Good night, Lucy

Over the past couple months, Lucy and I have worked out a little routine before bed.

When I go in to fill up my water glass, she comes out and meets me in the kitchen. I turn off the water and kneel down, and she comes up to nestle her head into my chest. She’s a big, ferocious-looking German Shepherd, and she loves a good cuddle.

Her fur is dry and clean, and smells like dog in a way that has come to mean Home, these last 10 months. She leans in as I scratch behind her ears, over her shoulders and rub her belly, which slows into a hug. After we’ve both gotten a nice little session of luving in, she turns around and trots back to Manny’s room, tail wagging, and I go to bed smiling.

I don’t know how many times we’ve done this, but I know that we’ll only do it twice more. This Saturday Loopers is going away.

We’re down to our last weekend in this house, as June finishes its run, and Manny’s new place has graciously allowed him to bring Sammy, but there’s no space for Lucyfress. She’s going to Manny’s dad, a good home with a big yard to run around in and another shepherd to play with…

But damn I’m going to miss her.

Good night, Lucyloo

Would you like to go to Ecuador's Amazon...someday?

I remember the water. Everyone describes it as “dark as tea” but that’s the exactly right, water more saturated with tannin than your morning Earl Gray, so your swimming limbs disappear in an amber fade. And warm on top, where the equatorial sun saturates the top couple inches, then increasingly cold as it sinks to unknown depths filled with unknown jungle. Some of the denizens are well known however, and I remember wondering if it was a great idea to be swimming in the same opaque water as anacondas, caimans, and piranha.

But what are you going to do in the Amazon, NOT swim? (Besides, it was the candiru, a fish with a legendary love of lodging itself irremovably in one’s urethra, that really concerned me. Also known as the toothpick or vampire fish.)

Scorpion spider

I also remember the spiders. Lurking constructs of legs, fangs, and eyes that our guide was able to produce from the brush next to your hip whenever he felt like it. The scoprion spider’s claws, the diver spider that goes into the water to catch and kill fish, and tarantulas galore.

I remember the dignity of the Siona people when we visited one of their villages. The calm presence of the shaman who shared a bowl of fermented yucca chicha made with someone’s saliva, then performed a cleansing ritual for us, where he lightly whipped K’s back with stinging nettles, then a little harder when she refused to admit that it hurt. I remember his smile, her smile, and my blend of concern, admiration, and traveler joy.

Me and m'marmoset

I remember the pygmy marmoset that ran out of the bushes and up the side of my leg to perch on my shoulder for awhile.

I remember pink dolphins surfacing in front of a sunset that looked like Pachamama had kept the best colors for this place.

Five days in Cuyabeno Wildlife Reserve, and it was among the most memorable places I’ve been. As amazing as it was, I get the feeling that it was juuust a little bit Amazon Light compared to Yasuni National Park, the other lobe of Ecuador’s protected Amazon territory.

Yasuni...is on my list. I would love to see what is arguably the most biologically diverse place on Earth, and just know that I’m in the same jungle as two uncontacted native tribes, the Tagaeri and the Taromenane. And I suspect so would many of you. Hopefully we will have that chance someday...but there is a problem. A dirty, tragic, and disgustingly familiar problem.

Oil. There’s a lot of it under Ecuador’s  Amazonian region, the Oriente, which includes both Cuyabeno and Yasuni.

Between 1964 and 1990, Texaco…

Did you know pygmy marmosets like  pineapple jam?

Actually. I’m going to leave it up to you. What happened there is a crime that people need to know about, and the oil company (Chevron bought Texaco in 2001) needs to be held accountable, as repeated legal decisions have agreed.

Rainforest Action Network has a short summary of the story here. It won’t take you long to read.

Afterwards, or if you are already feeling a bit too intimidated by the environmental ills of our day and choose to skip it, you can go to Amazon Watch’s page and sign a petition to Ecuador’s president asking him not to destroy this invaluable piece of our planet.

Petitions may not do much, maybe nothing, but can you spare a few seconds to click?

And if you want to do more? Amazon Watch and Altruvistas have a remarkable trip there next month…one week left to sign up. I know it’s last minute, but maybe you’re the one person who will read this and make it happen, not waiting to see if “someday” arrives or not.

Or if you need more than a week’s notice to decide to cross the planet, maybe see about next year, next time, somehow, somewhere…someday.

Should I go to Venezuela?

