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"People don't take trips . . . trips take people".
John Steinbeck

"How beautiful it is to do nothing and then rest afterwards".
Spanish Proverb

There is no other way to say this, so I will just say how it is: I am back. Dramatic, huh? Well, I know that many people did not even think that I would be back anymore. But after exactly one year being in Latin America I am back home in NYC

I changed my RTW (Round the World) trip to RLA (Round Latin America) about half a year ago; I was intending to see it all. I have realized however that it was not possible, even a lifetime is not enough to see the entire LA wonderful world. But after a year being out there, spending my nights looking up the unfamiliar sky, walking the unknown streets, talking to “single serving” friends, eating strange food, I gradually grew tired.

Out of this 12 months I probably spent weeks, maybe months on buses and trains, boats and yachts, trucks and cars, planes and other means of transportations some of them were so bizzare, that there is no even a name for them in English. I slept in strange beds and floors, I slept on the ground and on the beach, on the rooftops and porches, and I slept in hummocks and on benches, plus countless hours in terminals and airports.

I have seen so much. I have learned a great deal. I have missed home. I have returned.

Thank you everybody for your support.

P.S. Hopefully will be posting my travel stories in this blog, now that I actually have time to write it… Don’t get any ideas - I said hopefully.

P.P.S. My US cell phone number stayed the same

Incomunicado

I am in Cuba now. The internet access is very difficult to obtain and extremely expensive. I will be out of contact for about a month, so please, don't be alarmed. Cuba is very strange country but very safe. Will post additional info as soon as I can but for now I am diving in into a world full of mysteries, double economy, black markets and very interesting people, it is like using a time machine, I am not yet sure I like it.

My spanish is up to date and my russian serves me here very well. I am staying in Havana in a very intellectual family, they speak 5 languages, in 4 of which we can communicate.

Adios.

PS I whish I could tell you about Brazil but that would have to wait.

The sad times...

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. 01/11/08

Hello and Happy Holidays everybody!
It was a long time since I wrote last time. There were several occasions where I actually did and one of these occasion will be posted here as an illustration of how “the path was ready to kill me”. Well, not really the path itself, it is just that a lot of people, in fact most people, think that traveling is fun. And it is, a lot of fun! But sometimes..., sometimes it becomes a burden and a very heavy one. My worst time happened to be in Argentina. It is quite sad, because looking back now I acknowledge the beauty of this country and its people, the wonderful nature and interesting culture. However, back in the days I could only see the negative things, ie: fake Latin-American culture (everybody was white and European), the obsession with meat and horrible pizza and quite strong and annoying accent in Spanish. Ironically, I have adopted this original accent afterwards, to such extend, that later other Latinos I met along the way, including Brazilians, thought that I was Argentinean. Also, because I was so critical and judgemental I was forced to look closer and deeper at everything there was in Argentina and as a result I know this country far better then any other country I have been to (I also spend a lot more time there) and any other backpacker I have met so far. Back then I did not realize that, I was annoyed with everything, from as I called it, “lack of culture” to food, from men greeting each other by kissing on a cheek to the total industrialization of the Argentinean society...
Later I have found my comfort in this country but that happened a lot later and in Buenos Aires, which is another story and already written… in Russian, just waiting for my “editor” for a turnaround, will post is asap.

When I was marooned in Mendoza for over a week I made a decision, despite of my plan, I was literally forced to escape this unpleasant to me country to Chile. Here is what was saved before the lightening took out the electricity… use as a contrast to my future posts. Hopefully there will one after the Carnaval.. Oh Brazil it is almost better then Colombia.

Valdivia, Chile. 10/19/07

It is raining here. Strange, have not seen rain for some time.., the ocean, the lakes and rivers.., there is so much water around I forgot how it is. I have been inland for too long. It feels good to get back to the water... It still rains here, they say that this region gets about 200 days of rain a year but the locals joke that it is actually 200% chance. There is not much to do so I read. “Martian Chronicles” somehow feet the scenery perfectly, it is also strange however, and I have a feeling of déjà vu, must be the Germans. So I am reading my book, drink mate and listening to the rain.., tomorrow is seven months, and I have promised to write more over a month ago. Write about Peru and other stuff… But I can not, doesn’t seem right at this setting...
It is a bit like Germany here. The architecture, the people, the food… Yea, that’s what I am going to start with.
It has become some sort of custom of mine; I have even been accused by some that the purpose of my travels is actually food! Well, it is in a way. I love to eat and I love to eat good and interesting food. For example, today I ate two interesting meals, well, one was interesting another one was good. After a none-significant breakfast I went to the market and picked up something what looked like red bloody hearts but actually were some kind of seafood (octopus or shellfish). I still don’t know what it was, and while eating I have recalled scenes from the Cannibal Lector movie. Then after visiting Niebla Fortress I had a smoked salmon…
Sometime ago I read a book named “Who Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe?”, it was a funny cheerful descriptions of food, killing and killing recipes. I will never come close to that kind of descriptions but trust me that fish was good. Hell with Argentina, I’ll become “pesci-vegetarian” here. Just kidding, there is no better beef in the world then Argentinean. However, who much meat can you eat? They are abscessed these Argentineans. Anyways, this is not the point, the fish and seafood is great in Chile. I have never liked ¨this stuff¨ before, but know, becoming a “gourmet-wanna-be” I could appreciate a fine fish and oysters, especially if they come with German brewed beer. Oh, these Germans, they know a thing or two about their food and beer. If one wants to try fine German cuisine, plus excellent beer and pay much less then in Germany one should go to south Chile…

