It's December. It's 91 degrees. I'm drinking a hot cortado. There's at least two things wrong with this sentence.
After a month in the wilderness the return to the big cities (Buenos Aires and Santiago) has been jarring. As mentioned in previous blog posts, immersion in nature can provide a mastery of mind - the feeling that you manage the pacing, openness and wholeness of your thoughts. In the city, it's the opposite. Your over-stimulating surroundings penetrate your mind and warp the pace of your thoughts. Your only choice is to develop a thought funnel through which you can somewhat helpfully siphon and redirect information as is necessary to allow you to function properly. At times when I'd most like to breathe easily and absorb my surroundings, I instead find myself with my head down, shooing aggressive vendors and dodging rogue drivers.
So why did I come back to the big cities? One reason. Culture.
As lovely as nature is, it's unable to give you insights to the people, values and heart of a country. As I laid out clearly at the get-go, my objective for this trip is to immerse myself in different cultures in an effort to gain perspective and learn more about the world. The cities, however hectic, dirty and fatiguing they may be, are essential to understanding a culture. And for this reason alone, I love them!
I spent a few days in Buenos Aires this past week but as I will be heading back there for Christmas and the loneliness of the holidays abroad will surely inspire a subsequent blog post, this post you're now reading will focus mostly on Santiago. Even though I've only been here for a couple days, I feel like I can share some of my observations.
The people here have a clear fire within that propels their movement through the world. Whether it's manning their small shops, conversing with friends or walking down the street there's a vitality that cannot be ignored. When so many organisms each possess this fire, it leads to a palpable electricity in the city and a vibrancy heretofore unimagined. This energy, however, does not take the form of intensity. I think many people in NYC, for example, have a fire within. But the people of Santiago manage to carry this fire while also keeping a pep in their step, a perpetual swag and a lightness of being that's inspiring and fun to be around. You get the sense that they simultaneously care deeply about themselves and the people around them but do not hesitate to laugh or let their guard down.
One of the weird things I do while traveling in cities is I find pockets of the society to observe behavior. Think of it like people watching but just in a more specific setting. Yesterday this impulse encouraged me to buy a beer and walk to the skate park. Municipal skate parks can be a lot of things but boring is not one of them.
When I arrived, I walked through the gates and found a somewhat inconspicuous plot of grass on the perimeter of the circular park and I just observed life for at least 90 minutes. It was a Wednesday evening around 7pm, a time when most young Americans would be fixing themselves dinner while watching TV after a long day's work. Instead I stumbled upon a "popping" oasis of Chilean hipsters ranging from 12 - 40 years old drinking, laughing and "hanging" without a care in the world. Many came to skate and that was clearly the central focus - skaters like flies dodging in and out of imaginary lanes at impossible speeds, each respecting the other and giving a decent share of "props". The folks closer to me stationed on the outskirts of the park were huddled together, either lovers leaking into each other's arms or a tight-knit group of friends swapping stories and "hot goss". It was as if everybody had just been released from a pen and were living life with reckless abandon. It was as if everybody collectively understood the need to live life to the fullest. It was as if there was something that had kept them from living it up in the past which now demanded they make up for the lost time. Which leads me conveniently to my next and much heavier topic.
This afternoon I spent the better part of three hours immersed in the exhibition at the Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos (Museum of Memory and Human Rights). In addition to visiting the home of one of my all-time favorite poets, Pablo Neruda, this museum was very high up on my list. I knew there had been a dictatorship and massive political turmoil in the past several decades in Chile. But I wanted to learn the full story.
If, like me, you found yourself uninformed about the military dictatorship of Chile from 1973-1990, I encourage you to read up on it. While I would first and foremost recommend this museum, I understand that making a pilgrimage to Santiago probably isn't on your weekend agenda. At the risk of severely oversimplifying the ordeal, I'll just say that on September 11, 1973, a CIA-backed coup d'état overthrew the socialist government of Chile and established a 17-year military dictatorship that resulted in the government-ordered persecution, torture, exile and/or execution of thousands of Chilean people.
Walking through this museum and witnessing firsthand evidence of this traumatic period, provoked many feelings. Most of them sad. Many inspiring. There were hundreds of radio broadcasts, press clippings and videos that captured the events as they unfolded. There were testimonials from survivors about the gruesome methods in which they were tortured. There were beautiful memorials that demanded respect and introspection. And there were countless examples of heroic bravery, immense courage and the persistence of the spirit that illuminated the darkness throughout. In addition to informing me of this major world event, the museum instilled in me the realization that governmental shifts of this magnitude still occur to this day and made me even more weary of the current political situation in America. But this isn't about America. It's about Chile.
As soon as I stepped out of the doors to the museum I found myself possessing an even deeper appreciation for every person I passed on the street. I suddenly understood the nature of the spirits I'd spent the past couple days observing. The fire each person carries is one born from a period of extreme persecution, stoked with extremely personal trauma and endured by generations prior and generations to come. But more importantly it is also a fire that comprises the very fabric of the social identity. It is a fire that bonds and unites in a way that only overcoming collective injustice can. And a fire that shines brightly, inspiring others to grasp hope amidst periods of adversity.
Sure the dictatorship ended more than 27 years ago. Which is the entirety of my time on the planet. But the effects of that period are still felt by people here. And while I've talked to exactly zero Chileans about the dictatorship, I can tell through observation that despite the unspeakable tragedy that occurred during this period in history, the aftermath of the events sculpted a society and people whose strength and bravery knows no bounds. Moreover it has lead to an understanding of how important freedom is. How necessary it is to fraternize with those you love. And the realization that however brightly a fire burns, it weighs very little. And if it takes hipster shenanigans at a rowdy skate park to illustrate the impossible triumph of the human spirit, so be it.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
The Town Created for Tourism
El Chalten. A tiny mountain town created in 1985 for the sole purpose of quenching travelers' wanderlust to see Mt. Fitz Roy. If you're looking for empirical evidence, how about a population of 1000 that swells to several thousand every year during peak season? It's a hikers' haven where everyone is clad in high-end outdoor gear (yes, it's a thing and typically, in topical fashion, the brand of choice is Patagonia) and takes full advantage of the post-hike 4-7pm Happy Hour, which takes over literally every establishment in town.