Should I go to Venezuela?

The most volatile nation in South America, it’s on my List of Places Too Dangerous to Travel in Without Appropriate Precaution or Assistance. What, you don’t have your own LPTDTWAPA?

My LPTDTWAPA at the moment: Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Yemen. Mauritania, Nigeria, Libya, and Central African Republic. Sorta North Korea I guess. Honduras, Venezuela, El Salvador, and a couple small parts of Mexico.

Checking El Salvador off that list felt great, like reclaiming part of the world. Now I have the opportunity to go to Venezuela with Witness for Peace Southwest, and Altruvistas, both organizations I feel privileged to have access to. (And who increase the hope of achieving the ultimate goal of tourism: to help the destination...but more about that soon.)

Another reason to go? More chances at getting wee articles published, so it would be good in a professional sense.

Another reason to go? It’s frickin beautiful. Which is enough by itself, but also means it could be a great opportunity in terms of photography.

Another reason to go? As with Cuba, Venezuela represents one of the all-too-few remaining countries that do things in a manner other than ruthless capitalism.

Another reason to go? Meet cool new people (because who but cool people would go on a tour like this?)

Next door in Colombia, I miss the air at that latitude

Another reason to go? The things I can learn, from the people I meet, the places we go, and the other people on the trip.

Another reason to go? It’s actually cheaper than the listed price.

Another reason to go? I want to.

So why wouldn’t I go? The potential danger isn't an obstacle, but what is?

I’ve finally admitted the fact (that was pretty obvious to everyone else) that I was endlessly traveling to escape from certain parts of life. Would I be doing that still?

Answer: It’s only 10 days. Ergo: no.

I've been struggling with this one...

Any other reason? Well...the trip happens to encompass my birthday. That’s convenient and inconvenient. It’s kind of fun for me because it would mean the sixth year in a row having my birthday overseas.

The problem? One of the other realizations I’ve finally admitted to (it’s been a busy year) is that I have...trouble...accepting...love. From other people. (Dogs are good to go.)

This is a longer issue, but as someone told me the other day “Your birthday is a day for other people to express their love for you.”

It made me all...squirmy. And I had to admit that the thought of NOT being here on my birthday was something of a relief, since I would get to avoid the potential let-downs and awkwardness that can come with that day.

Sounds like a challenge. And I am dedicated to not running from challenges anymore. So, suddenly, whether or not to go is a more difficult question than it was before.

So what do you think? Should I go to Venezuela?

(There's a poll on the wordpress version of this post.)

June is made of such things

A year ago I was here, Nyaung Shwe, Myanmar

June always surprises me. It’s almost never June, and then all of a sudden that’s what the calendars say, but just long enough to read the word before the page flops again.

Not like October, which lingers a little longer than it’s supposed to, because really: who’s going to stop it? Or January, a jerk of a month that steals at least a week from everyone around it. But both bow to March, a leviathan epoch that stretches like Purgatory and won’t let you go until your soul has almost given up hope...

But then it does, let go, eventually. And you find yourself in the renewal of April, which exists in nearly proper parameters. May is real too, though it only lasts six days. But June? June is a single perfect evening. It’s the Saturday BBQ that goes better than you expected, that’s June. That one square on the calendar, where the dogs are smiling, your friends are happy to see you, and the food tastes perfect in soft air. June is made of optimism, and flits away from the light of day.

July? July is a myth, a conspiracy so they can charge more for calendars. My passport says I was born in a July, but I know better; you can’t be born in a rumor. No, when you think it’s July, it’s already August, a month that lasts a week of ten days as you prepare and resign yourself...

So you and I had better enjoy June while it lasts. And it's now. Right now. Go check. Today AND tomorrow. And not only that, but this June-sliver has somehow encompassed so much, like a defeated nation regaining long-lost territory, and they tell me we’re only halfway.

Our guide kept telling us about "mountain cats"
then pointed at these and laughed uproariously

May echoed with the concrete cracks of falling walls, as the life I thought I was building fell apart, and June popped open in the pause of silence when only the dust was still moving. But it hasn’t stayed silent. It’s already included so many words, from “the rent is twice what you're paying now” to “that unit has already been rented.” But those have been balanced by “nice to meet you” or even better: “so good to see you!” and “it’s been too long!” The dust of demolition smells more like woodsmoke in the evening and maple syrup in the morning, now.

