Noah's Travel Journal - South America, Sixth Entry

Previous Entry Return to my South America Journal Next Entry

Instruments Of The Now

There's so much ground to cover and words do such an inadequate job of conveying the distance traveled, that I'm a little intimidated by the task ahead. Ah well, this story will write itself. Bear in mind that I'm no fiction writer and the people and events are REAL; though the names have been changed to protect the innocent... scratch that. I'm saving my creative ability for witty wordplay so nobody's identity is safe.

Over the following weeks we made our way South to position ourselves for an escape from the dollarized country the holding power of a black hole with Velcro straps. The intensity of our trekking adventures was somehow ramped up as our border crossing approached, but more emphasis was also placed on the art of performance. The transition seemed so fast that I wondered if any change had actually taken place or if a dormant part of my personality had finally decided to rouse itself from hibernation. By the time we crossed into Máncora on the Peruvian coast, we had a taste of the adrenaline-assisted antics that precede a successful passing of the hat. We had almost earned enough to cover the cost of getting badly swindled by our first Peruvian taxi. These rip-offs were to continue indefinitely, but at least our earnings helped keep the transit system alive and hustling.

Zan escorted a dear friend off to the airport in Lima while I tried to minimize transportation scams on the way to Huaraz. While waiting for the taller half of the group to arrive I was invited to spend a fair amount of time in the grandiose central plaza which was the hub of the skateboarding and break dancing culture in the city. Upon my brother's arrival the practicing and polishing of juggling, dancing and performing really began. The following night after befriending another group of traveling performers, our first test slapped us silly with its leather glove and challenged us to a duel.

Playing drums and messing around in the street earned us and our two new artisan friends an invitation to perform at a college party. Our hectic schedule almost prevented us from hopping into the caged rear of the pickup, but we rebooked our bedtime and were off. Our arrival was delayed briefly for an intermediary stop to pick up a vat of tea for the party guests. The size of the liquid's receptacle was blatant foreshadowing that I failed to recognize.

We arrived outside the gates of the school and were not permitted to leave the confines of the cage. Clearance was granted and we parted the sea of people milling around outside. The sea didn't stop inside, but rather thickened in consistency and parted like pudding. Up ahead I could see land again, bathed in white light, and I decided I was in no hurry to arrive.

Our promised land was a full-size, outdoor basketball court, void of people and surrounded by bright spotlights. A crowd approaching 500 people gathered around the edges of the court to see who was being driven out to the center to be dropped off. We were given a pitcher of coca tea and told to get ready. I kept pinching myself as I stretched and tried to quell hypoglycemia. We were introduced as "supporters of the College of Agricultural Sciences who want to show their appreciation for the faculty." Cue Noah with his devilstick and empty tea mug.

What followed was a pseudo-professional looking performance with devilsticks, torch juggling, fire dancing, continuous two -person drumming, fire blowing and break dancing. We came away with enough money to pay for a taxi back to town and to curb the appetite we had worked up. The chump change was a nice bonus, but now our plan was set in action. Our own form of social outreach could be achieved by this new channel to a captivated audience.

The sowing of the message began on my 22nd birthday. After a central plaza show that incorporated newer elements and acts, a sizeable audience received the bilingual flyers that spelled out the philosophy of The Instruments of the Now. I will forever cherish the mental photograph of 50 bowed heads concentrating on one little slip of paper that held our "secrets." Some thought we were part of a religious cult, but the majority acknowledged our secrets with a congratulatory smile and a nod of understanding. Absent of our logo, the text is as follows:

What would you do if you knew that this were your last day on earth? Do it. People are always planning and working for the future, but have you ever experienced the future? Take your time NOW to live in the present because the future is an illusion. All that will ever exist is THIS MOMENT. This moment is your whole life, so give it the attention it deserves. Smile, have fun, be happy. Enjoy it NOW. There’s only long enough to spread love. Everyone has a different idea about how to live, dress, and act in society. Only YOU can know what is right for you. Be who you want to be and do what you want to do, NOW! Be an individual. Show how you are special. Be creative and spontaneous because it’s just more fun. Life is a gift, so share its goodness with others. Love all and teach all how to be happy, unique, and compassionate like you! When should you love and teach? Now! There is only the present moment! Do your part for a better world by loving and helping to bring others’ focus into the NOW. Play your life’s song in harmony with the Instruments Of The Now.

