kuelap: a four day trip. And this is where we stop for moment (for I am writing this in advance of that four day trip), for I will be taking that journey in a few days, tickets in hand. (Written March 25, 2006.)
2
The Kuelap Bum
[Of The Amazonas]
Come; share a wild Kuelap Bum’s sunny afternoon—
I sit here, sipping my coffee and coke waiting for my pollo saltado
[Chicken with potatoes and rice),
And hear voices, cars pass: sounds, coming from iron motors
Like purring cats and roaring mice, with squeaky feet for tires, race
Racing around the café ((El Parquetito, in Miraflores)() Lima)), Around the streets and park—; the sun boiling overhead, as I’m
Reading Jack Kerouac’s: “The Dharma Bums,”—I feel like one.
My date to return back into the Amazonian region—this time to the
Andean-jungle—is in five days. My mind is excited, here is
Where comes my beautiful vision of grassy slopes, by the Nevados,
And there ahead in front of me, are the ancient ruins of Kuelap
I can even see the wild warriors of antiquity: the Chachapoyas,
Fight the Incas in the wild deep, deep Andean-jungles of Peru.
I like the incredible peace here, lost in a maze of thoughts, looking for
No certain highway. Here I can sweat, drink my coke and coffee in peace, while I write and dream…and get ready for my next journey.
#1283 3/23/2006 Note by the author: I have been to the Andes and to the Amazon in Peru, and even to the Amazon as they are known for their sections, ranging from Ecuador to Peru, and Brazil and Venezuela, of which I have been to all these regions or sections except one, the one I am dreaming about, and will go in five days to, to what is known as the Andean-Amazonian region of Northern Peru, where elevation is part of the jungle equation, not so in the other regions. Thus, here is where the “Forgotten Fortress,” is located, similar to the ‘Great Enclosure,’ in Zimbabwe. The Forgotten Fortress dates back to about 800 AD.
The Chachapoyas
[and ‘The Forgotten Fortress’]
Advance: I don’t even know these people I talk about, I’ve seen the landscape they’ve live on only in books, rushed through, gritting their ivory teeth before they warred with the Incas in the 16th century (this pre-Inca civilization). But the more one studies this great civilization, the more one admires its fantastic powers of visualization, its psychic rulers, and wild bull like hearts, and the great fortress (labyrinth) they built in the middle of the Andean-jungles of Peru.
Today, the Chachapoyas still carry on in this area, with its pottery, and tapestry, garments, all highly prized; at onetime they worked for the Incas, and like today, gave them high quality. In a few more days, let’s say seven to be exact I shall be among them.
The Poem:
In the Andean-jungle—the Chachapoyas (the tree-cloud people)
Of the ‘Forgotten Fortress,’ of Kuelap (Amazonas de Peru) once
lived here—twelve-hundred years ago—perhaps 2000- or more
Lived in this straddled low-land jungle citadel —; bold and free:
cadaverous war like people, spirit filled: more fierce than the Inca.
Here is where they lived—in Kuelap, in limestone houses: under
conical thatched roofs—;
Houses of limestone masonry, in mud mortar plaster like tombs:
painted in rainbow colors; few if any windows.
The ravages of time have sadly seen the looting of the detailed
elaborate funerary architecture of the Chachapoyas race—;
Once decorated in rainbow shades, zigzag friezes, in cliff like caves.
#1287 3/20/2006 [Written before my trip to The Amazonas, of Northern Peru]
3
Introduction to Chachapoyas
(The following is taken from notes on my trip; only slightly modified for spelling errors, etc.)
It is funny how one thing leads into another. Someone gives you a poster; you hang it in your home; remember what he had to say about such historical sites as Kuelap, dating back to about 700 AD, with walls as thick as Troy’s, and legends as potent. Then you look a little deeper into this area the person has mentioned briefly, but enthusiastically, and find other sites that open your eyes to the bountiful, and most beautiful region known as The Amazonas of Peru, and find Carajia [also spelled with a ‘K’], dating back to the 13th Century. And on the journey you find much, much more. In this chapter, Chapter #3, and the following chapters, we shall take a quick trip to the region, with some poetic verse to help us drift along its watery roads, up its banks, through its small towns, and so forth and on; I am writing this on pieces of paper in my pocket, and my wife has a pad of paper she bought a few days ago, which I’ll use it when I get back to the hotel.
(Talking to my friend: Julio, the Archeologist) he says to me: “Kuelap, is called, The Forgotten City, discovered only forty-years ago, in The Amazonas in Northern Peru.” The area is wide open for and to new discoveries I see; I am sure there will be many also, so I tell myself, and my wife. (Later on during my journey I’ll find out ((added later on in the following evening)): in villages you can still find mummies in homes, and local mud built museums, and see them within caves on ledges of mountains. It is an archeological paradise, and one of the last frontiers for such discoveries in the world.)
Kuelap is cuddled in an odd way, cuddled over looking the Kuelap Valley, cuddled I say by the mist that surrounds her, as if she didn’t exist, and all of a sudden: there she is. The mist drifts and descends into the valley fully allowing Kuelap to be seen then, and once on top of her great walls, you can see on a clear afternoon, you can see a hundred-miles in all directions, East, West, and North South.
Kuelap is a sacred city to many in the region, a temple of or for the dead; yet some spirits still live there and are restless about the excavations going on there, I talked to two of them, one in particular who wanted to know what I wanted. And I asked him what bothered him? And he said: desecration (defilement); so there is fear in the shadowy corners of these cyclopean stones walls I do believe. In addition to being a temple of sorts, Kuelap is also a fortress, and surely at one time used as a city, for it has 400-stone houses in its small hilltop complex. The Inca Empire did dominate it, at its very end, by request of the Conquistadors, because Spain couldn’t.
Thus, the white cotton canopy that descends, also ascends above the luscious multi shaded green valley; above the wild berries my friend and organizer of this group: Maria, loved to eat; and there must exist every kind of plant a person can think of in this Amazonas’ Valley. (From notes on the trip: 3/30/06; #1295)
Julio Rodriguez, our Archeologist: while driving around the city, on a city tour, we talked about Carajia or Karajia, had some coffee in the small city of Chachapoyas (tomorrow we’d go to see Karajia); anyhow, when we got talking about the Inca Empire then, and he got talking about Huayna Capac, he called him the Last Inca, the Father to Atahualpa, the Inca king that is so well known; he was killed by the Conquistadors for not becoming a Christian; I have a statue of him in my library. Karajia is where the six-sarcophagus are entrenched into a mountain cave, a most lasting and irregular site.
After lunch and coffee, I quickly jotted down the information he gave me in a poem, I call:
“The Last Inca” (Huayna Capac)
Tall and handsome, built like a bull,
A warrior among warriors with long blond hair
Eyes like emeralds, tears of gold,
He was the King’s son—
(Atahualpa) now ruler of all Northern Peru;
And so it was, when the last Inca King died
The kingdom was split, like Alexander’s
Between two half brothers…!
#1294 3/29/06
4
Chiclayo and Sipan
[3/27-28-2006]
Flight to Chiclayo
(From diary notes)
It is the morning of the 27 of March, went to sleep about 9:00 PM, figured I’d wake up early, I did, 3:15 AM, thinking it was time to get the taxi to go to the airport, but it wasn’t. I tuned over saw my clock, a little black one, listening to Nat King Cole playing on my CD-player. I had the fan off, Rosa was ill the last few days; talked to Cody (my son) an hour last night. Anyhow, I looked at the clock and jumped out of bed, my wife jumped into the shower, all in fifteen minutes only to find out, it was 1:30 AM, not 3:30 AM—too early to go to the airport (I read the clock with my glasses off: woops, a mistake).
“Sorry, I think I read the clock wrong,” I said to my wife.
“Oh well, lots of time to get ready,” Rosa said
(Oh well, back to sleep: I told myself).
Waking up. It is 3/27/2006, 5:30 AM. Breakfast at the airport, a treat of my wife; they brought me a ham and cheese sandwich, it looked fresh in the glass showcase. She baked it, Rosa told her to bring it back (it was not what she ordered), she said she ordered it the way it looked in the glass case, uncooked.
“But you didn’t’ tell me you didn’t wanted it backed,” said the waitress.
“But you didn’t say you were going to back it…” Rosa said back to the waitress. It took a little longer, but I got a new sandwich, uncooked, out of the whole thing.
It is now 6:00 AM. Now waiting for ‘Star Peru (airplane)’. We will have a quick stop in Trujillo, then onto Chiclayo. There are perhaps eight stewardesses at the gate chatting away as if they are on a holiday, and everyone is going it seems, every one but the Peruvians and me, going to Machu Picchu. All the customers seem droopy, tired, no smiles on their faces. Flying is not like it used to be.
7:00 AM, I’m on the plane now, it seems Peruvians or perhaps it is Spanish related, but lots of fussing going on in boarding a plane. The plane looks filled; the sky is soupy this morning. Two or three planes took off with tourists to Cuzco. A stewardess asked me if I was going to Cuzco, thinking because I’m a gringo, I was about to miss my flight I suppose. I said ‘No, I’m going to Chiclayo,’ and she just walked away.
(28,000-feet in the air: thoughts) I wonder how many people believe in reincarnation would not prefer to come back again as someone else. Most seem middle class for Peruvians on this plane.
8:00 AM we are descending into Trujillo, got thinking of a little girl I met a few days ago in the plaza area in Miraflores, Lima, she was five years old, with a painter friend of mine, whom is about 35-years old: Chusty. He is going with her mother. She said, “I don’t understand all that is happening around me,” and Chusty said, “You’re not expected to at five years old.” Funny, I’m fifty-eight, and I feel like the little girl: I bought her some popcorn that night. By the time she’s old enough to vote, I’ll be long dead, and I wonder if she’ll remember what she said, and that bag of popcorn.
8:30 AM Stopped in Trujillo, ran to the privy. They gave someone my seat, sold my seat to another person, lucky there were empty seats; I told the man I was not moving, it was mine, and he’d have to talk to someone about it, he did, the stewardess, and ended up in a seat across from me. No fireworks. The sun is seeping through the open door of the plane, warm, getting closer to the equator.
.
(In Chicago) 1:30 PM went the site of Sipan, went to the top of the sun temple (pyramid) also, stood where kings were, and got a few ceramic vases, at the local merchants stand. It is a very hot day today.
The site dates back to before 200 AD. I looked down into the gravesite of Sipan, where the King’s tomb was, it was stirring; perhaps the discover of ‘The Lord of Sipan,’ back in 1987, who ruled in Peru around 200 AD, who ruled this land, is as an important discover as that of Tutankhamun in Egypt was, almost a century ago.
Back to Chiclayo: it was not a long ride out to the site, and perhaps 45-minutes back; we went across a 92-year old bridge: red cast-iron, bridge, across a Rio.
2:15 PM saw a blue-headed lizard at the site (just remembered that); Rosa was amazed, so was I. Going back now to have some coffee.
Had to have the waiter go back three times to make my coffee strong enough. Had chicken, it was good (it is really hot in Chiclayo today).
3:40 PM I’m sitting on a bench in downtown Chiclayo, many people, it seems a dozen elbows have hit me: cops walking all around. Chiclayo reminds me of San Pedro de Sula, in Honduras, not a good memory nor a real bad one, just a pale feeling of being unsafe. (I felt I needed to be extra guarded while in Chiclayo.)
The Bus Ride
“Nine hours,” someone told me it would take the bus to arrive in Chachapoyas from Chiclayo. It will be a long day. Met an Archeologist Julio, he will be accompanying us on our journey to Kuelap.
(Left Chiclayo at 8:00 PM) 9:00 PM this bus is bad news, no shocks, you feel every bump; and I learned it will be an eleven-hour ride, not nine. Everyone is like a sardine in this bus, packed tightly into a silver can. Maria talked to someone, and got me to sit up front, where I can stretch my legs a little. The lights are two dim for me to read or write.
(A few hours later, looking out the window in the dark) The bus almost went over the side of a cliff, a washed out road, several buses got stuck, but ours didn’t: the driver zoomed on through like a madman. The road looked like a river, it is a wild ride. (I got my adventure up to my nose this time, I do believe.)
4:30 AM, it is a new day, 3/28/06, and between yesterday and now it has been a long full twenty-four hours. The bus is going up a dirt road; everything rattles like a loose lawnmower. I can’t believe this bus will not fall apart before we make it to Chachapoyas—it is a death trap.
5
Walking Around Chachapoyas
[Walking around Chachapoyas: 3/28-3/31/06] While looking for a place to have coffee, and a light lunch, we [Maria, Rosa, myself, and Julio] walked past a church, there was a lady sitting there on the steps, head lowered, her daughter along side of her, dirty faced, flowers laying along side of her. It was a hot day, a moist day, and we walked past her, and after a hundred feet or so I asked my wife to go back and buy the flowers, all of them, then I joined her. Now writing this out, it is evening in our Spanish hotel (three Stars***: La Casona), and here is my poem about the Flower Lady:
The Flower Lady of Chachapoyas
The flower lady sat on the church steps…!
It was forenoon, the first week of summer—
In Chachapoya’s –square, daughter by her side
(both tired, almost withdrawn); the child dirty-
faced, eyes lowered weary and faded.
We walked past her, my wife and I—once, only
to return:
“How much for the flowers,” asked my wife?
