From Volcanoes to Earthquakes

“Oh, by the way, sleep with your passports and money under your pillow tonight.” The PSF Director pokes his head into our muddy, disorganized room. “There was a tremor felt in Ica and it will probably affect us in a couple hours. If you have to run out of a crumbling building, it´s best to have the important things with you.” I look around my room. My 70 liter pack and little day pack lay sprawling and gutted at the foot of my bed, equally filthy. Small piles of sand speckle the floor. There are six beds all strewn with clothes, boots, water bottles, leaving barely a square foot of space between. Not exactly the best setup for an emergency evacuation.

On the wall, the evacuation route notification reads: In the case of an earthquake, we are to proceed to the big brick wall about a half block down the street to hunker down. Good to know. Earthquakes are very common in Pisco, and as Ica is about an hour South, chances are good we´ll feel something.

Half of us stay up, can´t sleep, anxiously checking the time and the news. I pass out right away, with vague sleepy thoughts of how cool it would be to feel a little tremor- just a little one- you know, for the experience. Last night I got my wish.

The sky was alight. We thought the sun was rising already; it was five o clock in the morning. It was the moon.  The night of Saturday, May 4^th held the year´s fullest of full moons in its sky, a gleaming sphere rounder than a coin, a blazing orb that washed the crumbling streets of Pisco in a white light. I had been on the roof twelve hours prior to watch the setting sun. A rusty blue ladder on PSF Headquarters´ top floor (which was build by PSF) leads to the small concrete roof. It´s a cramped space shared with the water tank. A small concrete ledge with a bird´s vantage of the Pisco´s roof life below, and only a few blocks ahead, the sparkling blue Pacific and the perfect view of spectacular fireball sunsets.

We had just come back after PSF´s own PS Fest, or “Pissfest”, followed by a wild salsa dancing night. For a handful of volunteers it was their last night in Pisco, and it had been a magical one. Now, with pillows and sleeping bags strewn across our small rooftop perch, lying dangerously close to the edge, we watched the sky for the sun´s rising and then fell asleep and missed it.

Two hours later, 7 AM. A train bowling past at abnormal velocities. A billion people pounding on the walls below. My eyes jerked open; the sun was up, people were running everywhere. It was an earthquake. To my left, Sander had been so close to the edge of the roof, sleeping, when the rattling began. We stumbled down the ladder; I was still asleep. Still in my salsa dress, hair a mess of knots, blanket wrapped around my shoulders, we assembled in the “yard”, or ground floor area. The director was making a speech. I was asleep. “You all have your passports, right?” Hah. So much for preparedness. How did I miss the sunrise? Damn. “You have just experienced a 5.5 earthquake.”

 Something tells me that´s no small deal. It´s true- the scale used to measure quakes, the Richter scale, sets each level of shake as ten times the previous, using numbers from 1 (“micro”) to 10 (“massive”). So an earthquake that measures 5.0 on the Richter scale has a shaking amplitude 10 times greater than a 4.0 earthquake. For a reference, the tremor we felt in Seattle in 2001 was a 6.8. That´s 13 times massiver than the rattling I felt on the roof last night. A 5.5 is considered a solidly “moderate” quake.

Because of the depth of the earthquake´s center (it had a hypocenter depth of 59 km), the earthquake was reduced to a mild shaking at the earth´s surface, so where humans generally hang out, there was no major damage. After our brief meeting, the volunteers were dismissed to go about our business; most of us went back to sleep. When I woke at 12:30 there was little talk of last night´s (I mean that morning)´s adventure, and our earthquake acclimated town continued on with its day.

Pisco is an earthquake disaster zone. It´s a small city, about 235 K South of Lima, roughly a five hour bus ride. It´s a beach town, and used to be an immensely popular holiday vacation spot for Peruanos and foreigners alike. Pisqueños are used to mild tremors. They have to be; they live on a major converging fault line, the perfect geological setup for ground splitting shakes. Pisco sits along the oceanic “Nazca” and continental “South American” tectonic plates. Like the Carribean and Cocos plates in Nicaragua along which the Maribios volcano chain rises, the Nazca plate is subducting, or sliding under, the South American plate as you read at a rate of 3.1 inches a year.

On August 15, 2007, the two plates screeched to a critical friction point and an 8.0 magnitude mother tremor seized Pisco by the scurf of the neck and shook the city until it split at the seams. 80% of Pisco was completely destroyed. 615 people died in the quake, and of those, 598 were from Pisco itself. The most populated destroyed areas were Plaza de Armas (the center square), and the wealthier neighborhoods that used to line the beach. Now, almost no traces remain to suggest Pisco was once a ritzy summer vacay destination. Formerly elegant seaside residences are now stripped, cracked, crumbling, and buried in piles of rubble. The owners of the houses (yes, they still do have owners, technically), ran off, leaving most of their belongings behind. They never came back. In their absence, others ransacked and stripped their homes.

The cracked wall of a former home, still abandoned.

Looking through the wripped apart carcass of a beachside home; you can see the marsh and the ocean through the back door.

These crack lines show how the earth moved during the quake.

So many Pisqueños were killed near Plaza de Armas that bodies were piled up on the square to be identified. It´s a bit eerie to be strolling along the plaza- now rebuilt and peaceful- and imagine the bloody massacre that mother nature inflicted on the same ground just a couple years back.