Those things I lost in May? The house, the girl, the work situation, the life trajectory? Things are...on their way, on the mend, on the way up. I should hear about an apartment soon. I have articles to write, contacts to convert into friends, and the chance to work with/for people who are made entirely of congealed light and concentrated joy. And the girl? There is health there, reason to smile, a deep sense of progress both internal and external, and cause for optimism.

And, after all, June is made of optimism.

Get out of my (maybe) house!

No pics of my own, these are from today's craigslist ads.
You get a lot of this around here

Everybody was there. A cluster of hyper-parents, their children brandished like banners before them, was extolling and declaiming the house’s suitability for the wet-chinned children hanging off their chests in imported Scandinavian harnesses.

A trio of uber-butch lesbians stomped from room to room in combat boots, glowering at my patriarchal heteronormative...face.

A pair of hipsters went to check the bathroom again, and paused for something longer than a glance in the mirror to monitor their ironic facial hair, their skinny jeans silent on the stairs. Experts in passive aggression, they effectively boxed everyone else out of the room while visualizing where to place their hat boxes and antique shaving kits.

A typically informative photo

Their cousins, the Silicon Valley tech upstarts, walked around with an Iphone3000 held up like a crucifix, giving a video tour to a member of their thinktank who couldn't attend. The building’s solar potential was a topic of hot debate, “Did I mention that's our field? A solar Start-Up in The City?” Yes, you mentioned that.

And Manny and me. He's a great roommate and I'm madly in love with his dogs, so we sought two bedrooms, preferably no carpets (dogs!), and secretly/blatantly hoped to find space for his muay thai kickboxing equipment.

We’d just looked at a cupboard-sized two bedroom for $2500 (because rent in the Bay Area is between preposterous and tragicomic), but then this place showed up. Four bedrooms, giant kitchen, living room, dining room, large yard, towering ceilings, all brand new, and a little garage in the back where one could punch, kick, and elbow without dripping sweat in the house. All for $2600.

Sure, it was in The Hood a bit, freeway overpasses above run-down houses with Escalades, and a mural around the corner of local kids who have been shot, but not that bad (and better than the place with the torn ziploc of mostly-used heroin on the porch).

Ooh! Getting artsy with it!

We could move in, have our gym, and find two more roommates to split the cost. But we weren’t the only ones who had ideas. It was Saturday, aka: Open House Day, and the crowds and claws were out.

The first time the techie swept his i-tour past me, he’d said “Yeah, it’s an open house, so there’s tons of people here.” I politely refrained from correcting his grammar. Now we coincided in the backyard, where he griped “The back yard’s not very big, yard sized.” As the phone swept past me I waved. He tossed his head in a silent scoff.

Behind him Manny looked at the garden shed. “Detached shed, that’ll be good for the sex dungeon.”

“I was just thinking that. We can add some insulation so the neighbors won’t hear the screams.” Our humor was lost on the other cadres. The techie tour moved back inside.

I considered asking the leasing agent if there was an additional fee to enter the gladiatorial combat phase of the selection process, but decided we’d already made enough friends. We filled out our applications, paid our fee, and went home.

Is this a selling point?

It was bizarre, wandering through other people’s visions of the future, impolite interlopers in their soon-to-be-home, trampling on each other’s dreams. If my days at my current place weren’t ticking down so quickly, maybe I could have just enjoyed the peculiar insanity of it all. But instead, we’ll wait to hear if we are the lucky ones, moving into our new palace of muay thai doggishness.

Visions for the future are a dime a dozen, but apartments? Those cost a bit more.

At what point does fondling an animal get weird?

At what point does fondling an animal get weird?

You may have never asked yourself that question, but hey, that's what I'm here for: to expand your territory. Is it when you rub the entire face? Stick a finger deep in an ear? How about several knuckles deep up the nose? Or if you reach in an animal's mouth and grab the tongue, pull it out the side, and kind of...play with it?

I should explain.

There are a lot of horses in Cuba, and most of them are trained in the all-too-familiar ways: beating, breaking, brutality. But Jorge Muñoz does it differently. “I would like to say that I am the only horse whisperer in all of Cuba,” he says, with the short unpalatalized U of native Spanish speakers, “and since I know of no other horse whisperers, I can say: I am the only horse whisperer in all of Cuba!”

Sound reasoning.