“How much for the flowers!” she looks up
the second time:
“Three soles,” she said (about one-dollar).
After she paid, we walked away, but I had to
look back—
And saw them both rushing to a nearby store
hungry as two weary birds…in a storm!
#1296, 3/30/06; written in the afternoon when I had gone back to the hotel for rest.
6
On the Way to Kuelap
[Morning of: 3/28/06] It was a four-hour driver up and around the mountain (s) near Chachapoyas and a long four hours at that. It was like riding on the moon; there was Rosa my wife, our archeologist friend Julio, and Maria, the owner of ‘Sipan Tours.’ (I seem to have complained a lot as I find myself writing out these notes, but it was a great trip, and the problems that came about are expected in such areas as The Amazonas, especially in March, the rainy season. Actually, it all made my trip a bit more exciting.)
We have two assistants, what more could you ask for, Maria needs to see how things are in Chachapoyas for her business as well as being our organizer, and guide (she hasn’t been here she said going on two years though); so it is a little business, as well as being our other things. Julio is full of information on the historical elements of the region; thus, one could not ask for more as far as culture, and historical posterity goes.
The driver came with a station wagon, when in essence we needed something bigger; he went back, and just returned with a Van, thank god.
(The following poem was written after gathering information from our archeologist, written on the way to the site)
Under the Kuelap Sky
Under March skies,
In ancient ruins lies
(a fortress ((temple)) long deserted by the birds)
Here Chachapoyas gold of old in Kuelap’s leaves
Glow, in the nearby sacred dirt.
With hungry fearful words—,
Now, longing spirits, resting-silent, grieve
On desecrations, anticipated!
Note: While visiting within the Ancient Fortress of Kuelap, one of the spirits whispered a message to me, and it seemed to relate to the Archeologist, whom was having nightmares, and was an aid for me. In essence, he told me: we do not like the excavation in the area because of fear of desecration. The Archeologist assured the spirit, in the great walls of the fortress, an extended face from the wall came out from it, in stone, I had touched it, and thus came the message. Next, the nightmares seemed to stop concerning this issue. In addition to this, it is legend that says, there is much gold in the nearby dirt, in the Kuelap Valley region. I myself have grabbed some mud and could see it sparkling.
Although this is a relatively small poem, written a day after my return from The Amazonas (4/1/06), it says a lot I do believe on a simple fact, that many of the people already know in the area, of the Great Sacred Fortress of Kuelap, that rests on top of a mountain top (which the average person does not know), like a mesa [or table top]. The walls are high and it can house 8,000-people; it has 420-houses. It is a second Machu Picchu.
7
Chiclayo to Chachapoyas
(Notes from the evening: 3/28/06) We got off the bus, an eleven-hour ride, my buttocks were sore as if they were sunburned, and we had a special guide to take us to Sipan, in Chiclayo; now we were in Chachapoyas, and at a nice Hotel, and our trip started after we had breakfast, I bought it for everyone, American-style: eggs, ham, coke, coffee and potatoes (French-fries, that is), and toast. The price was right, it was about half the price it would have been in Lima or perhaps even less, maybe: $8.50 [25 Soles] for all, a good price; after breakfast we started up the mountain to the “Forgotten Fortress”: known as Kuelap.
But nothing is as easy as it should be, we had ended up with two young girls on our private trip, not sure how that happened, but our driver had found them someplace, and had—I guessed—offered them a ride for a price. To me it was the price I had to pay to ride in a Van, versus a car, and the car would not be comfortable with even four people (so I thought at the time), and two more sitting in the back of the wagon was two, too many people (and now that I’m looking back, the car would not have made the trip at all, even with just four of us, and now it was six; it was too wet, rainy and muddy on the way up to Kuelap).
Maria or Julio had thought to mention that we should purchase long rubber boots for the trip, and so we did; and I suggested a black sweater for Rosa who gets cold all the time, even in the desert sun. For myself, boots was fine; Rosa got some extra socks (and perhaps that was smart, my feet would get cold later on: and hers would not). In addition, Rosa suggested I purchase a nylon vest, and I did (and would find out later, it was a good purchase, worth it 25-soles; as were the boots).
When we got about one third of the way up the mountain, it started to rain unkindly, it had been raining but not to this degree, I mean, it was but a very light rain before.
The roads in this area were all dirt roads, and some of the tracks that trucks, buses and cars made—made in the mud—were over a foot high now, yet that didn’t stop our trip, or driver, or the van, it made its way through, that is until we got about thirty-minutes away from the site, we had been on the road nearly three and a half hours now; it was flooded, a mud slide covered the whole road, no way of getting through. Henceforward, Julio helped me through the mud by foot; foot by foot we pushed through its down pouring water from nearby, down it went across the road, and down a small embankment; a stream, I’d guess you could call it—somehow attached to the road, under the road that is; we had left the Van behind now, and then Julio went back for my wife, and Maria, and the two girls. He was Manco Capac (so Maria had nicknamed him for the event) the hero of the day. We were now on the other side of the road (somewhat safe); and here little girls (perchance: twelve or thirteen) who lived in the township called “Maria,” were walking across this disaster with no boots on, bare legged, were walking in mud up to their upper thighs, and beyond, making us look like amateurs, which I was.
Chachapoyas Mud
High in the mountains
Above the Kuelap Valley—
Be careful when you go:
Ride her old dirt roads!
Lest you find yourself like me
Stuck in mud beyond your knees
Trying to get to the old ‘Forgotten City’.
#1290 3/29/06 [Written after returning from Kuelap, at the hotel, in the late hours of the night, or early morning hours of the 29th of March.
8
Up the Mountain
(The Mudslide) Rosa saw me struggling to get across the rainy washed-out road (huayco), and had to tell one of the young girls hanging onto her to let go: she had to help her husband. The two girls worked in Lima, at a Tour Company, and were up for a day or two to see some of the sites, in particular, Kuelap. Next, Rosa rushed to me, but I was all the way through the 100-feet of the mud-crossing, mud almost to my knees. The boots turned out to be the best investment I have ever made, in travel adventures that is. The two girls small in size and stature, only had tennis shoes on, and now had mud filled shoes at that, and brown mud pants, they were in bad shape, and we had not yet made it to the top of the mountain, I think they wanted to stop right there, but somehow found more courage in belonging to our group, or feeling they did, and reversed their decision to turn back, and went up the mountain with us, bleak as it looked.
.
We now look as if we were are stuck in this little village called Maria (that is, if we were part of a movie it would have looked that way, and it kind of seemed so to me for a moment, we were); our van remained on the other side of the mudslide, along with our driver; Julio talked to a friend from the village, and he accepted the challenge to get us up the mountain the rest of the way to the archeological site. And this new driver in his white taxi-looking station wagon drove all six of us up the mountain to Kuelap, without incident. (At first his car would not start, then abruptly, and finally, it did.)
9
At Kuelap
Kuelap, Crowned city
Of The Amazonas
Likened to the Great Walls of Troy
Or the Sacred City of Machu Picchu,
Akin to a torch, she, Kuelap—towers
Over the Valley below.
This: ”Forgotten Fortress”;
Death Temple of Chachapoyas!
Crowned, by the maintain
Here she stands, cyclopean stones
Forgotten legends:
Here she sands alone!…
#1290 3/29/2006
Off and on the sun came out and off and on the rain poured, as if the two were having a contest who could beat the other, or some kind of timing game, but now we were at the site, yes, 1000-miles from Lima, at the Forgotten Fortress, de Kuelap, in The Amazonas of Peru, our destination.
It took 600-years (thereabout) to build this monstrous fortress, which is really a mausoleum now, for the dead occupy it, the Chachapoyas, from 1300-years past: who fought the Incas for 70-years and finally lost.
Inside the site one can witness 420-houses and towers, thick walls all around the city, and three entrances, an observatory, at its highest point.
When you walk around it, as we did for three hours, several hours ago, one feels the world has overlooked this site, that it should be given more attention, yet it was only discovered some 40-years ago. When I say discovered, I mean to the general public, or outside world; the Chachapoyas and many folks throughout Peru, knew about this wonder and empowering site long ago.
It was a long day: from Lima to Chachapoyas, to Kuelap, to this bed in our hotel room. Travel time alone has been 1 hour air time, 11-hours bus, four hours up the mountain in a van, and a taxi, and four hours (plus lunch) down, total: about 20-plus hours I’ve been in motion, one way or another.
10
Back Down
[And the Residue Spirit]
On the way back down the mountain, the men from the community about thirty of them in all, had gone and cleaned the mudslide, the road was passable now. Thus, we stopped at our driver’s house, the one that owned the Van, and his wife cooked the best Guinea pig I’ve yet eaten in Peru, and this was my third time. I had Guinea pig [Cuy] once in Cuzco, once in Lima, now in the village of Maria: in the Chachapoyas region. We all sat around a long table, the electricity went out, so we had to use candles on the table, and a doubled headed big flashlight to see what we were eating in this adobe house like café; it’s funny how God throws people together, it was a wonderful evening. The enchanting darkness of the night, the previous mudslide, which seemed to bring us all a little closer, achieving a mission, all nice people together, all with warm hearts, and a nice meal to boot (Cuy with potatoes, I loved those potatoes, wanted to bribe the cook for a few more, but left well enough alone; and I knew Rosa wouldn’t give hers up, and couldn’t blame her). I had mentioned I was so hungry I could eat a Guinea pig raw. A dog paced, by us, along the table, and was lead away from the table as we ate. Everyone kind of smiled; glad I think to be here, happy to have been to the mountaintop.
Julio had been having nightmares, and as we walked through the site (earlier), much of it being dug up, excavations, I touched a face carved into, or out of the stonewall: it said to me,
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” I said and walked away (returning to the stone face a moment later), then added, “what would make you happy?”
The Residue Spirit said, “…leave us buried proper!”
The spirit was fearful his resting spot would be disturbed. Rosa told Julio what I had told her, what the spirit had said to me, and Julio said in return:
“We have no intentions of moving things where they do not belong, we are being very careful about this.” (I had asked Julio during the following three days if he was getting any more nightmares concerning Kuelap and his soon to be: duties at the site, dealing with the excavations, and he said ‘no’. Perhaps, the spirits are willing to give him the benefit of misgivings: that is, maybe they will trust others (after hearing Julio) that they will do their best not to bring about defilement, ruination, to their resting place.
11
City Day
[3/29/2006; Morning of:] We are meeting many people on our trip into the northern part of Peru, known as The Amazonas.
Today we saw the five mummies at the museum, in the plaza area of town, then took a ride to a magic well that predates the Incas. Learned about the Serpents and the Jaguars, the two native groups who fought one another in the Chachapoyas’ area, and had renowned archeologist Julio help us understand the two groups.
This evening we visited a well-known photographer’s house: down a winding street, and under some foliage we went, through a gate, and into the house, where two of his sisters were, with friends. We talked and Maria was quite happy to be reunited with her friend, as I was to be introduced to him. He had great posters of the area, as well as his postcards were being sold in all the stores and cafes of the township, that is, the city of Chachapoyas [Martin Chumbe].
Tomorrow we go to Carajia, also spelled with a ‘K’; a site about two hours outside of the city by car, each way; and about a mile plus walk beyond that. (It would turn out that I’d have to have a young man rent me his horse to get me back up the long walk, we took down to get to this site, which would take place on 3/30/06; and it was a site to behold.)
The Five Expressions
(Mummies of Chachapoyas)
In the museum (INC), of Chachapoyas
reside five mummies:
Side by side—, five hundred years old:
one man, and four women…!
All carrying familiar expressions
of pain and hope.
Number one:
She had agony and pain in her face
Number two:
She had misery, from chin to forehead
Number three:
She was in despair, dejection,
Number four:
She was looking up, visualizing something
(perhaps hope)
Number five:
He was looking down, contemplating, perhaps
his new life to be (his: reincarnation)
All the mummies rested in a fetus position,
seemingly, all with pain and anticipation…!
Note: Thanks to Julio Rodriguez, much of this poem could be put together, our archeologist for he gave some good insight into this area of thought, mixed with psychology; and even helped name the poem. (#1291),
.
During the day on 3/30/06, we also visited a homegrown, nursery, where Rosa Mesa (of: Chachapoyas), lived on this farm like garden center, showed us around her magical kingdom of plants; thus I should, and will dedicate this poem to her “Orquidiario”!
Orquidiario
I think, at Rosa’s plant-nursery, in Chachapoyas
In El Amazonas—there is a plant for most everything and occasion.
She showed me the fly plant—looked just like fly, to me:
Matter-of-fact, it looked so real I wanted to whack it,
But of course I let it be.
And then she showed me the San Pablo Plant,
It gives one an illusion, and then some.
And then there is the huevo plant (or: eggplant), little white eggs
Held in placed by green little hands of the plants
Not good to eat, or medicine—perhaps
Good for looks or nothing.
Then there was the Vitamin D-plant,
‘Good for the bones,’ I heard her say.
And the Tuna Cactus, is some kind of plant
Used for shoes (the Penca).
And then there is the Punishment Plant,
Not sure of its real name, but it is sour
All the same: used for bad children
Gives an acid taste.
The menthol plant, gives one fresh breath,
And the soap plant, looks like a cactus, is good for washing
Cloths or make shoes, and I saw one plant that was
Good for ailments, so I was told.
