My 44th birthday prequel started on Saturday with the Brazilian Day Austin celebration. I’d never been to the venue before, but knew I was in for a treat when my fellow capoeiristas mentioned “outside” and “barn.”
Despite the tiny, well-lit stage, we played in the small loose gravel-covered ground, which gave our performance both an authentic feel and raised the element of danger and surprise to the endeavor.
We started with “Puxada de Rede,” which was a fisherman’s dance.
This was the first time I’d ever danced it–I’d only been part of the chorus in previous performances.
Given the recovery of my ankle after breaking it a year ago, I freaked out a little since this time last year, I was on crutches.
Even with the less-than-ideal ground, I enjoyed the simple joy of being ambulatory.
Good thing my spirits were so high; we messed up the choreography, but apparently only we knew that!
I missed most of the roda de Angola since some genius rearranged all our stuff and I couldn’t find my regular capoeira shirt.
Thank goodness I’d handed off my camera phone to another capoeirista who was not performing that night.
She took over 100 pictures! Not that I’m complaining. I know that it’s challenging to catch a clear shot of capoeiristas playing even a slow game of Angola-style capoeira.
If I had been previously irritated with not finding my T-shirt in a timely fashion, I was doubly pissed that I couldn’t find the grass skirt I’d picked out for maculele.
We did mostly the same choreography we’d done back in May for the batizado.
The only thing this time was at all three rehearsals, we’d had a different combination of people participating.
The only thing this time was at all three rehearsals, we’d had a different combination of people participating.
That ill-fitting grass skirt fell after a couple of moves. I just kept dancing like the semi-pro I am!
For the last dress change for me, I could relax since I’d completed my part of the performance other than continuing to clap, sing and relieve someone on the pandeiro (tambourine).
I was quite impressed at how fast my fellow capoeiristas played regional-style capoeira. After our performance, I got a yummy jalapeño drink, danced samba and forro, then left–all before 11 PM.
Originally, I didn’t think I’d have too much fun on my actual birthday since it fell on a Sunday. I wore my tiara the entire day to liven things up a bit. Although I merely posed with the tiara before yoga class, I learned after the fact how bad this idea was. As I removed it, my rambunctious dreads latched onto and would not surrender until a friend who worked at the studio cut it out. She was very empathic about the minor surgery.
Then, I met a friend for brunch.
With my hair up and the tiara merely placed on my head, I suffered no more hair loss nor wardrobe malfunction.
I hardly ever imbibe fizzy drinks, but I figured a mimosa once a year or so wouldn’t hurt. I’d never ordered this dish before, Sonora enchilada, but it was a wonderful call together with one of my favorite hot sauces.
Later that evening, I went to an open mic, where I knew several of my poetry friends would be. To my birthday surprise, I saw one of my salsa friends from years ago who just happen to come out to listen to poetry.
When I finally got my turn to the mic, I was tired, but figured since I’d made the effort, I’d do my best.
I opened with a joke about my dress: “My mom gave me this dress since it’s my birthday. One guy told me that it looked like a table cloth. I told him that he’d not be eating off me tonight!”
Then I made a shameless plug for my book, Tribe of One.
I read an excerpt from the book that dealt with the main character’s extensive search for the perfect vibrator.
At the end of my set, I received a piece of a very rich chocolate and coconut cake.
Believe it or not, I’d had a little trouble blowing out that third candle. I thought it was a trick candle, but turns out I was just out of practice blowing out birthday candles. Then again, since I’m the upstart third daughter, perhaps it was appropriate.
I dove into that delicious cake! I had to put the fork down just to take a picture of it.
My three poet friends graced the stage with their creative collaboration.
The featured poet that night happened to be another sexually-explicit black woman who had been outside selling and signing her poetry book during my reading.
After my set and birthday song, she ran in to tell me that she really enjoyed my reading. We exchanged books at the end of the night.
For my first radio interview ever, I was part of a four-artist panel. Three out of four of us where there because of our participation in the upcoming Austin Feminist Poetry Festival. The lone duck artist with the second best hair, only to my dreaded head, was a documentary filmmaker, searching for his birth mother. I figured there was no need to be dressed up since it was radio. Instead, I dressed for capoeira dance rehearsal, which was immediately after the interview. All I can say is thank God I looked half decent since the filmmaker came flank with his crew.
