Something in Buenos Aires

And this is what it must feel like to create something. Something artistic, something real, something that breathes, that will be understood by others. Interpreted and criticized. Revered, respected, misunderstood or feared. Something that changes as it gets older. Changes as the world changes around it. Something that was intentional but not planned. Unpredictable but inevitable. Something beautiful in it’s flaws and flawed by it’s beauty. Contradictions and nonsense. Lost in the corner of the room, in the bookshelf, or on the wall, lost amongst the screaming of life in the city. Ignored, traumatized, dusty. Yearning for fresh eyes, fresh ears, fresh touch, taste and smell. Appreciation of nothing where nothing is ever appreciated. Where nothing is never appreciated. Close your eyes and listen. Cover your ears and look. Pick up the world that exists at your feet. Surrounded by this. Consumed you get dragged along. People just like us. Just like us. I’m like us and I like this. I saw options. Paths, and journeys. Like a roadmap. Freedom, needing fuel and a decision. I was at the beginning of the end scratching my head. Looking for a direction I now find myself in the middle of the ocean. No path. No road. No control. Only those which I impose on myself. I am the key, and the door wasn’t even locked. I decide against paragraphs. No time to pause, thinking won’t help me. I’m too indoctrinated. To damaged and traumatized. Like so many others. Wage slave. Consumer. Safety in safety. Reassurance in the ordinary. Jealousy of the extraordinary. What I’ve done not good enough. Too much fear to do anything about it. I speak for myself, but I see my reflection everywhere. So in the heat of this city, I drink her water, and eat her food. Sleep under her sky. I see her people, and live my life in this context. Something will be born of this. A manifestation, we come together, and we create. I couldn’t do it without her, but she will continue to do it without me.

Chispa de Rebelion

The eyes are closed. Let the music talk to you. Let the cards your dealt determine what you do. When the game relies on luck. No use in trying to control it. Just respond. Don’t think outside the square. There is no square. Just paths. Sons. Daughters. Lovers. Haters. Money is a tool. Use the right tool for the right job. Sometimes things break. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we get frustrated with people we would thank god existed if we believed that god existed. The waves turn the ocean from a deep blue to a bright white when they smash against the green coast. The bus makes more noise than the view ever could and the trees flick the sun on and off. The ocean through the trees. I like this. The volcanos look like shark teeth. White. Against the blue. A backdrop for the road. The clouds hang around the lakes waiting for permission to leave in the afternoon. Black asphalt and yellow paint snake through all of this. Our contribution to this landscape. So we can see it from car windows like television screens. A landscape cut in two. Contrast. Good and evil? Sometimes. I see it, but I don’t understand what I am looking at. Peso’s are spent and forgotten. We backtrack to find them. In the process we spend them again. Time is wasted if your unconscious. I’m trying to keep my eyes open. Blinking clears the dust from the streets of roads that are unpaved. It feels late in life, but I look forward to the second wind against my face. History that’s not mine. It’s theirs, and it might hurt. I wouldn’t know. Twelve executions in a town that everyone has forgotten. Spark the rebellion Neltume. But that fight is over. Another one will replace it. It always does. It might have already started, democracy works for both sides. Fighting? It’s not worth my front teeth, but is it worth someone else's? I’m lost in translation. Lost in Chile. We didn’t even know what was at the end of the lake. Nothing. An abandoned hotel. Elevator shafts survive the decay. I asked about ghosts. There are none. No story, just a bad investment. When you need help, people help. The police become taxis. Drive us out of the country. Very seriously. Without words. Straight police faces in a beaten up police truck. I smiled for the two of us. New countries, new people, new colours, lakes and the other side of the Andes, new accents. Same prejudices. Lack of understanding. Fear. Finally hatred. Dislike. Negative energy. Poor people are lazy and should work harder. Like us. Yeah. They should also choose richer parents. A higher social class. They should also choose privilege. This attitude like a cancer. I’ve heard it every country. Everywhere. On the road. On the road. Card games and bus rides. Small towns and big cities. A bag full of things I don’t use. But refuse to let go of. I do miss the place where I was able to disappear. Even if I left because I was vanishing.

Lazy Man's Risotto

If necessity is the mother of all invention then laziness is the father. A necessity born of hunger, to feed the body, to eat and ultimately sustain existence. Lacking experience and skill in the kitchen one is left with only two options. Restaurant or laziness. Laziness prevails. Time and effort. Rice. While time consuming it can be reproduced with minimal effort. Remind yourself you’ve worked a hard day. Rice. Pot. Water. Stove. While not necessary some flavour is desirable. Chicken stock cube will suffice. Wait. Scratch oneself. Cooking rice depends on three equally important factors. Experience. Knowledge of available equipment. And luck. One seems to always neglect to show itself. Rice becomes gluggy. Retains moisture. Never the less, survival is the key here. Must eat. Need nutrients. Serve with bread. Not enough. Needs more. Tomato sauce will not do. Parmesan. Perfect. Apply liberally. Taste. Lazy Man’s Risotto is born.

A week passes with incident. People live, die, cry and fly. They come, they go. But the same necessity remains. Hunger. This time armed with experience. The lazy man elects the Lazy Man’s Risotto. Same process should equal same deliciousness. It stands to reason that different process could equal different deliciousness. A plan is hatched. Dice Carrots, add to rice with stock. Cook, add parmesan. Consume. Lazy Man’s Risotto just went live.