But, to tell you the truth, I liked the fly plant
The most, bar—I’d still like to swat it
If I could.
Notes: taken down during the tour of the nursery and conversations with Rosa Meza #1294.
.
During our day trip throughout the city and its surrounding area, we stopped at magic well, so it was told to me to be. I drank from it so perhaps I will gain youth back, or was it that I just wiped my face with its magical waters, I can’t remember. In any case, there is a legend here, and I got two versions of it, one from our driver: Gilberto Llaja, and the other from Julio, the archeologist; I will mold the legend into a poem the best I can with taking out what I feel are the best elements of both versions
(#1293):
The Magic Well of Chachapoyas
[The Legend of: Yanayacu Well]
Oh! He love her so
Ah! But she didn’t love him back
Ugh! So he went to the old Water Well
Of Chachapoyas
Where legend says: longing and
Love, does well…
And took some water back
To his sweetheart to drink
(and what do you think?)
Thereupon, once consumed, she
Fell in love with him—
Like paper on glue—;
Captured by the spell she was,
And they loved, and loved and loved!…
12
The Great Crossover
[The Midnight Mudslide]
[3/31/2006—Written while on the bus ride back to Chiclayo from Chachapoyas.] We rode out of Chachapoyas at 8:00 PM, on the 30th of March, an 11-hour ride to Chiclayo (so I thought, for it would be extended a few hours more).
It started raining about 11:00 PM, or three hours ago into this trip, heavy landslides [huayco/desprendimiento] all over the roads, just made it through one, now we are at another, the whole road is covered with rocks and mud; water pouring over a towering rock like waterfalls. I went outside to check it out, my wife and I, and a few others. The bus driver, and his female assistant would have simply let us all rot in this damp, and dark muggy bus, had I not insisted on her opening the door and giving us an explanation of what exactly was to take place. I should say, my wife related my inquiry. I don’t think she liked us leaving the bus, but then I don’t care what she likes at this point. I think we will miss the plane at 10:30 in Chiclayo, come early morning.
[Later on] We were stuck back there for one and half hours, waiting for the construction crew to come out and clean the road, saved after a bus took up the challenge and ran across the mudslide and he made it, I mean it was about thirty feet long, and the same width. Had we waited for the crew, knowing how slow folks are in South America, it would have taken several hours at best. I mean I saw people walking across the mudslide, and here Rosa is trying to convince me how dangerous it was. I told her at the time, I used to play in such things back home. A little exaggeration, but not much; thus, I have named this the Great Crossover, anointed and someone may make a movie out of it, according to Rosa’s worry. Anyhow, after our bus driver saw several buses go through it; he got enough nerve to crossover. I am writing this a few hours after the fact, still on the road, perhaps it is 5:00 AM, getting closer to our destination.
I told Rosa, we were not in a hurry, if we needed to stay over a few days more because of this mishap, or catch a late plane back to Lima, I mean, it is not the end of the world. Maria was also worried, I suppose for me a little bit, and Julio had a bad dream a while ago, nothing to do with bad spirits, perhaps a good one this time. He is not breathing well, I suggested it could be his heart; and he thinks his shadow spirit, or the shadow of his spirit, while he is sleeping is trying to tell him something on this order. Whatever the case, he gets tired quickly for a healthy looking man.
We will have to go directly to the airport once in Chiclayo, but we’ll make it back to Lima as scheduled it seems. It’s been a wild trip in a way. Our car broke down yesterday, the fan shut down, and our driver had to look constantly at the heat gage, and finally we got it fixed at some town where we had lunch: chicken soup for four people, and a main dish of chicken and rice or beef, with coffee and coke, all of 26-soles, about $8.75 cents. Not like at the Hilton, but it will do when you are hungry.
13
Closing Notes
A Legend of Sipan
What comes to mind right now, in closing this short story of my short trip into The Amazonas is a legend told to me by Julio Cesar our young guide at the Sipan site outside of Chiclayo, where we went the first day we arrived in Chiclayo; written at that time during the visit to the site (right on the site) on the 27th of March, in the morning (today being, 4/4/2006); I shall write it out as I felt it at the time, not necessarily as it was given to me (and jotted down on paper), although I will not distort what I feel to be fact (for this is suppose to be, in fact, a true story), and it should be said, this legend was handed down, not written prior to this; for I was on the site, looking down into the Sipan grave, feeling the moment, and had stepped upon the pyramid of the sun, looked over the Sipan Valley, and here is the legend:
*The Legend of Ernil Bernal
Advance/From my notes: Ernil Bernal, a nearby resident had dream that the pyramid had opened; Bernal’s nephew now [to this writing] paints pictures in blood. It has been said, the king, Sipan’s spirit, does not like being in a museum. (Well, I can attest to that, in that, the spirits of Kuelap have told me directly, they do not like being moved about, this, this must hold some truth to it, now that I look back on the trip.)
The Legend/Dream:
The dream told Bernal, he had to excavate, and that a bird would show him where to excavate, and that he’d find gold. The blackbird had a wide wingspan, several feet. Three days passed, and the dream continued to reappear, and then he excavated some seven meters, and found the tomb of Sipan, he took 70% of what was in the tomb to his house (later on things would be found there and brought to the museum). And the spirit of Sipan, perhaps its guardian, who sits above, several feet, within a cavern overlooking the tomb, told him, “What you take, things from me, I will take things from you.” That afternoon his pig died, and he died by a gun shot would by the police. (1987)
.
Karajia’s Sarcophagus
(Northern Peru/March, 2006)
Karajia, in The Amazonas of Peru (Chachapoyas)
1
Down the Road
Down the road about a mile and a quarter, down its rocky slop to a cliff area, scrambled rocks of all sorts linger about imbedded in the mud from the rains two days previous. Down this path, or trail resides the famous Karajia site, of the Chachapoyas from 800-years ago, or at least their remains, and their standup coffins in the shape of odd looking hollow statues of their ancestors, or perhaps themselves, where their remains rest in a fetus position in the center of these hollow statues: embedded into the cave of the cliff. Here six- sarcophagus remains looking west, down toward the valley below, where the river runs.
We all, all five of us are in the middle of the Northern Amazonas of Peru; we’ve struggled through the mud to get to the bottom of the road here, the path that is, tumbling along the side fields of corn and potatoes fields (of this long enduring mud path), and at times we had to walk along the inner side of these vegetable farms, for the grass was more solid than the deep rooted mud packed trail, which had big fissures we had to step over, around, or walk through.
Then we crossed over to the rocky bridge, where the cliffs are, and below us, the valley is. But it is the cliffs that are home to the sarcophagus, called Karajia (also spelled with a ‘C’). Henceforward, we climbed down further looking up and there they were (a few minutes ago: as I take these notes whenever I can), the sarcophagus, all six of them with three skulls, two above them, one on the cliff floor, beside them.
Upon knowing around the bend the site would be, I leaped to see it, walked up and down the side of cliff to get a better view. [Now I making my notes again.]
Stone Seats
(Karajia)
A mummy is sitting in a stone cave, perhaps fifty-feet up and into, and onto the cliff, as if it is watching over the site, and the valley at the same time, as if it is the guardian; as if he’s in a theater—and to its right, three more tombs are standing upright, as if they were statues, not as impressive as Karajia’s six, but worth a moment of my time.
[Written afterwards] In a blink of the eye, one could see this whole arrangement. We, the archeologist and I tried to figure out how they got down into the cave to cultivate such a scene. My suggestion was: perhaps they built a tunnel on top of the Mesa above them, and used a ladder to bring down the tombs, and placed them accordingly; it sounded better than trying to lug them up that cliff. In any case, they could fill the tunnel back up, and cover the spot, and no one would be the wiser. In eight hundred years, perhaps other rocks would crisscross, blocking the tunnels once hollowness, or once dugout dirt, making it harder like it previously was; or perhaps they threw rocks back into the tunnel and filled it up with soft dirt. But like everything, or almost everything, it was a theory, and we all had one.
I could see the river below, the Utcubamba; I was full of pure happiness, gladness to have made such a hard trip. I could not make it back up that road, my condition was not good, thus, we found a young man with a horse, and he rented it to me for 10 s/. Double the price he usually got, and to boot, he made the cane for me to assist me in my daily adventure further, and it helped.
2
The Rio Utcubamba
As I looked down upon the river Utcubamba—running back through the gorges, into unpeopled water-land, everything around me was drying up from a heavy rains two days ago, and as a result, everything was sparkling green and healthy looking. All the different shades of green faded into the snake-like canyon, where the river was. I kept thinking: here I was up on this cliff, with 800-year-old mummies buried in shell like tombs, a breeze shifting the heat, warm air pushing warm air, the closer one gets into this environment, the more enmeshed one becomes with nature, the more spiritual one feels with the world.
Back in St. Paul
I wondered what everyone was doing back at the bookstore in St. Paul, Minnesota (At the Har Mar Mall in Roseville, Barnes and Noble, bookstore café: Gene, Johannes, Cindy, Jerry the Café manager, Erica, Gary and Sue, and the Professor: oh, the whole lot of them, all book lovers, and Jessica and Tom and Kathy, all bookworms) had they come with me, they’d be enjoying this moment. I picked up my thoughts and moved on, looked for that young man with a horse ready to bring me back up that muddy pathway to the small village we had originally parked our vehicle at. (Then made some notes in my notebook).
.
Night Sea Gulls over the Bow*
[The Galapagos/Dedicated to Cody, lover of animals]
The ship-danced alongside the sea-gulls, so
Proud they were, they could keep up—
Not far away, an Island of sea lions, awaited
… (On top of land and under the sea).
At daybreak they followed us absorbedly.
At night, darkness fell upon our ship, gulls
And all; sailing from island to island
Density had prevailed, as beauties befell.
This dark and strange beauty, weaved within
Our minds, that which we take…!
Never leaves, proudly they remain.
#1119 1/29/06; another wild trip of sorts, where we went to several islands, in the fall of 2003, after my mother had passed away, that summer. It was a trying time for me, and I suppose the trip was worth its cost which was high, but I think I could had gotten more out of it had I taken it after a longer grieving period. We went to four islands. Revised 3/17/2006
Peruvian Poems
The Last Inca Hideout
[Machu Picchu]
It’s been 400-years since those dark—
and evil days when the mice from Spain
came over to claim and attacked Peru!
Attacked, they did, the Inca-Elephant.
Years passed: by and by, the Spanish
collaborated with the Peruvian cats, the
subjugated groups, of the Inca’s past;
they had thought wrong, when they
thought, they’d be loyal and true, to a
a kingdom that put them under their yoke.
With a stroke and spark the Spanish won
the treasures of Peru; and so came down
the legendary town, called Cuzco: below
Machu Picchu, the Last Inca Hideout.
#1113 1/30/2006. Note by the author: in 1999, I went to South America, my first trip that would be perhaps 20-more by 2006. My mission was to experience the ruins of Machu Picchu, and all I could in the process, but of course I met my wife on the way, and she shared those 20-trips with me.
In Spanish
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza
El último escondite del Inca
(Machu Picchu)
¡Han sido 400 años desde aquellos oscuros-y
Fatídicos días, cuando las ratas de España
Llegaron para reclamar y atacar Perú!.
Atacando, ellos hicieron, el elefante Inca.
Pasaron años: con el tiempo, los españoles
Colaboraron con los traidores peruanos, los
Grupos subyugados, del pasado del Inca;
Ellos habían pensado mal, cuando ellos
Creyeron, que deberían ser leales y verdaderos,
Para, un reino que los puso bajo su yugo.
Con un golpe y la chispa los españoles ganaron
Los tesoros del Perú; y entonces se vino abajo
El legendario pueblo, llamado Cuzco: debajo de
Machu Picchu, el último escondite del Inca.
San Jeronimo Creek
[Dedicated to the Mayor of Jeronimo,
Jesus Vargas Párraga]
I walked up and down, the
Side of the creek
It cares—less, nor watches me.
Rich
With blue—life, surrounded by
Shadows and
Green….
How wise she seems, living its
Blue-rich life…,
Water flowing over smooth bare
Rocks,
Dripping down from mountain
Tops…,
(three miles high).
She looked terrible alone, when
I last saw her
She has no voice, so I couldn’t
Ask….
Perhaps she speaks to the infinite
sky, the sun on high—
(as we live and die);
How brave she is, all alone,
But at Home!...
#1103 1/26/06
Note by the Author: If you have ever walked along this creek in the Mantaro Valley, which is lean, you will have noticed the red and light colored clay all about, on the side of the mountains, as well as by the creek, it is used for making bricks in that area. It is a quiet place in the Valley.
The Great Desert Kingdom of Peru
In the spring of 2000, I flew over
The desert kingdom of Peru,
The Nazca-Lines carve (or etched),
Bearing symbolic images (in
The desert sand), in the
Desert kingdom of Peru.
Our plane was but a hundred
Feet above this desert temple
(perhaps a shrine);
Streams of lines, carved out of
An ocean of dirt and clay,
(so it seemed), looked as if it’d
been burnt with sun beams:
Reds, yellows, brownish clays
(beyond the Pacific Ocean
((it laid)).
I looked down as
I sat by the window and saw through
The bronze light that pierced
The atmosphere, under the wing of
Our plane:
Reflections, scares—ripped
Open on the desert plateau, akin to
Flesh, tattooed all around us
Designs called: Nazca-Lines,
Lines in a rage…!:
The condor, the astronaut, the spider,
Hummingbird, the monkey,
Airstrips (or runways)) or so it
Seemed)), 2000-years old; faceless
I was, in awe—trying to swallow.