Pisco is set on a raw, sweeping desert beach on the Pacific, once very famous for its marine birds. Directly after the 2007 shake, Pisco´s government decided their beautiful beach would be a great place to dump all the rubble. There was a massive pile of trash on the sand for several years, extending miles down the playa, hundreds of meters onto shore, and 5 meters into the air. One day a year or so ago, the government finally agreed to move it all, and now Pisco has its beach back.

Aid money was sent to the government, but it all seemed to mysteriously disappear. To create the image that they were doing something, the government built brick walls around the periphery of the town. The locals now call them “walls of shame”- they serve absolutely no purpose but to create the false image of progress. (“Look! We´re doing something!”) Nice try, Pedro. The government was replaced, and the current mayor is actually helping. Unfortunately, the initial corruption was a major reason for Pisco´s slow rehabilitation and progress.

Dock

A park that PSF built.

One of the fake walls.

In the time immediately following the quake, Psco received international aid from various NGO´s and non profits, but they help lasted less than a year before funds fizzled out. In 2008, a pair of Peruvian siblings named Harold and Carolina realized that there were still many homeless and suffering Pisqueños in dire need of help. With meager supplies and funding, they began carting shabby wheelbarrows around town and helping to rebuild the town one project at a time. Soon enough, Harold and Carolina´s work gained international attention and they teamed up with a group from the states who called themselves “Burners without Borders” (referring to Burning Man). A year after the earthquake hit, Burners without Borders morphed into “Pisco without Borders”, and thus Pisco Sin Fronteras was born.

Since then, the organization has thrived, and seen unprecedented growth. So many volunteers pass through in a week´s time, you can find these idealistic and hardworking former volunteers all around the globe. I can personally confirm this. Tumbling along the dusty camp road to the Pilas-El Hoyo Reserve 2,000 miles North in Nicaragua, I told a cheery volcano border that I was going to be volunteering for Pisco Sin Fronteras. She pulled up her shirt and there, tattooed on her belly, was “PSF” in bold black lettering. “I was just there! I could only stay 2 weeks, but I really wish I could have stayed longer.” Two weeks?! And she got a tattoo?! Dang, she must have really dug the place. I was impressed. For me, that was absolute confirmation that I had picked a well liked nonprofit after all my tedious research.

Now I know the whole story. Pisco Sin Fronteras relies almost solely on funds raised by current and former volunteers, many of whom return to their home countries, fundraise there, and send the money to Peru. In the case of my new friend, she actually got the tattoo as a dare/ fundraiser; friends and family bet money that she wouldn´t get the permanent reminder of a two week volunteer vacation branded onto her stomach. When she actually went through with it, she collected all the money and donated it right back to PSF.

On the top floor of headquarters.

The roofs of Pisco.

I´ve been here for three weeks now, and I can already understand the impact PSF made on her- this is an incredible place. After watching busses pass along the perilous sand dune highway behind Eco Truly for five days in fascinated horror, I finally bussed along that road from Eco Truly Lodge to Lima, and then from Lima to Pisco. The bus ride along that gripping cliff edge felt exactly like being in a plane. We flew through the clouds and I sat next to a window white with fog. In moments the haze around would break and with a lurch of my stomach I could see down, down, down into the sparkling Pacific Ocean far below the precariously rolling wheels of the bus. They veered so near the sharp drop-off that I couldn´t see the road below, no matter how sharp I craned my neck.

 Inside the bus was a first class jet. We sat in plush seats, watched feature length films on a shiny new flat screen, and were require to buy a real ticket for a real, individual, comfortable seat. No one stood in the isle. I was blown away. It just kept getting better, though- the bus terminal was akin to the poshest of airports. Like airlines, bus companies occupied stations lining the upper floor, advertising tickets to Trujillo, Huaraz, Cusco, and other popular destinations. Most importantly, there were escalators!!! I am truly in a different world here.

 Pisco is a bit different. I´d say today´s Pisco is somewhere between funky and a shit hole. It´s a sandy, sprawling confusion of concrete box buildings and what used to be concrete box buildings. Sort of like a run down city in the deserts of Southwestern US. The light here is different- it´s a pale dune yellow that settles over the city in milky dust. But the minute you leave town, the dust clears, the light changes, and the sky is the blue bluest of blue.

 The gate to Pisco Sin Fronteras would be lost among the shabby buildings along La Avenida las Americas would it not be painted in the brightest turquoises, oranges and reds. Beyond the iconic entrance lies an energetic organism of volunteers serious about helping and serious about work. About responding to the direct needs of the Pisqueños still affected by the 2007 earthquake, and delving deeper into the relief effort through finding inventive and sustainable means to reach the common goal: Rebuild Pisco sustainably and improve the quality of life.

 The energy here is contagious. I instantly forgot about being burnt out. The air seems electrified with a go-go, get down to work ethic and enthusiasm. And you need that sort of energy for the work we´re doing here. Work begins at 9 from Monday to Friday and the day sets with the sun- this means (depending on the project) over 8 hours of backbreaking physical labor in the heat of the sun so inescapably close to the equator. But whether you´re on a construction site or working in a classroom (teaching English, tutoring school children, etc.), the challenges less in the physical labor and more in the emotional reaction to seeing the many here living under tarps, in crudely thrown together bamboo shacks, or literally under plastic bags.

