PERU-ED OUT
© By Ric Polansky
Naturally, the worst day of any vacation, should be the last day. All those wonderful recent memories that occurred should seem likely enough reason for “staying on, and never wanting the dance to end.” This trip was the best I’ve ever had to Peru. Never did I sleep in any one place for three consecutive nights--I was constantly on the move searching for adventures on a daily basis, but even that can get tiresome. Therefore, I am not sad to leave.
More than any other emotional factor, the squalor injures me. Now isn’t that silly, because it’s them, those that have to live here, that really have to endure it; but as they probably don’t know any other life style, it’s me that feels badly. When walking in the streets I am consistently attacked by the begging urchins, and rightfully so; I’m an easy hit. But when you give to one small fry, all the other fish soon arrive and before too long you’ve created a swarming school of Piranha all around yourself; and that too can be bothersome.
If I had written some better letters I would have told you about fishing late into the evening, standing on the Bolivian shore and casting into deep Peruvian waters, looking to land a big one. At dusk the jungle begins to come alive, its feeding time. While I pleasantly passed my time casting and slowly reeling back my lure I was enthralled to behold the search and capture tactics of the large bats flying overhead that too were fishing, dashing down in short erratic cuts and dodges and then bursting into the water and pulling out a fish. Bats, large as partridges using nature’s radar to guide them to their prey and some sort of sonar to apprehend it. Survival in the jungle at dusk.
I should probably have told you also about the Colgate toothpaste bath that I treated myself to while high in the mountains above Lake Titicaca. I arose, still half asleep, wandered into the bathroom, couldn’t recognize the face in the mirror, but decided to brush his teeth for him anyway. I unscrewed the toothpaste cap, and inadvertently had it pointed it at my face just as the cap came off and spurted most of its contents in my eyes, face, and down my neck. Obviously sealed containers react differently when they have been fabricated at sea level and then are opened at 14,500 feet altitude in the thin rare mountain air.
And I didn’t tell you the story of the fearless and intrepid jungle explorer who, while slashing his way through the thick undergrowth, spotted the very poisonous Loro Machaca hanging from a nearby tree. This snake is one of the few that is easily recognizable as it is a bright fluorescent green, that glows vibrantly against all the other mundane green background around it. The deadly snake was curled up in what one presumes is a sleeping position. Now any young and experienced adventurer with a brand new shiny machete has but one natural instinct, to cut that damn snake in half … and I proceeded to start forward to do so. After I had gone but a few steps, Angel whispered to me, “you must be the quickest man in the world with a machete, because when that snake jumps through the air some twenty feet, he’ll bite you about four times before you can lift your arm.”
Of course, I didn’t believe him, he been wrong plenty times before, but then again, I had heard tales about flying snakes, so decided, this time, to trust his often errant judgment over mine-- just out of pure fear. After all, what if he was right? Angel then went on to tell me that this dangerous snake uses his luminescent color to attract prey, then, when the unsuspecting come close to investigate, the snake springs at the victim.
As the long day wore on I became saddened by my own obvious inexperience in this absolutely foreign environment. Historically speaking, I wasn’t alone though. No entrepreneur has ever made a success out of being able to harness the savage naturalness of the jungle, and reap a profit; not Sam Johnson, (Johnson and Johnson wax products) Henry Ford, (Ford Motor corporation) nor the recently failed, Daniel K. Ludwig (shipping magnate) who spent $180,000 a day for thirteen straight years trying to make something work systematically in the helter skelter world of the Amazonian jungle.
Worst yet, the Lima bullfight season had ended ingloriously with the famous “golden sword” of the fair being awarded to a favorite of mine, Emilio Muñoz, who had fought well, but just that, nevertheless was awarded the fabled prize anyway, granted largely on the merits, I suspect, that he had recently made a video clip with the pop Diva, Madonna.
It was definitely time to go. And so I did, leaving my never ending search for El Dorado where it belongs, in distant South America. I cashed in the stash (ticket) climbed the steps and waited for the actuality of America to greet me with its own special brand of “have a nice day,” Utopia.
In all honesty it’s not hard to be the daring and courageous explorer I have possibly portrayed to you. After all, I knew all the time that in my back pocket I had the “letters of transit” that would allow me to escape. The real gallant were the survivors that had to continue their daily struggle.
Last night as I reread some of my faxes home I felt like the cheap politician that constantly reminds all about himself and what he has done for the community …. ad infinitum. Disgusting and dishonorable.
If anything, I hope that I have told you something informative about the way life is lived here, that is of course, a way of being totally alien to our own. Nevertheless, life here is lived by the peasant, cholo, meztizo, zamba, and Indian with an earnest clarity of meaning, even if it be: for survival. And I sincerely admire them for it.
This is Ric Polansky, among the Cumulus Nimbus, flying high, but feeling a little low.