Blinded I was, by its surreal-ness.
It had occurred to me, perhaps
The inhabitants were marked by
Misfortune—
And carved those images to the gods,
Pleading for rain (or something).
Now a refuge, saved from the ravages
Of time: these scars remain—.
It is but a grave to the eyes
That carved them, I do believe.
#1238 2/23/06 The Author flew over the Nazca Lines in February of 2001, it was a marvelous experience.
El Gran Reino del Desierto de Perú
En la Primavera del 2000, yo volé sobre
El reino del desierto de Perú,
Las Líneas de Nazca tallado (o grabado),
Marcando imágenes simbólicas (en
El la arena del desierto), en el
Reino del desierto de Perú.
Nuestro avión estuvo solo a cien
Pies sobre este templo desierto
(Talvez un santuario);
Arroyuelos de líneas, talladas fuera de
Un océano de suciedad y barro,
(Así parecía), parecía como si esto
Estuviera ardiendo con los rayos del sol.
Rojos, amarillos, barros parduscos
(Más allá del Océano Pacífico)
((Tendido Esto)).
Yo mire para abajo mientras
Me senté por la ventana y vi a través
La luz broceada que penetraba
La atmósfera, entre las alas de
Nuestro avión:
Reflexiones, miedos- rasgando
Abiertos sobre el desierto totalmente, semejante a
Carne, tatuada todo a nuestro alrededor
Diseños llamados las Líneas de Nazca,
¡Líneas en un resplandor!
El cóndor, el Astronauta, la araña,
El colibrí, el mono,
Pista de aterrizaje (o pista)) o eso se
Parecía), 2000 años de edad; anónimo
Yo estuve, admirado tratando de tragarlo.
Enceguecido estaba, por su sur realidad-
Se me ocurrió a mi, talvez
Que los habitantes hubieron marcado por
Desgracia-
Y tallado esas imágenes para los Dioses,
Suplicando por lluvia (o alguna cosa).
Ahora un refugio, redimido por estragos
Del tiempo; las cicatrices permanecen-
Esto es solo una sepultura, para los ojos
Que los tallaron, yo creo.
#1238 2/23/06 El autor voló sobre las Líneas de Nazca en Febrero de 2000, esta fue una experiencia maravillosa.
San Juan de Miraflores
(Lima, Peru)
Beyond the thick windows
Of my house (Casa)
Brown children play across
The street in the park
By the church: play
In the dirt…!
A Christian parade—in the
Evening goes up and down
The neighborhood’s streets—
Stopping at certain houses,
Hoping to Christianize!
There is dancing and drinking
At the new Nightclub
Up the road, by the Tram—
Echoes of music ‘til 2:00 AM
Neon lights blinking—
Laughter, love, religion—
It is all here, all part of life
In this one little corner of the world
In San Juan de Miraflores,
In the summer of 2006.
#1276 3/12/2006 Note by the author: no one lives on the mountain looking down into the city, usually they live in the little corners of the city, looking up at the mountains, and so it is in Lima, Peru, all surrounded by mountains, and I, like all the others have my little corner in the city, looking up.
In Spanish
Translated by Rosa Penaloza de Siluk
San Juan de Miraflores
(Lima, Peru)
Afuera de las ventanas gruesas
De mi casa
Ninos bronceados juegan cruzando
La calle en el parque
Por la iglesia: juegan
En la tierra…!
Una procession Cristiana—en la
Noche va arriba y abajo de
Las calles, por la vecindad—
Deteniendose en ciertas casas,
Esperando Cristianizar!
Hay baile y bebida
En el nuevo Nightclub
Arriba del camino, por el tren—
Ecos de musica hasta las 2:00 AM
Luces de neon parpadeando—
Risas, amor, religion—
Esta todo aca, todo parte de la vida
En esta pequena esquina del mundo
En San Juan de Miraflores,
En el verano del 2006.
#1276 12/Marzo/2006 Apuntes por el autor: nadie vive en las montanas mirando hacia abajo dentro de la ciudad, generalmente ellos viven en las pequenas esquina de la ciudad, mirando arriba a las montanas, y por eso asi es en Lima, Peru, todo rodeado por montanas, y yo, como los todos tengo mi pequena esquina en la ciudad, mirando arriba.
.
Negrito, Little Negrito
(San Juan Miraflores; Lima, Peru)
Negrito, and his son, little Negrito (and often with his wife) walk the streets, collect trash; not sure what they do with it: bike-wheel attached to a cart behind its back, up and down the streets of Miraflores they walk, sound a horn, let folks know they’re coming, put trash scraps in their cart—move on.
He is a simple man I see, plain, small, three children I have learned, a wife that cares. He, like me came out of a mother naked, and both of us will be naked when we return: the main difference, my mother was born in America, I suppose. Other than that, I don’t know.
All around him are brown people, he is black I am white. I hired him today, in the middle of the heat, he and his children to clean, to clean up the garbage behind our home. Gave him water and a coke, a hat for his child, a towel, and twenty-soles. He said he didn’t need it, the towel, he was black already: looking at his dirt covered hands.
He will come back Monday, this prideful man, a man of God, to sweat some more, to make a few more dollars: cut the branches off our tree, it is almost hanging over our doorframe. There is no black silo inside of him; he is a pure man, with a shadow, lean, like so many in Peru, just trying to make a living.
#1282 3/18/06 Prose Poetry. Negrito, of Miraflores, so he is known, his real name is Mark, not sure if he knows he is called Negrito, but no one seems to hide the nick name, yet, he is called Mark to his face. He seems pleasant enough, and being black is not a bourdon to him, like it seems to be to so many in the United States; he seems to go along with God’s calling, and does not give off that ore of: intolerance, as so many blacks in America do today. And so I thought this little sketch of a man I met once and will meet again, would be of interest to my readers.
Spanish Version
By Rosa Penaloza de Siluk
Negrito, Pequeno Negrito
(San Juan de Miraflores; Lima, Peru)
Negrito, y su hijo, pequeno Negrito (y a veces con su esposa) caminan las calles, recogen basura; no estoy seguro que hacen con esto: carruaje atado detrás de este con una bicicleta con ruedas, arriba y debajo de las calles de Miraflores ellos andan, sonido de una bocina, hacen saber a la gente que ellos estan viniendo, poner restos de basura en su carruaje—continuar yendo.
El es un hombre simple yo veo, plano, pequeno, tres hijos me entere, una esposa que se preocupa. El, como yo vino desnudo de una madre, y ambos estaremos desnudos cuando volvamos: la mayor diferencia, mi madre nacio en America, me imagino. Otra cosa aparte de esta, no lo se.
Todos alrededor de el son personas bronceadas, el es Negro y yo soy blanco. Lo contrate hoy dia, en el medio del calor, a el y su hijo para limpiar, para limpiar la basura detras de nuestra casa. Le di a el agua y Coca Cola, un sombrero para su hijo, una toalla, y veinte-soles. El dijo que el no necesitaba esto, la toalla, dijo que ya era negro: mirando a sus manos cubiertas con suciedad.
El volvera el lunes, este orgulloso hombre, un hombre de Dios, para sudar algo mas, ganar unos cuantos dolares mas: cortar las ramas de nuestro arbol, que esta casi colgandose encima del marco de nuestra puerta. No hay rasgos de negro dentro de el; el es un hombre puro, con una sombra, delgado, como muchos en Peru, solo tratando de ganarse la vida.
#1282 18/Marzo/2006 Poema en Prosa. Negrito, de Miraflores, asi el es conocido, su nombre verdadero es Marco, no estoy seguro si el sabe que lo llaman Negrito, nadie parece ocultar este apodo, sin embargo, el es llamado Marco en su cara. El parece suficientemente agradable, y ser negro no es un problema para el, como parece ser para muchos en los Estados Unidos; el parece que va de acuerdo con los llamados de Dios, y no da muestras de da give off that ore de: intolerancia, como muchos de los negros en America lo hacen hoy. Y por eso pense que este sketch pequeno de un hombre que conoci una vez y lo volvere a ver de nuevo, seria interesante para mis lectores.
The Bread Man of Miraflores
[In Lima, Peru]
I’m learning the sound of the bread man’s horn
when he squeezes it with his right hand, it sounds
like a sick mule; small it is, and weak in sound,
but it has its tongue, like a lizard it reaches the ear
nonetheless. More kid than man I should say he is.
If he could only put a motor on that old bike of his,
old rusted black framed bike, with a basked attached
in front; with two front wheels holding a black metal
frame that holds the white wooded bread box of bread
in place (a box with windows for all to look in, and see
those little puppies just waiting to be bought); if only
he had a motor on it, he’d make some time, a faster
pace that is around the neighborhood; but then of course,
it would be more overhead, and those little potato like
loafs of bread [those puppies] would no longer be cheap.
In any case, should he lean too far either way (considering
the weight of the box and basket), right or left, I fear it would
all end up on the street, an early career—indeed . I shall pray
he buys a new model before it is too late, before that is,
before he is too old to keep that old bike balanced: in place.
Woops, somebody—, my neighbor waved him over, I think
Jenny, she wants a few of those puppies, she can see
through those porthole windows (likened to a ships), in
the white box…
in the damp air he shifts and shovels away several
loafs, catches a few of those puppies under a ton of others,
he’s picking out the big ones I think. He likes Jenny perhaps.
I’ll have to remember this, in case my wife buys some from
Him; it’s who you know in this town, that works. And it is wise
to keep good tidings with the bread man.
Now he’s leaving the scene, as I’m looking out my second
story window. Time to take my shower; it’s 8:00 AM. Looks
like it’s going to be a good day in Lima, Peru.
#1284 3/10/06 Morning in Lima, Peru; dedicated to my wife Rosa, she had asked me when I was spying out the window, “Are you thinking of a poem?” which I wasn’t at the time, until she said that, and so she was my inspiration for this poem.
The Papaya Man
[of: Lima, Peru]
The Papaya Man, He carts his fruits and vegetables around with an antique motorcycle-drawn-cart: papayas, grapes, oranges, this and that, so forth and on. He broadcasts his coming from house to house by way of a loudspeaker: up and down and around my casa [my house], in San Juan Miraflores (Lima, Peru): he looks up at me, as I’m looking down at him, from my second story window, he stops…got my attention, he is better than a security guard, knows what is happening around him.
He wears a blue rosary around his thick brown neck, short in stature, broad and robust; he looks kindly at my wife, now looking at the fruit and vegetables: he picks out the biggest and most yellowish-green papaya—weights it, he is smiling; ah! he made the sale, blessed be to the rosary.
He then starts his motor-cart back up again (it is 11:30 AM); not sure how it stirs, no handlebars, but nonetheless, he stirs it away, and down the street he sways, hands on the side of the cart…! The moment has passed, God has feed, both him and my wife, and perhaps me tonight!
#1287 3/24/2006 Note by the author. The nice thing about Peru, and Lima, is the old traditions are still alive, especially if you live here; the Papaya Man, the Bread Man, the Soda man, and so for and so on, come around and sell their goods, like it used to be back in the United States in the 50s.
Last Triumph in Cajamarca
Weep for the one you slay today! The one you found at last.
Mourn for Atahualpa, for war has come and passed—;
It was he who flamed the hearts so deep, with heroic
Breath, and now—
Now Pizarro’s sword is laid and armor hangs in the house
Of Cajamarca….
Weep for the one so swift to slay, whom they shall hang
Today—in Cajamarca!
#1305 4/8/06 Note: Atahualpa, was king of the Incas, perhaps the most noted one in Inca history, or one of the most famous Incas at least. He was killed in Cajamarca, Peru, in the 16th Century, and of course there are many legends that surround his last days; those days in a Spanish Prison, in this Northern Peruvian city. I suppose, if the city is famous for anything, it is famous more for the death and incarceration of Atahualpa, than anything else. I am not here to judge history, or to say how bad the Spanish were, or how cruel the Incas were. And I’m sure we could point fingers at both of them for their atrocities, for the Inca Empire did not acquire its grand conquering status (likened to the Romans) by being less cruel than the Spanish, but it was Atahualpa, who was the headlines of the day, and all the gold the Inca world could gather, did not save him.
Elegy for:
The Lord of Sipan
Embrace the soundless dignity of death
For now his name be with the passing dead.
Grieve not because Lord Sipan has died
Under Peru’s amber vernal, open skies:
Unlike turquoise in a cloudless sky
His jewels and gold splendid they lay.
Here, his tomb faces the divine silent sky,
In the Sipan Valley, where vultures fly.
Still on the Northern verge a sunset looms:
Sipan’s glory on pyramid tombs.
Beyond our loss is a potent recompense
A newborn loneliness for soul and spirit:
Thrown through the lofty, cloudless heavens
To earth’s ephemeral fading Rose—Sipan!