 PSF differs from Quetzaltrekkers in that we´re literally rebuilding the down one hammer stroke at a time, instead purely fundraising. In that way, we´re much more connected to the impact we´re making on the town. I feel like I´m making a difference here. It´s only been three weeks, and Pisco already feels like home. This is a special place; the energy and enthusiasm are unstoppable. I have never heard a complaint. Somehow, the positive energy is circulated and multiplied and leaves room for nothing else. PFS is proof positive that it is possible to work really hard and have a lot of fun at the same time.- It must be the camaraderie- people are kind and supportive. Whatever the case, I am happy happy happy to be here and I´m love love lovin it.

 More details soon about what I am actually doing!

Krishna Consciousness

It felt like I´d entered back into reality from a long, colorful dream. Lima is a city like all big cities. I could have been anywhere. I had to keep on reminding myself that I’m in Peru now.

Peruvian Spanish is crisp, clear, with a throaty rasp on the h. It felt like my Spanish speaking and comprehension had made laps and bounds in a second. This is the Spanish I learned in school, not the slurred, lazy Nicaraguan colloquialism, the Nicañol.

The center of Lima, where the money is, at once reminds me of Los Angeles and the images I have of European cities. Of Los Angeles for the diffused haze of the sky, the traffic choked highways, the rows of top heavy palms and distant hills. Of Europe for the colonial architecture around the square: Statues set in fountains, tall, old buildings with dainty Spanish wrought iron balconies. But all painted with Latin America´s hues: Deep oranges and yellows, faded pastels. Not the garishly bright colors of Central America and the Caribbean, but a like the distinguished and subtle parent.

There is a certain urgency in the air here that Leon didn´t have: People walk with haste, move quickly. A typical vendor in Leon: She moves as if through molasses, her frayed and filthy front apron stained with the juice of the quesillos in her hands. She is in no hurry, she takes one step at a time, she retires on a curb to rely on the piercing nasal quality of her saleswoman shriek: QUESSSIIIIILLLOOOOOOSSSSS! QUESSSSSIIIIIIILOOOOOOOSS! A sound which can penetrate the densest of walls. The vendors I´ve seen so far in Lima walk with a quick clip. They´re on a mission.

We drove out of the town center, North. Small, dusty mountains in grays and tans. Light cracks and fissures splitting open their parched flesh. A sea of slums, of houses- stacked concrete boxes in dusty pastels, clinging to the hills. They are dirty rectangular Easter eggs. They summit the small peaks and creep up the taller ridges. They are the outskirts of a city numbering over 10 million, the edges of a growing amoeba cupped by the retaining walls of the mountains and the drop off into the sea.

 Peru has the wide open spaces that Nicaragua lacked. It expands and expands. It´s as if a country´s geology stretches and shrinks depending on the space within its borders; tiny Nicaragua seemed so cramped. I can tell that I´m in a bigger country now.

 I was in a taxi, on the way from the hotel I´d stayed at in Lima to Eco Truly Lodge., I was burnt out from working as a hiking guide and needed a break before diving into my next project, Pisco Sin Fronteras. I could tell it would be equally hard core. Jelmer, coming to my rescue yet again, had mentioned the Eco lodge when I inquired about a good spot in Peru to relax.”There´s this Hare Krishna place,” he mused. “Don´t remember the name. Good food. Nice people. It´s perfect for rejuvenating, they take really good care of you.” Sounds good.

 With a bit more research I found about the yoga, the beach, the art center. Perfect.  A plan was hatched. I would spend five days at Eco Truly before heading South to Pisco, five days of reflection and introspection.

*********

I had been sleeping for hours. When I awoke, Lima was long gone. Everything was sand and dunes, desert. It was incredible, like the Mojave but more intense. We pulled into the town of Chacra y Mar, if you can call it a town. It is a desolate desert highway, wind whipped and scoured by sand, along which stood the most sad, barren produce stands I´ve ever seen. Crumbling houses and scattered concrete block houses that looked like a pile of rubble until you saw a little girl standing in the doorway, her home. There´s an Eco Lodge here?!

 There is. Eco Truly Lodge is an oasis of green that appears out of the endless tan, nestled up next to the Pacific Ocean. It´s an ecological, artistic community founded on Vaishnava principles, combination “hare Krishna” ashram, farm, bakery and restaurant, offering yoga, meditation, and access to the art studio. Dome shaped mud structures called Trulys make Eco Truly distinct and easy to spot. The idea of the mud is that by living within something that is crafted of the earth around you, you are in touch with the energy of the surrounding nature. Their rounded shape allows that energy to circulate in a swirling motion, rather than get trapped in the corners. IN meditation, this apparently allows an elevated state to come more quickly. Beehive-like, they´re decorated with beaded spires and colorful mandalas, images of hindu demi gods and holy animals.

The Truly I´m staying at now is the volunteer lodging, and I´m sharing it with three other girls, all leaving at around the same time as me, in about 5 days. I didn´t plan on volunteering until I was told that by offering just a couple hours of service a day, the price to stay is less than half. We´re also more integrated with the long term devotees (Community members who live at Eco Truly for an extended period of time and are fierce worshipers of Krishna. Each devotee is given a new name: Darma, Brama, Druva, etc. They are the sweetest, most adorable men and women. And very helpful in my quest to understand the meaning of the phrase “hare Krishna”.

 First of all, don´t call them “hare krishnas”. The term hare Krishna roughly translates to “hail Krishna”, so to call the devotees “hare krishnas” would be as if to call a Christian a “Praise the Lord” or a “Hallelujah”. Also, don´t call them Hindu. The word Hindu was originally a mispronunciation of a Sanskrit word, some 4,000 years ago. According to the history books, Persians couldn´t pronounce the “S” in the name of the Sindhu River, and this called it the “Hindu”. Those living along the banks were labeled “Hindus”, regardless of religious affiliation.

