In Patagonia

Small Things:

Bountiful bumble bees busily harvesting on sunflowers.

 Delicate golden grasses bending in the wind

Plethora of rose hips blushing in ripeness

The Colors of Water:

Can the written word capture the true color of water?

General Carrerra Lake (Chelenko) on a cloudy day – steel, pewter, slate

Catalina Bay in bright sunshine – bright teal, cerulean, azure

Lago Negro – indigo, ultramarine

Baker River – turquoise, aquamarine

                                    

The rhythmic sounds of indigenous place names:

Pichi Mahuida – little mountain

Chelenko – lake of storms

Coyhaique – lagoon-camp

Chacabuco – slopes of chacay trees

The Trail of Torture:

The sign indicates 9.3 kilometers to Lago Leones. One way. The guide tells us it’s relatively flat most of the way. What he didn’t say that the flat was over a rocky glacial moraine. Loose rock. Boulders, pebbles. Angular, round, flat. He didn’t mention that we’d be balancing on branches and wobbly wooden slat bridges to cross rivulets of glacial melt water. Or that the flat rises into steep slopes bedeviled with protruding tree roots and narrow rocky ledges. I cling to a rope to clamber along a slanted wide rock face. A precarious wooden ladder facilitates a tricky vertical descent. Most appreciated are the hands of Sebastian the young guide designated to keep to the end of our line of hikers. I’m the end. I feel like an aging mountain goat, left by the herd to die. What are the others trying to prove anyway? The head guide checks with Sebastian often by radio: How am I doing? Keep in mind the return trek.

            “How much further?” I ask Sebastian. I don’t want to give up, but worry I’ll slow the others down.

            “About 3 more kilometers.”

            That’s it. Sebastian and I have our lunch under some trees and begin the return, a return that seems interminable. I’ve developed a blister on my foot and my progress slows to a crawl, one-foot- in-front-of- the- other, skirting rocks, fording streamlets.

Is it worth it? What can I take from this experience?

The majesty of the towering ridges on the sides of the valley.

The glowing glaciers looming from the edge of the southern ice cap.

The milky green of the roaring river.

Determination to get into better shape.

Acceptance of my limitations.

Knowing when it’s time to call it quits and being alright with my decision.

Going to the Movies

I’ve asked my three granddaughters to reserve a day for me this week, their last week of summer vacation. “We can do whatever you want.”

            They decide on a movie and an ice cream afterwards.

            “What movie?”

            “Alvin and the Chipmunks.”

Oh.

We go to the multicine at the mall and stand in the line to buy tickets and another snail-slow line to buy Combo #3 – a giant bag of popcorn, drinks and candy. The movie has already started. We grope our way to our numbered seats and settle down to distribute the goodies. I try to ignore the fact that my sandals stick to the floor.

I love looking at the girls’ entranced faces while they watch the movie. It’s a happy, funny film with singing and dancing. I even manage to stay awake. When it ends, Colomba says. “That was so short.” We file out with smiles on our faces. I ask them if they still have space for an ice cream. They decide they do.

A few days later, a friend and I take the metro downtown to see a movie at one of the few theaters that show art/foreign films. The theater is located in an old, once bohemian part of town, though now invaded with restaurants and coffee shops. The theater, separated from the small lobby/ticket office by a shabby red velvet curtain, seats about one hundred. We’ve come to see “Wadjda” or “The Green Bicycle,” the first film made by a Saudi Arabian woman. Through the eyes of ten-year-old Wadjda, we enter the restricted, controlled world of Saudi women. Her mother and the school director remind her to keep her hair covered, not to speak to or be seen uncovered by unknown men, not to play with her neighborhood friend, Abdullah. Wadjda observes how her mother must hire a driver to take her to work as women are not allowed to drive. She helps her mother prepare food for her father and his friends, then leaving the food outside the door of the room where they are gathered.