#1308 4/9/2006 [Written in Lima, Peru] Notes of: Old Civilizations: I have seen many of the world heritage sites, they are fading like the one in the Sipan Valley, where the Pyramid of the Moon and Sun, reside, and where the Lord of Sipan’s grave site remains; worn out by rain, and other elements, disappearing as man watches. Perhaps that is why it seems to some, I am on a mission to capture in pictures and verse their last morsel of flesh on their skeletons. I don’t blame anyone or thing, it is as it is. Life is a trail one is hiking on, some times you are in the dust of the road, sometimes in poison Oak, other times you’re in a mudslide, seldom, are we in the sun, in the valley, smoking a Havana Cigar, but when you are, grab the moment. Thus, are the world’s sacred sites is likening to us? We must not stop people from seeing them; they belong to them and that would be breaking the spirit of humanity: to save a stone, and slight man, as less worthy: he is worth more than the stone. Perhaps we can put them in the Valley with a Havana Cigar by their sides, and polish them up, so the next generation can afford to see them. Whatever the case is, Civilizations vanish and new ones emerge, we will rebuild them old ones should we feel it is necessary. But now it is our time, and we must, touch them: feel their power, grace, peace, and wisdom, it is all built within them.
Pigeons at La Favorita Café
Faintly, a scene of effects unfolds, awakens the eyes
And is soon forgotten, as it dies: the pigeons prance
Around parked cars, by the Café Favorita’s tables
in Lima, Peru!
Then they take off in flight, some remain, and prance under cars,
Out of sight: as they move in and out (the café is boarding
the street in Miraflores).
They prance, prance: pecking at crumbs on the ground, slowly
Winged, unhastening (as zooming cars pass by).
I watch these pigeons melt into the scene
nobody really notices them, but me…!
#1307 Written at the La Favorita Café, in Lima, Peru 4/8/06, while I was having coffee during the evening outside, with several tables full of Peruvians talking, drinking, eating; a TV in the Café going on, sports, news, etc. A mellow evening, and the I got focused on the pigeons for some reason. Perhaps something no one really notices, or if they do, it is almost subconsciously. And so I noticed life buzzing around me, the cars, at the tables of the café, the pigeons, it all makes for a complete package to a closing evening. The cool breeze, for it is fall in Lima now and the ocean is but a half mile away, the winds from the ocean seep up the streets, and impose their presence upon everyone. Sometimes I wonder why people eat or drink coffee inside cafes if they can go outside, it is perhaps one of the pleasures I have living here in Peru; after living in Minnesota most all my life, and having to eat inside seven months out of the year, it is a treat to breath in real air, instead of shifted air from the facility.
The Legend of:
The Chancay Maiden of the Supe Valley of Peru
Advance: before the Inca, Chancay, Moche, and Chavin there was the Caral civilization, in the North-central coast of Peru, five thousand years ago (3000 BC)) all these civilizations lived in the Supe Valley at one time except the Moche, who lived in Chan Chan, bordering the coast. Caral, a city-state you might say, or perhaps a small sanctuary along the Supe Rio (of which were perhaps some 3000-inhabidents at one time)) of which I first crossed by foot, and came back by horse)), in the Supe Valley, is most bravura, for I have been there and can bear this out. This civilization coexisted with that of Mesopotamia of the Near East, or Crete of Europe; perhaps built their pyramids at the same time Egypt did. The city is not only sacred, but it was political, with all its six pyramids, tucked away in a mountain like corral (so it got its name), in that it is surrounded by beautiful mountains, known as the. It is about 165-miles north of Lima; it is also the city known as ‘…dwelling place of the gods….’ You have three regions here: the Andean highlands, Andean jungle, and equatorial coastal area, of which now I have been to all three. It is close to the sea, the mountains look over it, and the jungle is not that far away. [Caral: in Quechua, is cabuya, or sisal, a dry fiber often used in weaving.] Pottery was not discovered until later to have been made at Caral, thus, no early dates for its baking process. One would have to date it perhaps between the Inca and Chavin cultures, or a better date might be the Chancay culture. It is known that the Chancay culture lived right on the site of the Caral Culture between 900 and 1300 AD.
The Poem:
She sat crossed legged: the Sacred Supe Rio to her right:
Small, sloping forehead: deep brown, secretive eyes;
Thin lips, slightly upward, triangular chin; thin hair.
Sparse outer eyebrows (beautiful) with a straight torso.
She was naked, arms stretched, crossed behind.
(She died according to her times.)
She sat crossed legged: the year 1102 AD, among her
Lay, unbaked clay figurines; color cotton textiles;
Head adornments: were two circular headdresses
Linked-and-twisted, made out of totora reed, rush fiber
And cotton thread; a wooden comb by her knees.
Pieces of pottery lay by her side, in the warm valley sand
To the left of her were the Caral ruins, the old city.
(Four thousand years had now passed, her Ancestors long gone;
Gone, now dead, perhaps her blood was currently, intermixed
With the many cultures that once walked this land.)
She sat crossed legged and thought: how crafty she was
Compared to them, for she had made handles for her pottery,
And she was proud, so very proud, of being: Peruvian
(with 11,000-years of proven history). She brushed away the
Mosquitoes, watched her friends plant corn, hot peppers
Along the banks of the Rio, in the Sacred Valley of Supe.
She sat crossed legged until sunset: watching the reds and
Yellows and orange mist fade into the sun’s brightness:
Thus, she wept and wept, for someone or thing had broken
Her pottery, as she laid still from a blow to the back of the head,
Her face (her cranial traumatized); it was all she could see,
As they bound her knees, the way they did back in 3000 BC!…
(She was part of the Caral legend. I for one, picked up those
Pieces of clay, with handles, in the sands of the Supe Valley).
#1312 4/13/06
In Spanish
La Leyenda De:
La Doncella De Chancay del Valle De Supe de Perú
Avance: antes de la Inca, Chancay, Moche, y Chavín hubo allí la civilización de Caral, en la costa Centro al Norte de Perú, hace cinco mil años (3000 antes de Cristo) todas estas civilizaciones vivió en el Valle de Supe en cierta época excepto La Moche, que vivió en Chan Chan, bordeando la costa. Caral, una ciudad - estado usted podría decir, o quizás un pequeño santuario a lo largo de Río Supe (del cual eran quizás unos 3000-habitantes inhabidents en cierta época)) él cual yo primero crucé a pie, y volví a caballo)), en el Valle de Supe, esta la mayor virtuosidad, ya que he estado allí y puedo confirmar esto. Esta civilización coexistió con la Mesopotámica del cercano Oriente, o Creta de Europa; quizás construyó sus pirámides al mismo tiempo que lo hizo Egipto. La ciudad no sólo es sagrada, sino también fue política, con todas sus seis pirámides, metidas en una montaña como corral (Así esto consiguió su nombre), la cual está rodeada por montañas hermosas, conocidos así. Esto está aproximadamente a 165 millas al norte de Lima; esta es también la ciudad conocida como “…el lugar de morada de los dioses”. Usted tiene tres regiones aquí: las tierras altas Andinas, la selva Andina, y el área ecuatorial costera, de cual ahora he estado de todas las tres. Está cerca del mar, las montañas se ven sobre esto, y la selva no está muy lejos de aquí. [Caral: en quechua, es cabuya, o el sisal, una fibra seca a menudo usada en el tejido.] La Cerámica no fue descubierta hasta más tarde, para ser hecho en Caral, más, ningún dato reciente para su proceso de cocción. Uno podría tener un dato de esto talvez entre la Cultura Inca y Chavín, o una fecha mejor podría ser la cultura Chancay. Es sabido que la cultura Chancay vivió exactamente sobre el sitio de la Cultura Caral entre 900 y 1300 después de Cristo.
El Poema:
Ella se sentó de piernas cruzadas: El Río Sagrado Supe a su derecha:
Frente pequeña, inclinada: marrón profundo, ojos reservados;
Labios finos, barbilla ligeramente ascendente, triangular; pelo
Fino.
Cejas escasas externas (hermosas) con un torso erguido.
Ella estaba desnuda, brazos estirados, cruzados detrás.
(Ella murió de acuerdo a su época).
Ella se sentó de piernas cruzadas: el año 1102 después de Cristo, entre ella
Colocados, estatuillas de arcilla cruda; textiles de algodón coloreado;
Adornos delanteros: eran dos tocados circulares
Unidos-y-torcidos, hechos de la caña de totora, la fibra de junco
y el hilo de algodón; un peine de madera por sus rodillas.
Piezas de cerámica colocados por su lado, en la arena caliente del valle
A la izquierda de ella estaban las ruinas de Caral, la vieja ciudad.
(Cuatro mil años ahora habían pasado, sus Antepasados hace mucho tiempo
Idos;
Idos, ahora muertos, quizás su sangre estaba actualmente, entremezclada
Con muchas de las culturas que una vez anduvieron esta tierra.)
Ella se sentó con las piernas cruzadas y pensó: cuán astuta era ella
Comparada a ellos, ya que ella había hecho manijas para su
Cerámica,
y ella estuvo orgullosa, tan orgullosa, de ser: Peruano
(Con de 11,000 años de historia probada). Ella quitó los
Mosquitos, vio a sus amigos plantar maíz, pimientos
Picantes
A lo largo de las orillas de Río, en el Valle Sagrado de Supe.
Ella se sentó con las piernas cruzadas hasta la puesta del sol: mirando las rojas y
Amarillas y anaranjadas nieblas atenuadas dentro del resplandor
del sol:
Así, ella lloró y lloró, por alguien o cosa que había
roto
Su cerámica, mientras ella inmovilizada por un golpe taras de
La cabeza,
Su cara (su cráneo fracturado); ¡era todo lo que ella
Podría ver,
Mientras ellos ataron sus rodillas, del modo que ellos lo hicieron antes hace, 3000 antes de Cristo! …
(Ella era parte de la leyenda de Caral. Yo por uno, recogí
Aquellos
Pedazos de arcilla, con manijas, en las arenas del Valle
De Supe).
*1312 4/13/06
Branches
There is something that bothers my neighbor
That irritates her, makes her skin: jump, crewel
That creates a humming stammer in her voice
And even makes gaps, silent ones as she talks
To my wife, about the heap across the street.
Her kind of row is another thing indeed
Where she doesn’t let one idea, spin
Not even one iota of that fall
Lest she lose her focus once and for all.
We are talking about last week’s branches,
And what’s hiding under that heap I see.
To please my neighbor, the branches I mean,
I’d have to get rid of the pile of rubbish
The one, everyone tosses garbage underneath
That lays so crude across the street, in the park.
But if one looks around we find much more:
My wife let my neighbor know this, that day
By day, her dogs piss and shit on our lawn,
Even on the light pole, and into the heap—
The one she keeps talking about: an eye on.
She watches them all right, when you are looking.
To each this burden now has fallen, the branches:
We have to use nice words to keep the balance:
“The neighbor up the block has a junk car,” my
Wife complains to her, she has no more to say.
Oh, just another kind of neighborly game,
One to each his own, it adds up to little more:
She is all heap and we are all branches.
She will never understand my branches,
Nor I, her focus on the heap—that
We alone are responsible for its parting.
If I could put an idea in her head
“Should we not all work together to rid
Our neighborhood of branches, messy dogs
Loafing cars: making for good neighbors?”
Before I hired the branch cuter, I asked him:
“Please take the branches with you, when done!”
He also is a neighbor who lives nearby.
Something irritates my neighbor about us—
My wife and I, whom she gives offence to;
She moves with slyness it seems to me,
Not of concern over those dry old branches.
I’m sure she likes having thought she done well
For the Neighborhood: firmly defending her heap.
#1314 (From a morning dream came Branches 4/14/06)) Written in Lima, Peru))
Ramas [un poema amistoso]
Hay algo que le incomoda a mi vecina
Que la irrita, hace que su piel: salte, se enrosque
Eso crea un murmullo tartamudo en su voz
Y hasta hace espacios, silenciosos mientras ella habla
A mi esposa, sobre el montón al frente de la calle.
Su especie de escándalo es otra cosa en verdad
Donde ella no deja una idea, dar vuelta
Ni aún una pizca de aquella caída
A menos que ella pierda su enfoque de una vez por todas.
Estamos hablando de las ramas de la semana pasada,
Y lo que se oculta bajo aquel montón que yo veo.
Para complacer a mi vecino, las ramas pienso,
Yo tendría que deshacerme del montón de basura,
El que, cada uno lanza la basura por debajo de esto.
Aquel tirado tan crudamente al frente de la calle, en el parque.
Pero si uno mira alrededor encontramos mucho más:
Mi esposa le hizo conocer esto a mi vecina, que día
A día, sus perros orinan y defecan sobre nuestro césped,
Incluso sobre el poste de luz, y dentro del montón –
Aquel del que ella sigue hablando: vigilando.
Ella los vigila muy bien, cuando usted esta mirando.
Por cada uno esta carga ahora ha caído, las ramas:
Tenemos que usar palabras agradables para mantener el equilibrio:
“El vecino de arriba del edificio tiene un coche basura” mi
Esposa se queja a ella, ella no tiene nada más que decir.
Ah, solo otra clase de juego amistoso,
Uno para cada uno propio, esto añade un poco más:
De ella es todo el montón y de nosotros todas las ramas.
Ella nunca entenderá mis ramas,
Ni yo, su enfoque sobre el montón – aquel
Nosotros solos somos responsables de su separación.
Si yo pudiera poner una idea en su cabeza
“No deberíamos nosotros trabajar todos juntos para librar
a nuestro vecindario de ramas, perros sucios
fila de coches: ¿hecho por buenos vecinos?”