Despite that harsh initial assessment of its inhabitants and their reason for being, the town IS cute. It has just about everything one would need for a week-long stay including nice restaurants, microbreweries, souvenir shops and hostels galore. The town's only firetruck is this old-school red-plated cruiser that looks like it came from the 50's. There's wild dogs abound that love chasing motorcycles and defending their turf. And I've yet to see a gas station here... But the best feature? There's mountains and trails in literally every direction and in such close proximity! Just pick a street to walk down and chances are it will lead to a gorgeous view.
But let's get back to the people. As a result of the large backpacking presence, the town really doesn't have much of a culture of its own. It's a town built on transience and quick day-trips. When you're here you get the feeling you're in Argentina but you also get the feeling this town and the land around it could just as easily be excavated and thrown into another distant location. The only glimpse of Argentinian culture shines through the shop owners and local workers.
I've never seen anything like it. Most touristy places usually don't begin that way. There's typically a culture in place prior to the tourism boom which is part of the initial draw. But when a place begins to draw a multitude of outsiders, the infrastructure must adapt to accommodate this influx and the spot often drops the "hidden" portion of its "hidden gem" tag, for better or for worse.
"For better or for worse?" - that's the question right? Having traveled South America for roughly six weeks and having spent time in Central America prior to that, I find there to be a love/hate relationship when it comes to locals and tourism. On the pro side, a surge of outsiders means more money spent locally, more business and an overall boom for the economy. This rise in local consumption means alterations in capital, production, spending, accommodations and, when escalated rapidly enough, can lead to a massive shift in the overall look and feel of a place. When the latter occurs, the culture inevitably changes or becomes frustratingly magnified in such a way that only the standout representations of a place (such as the figure of Jesus in Rio de Janeiro) that were once totems become tchotchkes. The locals slowly lose touch with their roots and their priorities often shift to pleasing and accommodating the needs of tourists, which are often massive and lofty.
But shifting from the theoretical back to El Chalten, the beauty of this place is that the nature is the culture. And it's unchanging. While sure there's cosmetic changes to paths and wear from all the foot traffic, the point is that the culture here is not a product of the people but the people are a product of nature's culture. And as soon as you walk out of the city and hit the trails, this becomes clear. The culture of the thriving trees, the culture of the emerald lakes, the culture of the pristine glaciers and the culture of the razor-sharp mountain ranges - it's steadfast and man couldn't change it even if he wanted to! Looking at the Fitz Roy range at sunrise is like staring into God's open mouth. It's just breathtaking. Or breath-giving, depending on how far you want to take the metaphor.
As I've mentioned in other posts, maintaining this connection to our natural surroundings is vital and how unbelievably fortunate I have been to spend countless hours immersed in this nature over the past month. No matter what state of mind you're in when you're heading out on the hike, by the time you return to town, you've been through nature's euphoric cycle of challenge, contemplation, stillness, growth, reflection and exertion that keeps you coming back again and again. Though it may be difficult, I will try to internalize the lessons I've learned from nature and carry this knowledge with me through the duration of my travels and life beyond.
Tonight Andrew and I jump on a 24-hour bus ride up to the Northern Patagonian town of Bariloche. It's gonna be an adventure, to say the least. We'll do maybe one more hike in Argentina's chocolate capital but I'm beginning to realize the nature immersion portion of the South America trip is coming to a close. While I feel like I could continue to explore and learn from nature forever (and plan to as long as I can) the next leg of the journey will be a transition back to the urban as we make our way slowly up to Buenos Aires and part ways before I make my way to Santiago.
Despite that harsh initial assessment of its inhabitants and their reason for being, the town IS cute. It has just about everything one would need for a week-long stay including nice restaurants, microbreweries, souvenir shops and hostels galore. The town's only firetruck is this old-school red-plated cruiser that looks like it came from the 50's. There's wild dogs abound that love chasing motorcycles and defending their turf. And I've yet to see a gas station here... But the best feature? There's mountains and trails in literally every direction and in such close proximity! Just pick a street to walk down and chances are it will lead to a gorgeous view.
But let's get back to the people. As a result of the large backpacking presence, the town really doesn't have much of a culture of its own. It's a town built on transience and quick day-trips. When you're here you get the feeling you're in Argentina but you also get the feeling this town and the land around it could just as easily be excavated and thrown into another distant location. The only glimpse of Argentinian culture shines through the shop owners and local workers.
I've never seen anything like it. Most touristy places usually don't begin that way. There's typically a culture in place prior to the tourism boom which is part of the initial draw. But when a place begins to draw a multitude of outsiders, the infrastructure must adapt to accommodate this influx and the spot often drops the "hidden" portion of its "hidden gem" tag, for better or for worse.
"For better or for worse?" - that's the question right? Having traveled South America for roughly six weeks and having spent time in Central America prior to that, I find there to be a love/hate relationship when it comes to locals and tourism. On the pro side, a surge of outsiders means more money spent locally, more business and an overall boom for the economy. This rise in local consumption means alterations in capital, production, spending, accommodations and, when escalated rapidly enough, can lead to a massive shift in the overall look and feel of a place. When the latter occurs, the culture inevitably changes or becomes frustratingly magnified in such a way that only the standout representations of a place (such as the figure of Jesus in Rio de Janeiro) that were once totems become tchotchkes. The locals slowly lose touch with their roots and their priorities often shift to pleasing and accommodating the needs of tourists, which are often massive and lofty.
But shifting from the theoretical back to El Chalten, the beauty of this place is that the nature is the culture. And it's unchanging. While sure there's cosmetic changes to paths and wear from all the foot traffic, the point is that the culture here is not a product of the people but the people are a product of nature's culture. And as soon as you walk out of the city and hit the trails, this becomes clear. The culture of the thriving trees, the culture of the emerald lakes, the culture of the pristine glaciers and the culture of the razor-sharp mountain ranges - it's steadfast and man couldn't change it even if he wanted to! Looking at the Fitz Roy range at sunrise is like staring into God's open mouth. It's just breathtaking. Or breath-giving, depending on how far you want to take the metaphor.