Wadjda is a free spirit, wears running shoes under her long black robe, listens to American pop music and doesn’t understand the restrictions which go against what comes naturally to her. Her greatest wish is to buy a green bicycle she’s seen in a shop so she can race with Abdullah. She saves her money but the school director and her mother tell her that girls do not ride bicycles.

My friend and I left the theater pensive, struck by the discrimination we’d observed in that subtle portrayal of Wadjda’s reality. We discussed the movie as we walked along the sidewalk crowded with diversely-clad, talking and laughing men and women, rushing to enjoy a beer or an ice cream on this hot Friday afternoon.

There’s a Hole in the Bucket…

dear Liza, dear Liza

There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, a hole.

The song reverberated through my head all night. And what a night….

Stan, grey-bearded poet and guitarist, strummed his Washburn Rover leading us in a rousing version of the song I’d long forgotten. Some remembered every stanza. The rest of us caught on quickly to the silly repetition. How we howled and laughed.

Then followed “Folsom Prison, “Home on the Range,” “Red River Valley,” “Irene, Good night,” and a duo by Stan and Beth of Dolly Parton’s “Wildflowers.”

When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow.

Scout songs, campfire songs, folk songs. The lyrics resurfaced from the deep recesses of my memory. We turned pensive when Stan sang lonely heart ballads

I felt privileged to be in this special company at this country home sing-along: three distinguished Canadian writers, three aspiring writers and the man-of-the-house. It was an evening of lively conversation and stories, book recommendations, an abundance of Chilean wine, hearty local food and photo posing. That night I felt removed, transported from my routine life to another place, another time. For a little while, I was no one’s wife or mother, my usual context pared down to the core of the essential me.

Stan and Beth spoke of their lives in Newfoundland, their cat, their current works. We plied Rosemary Sullivan with questions about her latest book, “Stalin’s Daughter.” How did she research it? How long did it take her? She related how her travels and the people she met led to new books.

Earlier in the day, Stan patiently went over four poems I’d written. As if by magic, eliminating a word here, moving a line there, he brought conciseness to them. Beth worked with another of my Santiago Writer colleagues to sharpen her story. This was a time for consulting, exchanging ideas and thinking, enhanced by the calm of the countryside.

After the last song, we were heading off to bed when Rosemary offered:

“I’d like to read to you the first two pages of my book.” We sat and waited in silence.

She began with the Prologue, The Defection. "At 7:00 p.m. on March 6, 1967, a taxi drew up …."

 Los Parronales, 2016

Me, Myself and Memory

A former Peace Corps colleague sent me the photo of a group of us on the beach in Cartagena, Colombia. There’s no doubt that the young, thin woman stretched out on the sand is me. But I have no recollection of that day trip to Cartagena fifty years ago. It’s as if I lost that day of my life.

Cartagena, 1965 (I'm second on the left)

So many moments, days, people and events have vanished in the convoluted folds of my cerebral cortex. My grown son mentioned that I took him to the doctor several times as a child for his back ailments. I feel miserable because I don’t remember. I thought it was his brother that had the back problems. I’ve always believed that our memories are selective, recalling significant people and events in one’s life. Yet, this was my own son whose medical history I’d forgotten. When I say, “I don’t remember,” my sons must think she’s losing it.

Neurologist Oliver Sacks said that it is memory that makes our lives. This starts me thinking: what things do I remember? The list of visual scenes is endless: my family home, the floor plan of a grandmother’s house, the Springer spaniel we had when I was a child, the face of my father taking his last breaths, my son Danny standing on the toilet while I dried his hair with the hairdryer after his bath, the night I met my husband. My visual images are often triggered by remembered smells – the dry summer grasses of California hills, pungent redwood groves, Coppertone suntan lotion, my husband’s pajamas – and by sounds – the whistle of a train, rain on the roof, a voice on the telephone. My memory is particularly sharp at recalling the many times I put my foot in my mouth.