Antes de que yo contratara al cortador de ramas, le pedí:
¡“Por favor llévese las ramas, cuándo acabe!”
Él también es un vecino que vive cerca.
Algo le molesta a mi vecina sobre nosotros-
Mi esposa y yo, a quien ella ofende:
Ella se mueve con astucia me parece,
No concerniente por aquellas viejas ramas secas.
Estoy seguro que le gusta, habiendo pensado que ella hizo bien
para la Vecindad: defendiendo firmemente su montón.
*1314 (desde un sueño de mañana vino Ramas 4/14/06)) Escrito en Lima, Perú
The White Bobber Pigeon
[de: Favorita Café de Miraflores, Lima, Peru]
The White Bobber [Pigeon]
bobs (up and down), as he slowly walks
the sidewalk (in Lima, Peru):
pacing to and fro
(bobbing his head forward and back):
to and fro—eating crumbs
that Juan throws onto the walk
in the front of his restaurant;
amazing I think, to watch
this dumb creature
walk right up to him, eating
(not even chewing), swallowing
those big hunks of bread:
this white dirty-winged pigeon.
Somehow I get the notion this
White Bobber pigeon can reason:
is he entertaining me and Juan?
Perchance he has forgotten
he’s just a dirty winged pigeon?
#1346, 5/11/06 5:45 PM, Thursday at the Favorita Café, de Miraflores Lima, Peru.
The Jackal of Venezuela: Hugo Chavez
[Part I/For His Homeland]
Over the Venezuelan cliff
(Hugo Chavez: now president)
And under so much History!
They did not see him smirk,
Turn, like an animal,
In his cage of vulgar, his cage of scars:
He’d had so many wars!
The dark caves of his mind was
The real trigger—Russian roulette.
#1362 5/31/06
The Panama Canal, 2006 (The Big Ditch) A Poem with Commentary
[May 2006: Advance]: After visiting the Panama Canal, to see its worth, on the world stage, seeing it four times in four days, from the locks to the Bridge of the Americas, to the lakes, etc; spending hours each day at the locks, and islands thereabouts, and talking to the Panamanians. I wrote the following poem below, at the canal.
I was told this was the eighth wonder of the world, but then when I was in Haiti, in 1986, likewise I was told, their Citadel was the 8th Wonder of the world. I have traveled the world over, and perhaps we have nine wonders of the world, the Panama being perhaps number 1 to 3, and the Citadel number nine, and we’d have to take one other wonder and put it into the missing category; the Panama Canal is really in a class of its own.
A wonder of the world it is
Equal to 6000-plus, war ships
Six pyramids by the Gaza strip.
With all its tunnels, and locks,
Dams, lakes, fifty-one miles of it;
Buildings, mess halls, bridges—
Structures and more structures;
Spillways and much cartage;
Bulldozers, trains—ten-years of it,
Building:
Excavations, constructions—:
Like digging a big ditch, through
Mountains, valleys, lakes—all
All I say, all immense, immense
With tons of cement and steel,
Between silt and mud; and two
Oceans between: obstacles
One after another—yellow fever.
The Suez Canal is but a glimpse
Of this immense task, in Panama;
Unequal in every way, to its grandeur.
Afterwards: In building the canal, it took, ten years (by the Americans; the French, several); and cost $675-million dollars between France and America; 62,000-workers worked at any one time on the site (42,000 world die from disease, accidents, est.); the site being 51-miles long, and ten miles wide. There were three locks to build, a few dams, a lake or two, a mountain to blow up, and create a passageway through. The French sold the rights to build the canal to America for $40-million dollars, after they had failed in its completion, at a cost of $300-million. Today that price tag would be over 14-billion dollars. It took 1600-hundred pounds of gold to pay the workers each month; or 24-tons of Silver. They had to produce five million loafs of bread, 100,000 pounds of cheese, 9-million pounds of meat, and 300,000 chickens each year to feed the hungry works. In addition, they had to use 150,000-gallions of mosquito oil. Its construction matter is equal to five Suez Canals. The material taken out of the Panama Canal would be equal to six large –pyramids in Egypt. It was an immense task, perhaps the most perplexed since the landing on the moon; in all the history of mankind.
Note: Written in Panama, at the Canal, 5/24/06, #1360.
.
*Crossing of the Supe Rio
[In North-central Peru] 4/12/2006
A Play in One Act
It is light outside the sun is overhead and you can see and hear the rapids of the Supe Rio, in the Supe Valley of North-central mountainous area of Peru, about one-hundred and sixty-five miles from Lima. There are three people standing by the river, DLS (me), Rosa and Antonio, our guide. Antonio, short, thin, feministic characters; he is wearing mostly white today, along with white tennis shoes. He is talkative, like a female can be at times, but for the most part, a good guide, means well, and tries to accommodate. Across the river you can see one of the six ancient Pyramids, at the archeological site known as Caral. The site was discovered in 1992, and DLS is set on seeing the site, as Antonio can tell by his observations, and conversations he’s had with him in the Van, across the highways, and over the rough road to get to this river. The Van is a few blocks away, Manuel; the driver is waiting in it. But this is not important for the scene; it is only information for the reader of this story. The Caral culture dates to 3000 BC which makes it more intriguing for DLS to want to see it, but now all three are standing by the river, looking at the bridge that goes across to the site, it has collapsed. Rosa is wearing a yellow T-shirt, and vest, with short black pants on, and DLS, brown long pants, a vest and green hat. The rapids are wild, but in certain areas not deep, DLS picks up a few rocks and throws them into the river to see how deep it is, how far they sink. You can hear the rapids. On the faces of Antonio and Rosa, you see skepticism, on DLS’s face, determination: something Antonio notices. Antonio looks at DLS several times sees in his eyes he in searching for the right spot to cross.
Antonio. Where are we crossing?
DLS. I’m not sure, but …but somewhere along these banks there has to be an opportunity, more shallow water, where the rapids are weaker. [He is looking up and down the river for an opening]
Rosa. DLS o, what do you think?
DLS. We’ll cross it all right, but where…wish I could find a horse or two!
Antonio. Our driver will wait, but I can’t see any one with horses. [He looks a ting scared]
DLS. Yes, I see, let’s go up river some more, maybe it’s better.
[All three spot a local resident, Rafael, they wave to him, he joins the three]
Rosa. Senor, can you help us to cross the river, a horse would be great, if we could rent one from you?
[The guide is too scared to ask any questions, he stands still in some kind of stupor; DLS notices this, but says nothing, he senses he has more guts than what he knows himself, he will soon find out he figures, his eyebrow goes up, he has won a little respect from him already by measuring the water with a stick]
Rafael. [He walks into the water with a stick checking its depth; he address DLS] Senor, it’s not too deep here, yet farther out it’s not safe I fear it is deep there, up a little farther, maybe, I think it gets little shallower, not so deep, rapids not so strong.
[Rafael walks into the water the second time, measures it with a stick]
Rafael. Follow me please, we hold hands walk slow. [Rosa, DLS, follow Rafael into the deep of the rapids; DLS has a heavy looking branch off a tree, he is using as a cane to balance his weight shifting it forward as he takes slow steps sideways to break the power of the current, the rapids as they hit him, try to push him down; Rosa is holding onto his elbow, tightly, and Rafael holding on to hers]
DLS. [To Antonio standing back along the edge of the banks of the Rio; DLS, Rosa and Rafael have stopped in the middle of the river as DLS yells] Take my picture
[Antonio has DLS’s camera, pulls it out of his sack, and snaps a picture, he has not yet moved from his one little spot]
Rosa. DL, Don’t look at the water, it will make you dizzy, look straight ahead [DLS has both hands on the cane now]
[They are on the other side of the river now; Antonio is staring from the banks at all three of them, unsure of his next move. DLS waves him on as if it is nothing to cross the river, knowing he is now really scared; Rosa asks Rafael to go get him, you can’t make out what she has said, but you know she has told him something; Rafael looks at Rosa with a kind of dismay countenance, as if to say: I made it once, I don’t want to push my luck, but he heads back to get Antonio, nonetheless]
DLS. [To Antonio: he yells] Come one! [Rafael has walked back to get Antonio, scared, almost hyperventilating, yet Antonio grabs onto Rafael and slowly they walk across the river, as the rapids slash at them; it seems they made it across faster than the first time; later on, Antonio will explain to DLS, he does not remember crossing the rapids, of Supe, only leaving the bank, and arriving on the other side]
DLS. You made it, how was it?
Antonio. The man has magic, I can’t remember a thing except leaving the bank, and here I was across the river.
[Antonio smiles proudly of his quest, as does DLS, knowing it was perhaps a bigger achievement than what he ever expected to be faceed with, this young adult. Antonio is also surprised at Rosa’s bravura courage; and that for DLS, it only seems natural for him, he asks DLS, a question:]
Antonio. Did you think for a moment you might not make it, something might happen?
DLS. No, not once.
Antonio. Why is that?
DLS. Because, I suppose, I’ve always made it, I’ve never thought I wouldn’t.
[Having said that, they all walk through the bushes to a little bridge crossing a creek, and some fields of vegetable, up an embankment, end up at the far end of the site, where it is off limits to tourists. And within a few minutes are told so by the authorities, they had come in sideways, and got to see things that were not yet to be shown to visitors]
Poggi and the Cannibals
1
Poggi and Nelly
It is not a matter of choosing a time when the psyche of man (usually because of aging) goes haywire, and during this gap in a man’s life, or call it his changing of life, likened to the changing of seasons, he looks at opportunities; hoping to escape for one more run down youth’s lane. The man knows there is perhaps only one more chance to appear in the unrepentant world of youth; thus he must face fight or flight. Most do not leave the homestead, or comfort of the campsite to journey to the unknown, or unsafe areas, save they have plan A and B in place. Henceforward, he escapes, calls it what he wants, perhaps Indian summer, and goes astray, like a woman in menopause. Goes astray and does strange things. His body is changing, he wants to be young again (and he thinks he can), and like the young characters he watches on TV, the sports in particular: smooth bodies, muscles popping out: he can do it, just once more, this is the time, the one and only chance, if he is going to take it, it must be now or never.
Nelly, Poggi’s wife (a good woman, and hard to find), and even Poggi is unaware he is going through this stage of life. Who wants to admit it even if you know it, it is a launching pad for escapism, to live in the forbidden, the imaginary world; thus, in Lima they live a happy life, or as happy as they can make it. He once was a prominent psychologist, not so prominent nowadays, but surely infamous for his past exploits. And so this is where our story begins.
2
Poggi and the Cannibals: the Cannibals
“They will eat you,” said Victor, to Poggi, then un-expectant hope of deliverance from the cannibals in the deep jungles of Atalaya (by Satipo Jungle, in Peru) overwhelmed him but where would it come from?
“What can we do?” said Poggi (almost ready to run now, run where—in this dark deep jungle was a rhetorical question he brought forward to himself; it of course would be the unanswered question; statement-question).
There were perhaps, 200-native cannibals to the tribe, the Ashaninca. Now to be eaten out of his skin and perchance bones, his flesh, by these monsters, just didn’t seem right; yet he left his family on a quirk, idiosyncrasy, eccentricity, just up and left, that was it, no advise, or where he was going, just up and left and ended up in the jungle, journeyed to this land for whatever reasons, this hideous land of man eating primates, sinister as it was, it was: why, well, it has its own motivations, as I have said in the first part of this story.
So here he was, in the underworld of the jungle (the deep), the year was 1994, it would be a long year indeed; his nostrils filled with the jungle air; water falls running wild like unending corridors everywhere; sounds of water and birds everywhere. It was if anything, it was a strange new world undeniably.
Eccentric, perhaps he was, not a sin to be so; brave, indeed he was, for who would cherish such a dream; then Victor said, standing in front of the tribal leaders, whispered to Poggi, said in a low, very low voice, with a small bird in his hands [he was holding], “You must kill this bird in front of everyone, lest, you give them time to eat you, should you not.”
It was a tiny bird for sure, whistling a tune nonetheless, and a cut bird at that, yet it bestowed fear in the strongest of the natives, it was known to pick, and pluck out the eyeballs of their loved ones. Perhaps love is a strong word here: their comrades.
Poggi looked about, the natives were laughing (he would learn in the next year they laughed all the time, like monkey’s, all the time moving, laughing ‘ha, ha, ha…’ they bellowed it out constantly, with spears in hand, laughed with each other, not sure what they were laughing at, just laughing like lost souls, like idiots; painted up like devils, as he would be in time.
Now they were all looking at Victor and Poggi (Victor had proven himself to be a fearful friend, and was in no danger, as was Poggi).
“Eat the eyeballs out of humans, do they?” asked Poggi, as if to have it clarified (a rhetorical question at best).
‘Crack…!’ went the bird’s neck; Poggi had twisted it, broke its neck, and saved his life at the hands of these cadaverous jungle devils. He looked at the bird, as if it would whistle again, but of course it would not, and he knew that. And all the natives looked at him, he was one of them now. He painted himself likened to their kind, and lived with them for a year.
3
Salvaged From the Jungle
Advance: Jaime Bayli: TV commentator, and Nelly, Poggi’s wife, went looking for Poggi, wanting to find him, rescue him via helicopter. Bayli wanted an interview with him, and paid the expenses to find him.