The lazy and unskilled man has discovered a secret that is too much for him to bear. His mind races. Drunk with the power of creation he sympathises with gods. Like them he too must decide the fates of meals as they pass under his reign. To be delicious or not to be delicious, that is his question. From nothing he created deliciousness. What are the possibilities? Where to next? Add mushrooms. Use white wine. Different rice. Fry bacon, asparagus, ham. Freshly grated parmesan. Herbs and spices and special techniques. Experience lends certain sureness to his hands. Success leaves his hands precise and skilled. Lazy Man’s Risotto just got real.

The new uniform

One foot in front of the other. The puddles play a duet with the holes in my shoes and I dance to the tune. I haven’t seen rain for months. I haven’t seen rain like this for years. The roads have become torrents of brown water. The cars are amphibious. Tidal waves of water explode from the road. I thought that only happened in movies. Don’t wear white. The city changes colour, the sky, the air; both dull as the light is low and evenly shared. There is no spotlight. The sun can’t discriminate under the clouds. Today humans steal the show. The neon lights come alive. The road is blacker and the grass is greener. Some disagree. Taillights burn a path through the grey and headlights at noon make reflections on the road. There is two of everything. Twins. One perfect, one peculiar. Not sure which is which. People scurry with their hands above their heads. Folders and bags become umbrellas. Stopping a freight train with a feather. Two schools of thought exist. To run or walk? The jury is still out. The mountains that surround us have stepped quietly into the fog. Tomorrow the air will be cleaner, and the sky brighter. Tomorrow the mountains will return to their posts. At attention. Sentries on guard. Enveloping the city like a duvet on a cold night. Keeping their city from leaving, keeping their city safe. Tomorrow the mountains will be back with a new uniform. Brighter than ever.

2 minute friends

You see someone interesting you ask if you can sit next to them. They think your talking Spanish. You reply in english ending the confusion. You get to talking and you make a new friend. In a few hours they become a close friend. In a few more hours they´re gone. You become an expert at making friends, and almost more importantly an expert at saying goodbye. The golden rule of backpacking remains. Don´t bring anything you can´t afford to lose.

Sientete

You travel all the way to Cusco in Peru. You bring with you a limited knowledge of the areas history. You jump at the chance to witness an age old ceremony to celebrate the Winter Solstice and honour the Incan Deity Inti. You research the event. You learn that the last time an Incan Emperor oversaw the ceremony was 1535. You learn that the Spanish Conquistadors and the Catholic church in all their infinite wisdom outlawed the ritual shortly after. You wonder how the locals celebrated this event without the consent or permission of those in charge. You ask yourself how similar this recreation, which started again in 1944, was to the original. You get up early on the day. Wait around the common area for your friends who you agreed to meet. You wait a long time. You learn the Spanish word for hurry from the gentleman manning the gate. You use that word. You make your way to the festival for a cultural feast.

After deciding to forgo the start of the parade in the city´s centre; Plaza de Armas, you make your way with locals and tourists alike up the narrow windy streets and steps of Cusco. Bull fighting taxis. Urine and rubbish waft through the streets. It doesn´t put you off. It reminds you that the rules are different here. The expectations are different. What we consider important, or repulsive holds a different position in the moral hierarchy. It´s nice. But far from perfect. It is pleasant to be walking amongst a crowd of Peruvians.

We reach the edge of the city, and hit steps built by the Incans to take us to the ruins Sascsayhuamàn, once the head of the Puma. The puma represents power. We walk the steps. The altitude doesn´t do much but make you breathless. We reach the top of the hill overlooking the stage that was set up for the recreation and the ruins. We take our seats and wait as other tourists and locals start to shrink wrap around us. Closing in. Things get cosy. The family in front have brought a picnic. Roast chicken and spaghetti. My mouth waters. The family behind have a small child. He squirms and twists, but the parents skillfully pass him backwards and forwards without saying a word. Only parents know this art. They outsmart the child with props. A paper cup offers minutes of entertainment before the game gets tiring, only to be replaced by a paper hat. I smile at the family and they smile back. I feel like they are sharing their day us. It feels nice.

The ceremony starts. We can see the performers dressed in bright colours dance down the ruins. When they reach the ground level they disappear behind the crest of the hill. The people on the crest stand for a better look. Locals and tourists slowly start to stand. Group think. The first group think. Like a whisper that starts a hurricane people start throwing their hands up in frustration. All around us we start hearing the chants.Sientete. Sientete. Sit down, Sit down. It slowly escalates. Before we know it, we are chanting in unison, "Sientete, Sientete, Sientete " A group of us from the hostel start a Mexican wave. The lightheartedness of the others wins the Peruvians over. And we are accepted into the mob. We join them. Small rocks and food arch through the sky and strike unintended targets.Sientete . The ceremony continues. We start clapping as the rocks arch. The ceremony continues. The family behind me are calling out too. They are the closest to our group of gringos. We call out as one. The ceremony continues behind the wall of people and the crest of the hill. A small child further back mimics her parents and the mob;sientete. sientete . The sound is muffled by the calls, shouts and laughter of the people. It is never aggressive. It becomes a game. An old lady up ahead and to my right launches a rock. Perfect trajectory. Lands on my leg. I look up. She starts talking with her hands at me. I feel confused. Ididn ´t throw my rock yet. I spent too long picking the perfect projectile. It´s a science. You don´t want to hurt anyone. And you don't want to hit an innocentbysitter . The ceremony continues. The family behind laugh at my misfortune as the small child is distracted by a carton of juice. Their smiles are genuine. The rocks and food continue to fly. The gringos in the target zone up ahead retreat. They slowlyzig zag , stumbling, swinging their hands awkwardly. Stepping through a living, breathing minefield. Unsure or exhausted. We start another Mexican wave. The Peruvians have tired of that western nonsense. We start to disband together. The ceremony continues.