As I've mentioned in other posts, maintaining this connection to our natural surroundings is vital and how unbelievably fortunate I have been to spend countless hours immersed in this nature over the past month. No matter what state of mind you're in when you're heading out on the hike, by the time you return to town, you've been through nature's euphoric cycle of challenge, contemplation, stillness, growth, reflection and exertion that keeps you coming back again and again. Though it may be difficult, I will try to internalize the lessons I've learned from nature and carry this knowledge with me through the duration of my travels and life beyond.
Tonight Andrew and I jump on a 24-hour bus ride up to the Northern Patagonian town of Bariloche. It's gonna be an adventure, to say the least. We'll do maybe one more hike in Argentina's chocolate capital but I'm beginning to realize the nature immersion portion of the South America trip is coming to a close. While I feel like I could continue to explore and learn from nature forever (and plan to as long as I can) the next leg of the journey will be a transition back to the urban as we make our way slowly up to Buenos Aires and part ways before I make my way to Santiago.
 |
| Fitz Roy at sunrise. |
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
With nature as my guide
Well we survived. An eight-day, 85 mile trek through the Patagonian wilderness with our lives (food ain't light) on our back. It pushed us mentally, physically, emotionally and pretty much any other way imaginable. Our tent broke, our bodies ached, the wind battered us, sunglasses were catapulted into the sky, air mattresses popped, pasta dinners were lost to dirt and yet I came out on the other side more grateful, strong and clear-headed than I've felt in years.
Nature is more than just the far-removed great outdoors that humans continue to destroy through their existence. If we let her, nature can teach us everything we need to know about life, ourselves and the world. But to reach a headspace in which we can be receptive to her teachings takes intentionality; it takes time. Over the course of 8 days, I feel like I heard nature's voice, I listened to her guidance and I gained from her wisdom. I would like to share some of what I learned here today.
A Part of the Wheel
One of my favorite authors to read while traveling is Hermann Hesse. In books including Siddhartha, Beneath the Wheel, and Journey to the East, he characterizes nature as a giant cycle of unity through which all life revolves. Whether we want to or not, we move with nature, through nature and in accordance with nature. Thus to embrace nature is to join the collective tapestry of life. To reject nature is a futile attempt to mask the origins and, well, nature of your own existence.
Most of our days on the trek were spent in motion. We'd wake up early in the morning with the 5:30am sun, pack our belongings and make our way to our next destination, which could take as long as 14 hours (the sun doesn't set until 9:30pm). Each day en route from point a to point b, we'd experience all four seasons in the course of several hours and we'd weave through a variety of landscapes ranging from forests to lakes to snowy tundras. In a climate with such unpredictability, yes one needs to be prepared mentally and physically. And we were. But more important than this preparedness was adopting the mindset of acceptance. Most of the time, conditions are outside of our control. But in our day to day lives, establishing routines typically puts us in a place where more of life's variables are controlled and consistency or at least the appearance of consistency is more easily attained. But when you're out in the open with your life on your back, you control nothing. You are at the mercy of everything around you. Once this realization fully settles in (and believe me, it does early out there) one finds it advantageous to maintain a mindset of acceptance. While there's the option to battle the elements, fight through the terrain and stick a middle finger to mother nature, it only leads to frustration. Through accepting what comes as what is, realizing our inability to control it and the need to just move forward, we begin to move in tandem with nature and as part of nature.
We've all seen the bird that spreads its wings and attempts to fly directly into the oncoming wind. They kind of just float there, trapped in a wind vacuum making no progress. This is how we feel when we battle nature - we try and force round pegs into square holes, we run up the down escalator and every other idiom that conveniently captures the frustration of futility. But how beautiful it is to move with the giant wheel! How redeeming it can be to understand fully that dealing with adversity is an inevitable part of any journey and to embrace whatever comes our way is an important part of the experience and our existence. In welcoming both the good and the bad, we not only have a fuller experience, we move in tandem with nature. And when our shells of resistance crack and our pathetic barriers are torn asunder, we move as the river does - flowing effortlessly forward, jutting into crevices and back out of them, and seamlessly integrating with our surroundings.
Simplify
Now a month into my travels, one of the most rewarding aspects of the journey has been the clarity of mind it allows. I just have more time to do whatever I want. I have less logistics to consider and more time to reflect. As a result it's easier to be more present in the moment and it's simpler to feel full thoughts. I don't feel scattered and pulled in many directions; I feel a level of groundedness I haven't felt to this point in my life.
It's with this in mind that I've begun to practice walking meditation. Inspired by the writings of Thich Nhat Hahn, I try to at least once daily go for a walk in which I'm fully present, focusing only on observing my surroundings and the pace of my inhalations and exhalations.
The most rewarding walk I had was during day five of the trek, in which we arrived at our campsite by 1pm and had the better part of a day to just relax. Our site was situated in the hills above a strikingly blue lake and I decided to wander through the woods and meditate. Focusing on my breaths, I followed winding, sequestered paths and came to a lookout point above the lake where I observed a small bird for the better part of 30 minutes. Of the animals I've encountered, I find birds to be the quickest to move from place to place. And, hell, if I had wings I probably would too. But there was something about this small brown bird that struck me - its stillness. While its counterparts would call loudly and bounce around spastically from one tree to the next, this bird froze and made very small, incredibly deliberate movements. To observe the bird, I stood about five feet from it, perfectly still, focusing only on it and my breaths. The bird was taking advantage of a berry plant and in between bouts of extreme stillness, the bird would dart to a berry, pluck it from a bush, swallow it whole then transition back to a frozen position for several more minutes. I think the bird knew I was there. It's hard to not see me. But I do think my stillness allowed the bird to freely continue grazing. It was interesting. During its frozen bout the bird would stare me directly in the eye and we'd engage in a staring contest. I almost felt the bird saying "we good?" and me replying inaudibly "we good". The bird just wanted to eat. I just wanted to watch the bird eat. And that's what we did.