We are an orchestra of uniqueness that needs every part of humanity playing its own spontaneous melody. To attain harmony in a band with so many different tunes, we must reach a new level of cooperation and consciousness. Please keep this sheet or give it to someone who needs it.

Too idealistic? Doesn't change start with small steps? Philosophical debate aside, the background information of another chapter of the voyage is now known. Diabetic supplies dwindling, I prepared myself mentally for the pilgrimage to the juggling, diabetes and population Mecca of Peru: Lima. My brother loathed this small town of 11 million people so much that we set our rendezvous point for the city of Cusco in a week...maximum. I'm a stickler when it comes to punctuality, so not a day more than three weeks later I pulled into Cusco after a 22 hour bus ride. I can explain, I swear...

I arrived in Lima at 5:30 in the morning and had a cabbie drop me off at a hostel close to the central plaza. I told him I was more concerned with safety than price because I'd heard some really bad things about Lima in particular. I tried to strike a deal with the hostel manager, but he wasn't in the mood to bargain with bags under his eyes that looked like they were ensnaring small children. I came to realize that he thrived on the vampire practice of not sleeping. I worked the angle of an extended stay and he seemed to soften up a little, though his eyes blazed with a brilliant blood-shot intensity.

"There is one room we have for that price...TO THE ROOF!" Thunder shook the building and lightning flashed as an organ played a deep, eerie DA DA DAAAAAAA. Five stories of stairs weren't enough to distance me from the haunting cackles of my pallid, blood-sucking landlord. The room's walls were stained with peculiar smelling splotches, and dust erupted from the covers of the bed as I tested the stale mattress. Someone had obviously taken extreme care in making the bed after the last occupant (circa 1995), but what were they trying to cover up? Did the wall stains have something to do with why my host maintained a healthy distance down the corridor? Upon accepting the room I could see Dracula's face become paler and he looked like he was going to lose even more sleep worrying if I would find clues he had overlooked in the process of destroying evidence. The paranoia comes on strong after being eyed by a seatmate all night on a bus. The cross-hatched bars on my window looked too small for a bat to slip through, but just in case I hid my wooden hand sticks below my pillow before passing out.

That first evening in Lima was the most important in my entire stay. I became acquainted with key figures in the street performing and artisan community. I met José in the central plaza who would come to exchange language lessons with me, as well as managerial tips for performing. Later, a short Peruvian watched me show off until offering me torches to juggle while she borrowed my toy. I sheepishly admitted I was out of my element with the torches so she took me in the back door of the juggling sub-culture to remedy the problem.

Staying on topic at this point seems more appropriate than creating a complicated chronological catastrophe. Humor me while the social researcher in me puts in his two cents. Juggling is a huge deal in South America. In Lima it is intertwined with the hip-hop culture as break dancers and jugglers take turns performing for the traffic at stop lights and unite in a large park on weekends. The circus appears to be the unifying thread as break dancing definitely qualifies as acrobatics. I was quickly assimilated into the street crowd and began dodging cars with my juggler friends. Our other performances were held in "cultural centers" which are combinations of a café, bar and lounge which are located all over Lima's center. The regulations pushed the envelope on "lax" as we were allowed to use all types of fire toys in every location. Like a mosquito that has struck a vein, I absorbed tricks until I thought I would burst.

After logging some time with the performing crowd, I had a number of realizations. The first was slightly alarming. Not only was I not living in a safe area, but I was in the heart of probably the most dangerous red-light district in town. The mini-skirts and shifty eyes waiting near the ATM's started to make more sense.

The next realization took some of the fright out of the first. I found that if I mimicked the mannerisms of a mugger, my chances of being robbed decreased significantly. From then on, when commuting at the witching-hour I walked quickly and made it look like I was well past due for a homicide. I pulled my beanie down almost completely over my eyes, held the devilstick menacingly like a billy-club and clutched my hand sticks like a knife ready for the down-stroke. I probably induced many a heart attack, but I made it home unscathed at every hour of the night.

Now, back to the less dangerous part of the Lima adventure. When I first ventured to the Peruvian Diabetes Association (APD in Spanish) it was no surprise that my life giving care package from home hadn't arrived. I still had an ample amount of insulin so the customs agents got under my skin just as much as the tips of the needles still waiting to pass inspection. The visit also got me acquainted with Dr. Olga Núñez and her army of clinic volunteers. I'd heard from numerous sources that Dr. Núñez was the motor behind the Peruvian diabetes effort, but after seeing her tenacity first-hand I was convinced. Though not a diabetic herself, she definitely attained honorary status by living the same regimented lifestyle she prescribes to patients. The APD had political and social action programs that would instill jealousy in many organizations. The only secret was die-hard, unfaltering commitment like I've seldom seen.