Emerging one more time into the light of the full sun, was Poggi, after a year in the bowels of the jungle, likened to a long incarceration, he was now rescued by helicopter —Nelly, his wife Nelly and Bayli had hired a pilot and dissented into the camp area, compelled to bring back her estranged husband back home to Lima; he looked wild, when they saw him, accustomed to how he looked a year ago that is: he had changed.
The foliage of growing things of the jungle disappeared as the helicopter-ascended into the thick of the clouds, on their way back to Lima. He was now in the upper world you could say. Recaptured by the commentator and his wife. He wiped his eyes to look at Nelly; she was really the only one who seemed to understand him.
Below them a mighty forest became a story to be written (this story perhaps)) more perhaps to be written yet)), an interview in the makings. As they got close to Lima, one could see the haze from the pacific, in the distanced, faintly, then they descended, and in the mid-distance was Lima, spread out like a condor. Nelly pointed to the city, unknowingly, happiness was almost complete for her, and Jaime could see this in her actions, in her constancy.
[Hesitantly] “You’re not going to try to go back to the Jungle are you?” she asked her husband.
“Look,” he cried, his eyes found her figure, “God gave you to me,” he exclaimed (then became lost for words), and as his voice went to a whisper, he leaped into her arms [swiftly].
Note: Story gotten while Poggi was visiting the author for breakfast at his house in Lima, 5/7/06.
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*The Paper Pickers of Buenos Aires [Argentina, 2002]
I arrived in Buenos Aries four days ago and my first reaction to the paper pickers, as I call them now, was ‘b…ee careful. …—‘It was the same reaction a women on an elevator in our hotel, who had just arrived said she had; our hotel was right off the largest street in the world called ‘9th of-July Street’; a sovereignty thing, from what I was told.
I seem to keep looking at the obelisk out my hotel window: I like the obelisk, I told my wife, just down the street a ways, it seems rather close from our window on the 9th floor.
It was funny, or so it seemed, that when I first arrived I asked to get a room with a good view of it [the obelisk I’m speaking of], and now my wife keeps asking me, “What you looking at…” I keep saying “the…obelisk honey, the obelisk, of course…” Sometimes you get a fixation on something (or at least I do), and you end up marveling at it unknowingly, as I was doing, still am doing.
“You know, what’s new baby, the obelisk is,” is what I’d say to her, and add, “you’re the cutest little thing this side of the Universe.”
Anyway, as I was saying, or about to say, I watched these ‘Paper Pickers’, for a number of days now. I could see them from my 9th story window, and of course as we’d walk home during the evening they’d be by the hotel. They could be mistaken for bums, young ones. But they were working, so the bum thing went out the window. They knew you were walking by them, watching them, but they never caught your eyes, they wouldn’t look at you, just kept putting paper into sacks, and breaking down boxes, and then they’d put them onto a wheelbarrow and brought them across that busy long, very wide street (the 9th of July Street) to the other side and down a few more streets, and down an alley, hour after hour, after hour, they did this. But I’m getting ahead of my story I think.
They were as I had said, stuffing these huge bags full of paper, and tying the boxes tight, from 2PM in the afternoon, to 12:00 AM at night, a good ten-hour day work. The streets after 9:00 PM seems to bare most of the mountain of paper, as they do their work right off main street, across from our four-star hotel.
It was the forth day, and my Spanish-speaking wife and I stood by the hotel door watching them. It was about 10:00 PM. I started walking over to them—slowly, we approached the group whom where somewhat scattered within a thirty food row or line (stretched out against the wooded black backboard, used kind of as a fence of sorts), although they were stagnated several feet apart from one another: in groups of twos: as a consequence, they worked at their trade together this way, perhaps for support—
A few eyes started to stare at us as we neared them, and then looked another way, but Victor whom would speak to me in a moment stood kind of frozen, a little surprised that I was nearing him, or so it seemed as I caught his eyes. He was about twenty-two years old. As I stepped forward to greet him, he extended his hands in a most unchallenging way, and I introduced my wife and myself. He still was estranged from what was taking place, I think he was simply used of going through basic motions, and when you altered that, by and large, it stops within a person (sometimes) the whole process—not only his thinking, his sensory perception, he’s kind of stunned, and so he was. That is to say, not knowing what my intent was, and surely knowing from my blue eyes and auburn hair, and light complexion, I was a gringo, with a Spanish wife (which was suspicious in itself) he was curious I was approaching him, yet not sure if indeed it was him I was approaching.
“Hola (hello)!” he said, with a quite calm voice, standing by his cart, half filled with paper compound, as compared to the full carts of the other couples. He was alone.
“I see you’re alone, not like the others who have a companion to help?”
My wife said to him in Spanish.
“My partner got sick on me tonight, and so I have to work alone.” He commented.
“So you have to try and take care of business like normal, for you must have certain people that depend on your arrival?” He smiled. I had noticed he rarely made eye contact with me, but my wife and I kind of forced Victor’s hand. My wife told him, I had several questions I’d like to ask, if he didn’t mind accommodating me with the answers, and they all related to his work?
As we stood there talking, he explained to me he worked this ten-hour day, going from hotel to hotel, to apartment store to apartment store, collecting paper and cardboard. Bulking it together and tying it down, then delivering it in black twenty-five gallon bags.
When they got enough filled they would bring them to the tuck parked a few blocks away, the people would weigh them at .40-cents per each kilogram [two pounds]. In a day or evening he would make four pesos, equal now to $1.20 [US]; a few years back that might have been about $4-dollars but the pesos were really down in comparison to the dollar at the moment. But he was working, which he was proud to show, not begging like so many and wanting money for standing and doing nothing.
Victor explained also that plastic was also recycled, but they had to bring it to another location; Victor’s eyes were dark brown, small and round, almost hypnotic: a very pleasant lad, graceful. I’m sure his parents were proud of him, for he was proud of himself.
I pulled out a 10-peso bill, gave it to him. He looked at me as if he was in disbelief, not sure if he should accept it or not. But my wife assured him it was for the information he provided, and therefore was and had worked for it [of which this story came from]. He looked at it a second time and took it.
As we walked away, I stopped and turned around to see him one last time, he was talking to some of his comrades: in particular, two guys by him who where standing loosely, and he was showing them the bill, while holding the bill with two hands, still in disbelief I would guess that it was his. It was 2 ½ days pay, but well worth it for this story. And I’m sure he didn’t mind his friend being gone that night after all; for he had a good story to tell him tomorrow about the gringo and the Spanish lady.
*People of the Walk [Santiago, Chile/2003]
If you have ever been in Santiago, Chile and spent a week there you would have recognize the “People of the Walk.“ They are the ones that have a certain street by the Palace area, and I guess one would call it the merchant area and they start gathering there about 4:00 PM. Sometimes even earlier, let’s say 2:30 PM. I’m not sure if they have some kind of a deal or not with the police, but they really stick together on this one street. No cars, just a walkway for the most part.
I found it most interesting, also a little sad, a little frustrating, and a little impressed with the people, so many emotions for this group of slum merchants. Or call them down and out merchants. Or sole proprietors with little money. But whatever you call them, they are not afraid of work, and some of the Americans can take a good look at them, some of the lazy ones that is, who want a free ride all the time, and think society owes them something.
Each day my wife and I would walk down this street a few times, around 10:00 PM there were at least a hundred or more of these People on the Walk. They had a system, let me explain:
they, each had a bag, suitcase or some kind of carry case to haul there merchandise with, something that could be folded up in a hurry; the reason being, if the police came walking by, they could—quickly—fold their four-by-four foot-space area up, that they had their merchandise on (usually some kind of blanket or plastic material), and walk away, as if they were not doing business. Then when the police would go, they would put there goods back on the ground and sell them to the passerby, casual observer, and member of the public. I purchased a few things from these merchants, they were good folk, and like anyone else, trying to make a buck, —but in this case the hard way.
Sometimes you would look behind yourself and the whole street, four to five blocks (of which they were selling on) were clean of merchants; although if you looked harder, they were resting against the nearest wall, as if they had disappeared, that is when the police were nearby disappeared, for within a minutes time, it was business as usual: yes, after the police left, it was dizzying.
The people were a sample of the whole city I believe—as young as eleven or twelve and as old as sixty or more, male and female.
Another interesting fact is that they all seem to know one another and had there own little clicks, -- amazing it was. It seemed to be understood, if not well known, that if the police caught a person, s/he could lose their possessions, and be put into jail, or simply have their things taken away from them. And that was their fear. But on the other hand, they had formed a kind of pack among themselves, a union of sorts, and when a few of the policemen took the merchandise, or was about to take it from a certain individual, they’d beat the policemen up, or try. I guess it had been done. And here I was watching this from the second floor of McDonald’s (and at other locations depending on the time of day).
And so my trip to Santiago, Chile, had one interesting element to it.
And to the “People of the Walk,” God bless you, and instead of stealing or robbing or selling drugs, Chile should be proud you are at trying to sell something to stay alive. I do realize there are no taxes being paid by you folks, and some of the items being sold are stolen from the local stores they are standing and selling in front of, but nothing is perfect, is it.
Gente del Paseo [Santiago, Chile/2003]
Si usted ha estado alguna vez en Santiago, (Chile) y pasó una semana allí, usted podría haber reconocido a la "gente del paseo”. Ellos son los que tienen cierta calle por el área del palacio, y supongo, que uno podría llamarlo el área mercantil, ellos comienzan a reunirse allí cerca de 4:00 PM. Algunas veces aún mas temprano, digamos 2:30 PM. No estoy seguro si tienen alguna clase de trato o no con la policía, pero realmente ellos se juntan en esta única calle. Ningún carro, solo un paseo principalmente.
Encontré esto lo más interesante, también un poco triste, un poco frustrante, y un poco impresionado con la gente, Así muchas emociones para este grupo de comerciantes de los tugurios. O llámelos comerciantes extremadamente pobres. O propietarios únicos con poco dinero. Pero cualquier cosa que usted los llame, a ellos no les asusta el trabajo, y algunos de los americanos podrían echarles una buena ojeada a ellos, algunos de los perezosos es decir, quiénes desean pasear libremente en todo momento, y piensan que la sociedad les debe algo.
Cada día mi esposa y yo caminábamos bajo de esta calle un rato, alrededor 10:00 PM. Allí estaban por lo menos cien o más de esta gente en el paseo. Tenían un sistema, déjeme explicar:
Cada uno de ellos, tenía un bolso, la maleta o una cierta clase de maletín para arrastrar con la mercadería, algo que se podría doblar en un apuro; siendo la razón, que si la policía venia caminando cerca, ellos-rápidamente-doblaban su área de aproximadamente cuatro-por-cuatro pies, en donde tenían su mercancía (generalmente cierta clase de manta o material plástico), y escapaban, como si no estuvieran haciendo ningún tipo de negocio. Luego cuando la policía se iba, ponían su mercancía nuevamente sobre el suelo, y así para venderlos a los transeúntes, observadores casuales y miembros del público. Compré algunas cosas de estos comerciantes, eran buena gente, y como cualquier persona, intentando hacer un dólar - pero en este caso de manera dura.
A veces usted miraría detrás de usted mismo y toda la calle, cuatro a cinco bloques (en los cuáles ellos estuvieron vendiendo) estaban limpios de comerciantes; sin embargo si usted miraba más minuciosamente, ellos estaban descansando contra la pared más cercana, como si hubieran desaparecido, eso era cuando la policía estaba cercana, desaparecidos, pero en pocos minutos, era nuevamente negocios como de costumbre: sí, después que la policía salía, esto era vertiginoso.
La gente era un ejemplo de la toda la ciudad yo creo-tan jóvenes como once o doce y tan viejos como sesenta o más, masculino o femenino.
Otro hecho interesante es que todos parecían conocerse el uno al otro y tenían allí sus propias señales pequeñas, -- sorprendente era esto. Parecía ser entendido, si no bien conocido, eso si el policía cogia a una persona, él o ella podría perder sus posesiones, y ser puesto en la cárcel, o simplemente quitarles sus cosas. Y ése era su miedo. Pero por otra parte, habían formado una clase de pacto entre sí mismos, una clase de unión, y cuando algunos de los policías tomaban la mercancía, o estaban para tomarlo de cierto individuo, ellos darían una paliza a los policías, o intentarían. Conjeturo que esto sido hecho. Y aquí yo estaba mirando esto desde el segundo piso de McDonald´s (y en otras localidades dependiendo de la hora y día).
Y así mi viaje a Santiago, (Chile), tuvo un elemento interesante de esto.
Y a la "gente del paseo " que Dios los bendiga, y en vez de asaltar o de robar o de vender las drogas, Chile debe de estar orgulloso que usted está intentando vender algo para sobrevivir. Me doy cuenta que hay impuestos que no son pagados por ustedes amigos, y algunos de los artículos que son vendidos, son robados de los locales de almacenes que venden ubicados al frente , pero nada es perfecto, ¿verdad?.
The Peanut Man
[Los Portal: —Plaza de Armes, Vera Cruz]
About anytime after 6:00 PM – the Peanut-man [Enrique] can be found in the Plaza-de Arms, (Antique) in Vera Cruz, Mexico; actually it is called [the] Los Portal, the location of the Plaza that is.