 There are many strands of what Westerners call Hinduism. Vaishnavism, the religion practiced by devotees in Eco Truly, is the most popular form of Hinduism and is practiced by most “Hindus” in India. Vaishnavas worship Krishna as their one and only god, in contrast to other strands of Hinduism which worship only demi gods (Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, etc.) The demi gods are worshiped in Vaishnavism too- Almost similar to the Catholic Saints. Vaishnavas seemed much more open and tolerant to other religions than Catholics. They preach that you can call God by any name, and that the way you envision God is exactly how He or She Is; each person has their own personal Krishna.

Here, the air is singed with the scents of desert, ocean, and incense. On one side, the near vertical dun brown wall of a sand dune rises into the hazy sky, cut halfway through by a scary looking Cliffside highway. After dark, the lights of delicately balanced semis shoot past like low flying planes, perched high up on the black wall that merges with the night.

On the other side the ocean roars up the desert coast. Last night, a spectacular sunset spangled the sand- the brightest yellows I have seen in the sky. The entire heavens were painted and molded in textures that swept as far back as the dunes, and the scape was reflected in the ocean and the wet sand. Where I stood at the tide line, I was encompassed in a globe of color. I was floating in a kaleidoscope, blending and tumbling and shooting ribbons of light in every direction.

This is a desert retreat, an escape. Over dinner, a devotee was telling me that everyone comes here for a reason; is looking for something. Tourists don´t just stumble upon Eco Truly while strolling through the town of Chacra y Mar. From the conversations I´ve had it seems like the Peruvian devotees are here to shed from their lives toxins and find purity: Quit drinking and smoking, use nonviolence, completely reinvent themselves and redefine their lives to be personally meaningful.

The farm here is cultivated using permaculture, and the people here seem to apply the principles of permaculture to their own lives and interactions with others. The pillars of the community are living in harmony with nature, others, and themselves. To be open minded and practice tolerance, compassions, and patience. The green fields that surround the lodge and produce organic vegetables are a wonder; they were built on what was once sandy, unworkable land. They bloomed form the hard work of residents and volunteers, unique “organic awareness cultivation”, and love and blessings from Krishna, I´m sure.  Eco Truly´s agricultural solutions have become a model for impoverished Peruvian desert villages throughout the country.

But if you want to stay at Eco Truly, there are rules. When you enter the front gate, you can leave your drugs and your guns behind. Easy enough. Now you can leave your meat behind. Your milk. Your eggs. Your honey. The community here is vegan, and it isn’t permitted to consume anything that alters the consciousness; this includes rum, beer, pot, and…. Coffee. That´s right, no coffee. I had been nodding, smiling, understanding… but I draw the line there. I understand the idea that caffeine picks you up and draws you into a slightly artificial state, but how can it sever any sort of connection with God?! To me, there is nothing more spiritual than a big steaming mug of hot coffee in the early morning, cupped in your hands, aroma mingling with the dewy morning air and gracing the new light of day. That´s God. And may coffee shops be my temple.

I made a little secret rebellion. I was naughty. There is a little stand outside the eco park where the sweetest Peruvian woman sells nick knacks including packets of instant coffee. I bought two. I felt like I was doing a drug deal. Putting on my best casual face, I tried to walk through the door normally, glancing over my shoulder and wondering if anyone could recognize the bulge in my pants pocket. Can the devotees smell the fumes? Can they sense the bad energy that caffeine emanates?

I hid the packets in my room and then walked innocently into the cavernous, fully equipped Krishna kitchen- Cooking is one of the most important activities in Vaishnavism. I asked a devotee for boiling water. He put the stove on while I drifted around the room, breathing in aromas of Indian spices and silently giving my blessings at the many small altars along the walls, building up a little Karma before I committed my sinful deed.

The coffee tasted excellent. It was just instant powder, so I think the good flavor was simply caused by the sweetness of sipping something you shouldn´t be sipping- the forbidden fruit effect, like a Budweiser to a high school freshman.

My plan at Eco Truly was to do nothing- as explained, five days of reflection and introspection. Well, the devotees at Eco Truly are very good at providing that sort of environment. Not only do they excel at the art of being in touch with oneself, but they preach it with intense passion and enthusiastically grasp visitors by the hand, determined to engage them in as many spiritual and happiness-bringing activities as they can convince you to participate in a day. Proactive relaxation?

If you were to take on a full schedule of events, your day would go something like this.

Wake up at 4, temple at 4:30. Reason for this: The early, early hours of the morning are the holiest of the day. They´re ruled by the demigod Brahma, the creator. They are the delicate hours when everything is new as if freshly created, of virgin light.

At six, a rigorous yoga session. Around the time yoga ends, around 7, the sun is finally dressed and ready and has just begun to show herself above her curtain; the immense sand wall that towers behind Eco Truly to the East. According to Maharaj (Maharaj is not a name but a title given to a high-status devotee. This Maharaj is affectionately called Little Buddha or Yogi the Bear), that point in the sun´s journey is perfect for cleansing the eyes in a practice known as sun gazing. Us yoga students are instructed to stare at the sun, eyes wide, for at least thirty seconds. Maharaj times it on his wristwatch. And don´t worry if you´re crying your eyes out and can’t hold them open, Maharaj will hold them open for you.

