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.

Getting High In Potosi

Three hours from Sucre along a winding dirt road. No, dirt is the wrong word. Gravel? Gravel is small. Boulders? Yeah, three hours along a winding road made of boulders the bus bumps us across rural Bolivia. Now I’m a fan of world music. Music embodies all that’s unique and special about a country, a culture and a people. It undoubtedly is unique to every country of the world. I like to think that I have a deep appreciation for all sorts of music. So why do I never want to hear another Bolivian Folk song again? For the entire duration of this grueling journey, every hour, every minute, the driver insisted that we listen to a rather limited playlist. Now again, I’m a fan of music, I could deal with that, I could even enjoy it however he wanted to make sure that everyone outside the bus could hear the music too. It was too good for just us passengers.

The little lever that you use to adjust the seat normally has a plastic handle, to not only make it aesthetically pleasing but also to ensure comfort when your leg rests against it. For some reason beyond my realm of understanding (the bus was about 30 years old), my handle was missing, which wasn’t uncommon, but the fact that it had some how worn itself into a sharp point struck me as a tad odd. So three hours with blaring music, and a knife in my leg. Oh yeah, and if the gentleman in front of me had decided to recline, he would’ve sliced my legs off at the knees. That would’ve been unpleasant for all concerned.

Potosi was worth this dangerous expedition. Not only the highest city on our beautiful rock earth, but at one stage of its history the largest city on the planet. We’re talking bigger than London & Paris at the time. From Cerro Rico (the large dormant volcano about which Potosi was built around) nearly 45,000 tons of pure silver was mined between 1556 and 1783. It is amazing that this tiny little mining town, now stricken by poverty once bankrolled an entire Empire. Of course we know who did the work. Imperialists never get their hands dirty. Wikipedia estimates that nearly 8 million labourers died as a result of working the mines. Death was and still is an occupational hazard. Like twisting your ankle. It’s unfortunate, but it happens. Today Cerro Rico is operated by a cooperative of miners. Some mine as part of a family tradition. Most, over 90%, are there because no other employment opportunity exists. However the silver stopped pouring out of the mine. It is essentially exhausted. However these miners persist chasing the stretched veins of silver to earn a wage that barely guarantees survival.







These miners operate under the ground, drilling and chiseling away at the rock, sometimes taking up to 2 hours to make a hole 15cm deep. After a hole has been made, it is stuffed full of dynamite and detonated. There are no structural or geological engineers here. Experience is the only science.

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.