I found the microphone a bit awkward, but that didn’t stop me from posing as if I was reading for this picture! I wanted to get all the “tourist” shots out the way before our segment began. I wasn’t nervous about the interview itself, but all the restrictions: no curse words, no graphic sex, no explicit descriptions of genitals, no calls to actions, no fart jokes. Out of all of them, only the last one had no chance of slipping out of my mouth.
I briefly recounted how I started writing poetry to remedy reoccurring bouts of insomnia. So when I was asked to teach a workshop for the Austin Feminist Poetry Festival, I agreed on the condition my workshop be called “Spoken Word for Insomniacs.” Then I read a rated G spoken word piece, “A Circle Has No Corners,” that was inspired by a conversation I overheard one of my capoeira teachers having and a recent bout of insomnia. I started reading it at 16:37 minutes into the interview.
I’ve never taken pills to sleep nor drank coffee to wake up, choosing first to exercise my stress out then later, writing it out. Writing had opened so many doors for me, given the flexibility the medium affords.
Listen to the interview:
Read “A Circle Has No Corners”: https://www.mathdreads.com/?p=886
For an area in perpetual drought, the city of Austin and its surroundings have a surprising number of springs. When one of my friends invited me to visit Hamilton pool, she described it as a natural spring in a cave. Of course I was in! I did a little research just to make sure I could take the proper precautions with my recovering ankle. One of the first and most reoccurring warnings that other visitors to Hamilton pool had recommended was an early arrival.
As we cruised near the entrance, I celebrated how we weren’t trapped in a long line of cars. A mere two seconds later, we joined the line of cars. The pool opened at 9 AM and we were confident we’d get one of the 75 available parking spaces. Otherwise, we’d have to wait in the car until another visitor left in the great one-out-one-in scheme of things. Just as we were the next car to enter the lot, the parking attendant stated that the lot may be full. She said she was waiting on the count from the other attendant. I was prepared to mentally curse every oversized vehicle when the attendant asked for our $15 parking fee.
Another suggestion I’d read online was to use the one and only bathroom near the parking lot. From the distance where I took this shot, it smelled pretty ripe. Yet, I bravely approached the composting toilet shack and it stench actually lessened. No trip to the women’s bathroom would be complete without first waiting in line. For a facilities that only had two stalls, as least the line moved swiftly.
From the glorified outhouse, which had no plumbing, just composting toilets and a dispenser of hand sanitizer, we couldn’t see the trail head for the trees. I love when places have signs that direct you to something once you’ve already found that something. I guess the reassurance was nice.
With my ankle brace on and men’s size 8 Tevas (I dislike the women’s since they’re usually pink or flowery), I hiked the rocky .25 mile trail with no problem. If there had been any moisture on those rocks, then the trail would have been dangerous, but this is summertime in Austin.
That trail was bone dry!
And crowded with everyone who had the foresight to arrive early.
Although I knew we weren’t spending but a few hours, I’d packed a camelback and carried my bamboo mat, which folded efficiently small, and some snacks. I wasn’t actually tired…just wanted a shot of one of the benches that dot along the quarter mile hike. I figured that some visitors may need it on the way back up the trail.
My friend and her daughter posed in front of some impressive foliage and a rock formation.
Some parts of the trail truly made us feel like we were in a jungle.
Then it opens up to a small, crowded beach on what was touted as the “last free weekend” before most schools in this area began.
On this day, the water was 78.2 degrees–a full ten degrees warmer than the famed Barton Springs, which is surprising since the water is partially shielded by a cavern.
Some people holed up in an area in the back of the cave. I actually took this shot to capture the “waterfall,” which I had to get really close just to see. It’s easier to look just a centimeter in front of the rocks where the water surface is white. That’s where the water splashed into the pool. We all waded into the pool up to our bikini bottoms. I mostly read where we camped out. Nothing too physically tasking.
Yet the long car trip to our barbecue lunch destination proved to be too much for some people. We woke her up once we got there!
This Saturday, I attended my hottest poetry event yet…started off as 90 degrees when I arrived and swelled to 95 by the time I left.
Nonetheless at the base of Philosopher’s Rock and the entrance of Barton Springs…that 68-degree natural waters would’ve actually felt refreshing if I didn’t have another reading afterwards.