When you´re done, if you´re lucky and haven´t been permanently blinded, you´ll see a brightly quivering spot in your vision. This sacred splotch means love when green and happiness when blue. Mine was purple. When I asked, Maharaj told me purple means you will have a beautiful moment at Eco Truly.

Vision freshly impaired, we migrate to the beach. At this time of the morning, the sky and sea are washed tones of gray sifting from white to the shadowed underbelly of the crashing waves. Barefoot at the water’s edge, we cup the cold saltwater in our hands and release it back into the sea while Maharaj chants a mantra blessing our parents. “Para tu Madre y Padre”.

Then we run. Holding hands.  A long line of crazy Hindu hippies, skipping through the shallow surf and giggling at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Passing by fishermen who shake their heads as they cast their morning nets. They´re used to it al by now, I´m sure. We sprint until we can´t breathe, and then sprint again. At the end there will be a group hug, and sometimes, a massage chain.

I can tell you that by the time breakfast is served, you will be hungry. Breakfast is heaven at Eco Truly- a modge podge of ride fruit, mango, papaya, cantaloupe, banana, apples; homemade granola and yogurt; fresh fruit juice. Of course no coffee, don´t get me started again. 

For volunteers, the hours from 9 to 1 are devoted to conscious servitude, AKA sweeping the bathrooms. Luckily for me, Rama (the volunteer coordinator) seemed to forget about us my first two days, one of which I spent my volunteer hours visiting the “sea caves”. These are stalactite encrusted caverns gaping into the roaring sea a short hike away from the Krishna bubble. The other volunteers and I climbed up and over scorching sand dunes, past fishermen who dropped their lines hundreds of feet up on sandy cliffs, on top of the blue world, and then along the ocean as the cliffs closed in on our left and then split open in a maze deep, of interconnected maws.

Out at sea, pelicans rode the swells, as big as boats, riding on some of the biggest waves I´ve ever seen. The sea, spotted with foam, rose like the quivering flank of an appaloosa. Up, up, and she cups, spitting froth, a charging stallion. Galloping forward, down into a barrel, closing left, and finally milky foam. I watched and watched, screaming in delight every time a wave crashed. Where else but the ocean can you find this level of power and beauty? Where else?

The tide was coming in so we ran screaming through the cave passages to reach the inner cavern. The waves pulsed through and threatened to steal us and suck us down dark passageways. It was incredible. When we finally got to the back, the Lion like Hindu god of protection bore down on us from the back wall. Someone had painted his towering portrait, thirty feet tall, complete with the lion body, flowers decorating his neck, and imposing staff. It´s a powerful piece of art and has a certain energy. Or maybe the energy you´re feeling is just the tremors of the ripping tide crashing closer and closer behind you as you stare… We only stayed for a couple minutes and then ran out again screaming like chickens as the saltwater swirled around our waists.

Other days, I was not so lucky. On Thursday, the chore of the day was to collect and arrange flower bouquets for the temple. Easy enough, right? Rama instructed that we could rip out flowers form anywhere and anything, because it would all g back to Krishna anyway. We were to start out bouquets with a banana leaf, to be a sort of background and keep the more delicate blooms together. I walked into the little banana field and inspected the plants. They were young with lush, succulent green leaves, thriving. I started pulling at a particularly nice leaf, and it felt like I was killing an animal. I was ripping at the strong juicy threads at the base of the stems, and they were refusing to break- I was sawing at the veins and tendons of a living thing and it was bleeding green into my hands! I don´t understand why Vaishnava devotees are so concerned about killing animals, even the smallest bug, but will enthusiastically send me out to kill banana plants. It felt very weird.

I struggled through and we filled all eight or so vases in the temple, then headed in for lunch. Typically, Rama will show videos after lunch for the interested. I watched two in total: one about reincarnation; how knowing that your energy will be recycled into a new entity after you die helps you pass away in peace, and one about vegetarianism. I have nothing against vegetarianism; in fact, I rarely eat meat, and have only lived in vegetarian households. What got to me was the peachiness of the video  and the lengths the narrator (their spiritual master) went to to condemn meat eaters.

 At one point, a quote flashed across the screen, something like this: “When all the humans cease to consume flesh, humans will cease to abort their sons”. Essentially, if we stop killing by not eating meat, we will not want to kill by having abortions. I asked Rama how they know this, and his answer was “My spiritual Master knows. He can see the future”. Vaishnavas are such a funny mix of artsy-liberal and radically-religious Pro-Life.

Sometimes there´s yoga in the afternoon too, depending on the volunteer schedule. I’ve been learning that there´s a lot more to yoga than stretching and building muscle strength; the very word yoga means “unity”, or in this context, “unity with God”. There are many, many different types of yoga. Bakti Yoga literally means just serving God, and can be anything from chanting a mantra to reading the Guru Gita (Holy book) to sweeping the floor.

After dinner comes the last step of the day, evening temple. The temple is made up of a circle of Trulys with a large open space in the center. The biggest truly is home to an altar populated by 50 or so deity dolls. Every night, a devotee dresses the dolls in their PJ´s, puts them to bed, and draws the curtains. I asked why. They´re embarrassed to be seen in their lingerie, of course. There is a kitchen directly next to the temple, where a tiny, ancient Peruvian woman works full time. She spends her days cranking out 3 elaborate and exquisitely spiced meals a day, which she arranges on platters and leaves as offerings for the Gods. Three times a day, we are offered their “leftovers”, which are often more delectable than the cuisine for us lowly earthbound creatures. It´s like communion, and the offerings are supposed to cleanse you.