Assertions of Jorge’s individuality did not surprise me. Here was a man who lived in a gorgeous former-aristocrat’s house (his family owned several before the revolution; the new leaders of Cuba left them this one) with ornate blue tiling, crystal chandeliers, and large murky paintings of serious-looking predecessors,...and a horse.

Yes, Jorge lived in this elegant house with his family, his ancestry...and a thousand-pound mountain of horse-muscle. We sat on divans and chaise lounges among heavy dark wood furniture, and in walked his favorite steed, Luna de miel (Honeymoon), cloth-booted hooves thudding on the tiles.

Jorge owns several horses, and rotates them every few days, one in the house, the rest at his farm. This might seem odd, but as Jorge fondled every inch of that massive, powerful, clearly spirited animal, I had to hand it to him: he seemed to know what he was doing. I don't know that much about horses, but I'm guessing you normally wouldn’t want to get between their legs like that, nor pull their tails or search for boogers, and none of Jorge's horses have ever felt the bite of a bit or the lash of a whip.

In conversation with a member of our party who knew her horseflesh, he quoted several theories and techniques, and she seemed satisfied, but were these parlor tricks? Or the bizarre equine fetish of a man who has spent too long in the sun?

“Why would you want to stick a finger in her nose?” He asked, a question normally reserved for confused and concerned parents of small children. “Because there are some diseases she may get, and this is how you give her the medicine.”

Oh.

“And why would you want to stick your finger in her ear?” Ummm. If the music's too loud? “Because that way you can check for ticks or other pests that may be in there.”

Oh.

“And why you need to pull her tongue out?” He held the pink flesh in his hand as he asked. Breath check? “Because the tongue can tell you a lot about the health of the animal, with its color and things.”

Oh.

The face of a millionaire

“And why would I want to do this?” his voice emerged from somewhere in the tangle of horse tail that was now spread across his head. “Because this way I can become a millionaire with baldness treatment in America!”

Oh Jorge. You were doing so well.

Take the good, take the bad, enjoy the moment

The texture of the thing is smooth, and it has a pleasant earthy stink to it before we light it on fire. It’s also surprisingly light; you’d think something with such a known name (and that conceivably could have cost me $10,000) would weigh more. But in the end, a Cuban cigar is just a little rod of leaves.

I’m not a smoker, never was. Maybe it was those years as a runner, and the preposterous notion of putting corrosive cigarette smoke in lungs that I’d worked so hard to improve. But there’s something about a good cigar, right now, seasoned with the elusive vapor of being Cuban and supposedly illicit, that makes it an essential part of the moment.

And it’s a good moment.

The day’s tasks, some completed and some waiting for tomorrow or next week or never, are set aside and dismissed. I’m here. Today my legs pedaled across miles, my lungs filled with clean air and pollen, car exhaust and song. I ate food both tasty and worthwhile, and reached out to an old friend or two who I’d never meant to lose touch with.

The air is that special summer edition of warm, perfect for shorts and sandals, but no sweat unless you choose it. Seems I’ve lost my girlfriend, and finished losing everything my last one too, but the dog loves me. Sure there are a pair of potentially serious health concerns that won’t be soothed for months yet, but today I feel invincible. Apparently having no verifiable address for five years while you wander the world is a problem when you come back and apply for an apartment, so I may be homeless in three weeks, but right now I’m going to sit on this porch stoop and enjoy the ending of the day.

The beer is cold. My friend and roommate is smoking the second cigar I brought back, semi-forgotten in the depths of my bag as they waved me through customs. Don’t forget to roll it as you smoke. Don’t draw it into the lungs, just hold it in your mouth like a lyric. And what else goes with Cuban cigars better than Cuban music? So put some of that on. Sounds good, good sounds.

The puppy doesn't actually live here, and the worries
won't always be here, either.

Passersby stop to chat. They pet the dogs, who love them for a moment then go back to fetch. This is a neighborhood, a dream we seek. Condensation on the bottles makes my fingertips shine, and the birds seem to sing just for the hell of it.

The worries aren’t solved; it seems that category never really finishes until you die, and right now, in the wrap of sunlight and ease, that’s fine with me. It’ll all work out.

Life is good.

Now serving number...

It might be racism, but I was pleasantly surprised by the calm rustle of business being conducted in the long room. The extra-tall venetian blinds swayed softly in the air conditioning, while women in the blue-walled cubicles sold plane tickets to Cubans waiting politely in the holding pen. Not the sort of ambiance I’m used to when purchasing tickets.

