Natural Inheritance

When I first stared down the open mouth of the Cueva de Palestina in northern Peru I couldn’t help but smile. The rusted gate entrance and vine covered stairway made it appear half man-made ruin, half natural wonder. An appropriate adventure, I surmised. My Dutch friend, Sytske, and I stepped up the faded stones and into the cave entrance. Even with our headlamps on we were swallowed whole by darkness.

Our guide, a twenty-something Geography student named Elizabeth, guided us through the faded recesses. We contorted ourselves to climb through narrow gaps. We entered at a higher point since the seasonal rain flooded half the cavern system. Geography classes would cave dive here, Liz explained, to tour the caves. These students discovered almost all of the wet stalactites that shined under our lamplights. They mapped what they could of the cave system. Hard to imagine when our dry tour involved stretching through several holes half my body size (and I'm not a large person.) Thank goodness for our helmets. I bumped my head several times.

We emerged from the caves to find our taxi had ditched us. We were stranded.  A small woman outside the cave invited us in to her home for tea. She held a chicken she had just killed, was preparing some lunch and maybe we would like some as well. Sytske and I nodded. We would be happy to share what little bread we had with the unknown woman. It was only when she led us to the nearby house that we realized she was the cave’s proprietor.

The thousand-year-old stalactites and stalagmites inside were her family’s inheritance for generations. She showed us old climbing magazine articles and photos, of the Cueva de Palestina, one dating as far back as the 1920’s. Spelunkers and climbers have been visiting the cave for the last 30 years in efforts to map what little they could of the extensive subterranean network. She took us by the hand and led us outside as she explained all this.

There, carved into the rock wall behind her home, was an idol of the Virgin Mary surrounded by candles, small bills, and a water basin. Everything quieted down around the shrine. Insects chirped at half volume and our guide all but stopped talking. The old woman dipped her finger in the basin and crossed herself.

Out here, ten miles from the nearest town, this was Sunday service. The small bills were offerings from other cavers or spelunkers left after a successful expedition. I kneeled down to offer my prayers and slid a fifty-cent piece before the Virgin Mary. I swear I felt a breath of air whisper through the caves, but before I could investigate our long-delayed taxi arrived. Just like that, it was time to go.

As we hugged our goodbyes I realized we would not see this woman again. I offered the most heartfelt thanks I could in my semi-fluent Spanish. She returned our thanks with a kiss on the cheek and a warm smile. Sytske and I were welcome to return anytime, she said. In fact, we were invited to dine with her that same night. It was, after all, Christmas Eve and we were now considered part of the family.

Mykonos Beaches and Buses

The goal was to find a beach. It didn’t matter which beach or how far away it was. The white-sand-blue-surf beaches of Greece’s islands called us out of our hangover and into the morning sun. My mate, Julius, and I agreed: this should be easy. We’re on an island after all! Everywhere is a beach.

We walked up to the bus stop and, without looking, hopped on the nearest bus. The bus driver, to his credit, stopped us and shouted at us in Greek. Julius and I gave the man several euros thinking this should mollify him. Dressed in our swim trunks, flip flops, and loose tee shirts we stood out like the tourists we so often mocked. It didn’t matter. Today was beach day.

More people filed on to the bus, but we ignored them. I eyed the map trying to get a fix on where we might go. Julius slept. Pretty soon we passed the blue-domed houses of the Old Town. The sun’s shine off the white walls vanished once we reached the rolling wheat fields. Julius was fast asleep and I did what all great travelers do: stare soulfully out the window at passing scenery.

The bus stopped once and let a new passenger on. We continued. The bus was passing through more and more fields. There was no water in sight. I hurriedly checked the map. Our route did take us through the island’s center. One could argue we were going in the right general direction. The bus stopped again and admitted another passenger.

By this time I noticed a murmur all around us. I put the map down and peeked up from our seat. All around us were children of varying ages. The bus stopped again. I watched as another child, unaccompanied by an adult, boarded our carriage.  As I looked around I noticed even more children were similarly unaccompanied. In fact, all of the children were unaccompanied.

As I was avoiding playful smiles and direct stares I came to the quick realization: we had just boarded a school bus. To the childrens’ credit the absurdity of having an American and German tourist on their school bus proved amusing more than shocking. Lots of giggles accompanied me as I woke Julius and pointed out we were on the wrong bus.

We thanked the bus driver as much as possible and left the bus. According to my map we were in the dead center of the island; the furthest point from any beach. I checked the map one long time, tightened my backpack’s drawstring and stretched my legs. It was a five mile hike, in any direction, to the nearest beach.

The ensuing hike stretched through long provincial roads bordered by wheat fields. Our flip flops took a beating navigating up and down long hills. To pass the time Julius and I sang songs, counted sheep, and speculated on the public transport system of a Grecian island. Over five miles we finally agreed: the buses should be labeled more appropriately. Just as we rounded the largest hill the soft breeze of the Mediterranean Sea greeted us. Ignoring all decorum we sprinted past the beach club's entrance, through the white wicker tables, and splashed right into the clear blue water we labored all day to find. We finally found the beach!

According to a local bus schedule the last bus back to the Old Town left in one hour. So much for beach day. Too exhausted and beaten to bother swimming Julius and I plopped down at a table. We ordered sparkling waters and waited for the long ride home. We didn't plan this "excursion" of ours, but it speaks to Julius (and myself) patience in understanding that we survived an adventure we were unlikely to forget. Even as we bussed home, tired, hungry, and sleepy we admitted: it was a good day. And yes. We took the right bus home. Just in time for dinner.

Peruvian Nirvana

            Nirvana exists. Out among the palm and banana trees in the Peruvian highland forest there exists a magical hammock. This hammock, when laid in properly, imbues the user with an unnatural sense of calm. Many who use the hammock find themselves transported to a world without any worries. I spent an entire evening in the hammock and I swear to you, hand on a bible, that I was the closest to enlightenment I’ve ever been in my life.

            This hammock exists between two posts in a semi-constructed wooden lodge. The lodge rests on the crest of a hill; high enough to look out over the tiny river village of Achinamiza. To get to the village (and my perfect zen state) I traveled three hours by car at the foot of several mountains, and three hours up the Rio Huallaga. The ferryman, a Peruvian known only as El Gato, sung nursery rhymes to himself while navigating several ominous whirlpools.

            The village exists in a place out of time. Houses made by hand with barrigona wood lined a central concrete walkway. One paved road and one power line. I did see a television and accompanying cable dish, but I’m reassured the villagers don’t have much time to watch television.

            Anyone who’s ever slept in a hammock can tell you: it’s tricky. Especially for those who like to thrash in their sleep; hammocks are the enemy. It can take hours of wiggling to find the appropriate amount of headroom. In the rainforest mosquitoes consume any inch of square flesh you leave exposed. A hammock in the rainforest thus, is twice as hard to sleep in. You have to get comfortable while also covering as much of your body as possible without simultaneously suffocating yourself.

            I don’t know how or when, but I fell asleep. When I awoke I was slow to realize I’d stumbled in to paradise. I rubbed my eyes and checked for mosquito bites. Assured I wasn’t complete hamburger I looked up and finally saw it.

            Jungle, as far as the eye could see. It circled Achinamiza, infringing on unkempt corners of the town. It climbed up mountains, towering beyond my view. It snaked alongside the Huallaga River, twisting and turning. It hid the many tributaries and waterfalls that tribes just like this one thrived off of. With the sun rising in creamy orange and purple overtones I realized this was peace. This was geographical serenity. I would construct a lodge or buy the existing one if I could share this tranquility with everyone I know and love, but peace is as much a state of mind as it is a moment in time.