 I went to Temple three times- the first two had two parts, first singing (chanting hare Krishna, hare Krishna etc. to a melody) and the reading and lecture out of the Guru Gita. The third time I went, it was a Saturday, so we had a party. The party was an hour or so of dancing and singing: This meant jumping up and down like Mexican jumping beans, clapping and shouting “kare krisna” (you guessed it) over and over while the devotees banged on drums and clanged bells and castanets.

On my last day, the volunteer program of the day was sweeping the entire housing quarters, cleaning the bathrooms, and such things. I was having a bit of trouble with this working-for-Krishna thing (although the chores that day did have their real life benefits). I had started a painting the day before and wouldn´t have had any time to finish it otherwise, so I asked to paint it as an offering to Krishna for my volunteer hours. It worked! It was perfect. I painted a goddess, sort of an earth-sea diosa encircled in a moon and sun, and left it behind as a “footprint” of my stay, as my new friend Dharma said.

By the time I left, after only five days, I had grown close with several of the devotees, and my Spanish had improved by a lot. Everyone in the Eco Truly community is so open and ready to share themselves with you and get to know you as real people that bonds develop fast. It was an interesting experience, and now that I had expected. But despite the constant activity, my week there was what I needed- I came out rejuvenated and exited to move on to Pisco and start something new.

I had had many conversations with Darhma over cups of acrylic paint. I told him how I wanted to explore the world and try to make a difference, try to change things, try to help. He told me he used to be like that, but not anymore. He told me he´s realized that the only thing you can really change is yourself. How you live and interact and treat others is the only thing you can really control in life.

That´s why he´s landed in this spiritual community. The mindset in Eco Truly is very much “things are as they are; they are perfect as they are; don´t try to change things”. At this point in my life, I can´t think that way. I´m going to Pisco to try to make as much of a different as I can through construction and community development. So yeah, I was excited to get back into the world. Goodbye, happy little bubble, hello Earthquake destruction zone!!

Transitions

I love airports.

I love the way you arrive at dawn, the sky growing rosy with the anticipation of a new day, your cheeks ruddy to match the clouds, your eyes beaming like the freshly rising sun.

You´re at the brink, you’re a poised arrow, every molecule in your body quivering with the ecstasy of freedom and imminent release. You´re ready, so ready you can feel it burning in your chest like a firecracker.

Airports are the junction between gritty traveling and clean, posh sophistication. You sit with your loaded backpack, mind gearing for the impending arrival, the grit, the unfamiliarity, the challenges, the stimulation and chaos. Around you, facades of stylish perfume shops glitter; slick white walks rise lofty, adorned with crisp advertisements. Flight attendance clip past with starched white suits, vogue, hair slicked back, compact.

This is exciting. Your little luggage bag, your belongings- only what you need and exactly what you need, right here, on your body. You can go anywhere. You ARE going anywhere.

You sit next to the glass, a floor to ceiling window wide to the horizon. Gazing at your immediate destination, the sky. The silver bird you´ll ride rolls below on the tarmac, strutting, shiny, powerful and mysterious.

Smooth jazz floats on the air. You expand into the comfort and convenience and sterile cool; you are forced to relax. Suddenly everything falls nicely into perspective. You are here, in this moment, at the airport, in this empty space between Have Been and Will Go. There is nothing. There is you, your bag, and the infinity of the sky. This beautiful balance point of time, this calm, white bubble of

Today my affixation with airports will be put to the test. Eight hours in Comolapa International Airport in San Salvador, El Salvador. Two of which I spent sleeping-´in the grimy corner of Puerto de Salida 14, many flights prior to being my takeoff point for Lima, Peru. I passed out on the cold, hard, unforgiving linoleum floor, head resting on my trusty yellow Northface backpack, neck tweaked in an unnatural angle. Curled up in fetal position amidst droves of international travelers queuing, streaming and mobbing to desks, through official glass doors, voyaging into their metal beasts.  Making for home or beyond after their pleasantly reasonable layovers. Me, I´m gonna hang out here for a while.

I popped out of a dream choked sleep bright eyed and alive, and now have finally squandered out a nice spot to camp out, over looking Gate 14 (although I don´t really need to be paying attention for at least four more hours).

Ahh, the calm, the solitude, the cleanliness. The wide open spaces and white walls, the slick, shiny floor, vast walls of glass spilling light into a mirror on the empty floor, quivering reflection leaking to the edge of my chique café table.

I sit, I read, and then I write. Every half an hour or so I take the five minute walk to the baño. And in a steady stream of preciously crisp green bills, I buy needlessly expensive food. First, I had to get an espresso drink. For the last three and a half months, my caffeine consumption has been limited to the drudgery of Presto instant coffee power, powder creamer, and heaps of sugar to smother the bitterness. A couple times, I was treated to luxury: Jelmer had bought a bag of real coffee- the kind that is straight ground bean and necessitates preparation of various forms. In his case, boiling water and grounds together in a small pan, and then sifting the coarser grounds out through a tea strainer. Cowboy coffee. It was heaven.

Here, when I saw the word ¨mocha¨ on the menu, my stomach made a little flip of excitement. My fancy espresso drink was even adorned with the delicate caricature of a bunny rabbit. I worked as a barista for 4 months, and foam art is NOT easy.