Hasta la victoria siempre. ¡Patria o muerte! ¡Venceremos! ...

Have just returned from Che’s house in Alta Gracia. I got out in my shorts because yesterday I was sweating I’m my Bolivian fleece in a theater, so I guessed shorts would be more appropriate than pants and fleece in Cordoba. How do you guess the weather here? Anyway, I was debating whether to go or not talking to my espresso cup in a late afternoon today. I decided to go. The bus broke down on a midway to town and a wind was trying to its best to throw us off the road. We were distributed over several buses along the way and finally made it to Alta Gracia, a place where a great Che was razed.

I never thought of him as great. Really, he was a charismatic figure in history, very appealing to the young ¨revolutionaries¨ and fashion companies to market their otherwise unsold shit. So there he was, a black siluet usually on a red background strongly associated with Soviets, Cuba and stupid western or westernized teens. Well, apparently it is not that simple. I’ve learned a bit along the way, heard some people in Latin America, and finally made to his homeland and hometown. Although, he was born in Rosario, his childhood was spent in Alta Gracia. His semi-aristocratic parents brought him here because of his asthma attacks. In any case, the things I learned about Che made me think differently of him. First of all his travels in Latin America, his first means of transportation was a bike, then a motorcycle. I always wanted to do a cross-country on a motorbike back in US. Probably was not meant to be. Also, the movie ¨Motorcycle Diaries¨ are based on this trip. Then he spent a good amount of time in Mexico, one of my favorite countries in Latin America, where he met Fidel Castro.

He is not just a charismatic figure with black curls, a beret, and a cigar. He was an intellectual and father; he loved chess and drinking mate. But none of that was important comparing to the Revolution. His last words in the letter to his older daughter were to be a good revolutionary. Being Soviet born and somewhat raised, it is impossible for me to comprehend. However, Che, being an idealist and to some extent naïve, he just wished that justice would lead the world or at least this part of the world. I was surprised to learn that he resigned all the important political positions he occupied in Cuba and went to Congo to try to make a revolution there. He failed and got back to South America where he died with a ¨coward bullet ¨in Bolivia and was buried in common grave.

Now, you think I’m trying to education you. Well yes I am, and myself too. A famous image if Che in every wall, a T-shirt and even a tie would usually piss me off. Not only because most people don’t even know who he was and what he stand for, but, simply because it was another fashion for them, like wearing Nike sneakers or small black Adidas backpacks.

I’m in Latin America, I too have black curls and smoke cigars. Just need to get a beret and get used to this terrible mate...

Bolivia and other adventures

“Пол года плохая погода. Пол года - совсем никуда…”
из к/ф "Мэри Поппинс, до свидания"

“A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing”
Ecclesiastes 3:5

Today is six months like have left New York. Tomorrow is Yom Kippur, time to draw some conclusions. Dates and numbers were always important to me. New years and birthdays, assigned seats in the bus and airplanes, just numbers which randomly appear throughout life, they seem to play some kind of role. I’m not really superstitious and happily look forward to Fridays 13-s and 666-es, however, I do acknowledge their significance.

I have not been writing for some good while. I wanted to but could not. The main reason was Kevin. We met shortly after I have returned from the jungle and somehow end up traveling together for well over a month. I have never traveled with anybody for such an extensive amount of time. Surprisingly, that was a lot of fun! It was somewhat cheaper, more interesting and you always have someone to share your thoughts, or just talk to. Even though sometimes he did not want to talk but sleep, yea you know man (I know, sounds funny). Well, I had to force it, when I feel like talking, there is no stopping me. But seriously, it was great fun; however, I could not really “talk” to myself: write. So, I just postponed it till now. Now I can tell you what was going on for 2 months. But first, I’ll tell you what is going on now.

