Electrons on vacation, so the neurons went too

At first, it seems like one's travel computer going on the fritz on the eve of a trip would be a bad thing. It probably is. But right this second, the lack of current photos and presence of a few from last year are gifting me an unexpected return to the trains and misty mornings of Sri Lanka.

The pancakes on my plate somehow taste like string hoppers, the rice flour noodles that you swipe through curry with your right hand, and the mimosa in my cup is a shock when my mind is thinking about rich milk (chai masala) tea.

My goal today is for my feet to take me everywhere I want to go, but that day was on a train, rocking through tea plantations, exchanging emails with new Sinhalese friends, and trying for a particular photograph, a person held mostly in focus while their surroundings obey the momentum of the railroad.

Actually getting the idea to work was irrelevant, beside the simple warm air joy of sitting in the open door of a moving train, gradually working my way through a paper bag of fried somosa-things with dried chili peppers.

My computer might not work, but luckily my memory does.

From balls to buckets. Inca Jungle Trip (Part 3 of 3)

What do you do when you’re thirsty and footsore after ten hours of walking, relaxed after watching the sunset in the hot springs, and surrounded by new and brilliant friends?

You drink chicha!

Taken from a google search, because it's awesome

Chicha is a family of corn-based drinks found throughout Central America, as alcoholic as you want them to be, that date back at least a thousand years, brewed in ancient Machu Picchu. In Peru families make it, marking its presence with a bamboo pole jutting out the front door, wrapped with red ribbons, a red plastic bag, or in the case of the gap-toothed old woman Abi knew in Santa Teresa, half a red plastic jug.

“Hola mami, tiene chicha?” Abi asked. The woman didn't look away from her telenovela as she nodded the affirmative. Abi asked how old it was, “Not very old” the distracted reply. Abi ordered a round. When the novela went to commercials, the woman put a chalice-sized glass of murky liquid on the table. An Austrian asked “Is that for everyone to share?” Abi found that funny.

“No, boludo! We each get that!” When a cityscape of giant glasses had been assembled, we toasted Pachamama, the Inca Earth Mother, blew our offering to her into the wind, and drank. Given the size of the glass, it's a good thing the stuff is generally only 1-3% alcohol (hence the question as to its age). Abi told us of her grandmother, drinking several glasses of chicha every day until she died at age 100.

As I may have mentioned, I don't love bars or clubs, but that night, with those people, the dive bar with a stripper pole and loud music was just where I wanted to be. I talked with the Austrians, peripherally relearning empathy for cute girls as I watched the chain of dudes hit on the Argentinas. I can imagine that would be fun...for the first hour.

The first other American I'd met on the trip was a guy from the Marina in San Francisco, who I couldn't help but mentally dub The Flea, as he hopped parasitically around the girls. I admit to a certain schadenfreude when he smashed his ahuacatls while showing off on the pole.

The Urubamba Gorge

(Did you research ahuacatl and discover that it comes from the Nahuatl word for testicles? How do you feel about the fact that you will never again heft, inspect, squeeze and generally fondle an avocado in the supermarket without remembering that factoid? You’re welcome.)

The next morning brought flight, nothing but wind and the whirring sound of metal wheels on the zip-line cables across the Urubamba River gorge. Cables half a kilometer long, 80 kilometers an hour, and face-down into 290 meters of pure Andean air until the ferocious water far below. God, Pachamama, Shiva, whatever, THAT is a sensation worth having, and whatever divinities were nearby heard my amazed laughter every time.

At the end of each ride I welcomed conversation with whoever was nearby, whatever their nation, language, or body odor, and was terribly proud of my Argentinians when they tried the face-down method for the last cable. As they flew past overhead I was sharing a mango just harvested with some Australians, and if there were mango strings in my teeth when I smiled upwards, the Aussies didn't seem to care.

From there it was the iconic last stretch along the railroad tracks to Aguas Calientes, at the base of Machu Picchu mountain. Sand fleas lurked below avocado trees for resting ankles, but that didn't matter as we went for one more swim in the river, crossed rusting railroad trestles above the chicha-colored water that always has something to talk about, and in among the striated faces of the godly peaks surrounding the hidden city of the Inca.

That place is rife with divinity.