“How can I help you, Señor?” They even had an info guy! He heard my wish to fly to Santiago de Cuba, issued me a number from one of those red Take A Number machines you see in deli’s, and gestured me to a seat. I looked at the little paper tail in my hand: 22. The red LED display on the wall said 83. I sat down to wait.

The tour group was more fun than I'd expected

An hour earlier, my tour companions had departed for their trips home. New friends one and all, from my quirky roommate to the new neighbors back home, I had meant it every time I said “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

But now I was back on my own, the way I like to be, the way I know how, the way I roll. It felt like firing up the well-tested systems of a space shuttle as I prepared to launch my own trajectory, where to go and how to get there, how to spend my time, and where to eat, no longer able to brush off the touts and restaurant recruiters by saying “I’m with a group, it’s already planned.”

Havana was waiting for me

I felt the particular ecstatic nausea that normally comes on the first day of the trip, and got ready to master this island with a blend of uncompromising strength and gentle affection; I was the horse whisperer of travel, a powerhouse of dominant kindness.

The first thing I did was go back upstairs and use the toilet with the door open. Dominance!

After one more free meal (with extra potatoes to stock up for the likely food shortages of solo travel) I had come here, to the airline office to buy a domestic flight to the eastern side of the island, and the fabled city of Santiago, less than an hour by plane but at least 14 by unreliable bus.

The number on the wall still said 83.

The chairs were comfy, and immaculate despite being the sort of Chernobyl orange I associate with the 1970s. Maybe 60s? It was Cuba, after all. The chairs formed U-shaped pens opposite each vendor cubicle, and I’d chosen one where a lad with long bleach-and-blondified hair was chatting with the smiling employee. I had thus far noticed a trend both disappointing, familiar, and sadly understandable:

Cubans are extremely friendly people...unless they’re at work. Then they’re total dicks.

It's almost certain you'd make more
with an accordion on the tourist
street than you would as a surgeon.

But it seemed different here. Perhaps they earned more than the average wage of a state-regulated (ie non-tourist/tip) job, which worked out to about $20 per month. Maybe happy, but they weren’t in a hurry. I waited just over an hour; where did this guy want to go, anyway?

The number on the wall still said 83.

There was a problem with that. At least three desks had changed their customers, but the number remained static. Oh. It’s like that, is it? The system in place, but irrelevant? Take a number, then ignore it and rush the desk? Fine then, I can do that too.

When Blond Guy finally got up and left, I charged, politely. No longer smiling, the employee looked up at me like I was carrying a rotten dog corpse. “He has just gone to the bank to get his money, he’ll be back.” Gone to the bank? Huh? I sat back down, determined not to fight the foreignness of the thing. We waited. She got progressively icier, staring at her screen with the diligence of someone pretending to work.

The number on the wall still-  No! With a BING it switched! 84! Why?!? No one moved, nothing else changed.

After another 30 minutes of waiting, while a dot matrix printer chittered and screamed somewhere in metallic agony, I had hypothesized that the delays must be due to international travel restrictions. I carefully approached the empty chair, and asked if there was a particular process for domestic flights.

“Any desk can help you!” she snapped at me without turning her head from her screen, and frost formed in my hair.

Just try cutting, punk. See how nice I stay.

I considered the other holding pens, and saw various demons with spiked axes and fiery whips whose eyes said plainly “Just try to cut in front of me, you little turista. Just try.”

I retook my orange seat. The number on the wall still said 84.

After the second hour had passed, the Ice Queen gave up on Blondie and gestured me forward, her mouth already twisted in distaste. “Good morning, thank you. I would like to fly to Santiago please.” I used every formal and respectful conjugation I could cram into the sentiment.

She was unimpressed as she began tapping her keyboard. “When.”

“Tomorrow maybe? Today if there is a seat.” Our guide had thought it wouldn’t be a problem to get a seat on such short notice, since there were at least four flights per day to Santiago.

“What?!? No! The first seat is….four weeks from now! You should have known this! Then you wouldn’t have wasted so much time!” I got the feeling she was talking about HER time.

Traveling alone, Mr. Adventure, was off to a rough start. But maybe it would get better once I reached….my brain considered the rough map in my head….Santa Clara. Yes. Things will get better when I reach Santa Clara…