However high you're thinking I sounded during this encounter, my time with my winged companion inspired me to reflect on simplicity. All living things need to just do three things: eat, sleep and breathe. All life (well most life) revolves around and stems from the need to do those things. When something stops an organism from doing one of these three things, the organism needs to change its plan and find a different way to procure the need. There were 1000 different berry bushes on this hill. This bird could have easily flown away from a potential predator (me) and grazed there. But the bird didn't do that. The bird stood its tiny bird ground, it picked its tiny bird berry and continued shooting these berries into its tiny bird belly. I realized in that moment that what developed between the bird and myself was trust. The bird gave me a chance to observe it and I allowed the bird the chance to eat. We both got what we wanted. We existed in harmony. And all human emotions that convolute each moment, contrived needs that permeate our lives and the mental baggage we carry with us on a daily basis disappeared in that moment. The bird ate. I watched. And nothing else mattered. Life. Simple.
The Wind Lives
When I reflect on the eight-day trek, one of the aspects that continues to leap out at me is the wind. Never in my life have I encountered wind like the wind in Torres Del Paine.
I think humans enjoy personifying nature. It makes nature more relatable and, like many things humans do, if we make something more similar to us we don't have to work as hard to understand it. But to say the wind at Torres Del Paine had human characteristics or mannerisms would be misleading. Instead, it's just easier to think of this wind as a living creature whose movements very deliberately affected every moment of our trip.
The wind blew. The wind howled. The wind lept. The wind plucked flowers from plants. The wind tore through terrain. The wind turned faces away. The wind screamed. The wind danced a fiery-stepped dance. The wind bounced. The wind sculpted glaciers. The wind molded mountains. The wind dictated passages. The wind tore tent poles in half. The wind endangered safety. The wind forced me to lay prostrate. The wind wins.
There was never a moment when the wind affected me more than when I would try to sleep. At the end of the night, when we were tucked deep inside our sleeping bags inside our tents, the wind began its relentless assault. It was a furious display of sound and motion. You could hear a breeze approaching from off to the left, which would be engulfed by a gust from the right that together would tear through a tree above our heads and lead to the terrifying tree creaking sound. Wind would form on top of a mountain far off inconsequentially and quickly amass an army over the valley with an attack plan to indent our tent flaps and billow into our heads. The motion of the wind, like a pinball smashing from lane to lane, sculpted the tempo of our dreams, if we were lucky enough to have them. The wind heightened any anxiety about the following day's travels. The wind tucked us deeper into ourselves and our bags. The wind made you feel small, oh so small. Trivial and meaningless.
For seven and a half days, the wind was indifferent. The wind didn't care. The wind pummeled. And the wind never apologized.
But on day eight, something happened.
We arose at midnight to commence a sunrise hike at 1am. We made our way to the iconic Torres viewpoint for those unbeatable sunrise pics. After about 30 minutes on the mountaintop, I began to freeze so desperately I had to make my way back down the mountain before the rest of the group. The journey back to camp took me the better part of two hours. The whole way down my sleepless brain was working through the frustration it felt from so little REM in the last week, such inadequate nourishment and such cold. It wasn't the best headspace to venture alone down a mountain with. But I kept walking and with twenty or so minutes remaining in my descent I encountered a Dutch couple making their way up the mountain that were frozen behind their vaulted phones taking a photo. I turned to behold the object of their desire and noticed one of the most gorgeous rainbows I've ever seen jutting out from the mountain with a breathtaking complementary arc. I gazed upon this rainbow for five minutes and as I turned around to continue on, my thoughts slowly started to turn. I finally began to feel the accomplishments of the journey. And at that moment the wind did something I'll never forget. The wind pressed squarely on my shoulders and steered my wearisome body down the mountain. I felt the wind's hands, warm for me for the first time, caressing my back and in that moment it was almost as if the wind was saying "you put up with me for seven days. You've done something most people wouldn't dare do. You've passed the test. Now get down safely and get out of here. It's time to make my way to the next traveler."
I had felt the wind's fury each night. But for the first time I felt the wind's grace. I felt the wind's warmth. And I let the wind guide me. The wind stretched me to my limits without ever thinking to check in with me and here at the very end, the wind smiles. The wind comforts. And the wind protects.
The wind is alive. It will blow us back and forth. But it will eventually steer us in the right direction. We just have to put our head down and move forward step by step until that happens.
Nature is more than just the far-removed great outdoors that humans continue to destroy through their existence. If we let her, nature can teach us everything we need to know about life, ourselves and the world. But to reach a headspace in which we can be receptive to her teachings takes intentionality; it takes time. Over the course of 8 days, I feel like I heard nature's voice, I listened to her guidance and I gained from her wisdom. I would like to share some of what I learned here today.
A Part of the Wheel
One of my favorite authors to read while traveling is Hermann Hesse. In books including Siddhartha, Beneath the Wheel, and Journey to the East, he characterizes nature as a giant cycle of unity through which all life revolves. Whether we want to or not, we move with nature, through nature and in accordance with nature. Thus to embrace nature is to join the collective tapestry of life. To reject nature is a futile attempt to mask the origins and, well, nature of your own existence.
Most of our days on the trek were spent in motion. We'd wake up early in the morning with the 5:30am sun, pack our belongings and make our way to our next destination, which could take as long as 14 hours (the sun doesn't set until 9:30pm). Each day en route from point a to point b, we'd experience all four seasons in the course of several hours and we'd weave through a variety of landscapes ranging from forests to lakes to snowy tundras. In a climate with such unpredictability, yes one needs to be prepared mentally and physically. And we were. But more important than this preparedness was adopting the mindset of acceptance. Most of the time, conditions are outside of our control. But in our day to day lives, establishing routines typically puts us in a place where more of life's variables are controlled and consistency or at least the appearance of consistency is more easily attained. But when you're out in the open with your life on your back, you control nothing. You are at the mercy of everything around you. Once this realization fully settles in (and believe me, it does early out there) one finds it advantageous to maintain a mindset of acceptance. While there's the option to battle the elements, fight through the terrain and stick a middle finger to mother nature, it only leads to frustration. Through accepting what comes as what is, realizing our inability to control it and the need to just move forward, we begin to move in tandem with nature and as part of nature.
