When Dreams are Calling (10 page)

17
Peru: Man-Made and God-Made Islands

When
we’re too close we cannot see

Or
we see all that we shouldn’t see,

That’s
why perspective is well advised

And
a trip far away highly prized!

After
spending
five years in Canada, I felt I reached a plateau.

Maybe I
was looking too much in the wrong
direction, thinking too
much about the wrong things, or feeling too much for the wrong people.

Maybe
there was nothing there for me to learn
and to love, nothing
left to excite me or inspire me.

Whatever
the reasons were, deep inside, I did
not feel I belonged
there.

Having
said that, I had no idea what to do
next. To find out, I had
to travel again, somewhere far enough, different enough to detach
myself from
my daily worries and fears. There, in peace and harmony, I knew the
answer would
reveal itself.

The
question was where.

In search
of serenity, Buddha, or the secrets
of Kama Sutra, some go
to India. I doubted contentment could be found in meditation; I still
had lots
to learn from Christ before moving on to Buddha and I questioned
whether the
secrets of lovemaking could be unveiled in a book. Plus, I was positive
that
going alone would only attract trouble. So, India was out.

However,
I had always dreamed of traveling to Peru, sailing over Lake Titicaca,
the last gate to remote, unspoiled and serene islands. For Peruvians,
Lake Titicaca is sacred. The Incan mythology says that the mighty God
Viracocha, rose from the lake and created the world as it is today. So,
Lake Titicaca is the birthplace of the Incas, the place where their
spirits return to after death.  All I could think of was that it
wasn’t such a bad place to spend your eternity. But, when it comes to
my resting place for ever and ever, I  could rely on pictures,
stories and the taste of others. I needed to check it myself.  And
that was exactly what I ended up doing.

I arrived
to Lima, the capital of Peru, in the
evening. The first
thing that hit me was the horrendous traffic.

“Holiday,
señora
?”
the taxi
driver asked me.

“Yes,”
I
replied holding
the front seat with both hands and taking a deep breath. “The
traffic, not good
today,” I
said pointing at the reckless drivers speeding and cutting each other
off like
on a death race. Suddenly, I wondered how come the greatest Formula One
racing drivers were not Peruvians…The only explanation I came up with
was that the race had far too many regulations for the free-spirited
drivers of Peru.

“Traffic
very good today,
señora
.
In the morning,
tráfico
muy malo
,” he responded, laughing at me.

If there
is something that makes all of us feel
better when things get
rough, it’s being assured there is still a long way till we hit rock
bottom.
And so, trying to imagine how much worse or dangerous traffic can
get, I
started slowly to relax and get into the atmosphere.

The hotel was an
old shabby building, with basic rooms
and thin walls, some
flaking orange paint, and a funny smell of what might have been mold.
It did
not bother me much. After all, I was in South America and if I was ever
to
understand and love this part of the world, then it would be for the
flavors
and its people, not for the comfort or some shiny
buildings.

After a
fast five minutes tour of my “sumptuous”
room, I went back on
the streets, the only place where one can feel the pulse of a nation.
After a
short stroll, I arrived to Plaza de Armas, the core of the city, the
birthplace
of Lima. It was about ten in the evening on Friday night and the city
was fully
and truly awake. People of all ages were dancing, embraced, at the
sound of
zamponas
,
a six feet long panpipe, flutes and
charangos
,
their version of the
European mandolin. Friday nights were dedicated to love, the love for
your partner,
for music, for life. And from youngsters to elders, from poor to rich,
everyone
was out on the streets, dressed colorfully, singing and dancing
together.

“A dance,
señora
?”

“Sure. Why
not?”

“Una
blanca palomita,…”

Then, it
was dinnertime. When the stomach
speaks, you listen. I
followed the smells to narrow, winding streets, packed with people and
local
restaurants. Finally, I stopped at one serving the most famous food in
Peru:
cuy
, otherwise known as fried guinea pig. I
ordered it and waited.

“What is
this?” I asked the waiter, seeing more
bones than meat
while the fragrance also left a lot to be desired.

“Guinea
pig,
señora
. What
else?” he responded politely and humbly.

“What else
indeed…bring me the bill, please, and a strong pisco sour cocktail,” I
said trying to be at least half as nice as he was. 

The
Pisco Sour is Peru's national drink, a cocktail compounded of a shred
of hope, a touch of Inca mystery and sublime promises carried on the
wings of the Andean condor.