I made it to Argentina yesterday. I’m hating it, well not hating but seriously disliking it. I was looking forward to get here, the wine, the meat, beautiful women. Well, I must confess, I like them dark. I mean it, I love Latin America and Latinos but Argentina.., well it appiers to be fake. They are all either too white or bleached. Argentina is too civilized, too clean, too European and too expensive. Who said that Argentina is cheap? It is cheaper, not cheap. Everything is way too comfortable and overpriced. I say overpriced, because I have just returned from Bolivia. It is my first day here after about 30 hour journey on a very dusty Bolivian train and then a costly Argentinean bus. As far as wine and food go, well the wine is really cheap, the bad ones, the normal ones are reasonably priced but I have not tried them. I am a victim of my own “Jew-ness“, the culture shock hit me hard and I went “economical” yesterday. Medium-cheap wine, plus my favorite brie cheese, under a dollar, then a cheap (by local standards) steak. Entonces, (a trash-lingvo Spanish word, which means: so, then) terrible stomach ache next day. The noises my stomach was making this morning could be translated like this: “Welcome to Argentina, where cheap (but expensive) food will make you as sick as a dog, where the famous Malbec wine will be so bad that you will be able to finish only half a bottle, where chicks look like white-washed eastern Europeans and boys like the worst kind of Israeli “arsses”... Well, maybe it is just Salta, or most likely me. I’ve been having some quite and sad time lately. I have hardly spoken 2 complete sentences for the past several days. Nothing seems to make sense. I’m discharged, got no energy and/or desire to move on.

I know it’ll pass. The only useful story I’ve picked up from my early years of yeshiva was the story of King Solomon's ring: "The King asked his wise men for some single thing that would make him happy when he was sad, but sad when he was happy. They consulted and came back with a ring engraved with the message 'This Too Will Pass'." I suspect that me being discharged would sound irrational to my new friends: Stu-Jew and Irish Potato-Butt.

We met in Uyuni. Kevin and I were having lunch in one of local restaurants where I spotted 2 boring looking gringos. Later that day I have confirmed that observation, when we saw them in the same agency that we were supposed to have a 3-day tour at the Salar. Next morning we were sitting at the plaza having a quite breakfast before the tour; this is when I saw the boring ones for the third and last time. We have had the most amazing and crazy time together, but before I proceed, let’s see on their perspective: “Two, very cheap Israelis, one even took a doggy bag out of a very bad restaurant (I took my cake to go to the train cemetery). Then, next day, they looked so dead peaceful, having their bread and jam.., this tour will be dull and boring”. And then, as an old Russian commercial used to say: “Yuppie”.., we all could not have been further from the truth. We’ve had a wild fun. There were several groups going the same route, god they were boring. They were so boring that one night I got a bit drunk and began talking about “ze Germanz” (read: Nazis) with 2 nice German girls. Little did they know, getting involved in this silly conversation. After about 20-30 minutes of a very powerful but ridiculous monolog I found myself in a almost empty room (there were about 15 people, including ze Germanz) facing Sabrina and Stu (Potato-Butt and Stu-Jew) trying to calm me down. Calm me down after ze Germanz killed ze Jewz!? No way, but there was a rescue, I found myself a match. A Frenchman named Tibo (I know it is spelled wrong, but god knows how French spell it). Anyway, he was almost as crazy as me, and even more, listen to this: he actually spoke English. And not just English, he was making a horrible but hilarious French accent (I don’t even know whether he actually speaks like that or was pretending). Not only we embraced verbally but we actually wrestled as well. Even more so, we made everybody else (there were no Germanz in our room) wrestle and fight throughout that night. After Tibo got tired, like a true Frenchman, he ended up in bed with an Austrian girl, trying to convince her that he was “ze peellow” (her pillow). Nobody got to sleep that night. Next morning I have entertained everybody by pretending to shoot ze Germanz from the thermal bath with my imaginary Kalashnikov. The German girl never made it to the pool. Well, it was her fault that she left without letting me explain, how it is partially her fault that they have killed my people… Yea, I know this sentence doesn’t make much sense, nor does my explanation. Yom Kippur is coming, I’m sorry the German girl. I don’t even know her name… They all look alike zis Germans.