We've all seen the bird that spreads its wings and attempts to fly directly into the oncoming wind. They kind of just float there, trapped in a wind vacuum making no progress. This is how we feel when we battle nature - we try and force round pegs into square holes, we run up the down escalator and every other idiom that conveniently captures the frustration of futility. But how beautiful it is to move with the giant wheel! How redeeming it can be to understand fully that dealing with adversity is an inevitable part of any journey and to embrace whatever comes our way is an important part of the experience and our existence. In welcoming both the good and the bad, we not only have a fuller experience, we move in tandem with nature. And when our shells of resistance crack and our pathetic barriers are torn asunder, we move as the river does - flowing effortlessly forward, jutting into crevices and back out of them, and seamlessly integrating with our surroundings.
Simplify
Now a month into my travels, one of the most rewarding aspects of the journey has been the clarity of mind it allows. I just have more time to do whatever I want. I have less logistics to consider and more time to reflect. As a result it's easier to be more present in the moment and it's simpler to feel full thoughts. I don't feel scattered and pulled in many directions; I feel a level of groundedness I haven't felt to this point in my life.
It's with this in mind that I've begun to practice walking meditation. Inspired by the writings of Thich Nhat Hahn, I try to at least once daily go for a walk in which I'm fully present, focusing only on observing my surroundings and the pace of my inhalations and exhalations.
The most rewarding walk I had was during day five of the trek, in which we arrived at our campsite by 1pm and had the better part of a day to just relax. Our site was situated in the hills above a strikingly blue lake and I decided to wander through the woods and meditate. Focusing on my breaths, I followed winding, sequestered paths and came to a lookout point above the lake where I observed a small bird for the better part of 30 minutes. Of the animals I've encountered, I find birds to be the quickest to move from place to place. And, hell, if I had wings I probably would too. But there was something about this small brown bird that struck me - its stillness. While its counterparts would call loudly and bounce around spastically from one tree to the next, this bird froze and made very small, incredibly deliberate movements. To observe the bird, I stood about five feet from it, perfectly still, focusing only on it and my breaths. The bird was taking advantage of a berry plant and in between bouts of extreme stillness, the bird would dart to a berry, pluck it from a bush, swallow it whole then transition back to a frozen position for several more minutes. I think the bird knew I was there. It's hard to not see me. But I do think my stillness allowed the bird to freely continue grazing. It was interesting. During its frozen bout the bird would stare me directly in the eye and we'd engage in a staring contest. I almost felt the bird saying "we good?" and me replying inaudibly "we good". The bird just wanted to eat. I just wanted to watch the bird eat. And that's what we did.
However high you're thinking I sounded during this encounter, my time with my winged companion inspired me to reflect on simplicity. All living things need to just do three things: eat, sleep and breathe. All life (well most life) revolves around and stems from the need to do those things. When something stops an organism from doing one of these three things, the organism needs to change its plan and find a different way to procure the need. There were 1000 different berry bushes on this hill. This bird could have easily flown away from a potential predator (me) and grazed there. But the bird didn't do that. The bird stood its tiny bird ground, it picked its tiny bird berry and continued shooting these berries into its tiny bird belly. I realized in that moment that what developed between the bird and myself was trust. The bird gave me a chance to observe it and I allowed the bird the chance to eat. We both got what we wanted. We existed in harmony. And all human emotions that convolute each moment, contrived needs that permeate our lives and the mental baggage we carry with us on a daily basis disappeared in that moment. The bird ate. I watched. And nothing else mattered. Life. Simple.
The Wind Lives
When I reflect on the eight-day trek, one of the aspects that continues to leap out at me is the wind. Never in my life have I encountered wind like the wind in Torres Del Paine.
I think humans enjoy personifying nature. It makes nature more relatable and, like many things humans do, if we make something more similar to us we don't have to work as hard to understand it. But to say the wind at Torres Del Paine had human characteristics or mannerisms would be misleading. Instead, it's just easier to think of this wind as a living creature whose movements very deliberately affected every moment of our trip.
The wind blew. The wind howled. The wind lept. The wind plucked flowers from plants. The wind tore through terrain. The wind turned faces away. The wind screamed. The wind danced a fiery-stepped dance. The wind bounced. The wind sculpted glaciers. The wind molded mountains. The wind dictated passages. The wind tore tent poles in half. The wind endangered safety. The wind forced me to lay prostrate. The wind wins.
There was never a moment when the wind affected me more than when I would try to sleep. At the end of the night, when we were tucked deep inside our sleeping bags inside our tents, the wind began its relentless assault. It was a furious display of sound and motion. You could hear a breeze approaching from off to the left, which would be engulfed by a gust from the right that together would tear through a tree above our heads and lead to the terrifying tree creaking sound. Wind would form on top of a mountain far off inconsequentially and quickly amass an army over the valley with an attack plan to indent our tent flaps and billow into our heads. The motion of the wind, like a pinball smashing from lane to lane, sculpted the tempo of our dreams, if we were lucky enough to have them. The wind heightened any anxiety about the following day's travels. The wind tucked us deeper into ourselves and our bags. The wind made you feel small, oh so small. Trivial and meaningless.
For seven and a half days, the wind was indifferent. The wind didn't care. The wind pummeled. And the wind never apologized.
But on day eight, something happened.