I ended up eating at McDonalds. And then, I finally
crashed.

The
following day, Puno, the folkloric capital
of Peru and the gateway to the islands on Titicaca Lake, was waiting
for me.

From
there, my first stop was Uros, a group of
manmade floating
islands. On Uros, there were no stores; everything one needed was at
the lake,
where the totora reeds grew abundantly. People made everything out of
it,
including the islands themselves. The tender stems were used in salads
or stews;
the rest was used as roofing material. In my eyes, totora was a miracle
plant,
the best example of sustainable living: free, renewable and definitely
clean.

The
islands were a paradise of a simple, cheap,
and happy life. A ninety-five-year-old
man still rowing a boat for around eight people was the living proof of
that.
On his face, I could see everything I was looking for: peace. He
belonged to
the place the same way the place belonged to him. And this
and no other
mantra was his secret.

From the
manmade islands, I moved on to a
God-made island, Amantani.
God definitely had more time to work on it, as it was far bigger and
far
sturdier. However, it also lacked modern amenities, such as electricity
or
running water.

But to me,
the lack of electricity was one of
the highlights. As for
water, let me put it this way: I was alone. So, it didn’t matter too
much.

“
Bienvenida
a mi casa
,” the
local woman, whose family was
about to become my family for the next few days, said to me. 

Dressed in
a black skirt, decorated with red
and black embroidered
edging, with a poncho and woolen hat and her hands cracked by sun,
wind, and
work, she gave me a big hug, a strong kiss on both cheeks, took my
hand, and
showed me the way to her house, the last one on top of the hill.

After a
steep climb, tired and a bit nauseous
from the smell of
gasoline from the boat, my eyes kept searching for the house.

“
Vamos,
vamos!
” she kept
saying to me. By the look of her
hands it must have meant: “Hurry up! Hurry up!”

“I would
if I could!” I said back.

She
laughed, I laughed, while none of us knew
for sure what the
other said. Laughing, the international passport to anyone’s heart, was
working
in Peru too.

Finally,
we arrived. Her husband, her kids,
some of her nieces and
nephews too, were all part of the welcoming committee. Each one of them
kissed
me, hugged me, said a few words, strange to my ears as their faces were
to my
eyes.

“Wow! So
this is love!” I said to myself. “A
bit suffocating for my
taste. I wonder: Will I sleep alone tonight or with one of the cousins
available? Could I choose at least with which one?”

Choosy,
choosy, like always! Snooze, snooze,
till you lose!
the voice in my head replied.

If
nothing else, it was definitely
more fun having discussions with
myself than with anyone else…

The room
itself wasn’t much, but the bed and
the door were quite
something. The door was half my height, requiring either a flexible
back to
bend or a strong head to take the hit. The bed was made out of wood,
with no
mattress on top, and again, a bit too short for me.

“Some hay
and maybe even a roll in the hay
would have been somehow
more desirable,” I thought.

And
a strong lover too, I bet!
my
imagination muse soon added.

“I doubt
such a bed allows for more than a
friendly hug.”

I
thought you like it rough, missy?

And before
the dialogue took a less decent
turn, the lady of the
house proclaimed:

“
Hora
de la cena!
”

“Sorry?” I
asked her, thinking a
Spanish-English dictionary would
have come in handy.

“Eat, food,
cena,
” she
continued in a funny accent.

“Food! Why
don’t you say so? About time,” I
replied happily.

The
kitchen was a small room looking more like
a tunnel and lit up
by candlelight. We all sat down at a wooden table, crammed into one
another,
warmed up by the fire from the wood-burning stove, said our prayers to
the Gods and to the two mountains on the islands, Paccha Tata and
Paccha Mama, Father and Mother Earth,
and waited
for the feast to arrive.

 For
vegetarians, it was a paradise,
as all the courses were made
from potatoes. But the dishes were not boring or tasteless, and I bet
any chef
in the world would have been quite envious. And although it had no
meat, it was
much better than the skinny guinea pig I attempted to have a night
before or
the MacDonald’s where I ended up eating.

“Long live
the vegetarians!” I said. And I
meant every word of it.

I
remembered a friend telling me once that out
of the five thousand
potato varieties worldwide, four thousand grow in Peru and come in
countless
colors and shapes.