After Uyuni, four of us went to Potosi, where we go to blow dynamite! How often do you get to blow one?! Well, in Potosi you can do it every day and it costs only a $1.25 with the cord. We did not trust ourselves after we heard the story about ze German couple who actually killed themselves by blowing the dynamite (I wonder how many sticks they bought). Stu-Jew and P.Butt carefully checked that there would be no Germanz around and we went to the mines. It was scary, existing and horrifying, all in that order. To add to that, we had the craziest guide ever, we did not like each other from the first sight. He thought I’m a cheap Israeli (a lot of people seem to think that, I wonder why? What can I do with my fucking Sephardic appearance?) who just wants to blow a lot of dynamite and show disrespect to the guide. We barked at each other for a while in the beginning, but after all he end up to be quite a nice guy, after I convinced him I’m actually not Israeli, Ok, nice is an exaggeration but dissent. I only whish he did not say: “Thank you, gringos” all the time. We blew the dynamite (see video) and had a lot of fun. Then we went to Sucre where I got tear gas poisoned during the riot. These fuckers wanted to move the capital from La Paz to Sucre, just because it was so historically and obviously will get more federal money this way. Fucking pisses me off theses students – don’t want to study? Don’t fucking study! But burning tires and throwing dynamite and fireworks at the police, just to have something to do?! while poor tourist (me) had to suffer? I imagine Philadelphia going the same direction; after all it used to be a capital too. Anyways, there is an interesting video footage from my hostel (were I got stuck for 12 hours because of these fuckers) and some after riot pictures. We got out of there as soon as we could.

Santa Cruz is a Bolivian version of paradise. It is hot, it is large and it rich. It is also, the most diverse region in the country. There are settlements from all over the world here, including ze Germanz, Japanese and of course, ze Russianz. Before I will reveal my encounter with ze Russianz, I want to tell you about Samaipata. It is a true paradise, the climate is great the views are awesome, the food is great and, hear this: it is full of Germans! Huh, I wish I can entertain Stu-Jew and P. Butt with this phenomena but they were gone to Brazil. Kevin did not want to hear more about the Nazis. But the funny fact was that they were some Nazi hideouts in the Samaipata area (a clue to Massad). In any case, we had wonderful time there, as Kevin put it: it was a vocation from the travels. There was a nice German (what a coincidence) restaurant called “La Boca Loca” (Crazy Cow) where I had invited everybody to have a Rosh Hashanah meal with local peach honey, bread and Argentinean apples and wine. See everybody; I got nothing against ze Germanz… Hmm.

BoliPусь
I can’t say it was a complete shocker to me but they did surprise me. Picture this: 4x4 Suzuki 2005 stopped at the corner, the back door opened and from there two white little angels flew down the street. They did not, however, had wings, but instead had unusual purple dresses, deep blue eyes and blond hair. I almost instantly recognized the Russians. They could’ve been ze Germanz (there were plenty of them) but then their parents came out: their mother dressed in sarafan and their father (Ivan) with old-fashioned, almost folklore Russian shirt and a cell phone. Kevin’s jaw popped out. Staroveri (Russian Conservatives). Ivan was not surprised that I spoke Russian to him, however was very cautious almost suspicious. I asked him how to get to the Russian village (they call it colonia in Spanish). He said that Lyuba should be able to direct me and showed me where to find her. Lyuba had an Optic shop down the corner, she had been living in Santa Cruz for 18 years and she looked exactly like a Lyuba would look like somewhere on Brighton Beach, except she did not speak broken English but good Spanish. There was another starover in the store who asked me why I speak Russian and look like.., well as he put it “dark”. I told him I was Jewish. The conversation abruptly stopped for a moment and then continued he asked me questions about my travels and so on. And then, I don’t exactly remember how we got to that but he said “Хитрый еврей” (A sly Jew). That took me some time to swallow. I quickly got out of that store considering my options. I did not really have to go to that village, what did not I see there old Russian anti-Semites? Perhaps, they don’t really know what they are talking about. Their language is about 100 years old, their traditions are even older. Most of them are Brazilian born, some even Chinese born. I’ve decided to give them a chance.

I will not use the real name of the village because I don’t really want to abuse the “unknown” path, so I will call it the Pushkin way “Уездный город N” (provincial town N). It took me some time to get there on a very dusty road. By the time I got close to the settlement my ride broke down and I got off this truck squeaking the dust with my teeth. I got another ride with another Vanya on a motorbike. He introduced me to Mityay, his brother. Then I decided to go around town N, it was much bigger than it appeared and it took me about an hour to go to the end of the village and back. There was nobody in the village, it was Sunday. I was starving, so I picked up some sunflowers and began eating the seeds. That reminded me of my childhood when back in Odessa we ate tons of this stuff, though they were fried and salted. I spotted some Russian kids watching TV with locals. That was surprising. I don’t want to talk about their religion (I was asked not to) but that looked odd to me. Anyways, I used to Mityay’s invitation and got back to his house. I was so hungry and weak that I almost fell in the bushes (it was also very hot). Mityay’s wife, unfortunately don’t know her name, quickly got me pineapple брага (like Latin-American “chicha”). Then she put pirogi on a table. While I was eating and drinking a strange feeling captured me. I felt somewhat home but what home? I live in Brooklyn for almost a decade now, I have never had Russian-Russian parents. I guess that was pirogi with eggs and onions, my grandma used to make them, although I like the ones with potatoes...