Yet, as I age, memory lapses multiply like rabbits. Frustrating, though not life-threatening, is my difficulty recalling names of actors, actresses and singers. One in particular gives me trouble time and time again, so I’ve trained myself to remember the letter O. Then the name comes to me. Oh, yes! Olivia Newton-John. Sometimes I must go through the entire alphabet until the name of the woman across the room comes to me.

Word retrieval is tricky when two languages are involved. I’ll be speaking in Spanish when a key word comes to me only in English. (Or vice versa).This is especially stressful when I’m in the company of several people. I turn to my husband for help. “What’s the word in Spanish for….? That thing that….You know…. But he doesn’t know what the devil I’m referring to.

For my experiential memories, my imagination must fill in the gaping holes shaping the memory to my own liking. This can lead to disagreement when recalling a shared event with someone: “But it wasn’t like that at all”!

Another type of exchange not unusual in our household goes like this:

“I did tell you!”

“No you did not!”

 “Yes, I did, I distinctly remember. We were standing in the kitchen.” At this point, I give up. Who’s to say whose memory is more accurate? Though I continue to be convinced I’m right.

I envy those who have been constant in keeping journals over the years. I’m a sporadic journalist, though when traveling, I always take a pencil and notebook along. I recently came across a forgotten diary I’d kept during a visit to Colombia. Rereading it was a revelation and a joy bringing back lost moments, details and impressions: the rocky, wild  bus ride into the barrio, a small girl in the barrio asking me if I was an albino, the death of my friend Ana, a trip with 8-year-old Hansi for his first view of the ocean.

Although I lament and wonder about the many forgotten moments – books I’ve read, children I taught, dances I danced – I believe that have stayed with me. They are me.

On the Road

Instead of turning left, we should have turned right. We were on an unfamiliar country road attempting to return to the main highway, Route 5. My son was driving, left hand on the steering wheel and right hand holding up his iPhone connected to Google Maps. My husband, from the back seat, gave directions based on his navigation App, Waze. They couldn’t decide: right or left. My Inner Compass App (ICA) whispered “right,” but I held my tongue, not wanting to contribute to the confusion.

Seconds later, they decided that to the right it was. I’d extracted from the car’s glove compartment a tattered roadmap of the entire 4300 kilometer length of Chile. The tiny scale was of no help in navigating small rural roads. Besides, the map was dated 1986. Does anyone use maps anymore?

I love maps. Each time we travel this highway to southern Chile and Patagonia (I’ve lost count how many), I refer to our well-used Turistel guide. With its multiple maps dividing this long, sliver of a country into sections, I can see where I am and relate that location to the scenes out my window. Which volcano is that soaring on our left? Which city are we nearing? And this river? If we take this turn-off, what might we discover?

            I’m of the “in-between generation,” in-between cell phone apps and road maps. I know about navigational apps but it doesn’t immediately occur to me to use them. By habit, I reach for the map or watch for a road sign. I suggested earlier to the two male navigators that we read the road signs, but their eyes were fixed on their cell phones. At this particular junction, however, there was no sign.

 I’m also willing to stop and ask, although often the local people haven’t any idea either. You can tell immediately from their hesitations and puzzled looks. Maybe they prefer back roads instead of the highway. Or they provide convoluted directions. “Go two blocks past the Montserrat market; turn right at the Shell station. Past the station, you’ll see a green fruit roadside stand at the curve in the road. Go up until you reach Caupolicán Street. Turn (gesturing left) and continue on ‘til you reach the overpass. Go under the overpass. There you’ll see the highway.”

“Geographical landmarks almost never fail,” I informed my two navigators, as we now headed east. “See,” I said. “There’s the cordillera that I pointed out earlier (barely holding back ‘I told you so’).” 

We all know that the highway parallels the towering Andes. You can’t stay lost for long in Chile, unless it’s a cloudy day.