The next stop was equally exciting: Subway! Five dollar footlongs! I was a little dismayed when the only cheese was ¨queso Americano¨, but the real disappointment came when the cashier rang me up for 10 dollars. Double the amount of back home. I hadn´t even bothered to check the price, but it was too late, the sandwich had been made.

I´m buying fancy drinks, fancy sandwiches, gum, even a chocolate muffin. I´m acting like it´s my mission to spend as much cash on food and caffeine as is humanly possible to consume in 8 hours. It´s not, by the way.

I think I deserve it, though. I´m tired. My relaxing week had screeched to a sudden, violent halt. I was basking in leisure; spending my days sketching and going on runs and sleeping in till 12. My sheer torpidity had blossomed to such a grotesque level that I could barely bring myself to lift a finger to wash my dishes, and unabashedly assumed that any and all of my hikes would be canceled until my departure. Two had already fallen short of the minimum clientele, and I only had one more- Volcano boarding, my least favorite trip, on my last day, literally my last day at Quetzaltrekkers.

It was so inconveniently and annoyingly placed on my schedule, that there was just no way it would actually happen. Right? There was no one signed up and it was 5: 45. The office closes at six. I was on office shift, sketching a mountains scene, contemplating all the time I would have the next day for packing and last minute errands around Leon. Since we figured my trip wouldn´t go, Raf and I had planned a joint despedida that night- Friday night. On Saturday, half of us would be gone on hikes. So we had all this stuff planned out. Raf had gone to the supermarket and bought drinks, party snacks, and butt loads of fruit for… Fruit Ninja!

Fruit Ninja means standing in the courtyard wielding a sharpened machete like a baseball bat, or alternatively up above your head like you´re about to Whack-A-Mole, while ripe, juicy watermelons are tossed at your head. The idea is to slice the projectile cleanly in two, but it´s harder then it looks, depending on the size of the fruit in question. Mandarin oranges, for example, are a challenge. I got a papaya, a big one, and I cleaved it in such a clean swipe that I decided it was the perfect opportunity to quit while I was on top and let people live with the false impression that I possess any bit of hand eye coordination. And leave the mini grapefruits to the baseball players.

I took on the role of photographer, and spent the next rounds trying to capture the action while orange pulp and watermelon juice showered us in sticky sprays and splattered on my camera lens. The worst was when Andrew decided to use a two-by-four instead of a machete and demolish a watermelon on pure force of impact. The entire melon exploded into billions of tiny shards and drenched us- and the entire room- in a sticky sludge.

But let me backtrack. It was the last 10 minutes of my office shift, and Fruit Ninja was then only a vision. At 5: 52, four silhouettes of backpackers passed through the darkening doorway. You need at least four to make a profit on Volcano Boarding. They all wanted to go volcano boarding. I was so shocked I didn´t know what to say. I must have asked them five times if they were serious but they really couldn´t be more serious. They were single minded on volcano boarding. When they left I stupidly banged my head on the wooden gate in frustration and made a sizeable mark (yup, still there).

I was frustrated and upset, too much so. In my melodramatic mindset this meant no despedida, not time to pack on my last day, no time to say goodbye to my Leon buddies; it meant I couldn´t take the bus on Sunday morning because I´d have to do all my last minute preparation that day. (I had to be at the airport on Sunday night). Of course I should never have expected not to work on my last day. This trip had been on my schedule for two weeks, and by my unwillingness to take the trip I was effectively refusing homeless kids roughly fifty dollars.

I had a little cry and then empowered myself. I took out money to go to the supermarket. Just as I was walking out the door, Andrew informed me that the supermarket was closed. Of course it was closed, it was Good Friday.

First I panicked, then I was relieved. They have to cancel the trip, right? We can´t take clients volcano boarding without food. Wrong. Andrew and Rebecca were dead set on making this happen. I slumped on the couch, drained, as the group discussed and argued solutions for the food crisis: The El Hoyo trip was in deeper trouble then I was; they needed about 5 times as many groceries.

A conclusion. We would delay the trips by 2 hours, to depart at 10. We would wake up at 7:30 to make it to the supermarket at 8, and do all the food prep in the morning. Ok. So I had to contact my clients. Couldn’t reach them. Literally could not find the phone number for Hotel Ivana, wherever the hell that is.

As I scrambled around flipping through phone books, directories, even the Lonely Planet, the doorbell rang. Three kids stood on the sidewalk, looking up at me forlornly with pleading puppy dog eyes. They wanted to go volcano boarding. It was 7:30. Were they serious?! The consensus- which I was not a part of- was to let them come. I hadn´t done any food prep,  so why not? It only meant I had to make 3 more boards, prep three more gear bags, clean and fill six more water bottles, and want to punch anyone and everyone in the face.

Mike saved me by suggesting we get out of the house and get some street food (he was concerned about my plan to have only Clif Bars for dinner). It was a relief. We walked to the central plaza and ate greasy, ketchup smothered pizza baked on sugary bread under the Semana Santa Festival lights. A Peruvian band played traditional and upbeat Andean songs. Glowing carousals swirled in a million colors, kids whooping on its dainty horses. Food stalls everywhere. It was a real carnival. Everyone was here, congregated to celebrate Good Friday to the fullest.