There was something else, something very odd I could not quite grasp… Oh, I got it, they are speaking Spanish! My broken ride finally made it to Mityay’s house. Apparently, he and his wife were headed to the biggest Кулак (rich farmer?) in town (that would be Mityay). They spoke perfect Spanish (and Portuguese). Well, what else you could expect from a Brazilin born.
I kept my “Jew-ness” to myself and was invited to stay a night, I gladly agreed. I have adopted an identity of one of my friends, I became a half Moroccan (by father), half Russian. I did that to find out what exactly these people think of the Jews, since I’ve heard an interesting “A sly Jew” comment. Well, it got worse, apparently due to an old language the word еврей (Jew) have become жид (Yid). That did heart my ears but I kept it quiet, I did believe these are very nice people just using the wrong word. That proved to be wrong. Wile showing his estate (1200 “Gektars”) he told me his story. That was an interesting one but a bit too long to tell here. It did involve the Yids giving the money the wanting his land and so on. However, there was one banker, Felipe Campbell (obviously a Yid, I actually believe he could’ve been German and will check up on the story) who have helped him. Certainly not for free, as Mityay put it: “Жид не сеет, он комерцией занимается… Где это видано что бы жид помогал, за так...” (I’ll let you translate it here yourselves). Don’t get me wrong here, Mityay is truly a nice and a very hardworking person, he is just a bit too preoccupied in the stereotypes and conspiracy theories. To add to the confusion, this Felipe Campbell guy died in the plane accident observing the damage on Mityay land and there is his framed photo in Mityay’s house along with family pictures. I’ll finish by saying I have had great time there and ate a great food including fresh maracuyas, watermelons, coconuts and my favorite blintz with homemade sour cream. And all that for free! (Who is the biggest Yid here?)

Will put a little, as they put it: Букварь (Dictionary) of the words I managed to write down. Not to make fun, just to recall the past, after all it is a language they communicate to each other. Some of them I’ll leave without Russian to Russian translation. Sorry my English-reading friends. Please don’t use the Internet, try to guess yourself and post answers in the comments.

шибко противный...
шибко прогресс большой (шибко самое поп. слово)
“респонсолидада” нету (Esp. responsabilidad)
у меня достатку нету
а тебе наша кукуруза приглянулась?
Черныши (местные)
Он народ избранный, а они его и распяли...
шолохи - ?
ёшна - ?
зыбочка - ?

I’ll put some more stories soon (I have a lot of them) including conquering Machu Picchu, that was not an ordinary one too, and the rest of Peru.

BTW I’m getting closer to my roots in my adventures, whatever these roots are… Entonces, easy fest everybody and as our “Yid” tradition requires: I’m sorry if I have harmed anyone in this or any other post, and in general.

la Selva. The psychedelic notes

Stop! Stop whistling! It is not working. What the fuck was I thinking coming here? What the fuck am I doing, lying on this dirty wooden floor? I feel so stupid falling for this... It is hot here... the mosquitoes, they are killing me, there are so many of them, and they are eating me alive, biting me through my pants... Stop whistling, it is annoying. What is that helicopter sound? I want to see but I have to keep my eyes closed. When the light is off, the eyes have to be closed. But I want to see... I open them, it is dark, very dark, the mosquitoes are blinding me.., then I see: an old man sitting on the chair, waving a small bush of dry leaves and whistling... the melody, a strange one, not something I have ever heard before, not unpleasant but monotonous and therefore irritating. What is it supposed to do to me anyway? I know, the power of believe, the placebo, if you believe it will happen. Drink it with the faith, I did. But I can’t stand it anymore... Relax. How can I relax on this filthy floor, with this man, the mosquitoes...? I hear a dog barking outside... the insects and birds are shouting... even monkeys are laughing at me...

Here! An animal, a poisonous tropical frog. A frog? A one-inch, small lousy creature has showed up for a second and was gone the next. Two hours of walking in the mud, the air is as thick as a soup and we have found a frog? Is it supposed to be the heart of the jungle, where the wild animals roam the land and the sky? Apparently not. I’m tired of this; I want to go in the fucking jungle, not cruse around the lodge with these “limeños”... Where are the monkeys holding the banners with my name on it, anacondas and caimans lining up to be taken photos of...?
Night. Another tour, they say the animals and insects come out at night. Well, lets see, the tarantula chase has end up with nothing but a picture of a pretty flower. Great, I spend a week crossing the Andes, two days on the boat on the Amazon, with the farmers on the 2nd deck, sleeping in the hammock and eating shitty food. And now I’m here in the middle of Amazon basin, taking a picture of the god dammed flower, because the animals has gone on vocation, or are nonexistent altogether.