I was to visit again in a few days for the weekly educational symposium, but I felt I needed to extend a gesture of goodwill upon my return. I possessed minimal information about how to commandeer blood testing products from the Peruvian division of Johnson & Johnson, but I did know where their office was located. The mission didn't have to be so vague, but there had been some communication breakdown that lacked Led Zeppelin's rocking guitar riffs and howling vocals, and ultimately left me sizing up a 20 story building with only the first name of my contact person.

Transitioning from street performances to talking my way through three security checkpoints with no passport or invitation was more than difficult. After four months of traveling my finest garments resembled all others that I possessed, and the accompanying layer of filth that spares no object in downtown Lima, raised the eyebrows of all guards.

Eventually I found myself on the phone with my contact...located in Miami. Ms. Samper was more than helpful and put me in contact with one of the Peruvian Lifescan representatives. After two days of flu induced hallucinations I finally made it down my five flights of stairs to meet with Mr. Marroquin whose hundreds of dollars of donated products went to the diabetic children at one of the hospitals the APD pays regular visits to. The size of the donation was extremely generous as the Peruvian branch of the company is relatively undeveloped and shelled the products out of their own pocket.

Two-and-a-half weeks down and still no package. Daily calls and faxes from the clinic were not enough to free a "medically necessary" box from the beurocratic clutches of customs. I had to borrow supplies from Dr. Núñez while I waited hopelessly. Early Friday morning it was time to lift my spirits with another weekly social project. That had been delayed previously. Nothing could cure my displeasure with beurocratic systems with backwards priorities like a visit to Santa Monica, Lima's women's prison.

Upon entering the recreation yard I began to realize why so many of my female friends couldn't handle the blatant and unrelenting South American sexual harassment. I was stared down hungrily as fences were rattled and cries of "WHITE MEAT," (the least vulgar version) erupted from hordes of inmates deprived of conjugal visits. Slightly unnerved I sat in the prison's small clinic and realized I would be spending one-on-one time with more than half the inmates. There were two stations for blood sugar checks, but mine was a non-stop finger-poking fest. I blazed through more than my 150 test strips and then stopped to give my own finger the attention it deserved.

The whole health check included pedology exams, weight and blood pressure tests and the nerve-wracking blood sugar inquiry. The hardest part of my job wasn't filling out charts, working efficiently, or even handling 150 foreign inmates' blood. How do you explain to an old woman serving life for a minor drug charge, what a blood sugar of 396 means? Four letter words, one overcrowded exercise and zero governmental assistance were all that came to mind before smiling weakly.

"That's a little high," I'd stammer cheerfully, "wait in that line for a minute and the Doctor will talk about what you can do to bring that number down." What the hell these women could do with a chronic illness and already on the government's bad side, I know not. That scenario took place five times in my line alone.

Monday came and I had to escape. I bussed and taxied into the obscure industrial yards by the airport. Nothing lived in that grey-area wasteland. Even the guards opened doors robotically and without emotion. Running around to building after building, I found the responsibility for my package had already been passed off down the line like a sick game of hot potato. I pitied the poor fool who would wind up holding my box when I walked in on all the fun. Then, at long last I had someone who was taking the fall, cornered in the DHL shipping office. His secretary left the room as I explained how CRAAAAAAZY diabetics have been known to get without proper medication. He emerged with a clipboard, asked for my signature and told me it would arrive later that day. 21 days of waiting for two seconds of signing was the most ridiculous thing I'd heard in my life...until November 2nd rolled around.

I left for Cusco to reunite myself with my better half before my second birthday: Halloween. I was at peace with my little down-town, roof-top plot of paradise even though everyone at the clinic lovingly referred to me as Pirañita (a street kid/delinquent/hoodlum) for my choice of lodging and performance endeavors. Conversely, my juggling friends wondered why I spent time running around to companies and organizations in ritzy areas of town rather than spreading the message of The Now. I was spreading the message, but the point is that my philosophy is not to lock into one single method of social action because something might be missed. Spreading myself into both the conventional and non-conventional realms of the fight allows a fusion which is working pretty well for NOW...and that's what matters.