I first explained to the audience that as a former teacher with nearly 20 years of teaching experience,
I’d declared myself the Ignorance Slayer long ago! With impromptu musical accompaniment, I read the following poem:
4.6 billion years ago
Earth started
As swirling sultry gas
Her fiery nature cooled
Morphing into a hot rock
Icy asteroids collided
With their watery mark
Mother Earth developed
Atmosphere
A geochemical cycle
After a billion years
Life arose
A biogeochemical cycle
Nutrients recycled
One cycle’s products
Another’s reactants
Nothing wasted
Along come the upstart humans
Newborn babes in the wilderness
Huge frontal lobe full of potential
Toolmakers, empire builders
Environmental destroyers
Tasked to be good stewards
Command the flora and fauna
Our nearly unchecked progress
Created fantastic human endeavors
And spurred demise
Now we arrogantly seek
To save the planet?
And her asteroid waters
Forgetting
Mother Earth will continue
Long after we destroy ourselves
We don’t gather to save her
We gather to save ourselves
From our own self-destructive ways
Our greedy five-planet consumption
As if we have four other planets
To consume
When we poison the waters
We poison ourselves
Everything we do
Good and bad
Has an impact
Mother Earth and her waters
Have existed long before us
The only question that remains
Will our sense of
Self preservation kick in
Soon enough to
Safeguard our natural resources
And save ourselves?
One of my friends, who happened to be a DJ, got politely snaked into spitting poetry about saving the Barton Springs water.
One of my favorite moments, came when the “Cool Water” quartet, who sang about water as if it were a whiskey song. As I watched, I kept thinking, “I hope I don’t have to follow them.” Of course, I jinxed myself. Luckily I’d thought about what I wanted to talk about the second time around: my preoccupation with clean water when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer.
Before I left, I listened to a band that played many environmental songs. The usual lead singer, wearing an orange shirt, referred to me as a “modern, cross dressing, samurai.” I quickly unsheathed my sword and roared, “I’m a woman!” I stabbed him after they finished their set.
I made the leisurely drive down the street to the second poetry venue. As soon as I walked in, still discombobulated from the sweltering poetry by the pool, a group of people added to my confusion by telling me, “Your troupe just went that way.” Considering the fact that I’d arrived much earlier than I’d told any of my poets to be there, I was quite sure “my troupe” hadn’t entered the building yet. When I went to the bathroom to freshen up, that’s when I discovered the futuristic hair and clothing models. After freshening up, I posed with their sign.
About two hours later, the rest of my troupe showed up. The event organizer spoke very kind words about the Austin Writers Roulette and then went down the line to introduce all of us.
When she got to one artist, she kept stumbling over his name and he kept repeating it with a super-jazzed up Spanish accent. I finally told her that he just loved having a woman say his name repeatedly.
I introduced myself as the Ignorance Slayer. Many in the audience encouraged me to use my sword, which I said I would, especially on the poet behind me who was heckling me!
Here’s what I shared with the audience:
When I recently conducted an Internet search, I typed in the words “how to make a bomb” and got 170 million hits in half a second, but the words “how to make war” received 763 million hits in a third of a second. The words “how to make peace” resulted in an optimistic 796 million hits in nearly a minute.
So it takes a little longer to come up with 33 million more peace-making ideas than war-making ideas. If the mind is like an Internet search, you’ll think of bad ideas faster during a conflict, but have much better ideas if you think just a little longer before you act. Counting to ten should be the first peace-making idea.
And if you’re really good, you’ll write down your negative, angry thoughts. Even better, you’ll research the conflict. After all if it’s worth your anger, then it’s worth learning more about. Then, one of the best things you can do is share your results with others. It starts with you. You are the person to make the difference, if only to sleep better at night and make better choices the next day.
Fortunately there are places where people who are passionate about life can share their words. They’re called…poetry events. In and around this Awesmic City, there are weekly, monthly and annual poetry events.
I‘ve been the proud organizer of one such event, The Austin Writers Roulette, a monthly, adult, theme-based spoken word and poetry group for the past three years. I had never organized something like this before. Originally, I started the roulette as a guaranteed way to have an event where I could read and sell my first book, Tribe of One.