He began to sing. It was not enough that he was whistling for about an hour, now he sings. Great. Actually, it is not that bad. I sit. Lying on the floor has gotten my ass covered with mosquito bites and the only thing I can concentrate on is scratching it. Sitting helps. Somehow the singing and the swinging of the bush has become louder.., or it is just me? I hear Espenser telling Mono: “Que buena noche”- what a good night. Mono agrees. I don’t. There is nothing good about this night. I’m thinking weather or not I can get my money back. Spraying the repellent on my hands and face.., funny, this could be a part of the ceremony, along with the diet, bathing, smoking the bad spirits away, applying some crazy liquids to my head and stomach, plus all the singing and whistling. I want to get up and tell him to stop. I forgot how to say stop in Spanish.., I want to call Mono. He said to call him if I get too scared. Too scared? Hell, too aggravated, that is more like it. I’ll wait a little more, they said about thirty minutes, but it depends on a person. So I’m a little different, stronger maybe? Not a believer? Well, I did not throw up yet. Maybe strong. Yea, that is it, I am strong and that shit is not working for me. He continues to sing, poor old man. Now I feel bad for him, he is just doing his job. A job, what a strange one.., I guess his stuff is just not good enough for me... or maybe it just not for me... me... me... What was that? The birds and monkeys are laughing again... Suddenly, the mosquitoes are gone. It feels good to be left alone in the darkness without these tiny vicious insects. In the darkness... I’m struggling to keep my eyes closed. Why isn’t he singing anymore? He is just probably resting... wait, I want him to continue to sing...? To sing and whistle.., in the darkness. The darkness? Where is my comfortable darkness? It has gone. It has cracked into thousands of tiny peaces. The peaces began to fall. This motion has created a wind, or the wind has splintered the peaces. However, this wind is so powerful... it has lifted me up along with the falling peaces. It took me in.

Enough of this, I want to go inside, inside the real jungle. We went fishing for pirañas. There were no pirañas in that damned river. Can you imagine? Two hours in the tropical heat in the canoe and I caught a tiny sardine. Fuck. Let’s go see the pink Amazonian dolphins.., lets. There were bunch of them pink and gray ones, pretty ones I guess, only I did not see them. I did not see them because I did not have my glasses. I could only try to imagine that the splashes in the water are produced by these strange creatures. Double fuck. I went swimming. Refreshing. I said there were no pirañas, well, here there were. Apparently they like biting your nipples. Triple fuck. I’m done. Goodbye to this small jungle group. I’m going camping in the jungle. I was previously told that the tour operator provides all the equipment. Well, they do: a mosquito net and a blanket. Ah, I see why he did not want to go camping. Quadruple fuck. I don’t care. I did not come here to spend my time in the artificial eco-lodge. Eco-lodge, huh, I would wake up hearing chainsaw cutting the trees. So, we are off, Mono and I. Mono – a monkey, his real name was Edward but he insisted on being called a monkey. I don’t care, as long as we get to see the real stuff. We went to the lake. We ate the fish Mono has taken (stole) from the fishing net in the lake. Later we would go look for caimans in the canoe. We did not see any, well actually we did, just the eyes. I was explained that they were hiding from the full moon’s light. Hiding from the moon? Ruthless caimans? Can you believe this? A full moon and two bright green stars, hiding in the bushes. Kind of scary. Oh well, maybe next time... Let’s go to sleep, sleep on the raw ground, covered by a blanket and a mosquito net. It is cold, ridiculously cold but fascinating, the jungle is singing to me. I don’t need to sleep, that is not why I am here. I’m finally in the jungle, that’s what counts. I’m in.