The Austrians and I shared a room with more sand fleas, who were delighted to crawl into bed with us, and we all woke up scratching our calves. That still didn't matter though, as we walked through the 4:00 AM murk to the stairs to Machu Picchu, other backpackers emerging from alleys in silence like the most polite zombie apocalypse ever.

What do you say about Machu Picchu? You don't say anything I guess, you go there. I've been blessed to see many historic sites, a sprawl of tourist destinations, and several ancient holy places, and Machu Picchu will forever occupy a place of honor on those lists.

A couple hundred backpackers with sore feet boarded the train that night, boisterous as a discoteca until the train started, then slumberous as the sandman's station wagon. The end of the line was Ollantaytambo, and everyone piled out into the name-shouting chaos of bus drivers, as tours fulfilled the last step of their bargains, each backpacker looking for their name in erasable marker on a laminated page held in a driver’s fist. My cadre found our driver.

Except my name wasn't on the list.

I’d switched to an earlier train, but my name hadn’t made the logistical transfer. This meant an abrupt goodbye to my new Argentinian and Austrian friends, a disappointment I could handle, armored in gratitude.

But negotiations around the back of the van and a hurried payment of 20 soles secured me a spot on an overturned bucket in the aisle, just wide enough that when I nodded off, my shoulders could curl forward and I would wedge in the gap between benches like the van had swallowed its own tongue.

We arrived back in Cuzco, where the dogs browsing the night's garbage in the Plaza de San Francisco didn't pay our parting much mind, the intimacy of travel companions evolving on schedule to the irresistible anonymity of forward progress. They see it every night.

I've seen more than my share of it too, but I still mean it when I say “Of course we'll keep in touch.” Hell, maybe it'll even be true this time. But whether the facebook “likes” peter out in a week or not, I will still blow a grateful offering to Pachamama for my four days on the Inca Jungle Trek, which I'd signed up for under the impression that it was the Incallungula, or some such romantic thing, but which surpassed my expectations anyway.

You should go, I'm glad I did.

The system's out of order, this lad's opinion, and the fire hasn't even started yet.

“Well, I guess that's what we get for unplugging for a few hours,” said the businessman, relaxed on his bench outside the shuttered BART train station. “They must have decided to go on strike late last night. My office hasn't decided what they want me to do about it yet.” He leaned back, no frown on his face as it angled towards the morning sun, his loafers tapping slightly to a beat only he could hear.

Here was a man at peace with the problem. The bag lady down the row to his left looked at him without expression.

In a parallel universe I took them both out for breakfast, heard their stories and watched them fall in unlikely love (Joaquin Phoenix and Susan Sarandon for the movie adaptation?), but I was itching to get to Santa Cruz. The fire and light festival started in eleven hours, and I had plans for lunch, then aspired to a full afternoon helping without getting in the way.

Run back to house to check for alternate route. Bus leaves in three minutes, back at station. Run back, intercept bus partway, disembark downtown Oakland where local TV crews were interviewing commuters standing in line for the replacement buses across the bridge. I chatted in a Scottish accent with the guy next to me in hopes of hooking an interview, but the woman in front of us had boobs.

Boobs trump Scotland, apparently.

Too bad, because I was all ready to give a foreigner's (sic) view of contemporary American democracy. “What do you think of the strike?” They would ask.

“Well, it's an essential part of your country, isn't it? Your Constitution was designed to protect ye from the government, but they're not really the main threat anymore, are they? Not since Reagan privatized the lot of it. No, it's the businesses, yer employers that've got the axe over yer heads now. The idea was that if ye were abused, ye could vote them out, but you canna vote for a new boss, can ye? So you've got the strike, it's the modern equivalent of the ballot, isn't it?”

They were right to go with the boobs.

Packed bus creeping across crammed bridge, tankers below, then puking us into an unfamiliar hub, clicking of flats, where frantic employees in florescent vests answered rapid-fire questions and held heavy flashlights in defensive positions, clip board shields. Next transport medium: I didn't even know San Francisco had an underground train.

The uniformed woman with hair extensions and long acrylic nails called me “hun” as she directed this poor lost tourist to the train, her coworker joining us in a threesome of “have a nice day” grins and well-wishing.