Lost: One Green Thumb

Tiny, green, leaf-munching worms. Disfiguring gall mites on my fuchsias. Browning rose leaves. Weed invasion on my lawn. Am I losing my touch? Or can I blame these garden afflictions on El Niño? He takes the blame for anything out of the ordinary, including welcome events like an abundance of butterflies this spring. Our ever-present air pollution is another convenient scapegoat. I must share some of the blame for garden failures and go through the checklist. Over watering? Over-or under-fertilizing? Too much sunlight? Too much shade? The plant doesn’t like its pot? I resort to garden books and Internet for answers and non-toxic pesticides.

Today I discovered that gall mites are the culprits for my fuchsia woes. There it was. A photo on internet. “That’s it!” I cried. Two plant experts had been unable to diagnose the problem. Now I must persevere and accept the challenge – cutting off the ugly tumor-like protrusions and mixing a non-toxic spray solution to be used weekly. The Internet expert warns that I may never totally eliminate the mites as they are spread by hummingbirds and bees. Imagine a garden without those visitors.

My persevering care last year paid off with Speedy Gonzalez, our sick tortoise. Syringe feeding for months, taking blood tests and x-rays were onerous and time consuming with no guarantee of success. I’m pleased to report that he’s back to his old tortoise self this season, pacing the back yard with occasional sneaks into the house, munching grass greedily and gorging on fallen apricots.

Our hopes and endeavors may or may not bear fruit. That’s the challenge that enriches us – not knowing the outcome. Persistence in the face of uncertainty.

Russian writer Anna Akhmatova regarded living as a “habit.” This idea had me thinking– for about 60 seconds.  Yes, habit does occupy a certain part of my days. But what about the conscious decisions I make throughout the day? Decisions that require effort like treating an ailing tortoise or planning a birthday getaway for my husband.  If life consisted only of habit, how boring our days would be. What of our efforts? Achievements? Failures? Why get up in the morning if no elements of serendipity or surprise are possible or even probable?

A brief event today reminded me to always expect the unexpected, for a state of constant expectation is the antithesis of habit. I went to my Pilates class, my usual morning routine three days a week. Afterwards, the supermarket was on my schedule. But Yolanda, a Pilates colleague and neighbor, invited me to her house where she massaged my arthritic wrists and thumbs with her miraculous oils. Bliss! She covered my wrists with her hands, transmitting her warmth, and then followed up with a soothing massage. I told her how wonderful it was to feel her loving care. She sent me home with a bottle of cannabis oil – on loan. Maybe I’ll recover my lost green thumb.

Afterthoughts

Barranquilla is now a dream- memory. I replay the scenes in my mind so as not to forget. Yet, unlike the past five decades, I now have phone numbers and email addresses to maintain alive those renewed friendships.

I emailed Jose as soon as I arrived back in Chile. After two weeks of no response, I wrote his son, Kevin, “I’m worried….no news.” Jose wrote a brief email the next day. His mother, Herminda, had suffered a stroke and was hospitalized. “Madrina,” he said, “We miss you. It seems we’ve known you for a long time. I was so sad when you left…couldn’t find the words…..”

His feelings reflected mine, I wrote. I sent photos, more emails, but received no more responses. Impatient, I called him. Hearing his voice with its distinctive coastal accent made him a real, flesh and blood person again. His mother was now home and receiving therapy. Sunday all the family would be celebrating her 87^th birthday. They’d even hired a mariachi band. “This may be her last birthday,” he said.

Since my return, I’ve learned more about the man who is my godson. He is not proficient at the computer. Though his handwritten letters were always neat and grammatically correct, his typed emails are short and garbled, yet reflecting an openly affectionate person.  I realize that he is a dedicated family man who works long hours and has little time to write or learn computer skills. I’ve had to modify my expectations for frequent, newsy communication.

I want to ease his load. I wrote to say I’d help with the education of the two boys. Kevin graduates from high school and must decide on a future course of study, which will involve major expenses.

My whirlwind visit to Barrio Las Americas left me dissatisfied. Barrio faces and scenes hold me in their grasp. I want to stay involved with that community. I have Agripina and Eugenia in mind and am exploring the possibility of a micro-loan project founded by returned Peace Corps volunteers to support small barrio business endeavors.

How can I not help?