My mind is splitting... I can’t be, it is not possible. Where am I? What is this? I open my eyes. I’m still sitting on the floor, I see the shadow of this man waving the dry leaves and singing a strange song. I hear his wife snoring in unison to the song, her bed is right next to me. I hear Mono, playing Tetris on his cell phone. I close my eyes. The song, what a beautiful song, it makes so much sense now; I see its colors, amazing colors, so vivid and bright. His song shapes the mosacic and changes the colors. I see birds, rainbow birds. No, it is not a rainbow, there is much more then seven colors. There are no words to describe them, they are not existent, or are they? Certanly now they do. He stoped singing, his is tiered. The colors continiue to swing inside my head. Mosquitoes... Now I can feel them biting me, I can hear them flying around me, hunting for my blood. Please, please sing, I want the mosquitoes to go away, or at least feel like they are gone. He begins by whistling... raw puddles of various colors take shape... he swings the bush... the shapes turn into faces... thousands of faces, flying around me. I recognize them. I have seen all of these people throughout my life, I don’t remember them anymore... But wait, I have to concentrate, I have to ask a question. I’m not doing this for the hell of it; I was told that I can see the past and the future. I need to concentrate on my question.., fucking mosquitoes, he stoped singing again... It is difficult to consecrate... I’m in three different places. Here I am, sitting on the floor of the local shaman’s house in some godforsaken village in the Amazon basin of Peru. Here I am having psychedelic visions with intense colors and mystical animals swinging in all direction. And here I’m... where? How can I describe this.., I can’t, it is another world. The underworld? The world of the spirits? Whatever the name is, it is not important. I feel that the depth and significance of this place is hundred times grater then the rainbow birds. I’m in all three places but I only care about the last one. It is hard to stay here. My awareness and the spaces I occupy is enormously large. I slip back to the color puddles. Is it my design background, or these colors combinations are so perfect for everybody?. Everything is so flawlessly shaped and moves in a highly sophisticated pattern, directed by the song. The song has stoped once again. I slip back to my mosquito bitten ass world. How long has it been? I don’t have much time I need to ask a question... I need an answer. Let me back in. Sing! Please sing...

Lazy Monkey, he took me back to the lodge to have lunch. Come on man, I want to go camp for 3 days. Well, he said, I’m not from around here, so, I can’t really take you very deep, the truth is, I don’t know this jungle. However, I’ll go fetch my friend from the village he’ll take us very deep after lunch. Okay. Fuck it, I’m tired of struggling with these Peruvians, you get what you pay for. Surprisingly, his friend showed up, so we went. I don’t know if they were testing my stamina, or it is their usual way of walking through the muddy jungle, but it was fast, very fast. I felt that I had to show them that I was not made out of maize flour too. After one hour of literally flying thought the jungle (where, the hell was the searching for animals part?) I was asked, if I want to sleep by this lake, pointing at a swamp. Huh? Are you shitting me? No. Further. Another hour has passed. And here he was, sitting on top of the tree, minding his business. Who? I asked. A sloth. What? Where? There, you can’t see? No! Mono jumped and began climbing the lianas, he reached the top within 20 seconds. Well, now I know why he was called Monkey (besides looking like one). He ripped the poor animal off the branches and dropped it; it fell down, about 60 meters, and landed on the ground. “Oso perezo”, that is the name of it in Spanish: a lazy bear…
When I was a child, I had 10 volumes of Soviet Encyclopedia. The only volume I have ever opened was volume 4: “The world’s flora and fauna”. I have never imagined that some day I’ll see the water lilies that can hold a human baby, the Amazon River, and never in my live I have dreamed of petting a sloth. Well, I did, I wanted to hug him, he looked like a plush bear but I was told if I do that, they would have to rip him off me with peaces of my flesh in its claws. I remember reading in that encyclopedia that their metabolism is so slow that the pee only once in 3 months. I don’t know about their metabolism but the bustard had quickly recovered the fall and began rapidly climbing the tree, he was quite speedy. While I was busy with this cutie, Mono popped out with a huge, loudly screaming, bullfrog. I held the frog with one hand and the the sloth with another and that was it! It was it, it was beyond the word: satisfied, even deeply satisfied just doesn’t cut it. That boy, who read this big yellow Soviet book #4, who dreamed of adventures and different world has gotten it all now.

It is fading away. The images are not as vivid anymore. It is becoming very hard to stay in one place, in one peace. I almost can’t reach out anymore... I am walking on the edge, I’m seeing less clearly now, it is like a fog covering my vision. My body is acing. I imagine that I’ve been already eaten by the damn mosquitoes. I’m struggling so hard to get in... To get back in, to ask my question. But I can’t anymore, not without a song, but the shaman is not singing anymore, nor is he whistling or swinging the leaves. He is smoking. He is just an ordinary man, who possesses a sacred knowledge about this world. The knowledge he will pass to his son Espenser, who in his turn will pass it to his son, thousands of years of knowledge about sacred worlds and sacred plants. Ayahuasca
I met the shaman, when he was cutting the grass with his machete in the soccer field in the middle of the tiny village. This small man with a funny baseball hat and sweaty shirt will change my life? My perceptions? No way... “Tranquillo Daniel?” - he asked me. Yes. I said. My voice sounded very hollow. Yes, tranquillo. “Can you do something about the mosquitoes?” - I asked him, as if I expected him to snap his fingers and they all would burn in yellow sparks. “Just go to your bed, there is a mosquito net there” - he replied. Yes, I should do that.., but what about my question... I am crawling towards the porch, where my bed is, a blanket under a mosquito net. Finally, I’m free of mosquitoes. Free... I close my eyes. The first, second and the third worlds have merged into one. I see the faces again, I don’t recognize them... I am asking my question. Now I see who that is, that’s me. Me... me... me... Thousands of me, laughing... at my question, at me. I understand now. “Que buena noche”. What a good night. Good night.
Good night.