The guy in front of me was asleep in his Hawaiian shirt, but woke when we passed the baseball park and shuffled to the train station with me. “Sir, I'm afraid you can't take pictures of the equipment, for security reasons” said the employee who I recognized as the nice one from my last trip's Good Cop/Bad Cop experience. I'd already given one (mental) speech, so opted against lecturing him about the chronic and egocentric paranoia of the United States, instead going with more smiles and well-wishing.

I reached San Jose an hour and a half behind schedule, but well on my way to catching up on my This American Life and Radiolab podcasts. (David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell are geniuses. Genae.) I was already entertained, educated, and frustrated, and the best part of the day was yet to come...

Catching up

A week or so of incredibly slow internet connections have left this blogspot site falling behind the wordpress version.


There is more to Anuradhapura than my emotional problem
http://vagabondurges.wordpress.com/2013/05/22/anuradhapura-monkeys-tuk-tuks-and-something-sacred-for-2400-years/


Who knew elephants like to dress up too? In Kandy for Buddha's birthday.
http://vagabondurges.wordpress.com/2013/05/25/happy-sad-bieber-im-feeling-it-all/



And a lack of information suits me just fine as I got ready to head for the hills.
http://vagabondurges.wordpress.com/2013/05/27/if-id-had-a-clue-i-wouldnt-have-met-the-wigi/


The power was out in this town for the last two days and is only recently restored, so we'll see if tonight's post about food makes it on here...

I thought this was about a job interview, but it's really mostly the trains.

Brussels has three train stations, all connected in a nice straight line (unlike some of those other, sillier cities where to get from North to South you have to go East for an hour).  I have usually used Central Station, an unnecessarily functional and dull place which inexplicably only has 6 tracks, set next to each other in an undecorated and somewhat stale cellar.  This in the (administrative) capital city of Europe.  I guess the “Eurocrats,” as the locals call them, don’t have to use such vulgar things as trains.  (Versus the Central Station in Antwerp, which is referred to as "The Cathedral of Train Stations" for good reason.)

On Monday I went to Brussels Noord (North), which is an industrial-scale transit point, 12 (I thought I saw 17) tracks, which purportedly shuffles 200,000 commuters per week, though on my couple visits it always seemed to have only mediocre traffic, escaping through oversized and relatively irrelevant halls where lightly crushed fast food soda cups and candybar wrappers accumulate in the corners.  (Note: not my picture, found it online.)

(Historical note, the first train on a public railway on the European continent departed from the original Brussels North station in 1835.  First train on the continent, and they built that station with 17 tracks; now that's confidence.)

Leaving out of the side exit I was faced with a giant cartoon woman, naked, fuchsia nipples matching the color of the words “peep show” and “live nude girls” covering the massive tinted windows across the street.  Other than that it felt like a normal business day afternoon, black and dark-gray sedans on the streets, individually packaged businessmen on the sidewalks going about their business in a less-beloved European capital…which it is.  The chlamydic grit of Paris’ Pigalle, with the architectural blandness of a Warsaw suburb.

Within a block or two it began to feel very much like Dar Es Salaam and a bit like Tangier.  Pavement ended under red and white construction tape that had long ago fallen down and accumulated with a serpentine writhe in a corner, worn footpaths between uneven heaps of sand on the raw street beyond.  Old radios with extended antennae poured voices wailing in any of several languages over speedy rhythmic music, men strolled around in full-length djelaba robes and matching headwear, and small clusters of women hurried past in robes of strictly conservative design and gaudily audacious colors.

The women, either old or young, none of seduction-prone middle aged, moved quickly through the streets without ever looking up, only their faces showing, while above them women from Eastern Europe and sub-Saharan Africa sat on stools behind windows in bikinis, red lights not visible in the afternoon sun, lazily tapping on the glass with large acrylic fingernails at passing men, none of whom ever look up.

On the back of an envelope I had sketched out a path from the train station to the luxury hotel where I had an appointment, but as I so often do, I inexplicably changed path and headed off in a different direction.  I do not understand why I do this.  I was hoping for a predictable grid-structure to the streets, which of course did not exist, and the atmosphere was not noticeably changing from scuzzy to fancy.