We arose at midnight to commence a sunrise hike at 1am. We made our way to the iconic Torres viewpoint for those unbeatable sunrise pics. After about 30 minutes on the mountaintop, I began to freeze so desperately I had to make my way back down the mountain before the rest of the group. The journey back to camp took me the better part of two hours. The whole way down my sleepless brain was working through the frustration it felt from so little REM in the last week, such inadequate nourishment and such cold. It wasn't the best headspace to venture alone down a mountain with. But I kept walking and with twenty or so minutes remaining in my descent I encountered a Dutch couple making their way up the mountain that were frozen behind their vaulted phones taking a photo. I turned to behold the object of their desire and noticed one of the most gorgeous rainbows I've ever seen jutting out from the mountain with a breathtaking complementary arc. I gazed upon this rainbow for five minutes and as I turned around to continue on, my thoughts slowly started to turn. I finally began to feel the accomplishments of the journey. And at that moment the wind did something I'll never forget. The wind pressed squarely on my shoulders and steered my wearisome body down the mountain. I felt the wind's hands, warm for me for the first time, caressing my back and in that moment it was almost as if the wind was saying "you put up with me for seven days. You've done something most people wouldn't dare do. You've passed the test. Now get down safely and get out of here. It's time to make my way to the next traveler."
I had felt the wind's fury each night. But for the first time I felt the wind's grace. I felt the wind's warmth. And I let the wind guide me. The wind stretched me to my limits without ever thinking to check in with me and here at the very end, the wind smiles. The wind comforts. And the wind protects.
The wind is alive. It will blow us back and forth. But it will eventually steer us in the right direction. We just have to put our head down and move forward step by step until that happens.
Sunday, November 19, 2017
Patagonia Pontifications
Greetings from the edge of the world! Okay, fine it's not quite the edge but it looks like more and more tundra and less and less humans so it certainly feels like it is. Down here, the elements are king and the only souls that happily bear the winds for extended periods are the plethora of wild dogs that roam freely.
I'm stationed in the seaside town of Puerto Natales, a quaint area whose reason for being appears to be to support the flocks of backpackers looking to get their taste of the Patagonian Andes. The streets are lined with hostels, tourism agencies and novelty shops and the town guests don only the most overpriced Patagonia gear. Hey, at least they're using the fleeces and bubble jackets for their intended purpose ;)
Puerto Natales serves as a base camp for these trekkers, who can access the local sights easily from here. You gather the sleep, food and gear you need here then you journey out.
In two days time, my buddy Andrew and I embark on an 8-day trek in the Torres Del Paine region. I've been eagerly awaiting this week for many months now as it feels like a true adventure. All the gear we'll need for a week will be on our backs and I anticipate it will push me athletically and mentally. Each day we will venture for anywhere from a couple hours to 11 hours. Pray for me.
An aspect of the Patagonia journey I've really enjoyed so far has been the hostel experience. A genuine feeling of solidarity exists among the traveling brethren. Everybody is out adventuring and figuring things out together, everybody has to budget money and everybody has stories about their homeland and their travels that they are quick to exchange over drinks in the common space far into the night.
From the outside, hosteling can seem like a forced experience. You have to walk in and suddenly converse and become roommates with complete strangers. I was a little hesitant to dive into the hostel game off the bat. I worried about my belongings, having to sleep in a room with many other people (WHAT IF I SNORE?) and always putting on a face. But now that I've been staying at hostels for the last week I realize how special these havens are.
The traveling personality seeks adventure, seeks change and seeks to let the sights they see and experiences they share stimulate personal growth. But most importantly, I think the traveling personality desires validation - validation that the choice to cast free of the social and professional tethers back home was a good one. When you descend upon a community of folks in the same boat as you, who have either left a life behind or momentarily hit the pause button on the life they had, you begin to feel valued. You realize that however crazy of a choice it is to you to pick up your life, take it on the road for months at a time and bid farewell to the communities that supported you, it is a choice that many, many people make. And when I start to feel guilty about leaving people in my life behind or leaving a place where I was loved, I realize that there's scads of folks who have all done the same thing. And while it's still scary and while I still don't know where I'll be even a week from now, there's comfort in numbers. There's solidarity in adventure. And there's a peace of mind when meeting people on the road that I haven't felt for some time.
I'll be fully unreachable for the next week but I'll share photos and stories on the other side. I'm thrilled that my Thanksgiving dinner will be a slice of bread smeared with peanut butter and wind.
I'm stationed in the seaside town of Puerto Natales, a quaint area whose reason for being appears to be to support the flocks of backpackers looking to get their taste of the Patagonian Andes. The streets are lined with hostels, tourism agencies and novelty shops and the town guests don only the most overpriced Patagonia gear. Hey, at least they're using the fleeces and bubble jackets for their intended purpose ;)
Puerto Natales serves as a base camp for these trekkers, who can access the local sights easily from here. You gather the sleep, food and gear you need here then you journey out.
In two days time, my buddy Andrew and I embark on an 8-day trek in the Torres Del Paine region. I've been eagerly awaiting this week for many months now as it feels like a true adventure. All the gear we'll need for a week will be on our backs and I anticipate it will push me athletically and mentally. Each day we will venture for anywhere from a couple hours to 11 hours. Pray for me.
An aspect of the Patagonia journey I've really enjoyed so far has been the hostel experience. A genuine feeling of solidarity exists among the traveling brethren. Everybody is out adventuring and figuring things out together, everybody has to budget money and everybody has stories about their homeland and their travels that they are quick to exchange over drinks in the common space far into the night.
From the outside, hosteling can seem like a forced experience. You have to walk in and suddenly converse and become roommates with complete strangers. I was a little hesitant to dive into the hostel game off the bat. I worried about my belongings, having to sleep in a room with many other people (WHAT IF I SNORE?) and always putting on a face. But now that I've been staying at hostels for the last week I realize how special these havens are.
The traveling personality seeks adventure, seeks change and seeks to let the sights they see and experiences they share stimulate personal growth. But most importantly, I think the traveling personality desires validation - validation that the choice to cast free of the social and professional tethers back home was a good one. When you descend upon a community of folks in the same boat as you, who have either left a life behind or momentarily hit the pause button on the life they had, you begin to feel valued. You realize that however crazy of a choice it is to you to pick up your life, take it on the road for months at a time and bid farewell to the communities that supported you, it is a choice that many, many people make. And when I start to feel guilty about leaving people in my life behind or leaving a place where I was loved, I realize that there's scads of folks who have all done the same thing. And while it's still scary and while I still don't know where I'll be even a week from now, there's comfort in numbers. There's solidarity in adventure. And there's a peace of mind when meeting people on the road that I haven't felt for some time.