A baseball cap on his head, about twenty-three years old, blue jeans, white T-shirt, he carries a plastic-crystal-clear box of peanuts; —several selections, a wide assortment of peanuts; a belt [leather strap] crosses his chest and back—, attached to his box of peanuts of course: he walks this walk daily-–at great lengths he makes his way in and out, and around the tables that line up the north side of the chain of Cafés, that support the plaza area: like a Mexican style-New Orleans, one might say.
Actually, Vera Cruz, has a little of everything, not only peanuts [ruins, the Gulf of Mexico, live music nightly in the Plaza, etc]; but as I was saying, in and out, around and through the tables and chairs the Peanut-man goes each night; --fifteen pesos for a small assortment of peanuts on a small plastic dish, and 20-pesos for a larger plate. All in all, you get your money’s worth; in addition, for that price, you would get five-different kinds of peanuts; some round and brown looking, that look like peanuts, another kind that is long and thin, and it these to me, do not look like peanuts, but I suppose they are, and they it tasted good, it was more like a long sunflower seed, he called them peanuts anyway (so I will let it go at that of course).
And then there was that fat looking peanut, that had a light shell on it, my wife took them off for me, they were frustrating, I think I might have broke the table had she not rescued me: and I didn’t want to end up in jail, and court and all that kind of stuff, over peanuts. For some odd reason, she had the technique in shelling peanuts: my wife has good dexterity (I do not): what a blessing she can be. They were all salted and oiled.
He was (he being: the peanut man), was a friendly sort of chap, with a humble smile, --a brightness to it. Each night I would buy a plate of his peanuts, eat them later, bring them to the hotel room, when I got hungry, and I always get hungry at night in this Mexican New Orleans, or so it seemed, I looked forward to those peanuts.
Now back at the table, as I would sit and take in the night, I’d drink my espresso with a side order of hot milk, maybe some soup, and a pork sandwich, and of course those peanuts, those addicting peanuts.
Written while in Vera Cruz, Mexico, 3/2003 [revised/reedited 1/25/2006 in St. Paul, MN]
♥
Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk my mother]
She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left —
Where once there was plenty.
And so, poised and dignified
She said, farewell in her own way—
And left behind
A grand old time,
Room for another: —
Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.
Dlsiluk 7/03
◊
Reviews of the
Author Dennis L. Siluk
Awarded by the city and its Mayor, in December 2005, Poet Laureate de San Jeronimo de Tunán, Peru; in which he dedicated the book, ‘Poetic Images out of Peru,’ to the City and its Mayor.
From the author and poet, E.J. Soltermann, commented on Dennis' poem in his new book, "Last Autumn and Winter,” called "Night Poem, In the Minnesota Cold," he said: "That is Poetry." I know that is not a lot of works per se, but a powerful statement it is, coming from someone who can judge poetry for its worth; as Dennis once said, “Only a poet is suitable to critique a poet’s poetry.” Rosa Peñaloza
By Rosa Peñaloza,
I have in the past written many comments about Dennis’ work, and today I want to share with you some of his reviews and comments other people have had. He has a variety of literature out there, from short stories (over 225 now), to articles (over 825), to poems (over 1300), to chapbooks (he has done about 13-chapbooks) —and of course his 34-books, and he is working on four other books. Most of this work has been done in the past six years, minus three books, six chapbooks, and about 300-poems (along with some miscellaneous poetry).
For the most part, I think Dennis is best know for his travels and poetry; he has traveled the world over, now it is almost 27-times around the world, or as he said: 687,000-air miles; not to include all the travels he has done cross-countries, on the road, etc., he did when he was young, going to: San Francisco, Omaha, along with Seattle, and the Dakotas; he lived in all those places in the 60s; in the 70s he traveled throughout Europe for four years, during this time he went to Vietnam, in 1971, and came back to Europe thereafter. Now he has spent, or taken eight trips to South America, where he has his second home, and where he loves the Mountains by Huancayo.
Here are some of his reviews:
Note 1: Recent interview on Radio Programas del Perú, concerning his two publications: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”; reaching five countries, and three continents; over 15-million people; by Milagros Valverde, 11/15/2005, 11:00 PM. (Milagros read poems from both of Mr. Siluk’s books: “Spell of the Andes” and “The Ice Maiden”.)
Note 2: “Spell of the Andes,” recommended by the Cultural Agency in Lima- Peru; located in Alfredo Benavides # 605 - Apartment 201, phone number 2428942
Note 3: Interviewed by JP Magazine, interviewer Jose Luis Pantoja Ventocilla, who had very positive comments and appreciation for Dennis’ Poetic Peruvian Traditions and Contemporary way of Life; 10/26/2005.
Note 4: Mayor of San Jeronimo, Peru, Jesus Vargas Párraga, “All mayors should recognize Dennis’ work (on his Poetic Traditions of Peru; and favorable articles for the Mantaro Valley Region) and publicize it.... (paraphrased: we should not hide his work)”
Note 5: 91.7 Radio “Super Latina”, 10/19/2005, interviewer Joseito Arrieta, reaching 1.2 million people in the Mantaro Valley Region about the book “Spell of the Andes” (paraphrased): the Municipality and the Cultural House from Huancayo should give an acknowledgement for the work you did on The Mantaro Valley.
Note 6: Channel #5 “Panamericana” 10/16/2005, “Good Morning Huancayo” (in Huancayo, Peru ((population 325,000)); interviewed by reporter: Vladimir Bendezú, on Mr. Siluk’s two books: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”: also on, Mr. Siluk’s biography.
*Note 7: Cesar Hildebrandt, International Journalist and Commentator, for Channel #2, in Lima, Peru, on October 7, 2005, introduced Mr. Siluk’s book, “Peruvian Poems,” to the world, saying: “…Peruvian Poems, is a most interesting book, and important….” (Population of Lima, eight million, and all of Peru: twenty-five million)) plus a number of other Latin American countries: reaching about sixty-three million inhabitants, in addition, his program reaches Spain)).
Note 8: More than 240,000-visit Mr. Siluk’s web site a year: see his travels and books…!
Note 9: Mr. Siluk received a signed personal picture with compliments from the Dalai Lama, 11/05, after sending him his book with a letter, “The Last Trumpet…” on eschatology.
Note 10: Ezine Articles [Internet Magazine] 11/2005, recognized by the Magazine Team, as one of 250-top writers, out of 14,700. Christopher Knight, Editor; annual readership: twelve-million (or one million per month). Dennis has about 10,000 readers of his articles, poems and stories, alone on this site per month.
Note 11: Dennis L. Siluk Columnist of the Year, on the International Internet Magazine, Useless-knowledge; December 5, 2005 (Annual Readership: 1.5 million).
Note 12: Dennis L. Siluk was made Special Author, status, for the site www.Freearticles.com
Note 13: Mr. Siluk’s works are on over 400-web sites worldwide as of (early 2005)
☼
More Reviews:
Benjamin Szumskyj: Editor of SSWFT Magazine Australia
“In the Pits of Hell, a Seed of Faith Grows”
"The Macabre Poems: and other selected Poems,"
“…Siluk’s Atlantean poems are also well crafted, from the surreal…to the majestic…and convivial…” and the reviewer adds: “All up, Siluk is a fine poet…His choice of topic and theme are compelling and he does not hold back in injecting his own personal thoughts and feelings directly into his prose, lyrics, odes and verse…” (September 2005)
“…I liked your poem [‘The Bear-men of Qolqepunku’] very much. It is a very poignant piece.”
Aalia Wayfare
Researcher on the Practices
Of the Ukukus
“I just received your book ‘Spell of the Andes,’ and I like it a lot.’
—Luis Guillermo Guedes, Director
Of the Ricardo Palma Museum-House
In Lima, Peru [July, 2005]
“The Original title of the book Dennis L. Siluk presents is ‘Spell of the Andes’ which poems and stories were inspired by various places of our region and can be read in English and Spanish. The book separated in two parts presents the poems that evoked the Mantaro Valley, La Laguna de Paca…Miraflores, among other places. The book is dedicated to ‘the beautiful city of Huancayo’…”
By: Marissa Cardenas, Correo Newspaper,
Huancayo, Peru [7/9/05]
Translated into English by Rosa Peñaloza.
Mr. Siluk’s writings, in particular the book: ‘Islam, in Search of Satan’s Rib,’ induced a letter from Arial Sharon, Prime Minister of Israel, along with a signed picture. [2004]
“You’re a Master of the written world.” [Reference to the book: ‘Death on Demand’]
—Benjamin Szumskyj,
Editor of SSWFT-magazine out of Australia [2005]
A poetic Children’s tale “The Tale of Willy, the Humpback Whale” 1982 Pulitzer Prize entry, with favorable comments sent back by the committee.
“Dennis is a prolific and passionate writer.”
—Matt James,
Editor of ‘useless-knowledge,’ Magazine [2005]
“The Other Door,”…by Dennis L. Siluk…This is a collection of some 45 poems written…over a 20-year period in many parts of the world. Siluk has traveled widely in this country and Europe and some of the poems reflect his impressions of places he has visited. All of them have a philosophical turn. Scattered through the poems—some long, some only three lines—are lyrical lines and interesting descriptions. Siluk illustrated the book with his own pen and ink drawings.” —St. Paul Pioneer Press [1981)
“Your stories are wonderful little vignettes of immigrant life….
“… (The Little Russian Twins) it is affecting….”
—Sibyl-Child (a women’s art and culture journal) by Nancy Protun, Hyattsville, Md.; published by the Little Peoples’ Press, 1983
“The Other Door, by Dennis L. Siluk-62pp. $5….both stirring and mystical….”
—C.S.P. World News [1983]
“For those who enjoy poetry…The Other Door, offers an illustrated collection…Reflecting upon memories of his youth, Siluk depicts his old neighborhood of the 1960’s…Siluk…reflects upon his travels in poems like: ‘Bavaria’s Harvest’ (Augsburg, Germany and ‘Venice in April.’’’
—Evergreen Press
St. Paul, Minnesota [1982]
“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”
—The Sunday Forum
Fargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]
“Dennis Siluk, a St. Paul native…is the author of a recently released book of poetry called The Other Door….The 34-year old outspoken poet was born and reared in St. Paul. The Other Door has received positive reaction from the public and various publications. One of the poems included in his book, ‘Donkeyland-(A side Street Saga)’, is a reflection of Siluk’s memories…in what was once one of the highest crime areas in St. Paul.” [1983]
—Monitor
St. Paul, Minnesota
“This entertaining and heart-warming story …teaches a lesson, has all the necessary ingredients needed to make a warm, charming, refreshing children’s animated television movie or special.” [1983]
—Form: Producers
Report by Creative
Entertainment Systems;
West Hollywood, CA
Evaluation Editor
The book: ‘The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,’ writes Pastor Naason Mulâtre, from the Church of Christ, Haiti, WI; “…I received…four books [The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon…]. My friend it’s wonderful, we are pleased of them. We are planning to do a study of them twice a month. With them we can have the capacity to learn about the Antichrist. I have read all the chapters. I have…new knowledge about how to resist and fight against this enemy. I understand how [the] devil is universal in his work against [the] church of Jesus-Christ. Thanks a lot for your effort to write a so good book or Christians around the world.” [2002]
☼
Additional (mixed) Notes and Reviews:
Mr. Siluk was the winner of the magazine competition by “The Eldritch Dark”; for most favored writer [contributor] for 2004 [with readership of some 2.2-million].
And received a letter of gratitude from President Bush for his many articles he published in the internet Magazine, “Useless-knowledge.com,” during his campaign for President, 2004 [1.2-million readership].
Still some of his work can be seen in the Internet Ezine Magazine, with a readership of some three-million. [2005, some 350 articles, poems and short stories]
Siluk’s poetic stories and poetry in general have been recently published by the Huancayo, Peru newspaper, Correo; and “Leaves,” an international literary magazine out of India. With favorable responses by the Editor
Mr. Siluk has been to all the locations [or thereabouts] within his stories and poetry he writes; some 683,000-miles throughout the world.
His most recent book is, “The Spell of the Andes,” to be presented at the Ricardo Palma Museum-House in October, 2005, and recently reviewed in Peru and the United States.
From the book, “Death on Demand,” by Mr. Siluk, says author:
E.J. Soltermann
Author of Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War:
“The Dead Vault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better.” (Feb. 2004)
♥
Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk my mother]
She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.
And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another
Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.
—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03
Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.eldritchdark.com www.swft/writings.html www.abe.com www.alibris.com www.freearticles.com and many more
Books by the Author
Out of Print
The Other Door, Volume I [1980]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1981]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]
Presently In Print
The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon
Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants
Tales of the Tiamat [not released]
Can be purchased individually [trilogy]
Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast
Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib
The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:
A Path to Sobriety,
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery
Autobiographical-fiction
A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV
Romance:
Perhaps it’s Love
Cold Kindness
The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:
Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]
Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]
The Mumbler [psychological]
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]
Poetry:
Sirens
[Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [2004]
Spell of the Andes [2005]
Peruvian Poems [2005]
Last autumn and Winter [2006]
[Poems out of Minnesota]
Poetic Images out of Peru
[And other poem, 2006]
Jungle Poems Out of Peru
[And Other Poems, 2006]
The Sergeant’s Verses
(Last Minnesota Coffeehouse poems)
[2006]
The Fruit-cake
(Narrative ((story)) written for the Screen)
((2006))
∆
Dennis with Senator Keiko Fujimori (Previous First Lady of Peru) in Chiclayo, Peru
Back of the book
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 9:39 AM
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