I was considering the wisdom of backtracking when I turned a corner and found the four star hotel, ground floor a chic restaurant with ridiculous prices and stylish furniture filled with butts in expensive suits, butts’owners sipping stylish drinks, a different language at each table.  The website for the hotel shows an entirely different building, set next to a large park, it is not clearly labelled as some other major landmark in the city, though that pic is no longer on their website.  Instead I found this one of the couch-thing we were sitting on.  (Again, not my picture, and am I supposed to formally state the hotel name and website, or would doing so be the problem?  I think the name on the glass is outdated anyway.  Why is the world run by lawyers?  I do not represent the pictured hotel, have no ties to it whatsoever.  Please don’t sue me.)

I was there to meet with a lady who runs a tour guide company.  I want to give that a try.

A couple weeks ago I found a website where you can basically list yourself as a tour guide.  There were only three for Belgium, two in Brussels and one on the other side of the country.  I emailed both the Brussels people, asking if they would like to collaborate, since I live in the northern part of the country, including the waaaay more attractive cities of Antwerp, Gent, and Bruges.

One of them responded that she was interested, and I should join up with one of her tours, so we could all check each other out.  I spoke with her on the phone and she told me how they specialized in small groups, from a couple people to a family, maybe eight people max.

I recognized her from her profile picture when she came in, joined her, and found myself sitting on a not-comfortable-enough-to-linger-on, rectangular-block, sorta-suede couch-thing, vaguely not-talking to nine professional guides about today’s tour, which was for 150 businessmen from across the European Union, who would be packed onto three tour buses and taken to different points in the city before converging like SWAT teams on a high-end restaurant downtown.

Hokay then.

I tried to make myself useful by keeping track of the businessmen as they climbed onto my assigned bus.  They were bland in the way that only businessmen can be, and the other guides lost count.  I used units of ten corresponding to fingers stuck out in my pockets to keep the yuppie-guppies straight in my mind.  (Businessmen/commuters strike me as schools of busy little fish, all in matching gray suits, swimming past, mouths gaping for water, tiny briefcases clutched in fins, though I just looked up what a guppy actually looks like and they are surprisingly stylish fish.  But "yuppie-sardines" isn’t as catchy.)

Oh, and because the universe is Beautiful, they came from some sort of paper company, in town for a paper company conference.  I am proud and disappointed that I refrained from Dunder Mifflin jokes the entire time.

For the next hour I followed along with the tour, not helping, maybe learning?  I was clearly not a guide, and I was clearly not a businessman.  They wore silky suits and loafers, I wore jeans and Cons.  I was neither sardine, nor cleaner shrimp (seems like a logical parallel for the guide, no?) but I’m not sure what I was.  A remora?

Luckily it takes more than simply being out of place to make me uncomfortable any more, so I rather enjoyed the experience.  I  think I could potentially be a good tour guide, and I learned a bit about Brussels, which hopefully I will remember until next September when my parents come to visit Belgium.

There was a non-tour guide conference coordinator, directing the guppies across Europe.  He was Christian Bale, but substantially French.  At the end he said I was invited to stay for a drink with them, and did not try to dissuade me at all when I said I had to go.  I grabbed a falafel and headed to Central Station.

I had 45 minutes to wait, so people-watched in a little courtyard outside the station.  It was one of those perfect evenings, just on the opening edge of summer, the air soft as only air in that season can be, the city not asleep but calm, its mutterings just below audible.  The sun was gone, but the sky was still visible, dark blue, 10:00 PM.

A few travellers came and went, their suitcase wheels sounding the same note across the cobblestones.  Two older tourists in pristine backpacks walked past, cameras held in front of their bodies and looking at no one.  A group of students studying abroad strutted by, chatting louder than Belgians ever do about where to go for a cheap meal.

Under an archway stood that night’s greatest gift.  He was slightly balding, and played that violin with a patient and durable passion that lifted the wait from acceptance to pleasure.  I would have gladly leaned against that wall until he went home.  But I had my own home to return to, so I headed to track six, and swear I recognized the green teddy bear graffiti on the side of the train as it pulled up.  The way home was a broad U, passing through Antwerp, so I ended up coming home on the same train I normally do, just two hours later, last train of the night.  No cars on the road.