I'll be fully unreachable for the next week but I'll share photos and stories on the other side. I'm thrilled that my Thanksgiving dinner will be a slice of bread smeared with peanut butter and wind.
Friday, November 17, 2017
El Calafate
It's crazy to think my time in Brazil has already ended. Only a little over two weeks into the trip, it feels like the first chapter is complete. And I managed to not get robbed :)
Yesterday I touched down in Argentina. I met up with my friend Andrew, whom I lived with during an internship in NYC in 2012 and this Patagonia excursion marks a five year reunion for us. Andrew just arrived back from Antarctica and at 27 has already been to 7 continents and spent the last few years traveling. The way he just capitalizes on his wanderlust is respectable and I couldn't think of a better travel companion to have for the next month.
We are currently spending two days in El Calafate, a town situated near the southern tip of Argentina, in the Patagonia region. It is kind of like a hiker's equivalent of a less-bustling port city, from which people take buses to various mountains, parks and glaciers to hike.
The climate is quite something. The arid conditions, biting wind and eternal sun (which rises at 6:30am and sets at 10pm) really makes it feel like you're at the end of the world. There's just not too much down here. A small town that appears to be supported by the farming and tourism industries located right on the banks of the brightest blue lake I've ever seen. It's a peaceful place with a slower life pace and extremely kind people. It's been a massive relief to come to a place like this from Brazil where I was worried constantly about getting robbed and how to safely transport myself and my belongings from point a to point b. Here I can move freely and it's liberating.
This morning that freedom took me on a run up into the foothills. When running I'm inclined to just pick a direction and find a road that leads somewhat straightaway in that direction. I moved from dirt road to paved road back again to dirt road. The rocks under my feet and uneven earth provoke caution as I'm wont to keep my ankles intact prior to our upcoming eight-day trek in Chile. The sun bright, the air brisk and cutting. I'm thankful I wore the extra layers, extremity protectors and sunblock. With stray dogs awaiting my arrival on each road, I wait until they rear their heads, informing me of their territory and politely suggesting a directional rerouting. I make my way straight uphill for the better part of two miles then I turn around. The wind that whipped at my face so intently finally now at my back, my cracked lips form a smile. The extent of my remoteness begins to sink in. In one direction, a dirt road up into the mountains. In another direction, sheets of ice plaster the sky and the light-brown landscape shifts slowly into a tundra. Moving westward from there, the lake with its calming colors and confident placement straddles the earth. My body feels great - in constant motion, my legs have regained a tone they haven't known since college and my head feels a oneness it hasn't known for some time. Life's priorities change from a hectic to-do list of 27 items at any given moment to three real priorities - food, sleep and shelter. Everything else is meant to pass through me as it sees fit. Whether it's the sense of adventure I felt in Brazil coupled with the sense of isolation or the sense of warmth and belonging from meeting up with a long-time friend, these emotions are all part of this experience. And as long as I take care of myself and remain an open vessel, whatever feelings that take hold and however long they stay, is right. Is correct. Is validated. And how freeing it is to know that whatever is felt is felt and whatever happens, happens. I can only control so much. It's an integral aspect of the travel mentality. And I'm beginning to really embrace it.
Yesterday I touched down in Argentina. I met up with my friend Andrew, whom I lived with during an internship in NYC in 2012 and this Patagonia excursion marks a five year reunion for us. Andrew just arrived back from Antarctica and at 27 has already been to 7 continents and spent the last few years traveling. The way he just capitalizes on his wanderlust is respectable and I couldn't think of a better travel companion to have for the next month.
We are currently spending two days in El Calafate, a town situated near the southern tip of Argentina, in the Patagonia region. It is kind of like a hiker's equivalent of a less-bustling port city, from which people take buses to various mountains, parks and glaciers to hike.
The climate is quite something. The arid conditions, biting wind and eternal sun (which rises at 6:30am and sets at 10pm) really makes it feel like you're at the end of the world. There's just not too much down here. A small town that appears to be supported by the farming and tourism industries located right on the banks of the brightest blue lake I've ever seen. It's a peaceful place with a slower life pace and extremely kind people. It's been a massive relief to come to a place like this from Brazil where I was worried constantly about getting robbed and how to safely transport myself and my belongings from point a to point b. Here I can move freely and it's liberating.
This morning that freedom took me on a run up into the foothills. When running I'm inclined to just pick a direction and find a road that leads somewhat straightaway in that direction. I moved from dirt road to paved road back again to dirt road. The rocks under my feet and uneven earth provoke caution as I'm wont to keep my ankles intact prior to our upcoming eight-day trek in Chile. The sun bright, the air brisk and cutting. I'm thankful I wore the extra layers, extremity protectors and sunblock. With stray dogs awaiting my arrival on each road, I wait until they rear their heads, informing me of their territory and politely suggesting a directional rerouting. I make my way straight uphill for the better part of two miles then I turn around. The wind that whipped at my face so intently finally now at my back, my cracked lips form a smile. The extent of my remoteness begins to sink in. In one direction, a dirt road up into the mountains. In another direction, sheets of ice plaster the sky and the light-brown landscape shifts slowly into a tundra. Moving westward from there, the lake with its calming colors and confident placement straddles the earth. My body feels great - in constant motion, my legs have regained a tone they haven't known since college and my head feels a oneness it hasn't known for some time. Life's priorities change from a hectic to-do list of 27 items at any given moment to three real priorities - food, sleep and shelter. Everything else is meant to pass through me as it sees fit. Whether it's the sense of adventure I felt in Brazil coupled with the sense of isolation or the sense of warmth and belonging from meeting up with a long-time friend, these emotions are all part of this experience. And as long as I take care of myself and remain an open vessel, whatever feelings that take hold and however long they stay, is right. Is correct. Is validated. And how freeing it is to know that whatever is felt is felt and whatever happens, happens. I can only control so much. It's an integral aspect of the travel mentality. And I'm beginning to really embrace it.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Random Acts of Joy
When you're an extrovert spending weeks at a time alone in new cities, you have to rely on other people to help get you through.