Compare/Contrast essay on Ecuador

Take 1: Intro
I have developed a habit to write these essays in my head while riding a bus or trying to sleep… I even write them while things have not happened yet. Well, I guess these are the consequences of traveling solo, but don’t get me wrong, I would not change my “nomadic” status for the world. Now, the famous college Compare/Contrast essay, I’ll try to reveal some of the truth about (my experience in) Ecuador by comparing it to.., you guessed it: Colombia. I have been “accused” of unreasonably loving Colombia a bit too much, especially after having a blast in Ecuador and particularly Galapagos Islands. I love Ecuador! Yah, its true, like a true middle-eastern decent man I am allowed to love more than one woman, or a country for that matter. However, there is always a favorite wife, or a country. How does one compare wild and “dangerous” Columbia with a pleasant and lovely Ecuador?

Take 2: In the mix
Ecuador. Only positive, truly, nothing and I mean it nothing bad or simply unpleasant happened there. Unlike Colombia, where I had to straggle with the captain, with migration officials, the cold (raining season) and an altitude sickness, in contrary in Ecuador, there was only pleasure. Nice people, great weather, good food, everything is easy in Ecuador. It is quite small, so it is very easy to travel around and see practically all of it within 3 weeks. It also, has it all: the beaches, the mountains (that was actually the only hard thing I have done in Ecuador, when I have climbed Cotopaxi, may it go to hell) and the Amazonian jungle. Because of this, there are a lot of tourists, nice ones though.
I met a cool bunch of Israelis in Quito and we spent some high-quality time together. These children of a constant war zone, bargaining and parting heavily their way throw Latin America… I love them and I hate them at the same time. Then, I did not mind the tourist so much because I was mostly hanging out with locals (I’ll get back to this later)
We split with Israelis, they went to Montanita, a famous beach hang out for gringos and I went to Galapagos. What about Colombia, where is the compare/contrast? Well, here is one: there are no tourists in Colombia, only the some brave backpackers and couple of missionaries who keep on getting eaten by the cannibalistic tribes of Colombian Amazon. I was not really afraid of the guerrillas in Colombia but I did get a little paranoid when the passengers of the long distance buses were filmed on a video camera juts before departure. Nothing like that in Ecuador, I was at ease there, so relaxed, that I stopped watching my backpack and carried large ($100-200) sums of money after dark.. And all that taking into account that Mariscal (gringos’ neighborhood in Quito) is considered dangerous. Aren’t they all? Anyways, no contrast here, I know people who were robbed in Bogota and Quito, so watch out.

Take 3: Vilcabamba: gaining happiness.
First I read about this place in my book: the “Longevity Valley” where people live well over 100 years. Then in stupid glossy magazine, you know, the ones thy put in every seat on the plain. That kind of put me off but it was on my way to Peru so I went. I’m glad I did. It was a pleasant little town where I did not do anything… nothing. It was easy; time did not seem to exist there. I would sleep though free lessons of Spanish in the morning wake up by midday swim in the river talk to some people here and there, take a walk, run downhill to swim in the river again. In the evenings my new friend Michael (a bartender from Quito, who also spoke Hebrew, an important skill in Latin America) and I would drink a lot of booze – that’s how my evening Spanish classes started. By the end of these “lessons” he and I would speak a crazy mix of Spanish, English, Hebrew and Russian the only language he did think he knew. Then sleep.., like a baby, a newborn. A newborn, well I was. Suddenly it hit me, it was on the tip of my tong but I could not say it.., it was a feeling, a feeling of happiness. I am not really accustomed to this strange notion, but I was sure it was it. I played with this thought; I tried different languages, starting with Russian “schast’e”, an odd word, sounds rough to my ear, definitely didn’t describe what I was feeling, happiness, that was a little better, a softer one but yet abused by the hippies and pop culture. The Hebrew substitute I have never learned, or effortlessly have forgotten, not like I have ever used it. Then it occurred to me: Alegría. That was it. How simple and descriptive.

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I have lost it now. Alegría. I had it for several weeks and lost it.., somwhere in Peru.
I have failed to present a valid essay. I started it a while a ago and now can’t really get back to. Somehow it doesn’t seem important anymore. I wanted to write Take 4: Falling in love. It was an interesting story how I felt in love with a local girl who was a missionary. She lived in a monastery, studied to be a lawyer and on her spare time was converting Amazonian Indians into Catholicism. But I won’t write about that. Instead, I’ll write about the jungle…