In a rush of emotion I felt disgusted with my selfishness that evening, my resistance to a little bit of work after nearly a week of not much to do but my own projects, things I really shouldn´t have been concentrating on because they subtly gnawed into my dedication to the volunteer work I had come for. Two completely unexpected, horrifying thoughts I´d had in the last couple weeks arose sharply in my mind: One, when I, for the first time, had counted the hours I´d worked in a day and wondered how much I could have been paid. And two, when I had come back from a hike, and the majority of my clients had somehow finagled discounts; the profit had come out low, 30% or something. I had shrugged and announced carelessly to Raf that I didn´t care. He replied with ¨You´re saying you don´t care about the kids.¨

But I do! What´s wrong with me? I decided to take this last trip with every remaining ounce of energy and vigor my fatigued body possessed. I would do everything. Would party hard at the despedida, go volcano boarding, and host my own despedida the next night, finish all my personal projects, and get out of Leon just in time for my flight.

Why are the ends of things always hectic, chaotic, and looming with the need to stuff every last moment with meaning, with every last thing you ever wanted and forgot to do and more? Why can´t I ever have a calm and relaxed farewell?

Miraculously, I flipped my mood 360 degrees and had a great night. And yes, played fruit Ninja. More surprising, my good mood lasted me through the next morning, through volcano boarding, and even through scraping all the boards in the evening. By the time I´d finished everything and had taken a shower, it was around six and I crashed. I had gotten something like four hours of sleep the night before. Thank the Lord, Lynn had come back from vacation that day, and true to her caring and do-good character, she whipped me up a ferociously caffeinated cappuccino to rival the best barista.

Awake again, I started to plan my half of me and Raf´s two-part despedida. My grand idea: Fruit Fondue. It´s been done before, but I don´t think it´s possible to have too much fruit and chocolate.

My last night went something like this.  A romantic dinner at Mediterreano, Leon´s most elegant and ambient restaurant. With Lynn and Patty, the new beach manager, all fancied up in Lynn´s dress. Then the party. Because of the absence of those on El Hoyo (Aymie, Jelmer, Mike), and those on vacation (Annika, Janet), it was a different group from the previous despedida (hence having two). Lynn was back, Aislyn and Nate came, and brought Aislyn´s brother and his girlfriend. Her bro, Eddie, was possibly the funniest person to pass through Quetzaltrekkers doors during my time there, and really made the night.

I ate fondue in a continuous stab-dip-devour motion until my ribs threatened to break, then the caffeine finally wore off and I passed out. And then up early and sketching. Not stretching, sketching.  I had to finish a book project I´d been working on- I´ve been commissioned as the sketch artist for a compilation of short stories. That´s about all I an disclose her, but I will say that the last story I was to sketch had a certain spiritual aspect to it that made the author of the book and I eager to finish symbolically n Easter Sunday. I sketched from nine to four and got it done. I had to push back the time of my taxi twice (I decided not to risk bussing so late on Easter), and finally was ready at 8 to meet the cab outside Via Via.

Packing would have been a disaster had Raf not convinced me and then supported me morally in chucking out at least half of my things, for which I´m very grateful. After shoving down a last spoonful of the quiche Patty graciously crafted for her very first and my very last Family Dinner, I stood with my 18 kilo pack creaking on my back, the sounds of a worn leather saddle. This pack that now feels so much more familiar than ever before, a trusty old friend. Splattered and stained with the blood of seven volcanoes.

It felt light after so many uphill climbs lugging upward of 23 kilos. My Quetzaltrekkers family encircled me in a group hug to say goodbye. Everyone was there- it was Family Dinner Night, so of course they were; I couldn´t have planned my departure on a better night. Patty, the sweetheart, even slipped me an aluminum wrapped slice of her chocolate cake into my hand, because I was going to miss dessert.

I was full of love and suddenly couldn´t stand to leave them. This was the family I´d known for the last 3 and a half months, the place I´d come to call home. The city that had grown familiar, the restaurants and shops and personalities and funk, even the chaos.

I walked out the door feeling as if I´d forgotten something. I had certainly left a lot behind. How strange that you can´t jus hop over and visit a place like this? Quetzaltrekkers was an intense and beautiful spell, one I´ll always remember. Maybe I´ll visit some day. But I know very well that it won´t be the same. Every volunteer I´ve come to know and love will be gone in two months or much less; in another couple months even Andrew and Rebecca will have moved on. If I return, there won´t be a single familiar face. That´s the nature of this place. Shifting, shifting. It´s a wonder they can maintain any continuity.

Me, Jules and Raf´s goodbye pictures.

 Instead of putting up my country´s flag, which is customary, I figured the Seattle skyline would be more personally appropriate :)

I spent the taxi ride in silence, zooming along a blackened highway glistening with the artificial stars of passing cityscapes, open windows letting wind rush in and smooth my hot skin and perspiring brow. A nearly full moon rose slowly, big, luminous and orange as 80´s music pulsed full volume. The driver asked me if I liked the music, I told him I liked the moon. Aside from our few shared word I savored the gooey chunk of chocolate cake, felt the breeze, the music, the night, and lived in my head, thoughts and emotions bumping and blurring into each other with vivid intensity.

I didn´t try to make friends in the airport or on the plane this time. I think after 3 and a half months of engaging tourist and small talk every day, working as, essentially, an entertainer and a crowd pleaser, people organizer and sweet talking saleswoman, I’m a little burnt out. Travelers. At one time they were, in my mind, like earthbound gods, globe roamers of infinite wisdom and knowledge, teeming with life experience and bursting with adventure. I mean, travelers still amaze and inspire me. But they are no longer a rare and shining gem in my life. I´m kinda used to travelers now. Hey, I´m working on becoming one myself.