Noah's Travel Journal - South America, Seventh Entry

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The Flood

We were already under its command as subtle as it seemed. It flanked us at every turn in the road; its mere presence was enough to drive us in the opposite direction. Still, I had to wonder if this placid stretch of water was what all the fuss was about. The washer women and naked children swimming replaced any visible current and seemed to demystify the mighty Apurimac. I didn't dwell on these thoughts though, remembering full well what lack of respect for a class V+ river will do when one is at its mercy.

I met Zan at the Cusco bus terminal and we promptly began practicing for a gig he had booked for the following night at a local club. Deja vu battered me non-stop the next day when we held a practice session in the fortress ruins of Sasquayman, overlooking the city which was the literal center of Inca culture. The sites mixed with the first memories from my childhood and overlapped, creating shockwaves that maintained goose bumps for hours, in spite of the unobstructed, high-altitude sun.

In the entire month before our show, we totaled six hours of united music playing. Regardless, our teamed vocals, drum and guitar drew in a crowd. The Instruments Of The Now mission statement was the encore they willingly received. The rafting guides who attended (who Zan had been safety kayaking for) informed us that we both had spots on the upcoming, three-day Halloween excursion down the Apurimac. SSSCCAAAARRRRYYY...

My official title was "Trip Photographer," but the 31st arrived with the opportunity to row and paddle-assist the gear boat and even guide a paddle raft down some of the tamer sections of whitewater. When adrenaline rushes subsided in the stretches of flat water, my thoughts drifted to the previous Halloween when the conception of this adventure occurred. This little gringo was now a long way from the mountain top in Oregon where the voyage really began, but still so far away from the port of arrival. If I was going to live up to my name as a captain, I needed to exchange vessels for a larger one made of wood with some room to accommodate fauna. My inflatable raft was suitable for the current situation, but only a small part of avoiding the flood takes place while cutting through a marble canyon.

These moments of reflection were few and far-between. Instead of rivers where one has enough time to become anxious for the whitewater while fighting upstream wind with no current, the back-to-back class IV and V++ rapids left few opportunities for butterflies to settle to the stomach floor. I couldn't tell if my heart was hammering away to get blood to my double-timing extremities or just trying to escape via tunneling or jumping for my mouth.

Where passengers were portaged, I ran the boulder garden of waterfalls with the guides so I could learn the route. My smooth-operating friends were a new breed of guides, yet it seemed they possessed a slightly skewed rating system for the water. It sure looked to me like we were dropping through a class VI maze of 9' waterfalls that eat man and boat alike, but they could've just been 7 footers...only a class V.

The one class VI that we did run had claimed the life of another assistant only six weeks earlier. I was privy to that minor piece of information upon completion of the run in a paddle raft manned by myself and one other guide. Fire dancing that evening was the safest thing I'd done all day.

The three day trip ended in time to get us back to Cusco for another gig. With our mountains of good luck showing no signs of eroding, we received an invitation for a road trip with a rafting legend on his annual migration to the rivers of Southern Chile. The Apurimac would have to receive more of my loving devotion the following season, but it was time to make a preliminary stop in Bolivia to locate some ark-building materials before the road trip.

The river trip had desensitized me to the importance of official documents so I didn't think twice about throwing out the mildew-covered piece of paper I found with my passport. After all, it had the same seal of entry that already adorned one of the pages in my passport. The Peruvian border guard was not practiced in the art of giving a second thought either, and I was promptly sent back to Puno for the second stamp. More childhood deja vu rocked me as I located sites around town while I waited until the next week for the embassy office to open. Years of research has proven that people only have passport crises five days a week.

After my third 2 1/2 hour trip from Puno to the border I finally sequestered my exit stamp and crossed that oh-so-important imaginary line. A group of Bolivian border guards came out to welcome me and make sure I hadn't forgotten to claim any large bags of contraband. My nationality ensured a thorough body and bag check from the pack of escorts who made no attempt at hiding malicious smirks.

"What's in your other bag," questioned the largest as we headed into the dark, heavily-barred guard house.

"Just my juggling toys and a drum. I ...," but it was too late.

All the guards had stopped in their tracks. Then, without checking any bag or body cavity waved me through with genuine smiles. I couldn't tell if it was on account of my shining and exceptional character that emanated from my every action or just my obvious inability to properly fund a bribe with juggler's wages. After astonishingly few hassles I arrived in Cochabamba and quickly executed my common practice of finding lodging in the most dangerous part of town.

The following day I made my way over to the new headquarters of the Vivir Con Diabetes (Live With Diabetes) center for a tour and lunch in the large diabetic cafeteria next door. After booking an evening to meet with the Type-1 youth group later in the week, I chowed down on diabetically-sound, traditional Bolivian food. For patients of a disease with so many specialized costs, the cafeteria was the linchpin holding a thinly-spread monthly budget together. The low-carb cafeteria not only provided a 60-person meal-time support group, but also served the most economical gourmet food I'd found anywhere on the continent.

My evening with my Bolivian diabetic-buddies kicked off with a planning session for the rapidly approaching World Diabetes Day on November 14th. I followed with a discussion that unearthed horror stories that would make Freddy Krueger squirm. As the dirt was dug, emotions ran as high as the blood sugar level of my friends who could only afford one shot of insulin every day.

Without an economic muscle to flex, Bolivia has been left in the diabetic dark-ages. As a market that shows a les-than-promising return for outside investments, Bolivia is coming to the catastrophic end of a depressing catch-22. A year-long period of economic diabetes assistance is now drawing to a close and moving to a more lucrative location. The Type-1's are a forgotten population to their government that has almost won the waiting game of holding out on monetary aide. When the cards are shown at the high-stakes table in the Casino of Life, the gorilla of a bouncer will be waiting to usher the needle-users quietly out to the alley.

What fuss can be made when ignorance is strong enough to keep a diabetic from revealing the condition to an employer or teacher? Without properly funded education the myth of a contagious condition is flung far-and-wide. I was shocked that many of my new friends didn't know how to count carbohydrates, but it doesn't make any sense to learn how if one doesn't have enough insulin to compensate anyway. Different country, same needs: funds and education.

In return for such an emotionally-charged discussion (of which I have recounted only a sliver), I gave a small performance which helped lighten the heavy atmosphere I had induced. My efforts were greeted with diet soda and offers for free lodging. The following morning I bid farewell to the hostel receptionist with visible effects of a chronic frowning problem, and moved into a spacious studio above the clinic.

World Diabetes Day in Cochabamba set records. Press coverage of all manners ensured a crowd accompanying the parade to the public park near the clinic and a record number of tests for possible new diabetics. I put on another show and bled for the cause of awareness. Word to the wise: check for broken glass before break dancing on concrete.

After all the booths were taken down and the sugar-free beverages had been consumed, the festival moved to my room and patio. Nine diabetics and educators' offspring made full use of my bag of juggling toys and musical instruments. Pied Piper of Hamlin, eat your heart out. If I didn't get another lunch from the cafeteria these circus-clowns-to-be would be following me over the Chilean border.

On the bus to Chile the next morning, the need for an Ark was clear. The flood was claiming diabetics; the wood for the boat's hull was spread around and tied up in pretty boardwalks barely treading water; and these metaphors were driving people INSANE. The only thing that was lacking was the ship's blueprints.