“What do
they do with so many potatoes?” I
asked him surprised back
then. But now, I knew: everything.

During my
first night on Amantani, I
experienced the most terrifying
and beautiful storm ever. In the pitch dark, on my hard-as-stone bed,
shivering
under the weight of the blankets, I listened to the symphony of
thunders. I was
a world apart from what I was used to.

However, I
was happy and peaceful, just like
the old man. I fell
asleep thinking to myself, La Vita e Bella:
Benigni was,
after all, right
.

When I
woke up, the sky was clear, the sun was
shining, and hidden
under the bed, I found a page from an old travel magazine with pictures
of The
Great Ocean Road.

All day I
thought about it.

Was that a
sign? Could it be that simple? Why
not? It’s not as if
only complicated things are worth pursuing, long novels are worth
reading and
educated people worth listening to. There is a beauty and wholesomeness
in
simplicity that the eye who have seen it all returns to every time.

Maybe
Australia was the answer I was looking
for. My heart seemed to
agree. And my mind could not find one reason not to. And then, I
decided: my
next challenge would be emigrating to Australia.

Dora’s
Journal Notes
 

• Looking for
  reasons, although it might
  give us something to think about, will never change how we feel.
  
• Everything in
  life, no matter how good
  or bad, comes with an expiration date.
  
• Believe in signs,
  take them for what
  they are and don’t try to interpret them the way you wish the future to be.
  

18
Challenges, our Opportunity
to Shine

Challenges
are special moments when

We
learn to cherish what we had back then,

But
more than that they teach you how,

To
fight, survive, and never bow!

“You’re an optimist,” my friend said to me
one day when I told her
about how much I still loved my life in Canada.

“I’m a realistic, my dear. Just wearing a
different set of glasses
than yours.”

“Yes, yes, sure,” she mocked me. Then, with
sorrow in her voice, she
continued: “If only you’d have my life...”

“And if only you’d have mine,” I said gently,
giving her a pat on
her back, trying to shake off whatever burdens she was carrying.

“No, thank you.”

“You see? Your life is as bad as you think it
is, no more and no
less.”

“How can
you
still love
your life in Canada? I cannot understand. After all, it brought you
more tears than laughter, more
frustration than contentment, and more disappointment than fulfillment.
Nothing
to love, except for a guy or two.”

“True, but it gave me unfettered and sole
ownership over my
decisions. It gave me freedom. That’s not something one can easily
forget.”

And then, I told her, all the reasons for which
I loved Canada: the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly ones too.

“I love Canada for so many reasons. Some I will
remember, some I
will forget, while others I will never know. Because true love can
never be
explained and dissected, bit by bit. True love comes and goes as it
pleases.
You cannot hide its flame, same as you cannot hide its absence.

It taught me how to be a bitch by choice, not
by force; to forgive
others’ actions, but never forget their nature; to be
mentally resilient
and obstinately follow
my dreams; to believe in myself when no one else seems to be overly
excited to
do the job, to never let go of my cynical humor even when, or
especially when,
it is pointed out at myself; to take a back seat each time my life
spins off
into drama, enjoy the show and grab the leading role only when spring
is in the
air and love is all around.

I learned that, same as wisdom cannot be
bestowed upon me while comfortably
sitting in the middle of my own bed indulging myself in reading
philosophy
books or judging others, patience does not mean to sit around, decry
your fate,
and pray for a change to happen.

In the shadows of being no one, I found true
freedom and the courage
to spread my wings and make my own mistakes.

It cured one of my deepest fears, the fear of
being alone. In
solitude, I have learned to love my own company and turn to nature for
hope,
perspective, and strength.

Simply put, it taught me how to survive the
biggest roller coaster
ever: life.

Canada
is the place where I learned everything I
know about myself: my limits, my shortcomings, my strengths. And I did
all that
by being open to everything people brought my way: disappointment or
gratitude,
laughter or sorrow, light or darkness.

And this is why,” I shouted, “I love Canada!
J’aime
le Canada
!
My training ground, my dream, my home away from home! But love and
belonging
are two different things. I owe it to myself to find the place where
they meet.”

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• Stay put and you
  will remain as such.
  Jump in and you might get wet. Dive and you might find true happiness.
  
• Don’t be afraid of
  failures. They are
  the scars of a champion!
  
• Sometimes trying
  is as important as
  succeeding.