Just walking down the city streets and feeling the hustle and bustle of a metropolitan area is a good start. Just seeing faces and watching other lives lived instills you with an appreciation. Even if it's a coconut juice vendor on the corner of the block that yells something at you in a language you don't speak, you're at least reminded that other people can see you.
Of everything I've seen, the sights that give me the most encouragement and develop a well-spring of goodness within me that I can pull from for days to come, are random acts of joy.
Random Act of Joy #1: There's three servers posted up in front of a beach-front cafe on a rainy day. Given the awful weather, nobody is making their way in to eat. One of them suddenly starts dancing, using the moisture on the mosaic tile to effectively moonwalk. Everyone laughs. Whether it actually gets people in the doors or not is beside the point.
Random Act of Joy #2: A group of five teenagers are sitting around a table outside of a bar on a Friday night. The bar is positioned in such a way that there's the bar on one side of a small alley street, and because alcohol laws don't exist here, there's tables of people crowded around either side of this small through-street. Taxis and Uber drivers have made their way down this street all night hoping that they'd time it right with a patron's departure. A garbage truck makes its way down the street to collect the bar's trash and one of the teenagers at the table of five jumps onto the foothold on the back of the garbage truck to pose for a selfie. Instead of the garbage collectors getting mad, they jump into the photos and suddenly there's a small selfie parade in our midst.
Random Act of Joy #3: I'm having a drink at a bar and a man makes his way through the bar giving out business cards for a new Gentleman's Club that opened up around the corner. I intentionally don't look his way because I'm not interested. The man is about to make his way out of the bar when my server grabs him and asks him to go drop a card at my table. I receive the card, thank the man for making his way over and the man departs the bar. My server looks up at me and just howls with laughter. Needless to say, I join in.
It's these small acts that get me through this trip. They provide a respite from my over-contemplative brain and, if even for just a moment, assuage any worries or fears and place me into the state I prefer to dwell: a state of laughter.
Just walking down the city streets and feeling the hustle and bustle of a metropolitan area is a good start. Just seeing faces and watching other lives lived instills you with an appreciation. Even if it's a coconut juice vendor on the corner of the block that yells something at you in a language you don't speak, you're at least reminded that other people can see you.
Of everything I've seen, the sights that give me the most encouragement and develop a well-spring of goodness within me that I can pull from for days to come, are random acts of joy.
Random Act of Joy #1: There's three servers posted up in front of a beach-front cafe on a rainy day. Given the awful weather, nobody is making their way in to eat. One of them suddenly starts dancing, using the moisture on the mosaic tile to effectively moonwalk. Everyone laughs. Whether it actually gets people in the doors or not is beside the point.
Random Act of Joy #2: A group of five teenagers are sitting around a table outside of a bar on a Friday night. The bar is positioned in such a way that there's the bar on one side of a small alley street, and because alcohol laws don't exist here, there's tables of people crowded around either side of this small through-street. Taxis and Uber drivers have made their way down this street all night hoping that they'd time it right with a patron's departure. A garbage truck makes its way down the street to collect the bar's trash and one of the teenagers at the table of five jumps onto the foothold on the back of the garbage truck to pose for a selfie. Instead of the garbage collectors getting mad, they jump into the photos and suddenly there's a small selfie parade in our midst.
Random Act of Joy #3: I'm having a drink at a bar and a man makes his way through the bar giving out business cards for a new Gentleman's Club that opened up around the corner. I intentionally don't look his way because I'm not interested. The man is about to make his way out of the bar when my server grabs him and asks him to go drop a card at my table. I receive the card, thank the man for making his way over and the man departs the bar. My server looks up at me and just howls with laughter. Needless to say, I join in.
It's these small acts that get me through this trip. They provide a respite from my over-contemplative brain and, if even for just a moment, assuage any worries or fears and place me into the state I prefer to dwell: a state of laughter.
Friday, November 10, 2017
Rio
This place. This place is unbelievable.
Sun, always. Locals further darkened by its daily sweep.
Nectar of every exotic fruit imaginable on tap. Acai is the new king of my heart.
Enormous chunks of rock and tree jut out from the earth like teeth
Slum encampments and a statue of Christ - the only plaque strong enough to build a home
The spine of the city, two beach strips each 3 miles long, bent to accommodate its growing gut
A lagoon, like icing on a diamond, plopped dead center between sea and hill
Gaping tourists make their rounds, Scowling locals meet their gaze
Birds, winged objects of envy, freely soar for a view that costs others thousands
Waves lapping, longing for a more permanent stay on the dusty golden shore
Emerald waters smile at the heavens, keenly aware of their appeal
Lovebirds kissing, spouting nothings, whispering somethings
An open pack of skittles left on the hillside They taste the rainbow but it leaves a bitter feeling. But, in the end, they have the best view.
History, culture and business wrapped into one scenic package
Please be done hosting games for awhile
Because it's my turn to play with you.
Sun, always. Locals further darkened by its daily sweep.
Nectar of every exotic fruit imaginable on tap. Acai is the new king of my heart.
Enormous chunks of rock and tree jut out from the earth like teeth
Slum encampments and a statue of Christ - the only plaque strong enough to build a home
The spine of the city, two beach strips each 3 miles long, bent to accommodate its growing gut
A lagoon, like icing on a diamond, plopped dead center between sea and hill
Gaping tourists make their rounds, Scowling locals meet their gaze
Birds, winged objects of envy, freely soar for a view that costs others thousands
Waves lapping, longing for a more permanent stay on the dusty golden shore
Emerald waters smile at the heavens, keenly aware of their appeal
Lovebirds kissing, spouting nothings, whispering somethings
An open pack of skittles left on the hillside They taste the rainbow but it leaves a bitter feeling. But, in the end, they have the best view.
History, culture and business wrapped into one scenic package
Please be done hosting games for awhile
Because it's my turn to play with you.
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