The first lesson I learned was people didn’t attend or participate in an event just because I wanted to make money. As a matter of fact, for the first season, I essentially paid people to show up!
Determined not to be a failure, I changed event locations twice, changed my attitude numerous times and focused more on inviting passionate people, whether they self-identified with being a “writer” or an “artist,” to participate in the roulette. I stopped charging admission and starting asking for donations.
One of the most beautiful things I have discovered is the world is full of interesting, stimulating people. Imagine how I was humbled when I discovered that the secret of the roulette’s success was not how talented of a writer I was, but how well I could organize and attract other talented people to join me on the show.
There is power in collaboration. I’m empowered when my voice is heard. I’m empowered when I hear other authentic voices. I may not agree with all I’ve heard, but I’m enriched for having listened.
Some believe that the first person to resort to violence has run out of things to say. Those who suffer in silence are afraid to speak. There’s a vulnerability to reading or performing one’s work in front of others. I invite all voices for the small price, in return, of being respectful to other voices. Within the differences of opinion and the expansion of a conversation, collaboration occurs. We can change the narrative of reality through our participation.
With the energy and hopefulness of a beauty pageant contestant who wishes for world peace, I actively promote the creative collaboration among passionate people. The Austin Writers Roulette meets every second Sunday at Stompin’ Grounds on S. Congress. Our next show is tomorrow from 4 to 6 and the theme is “Survival Stories.”
Joining me on stage today are just a few of the artists who regularly perform in the roulette.
The next poet read about a dozen poems during his time.
The next poet told three entertaining, Southern & Spanish heavily-accented narratives.
When I introduced the last poet, I told the audience, “If you’ve never done drugs before, you’ll experience it with this next poet.” He stage whispered that he didn’t write about that since it was a kid-friendly venue. I then told the audience that I no longer knew how to introduce him! He did manage to pepper his spoken word with a little cursing and one F-bomb. I’m sure he didn’t even notice. Wasn’t a problem since no kids were present.
I’d offered to join the futurist hair and clothes models, but instead, I sat back and enjoyed their creativity. I was impressed that they were part of the education and artist collaboration.
For a change of pace, I limped to a downtown blues place that hosted a music competition. I arrived early enough to order a burger that was half the size of my head, but I was so hungry, I ate it all before thinking, “Hmm, I should have taken a picture of it!” Adding to my pre-show joy, the waitress. When I asked her for a sample of the two Malbecs they served, homegirl gave me a half of glass of both to sample. Not one to waste delicious wine, I passed both samples to a friend to try, then combined the two “samples” and ordered the better of the two later on. After eating, I propped up my ankle. When the waitress saw it, she brought over the caution sign so no one would bump into the chair. Talk about service!
The first band was a trio of guys. They were the only ones who did a sound check. By the time they came on, the bar was half full.
The second band was also a trio of guys. By this time, I noticed that most of the crowd was in the back where the tequila-tasting had snared them. I generally drink tequila for medicinal purposes, so I gave it a pass. Besides, who needs tequila when there’s Malbec?
I was the first woman to dash into the women’s bathroom after the second band. That’s where I heard another woman yell, “Make it quick!” I came out and met the lead singer of the third band. I didn’t bother to ask her if she was from Austin. I just gave her my card and told her about the Austin Writers Roulette.
For some reason, the fourth band inspired everyone at my table, including me, to give them nicknames: Danny DeVito on harmonica, The traveling gnome on lead vocals and guitar, Gene Simmons on drums and Javier Bardem on bass.
Finally, the fifth band came on. They were all brothers. Their parents sat at the adjacent table. All those guys looked just like their dad, who claimed he couldn’t sing nor play an instrument. I’d guessed who was the oldest, middle and youngest child and got it completely wrong!
I’m so glad I wasn’t one of the judges. I would’ve had a difficult time deciding which three bands advanced to the finals. Fortunately, I got to kick back, sip wine, and enjoy the blues. As happy as that event made me, can I truthfully say that I enjoyed “the blues”?
Whenever an event starts off with two goblet-sized wine glasses, I’d say I’m off to a wonderful start! The one made of glass had a delicious Californian blend, the other made of ceramics, was the creative challenge.
Although you cannot tell from this picture, I spent an extraordinary amount of time sketching out my design before painting it on the goblet. I designed an “Adventures of Infinity and Negativa” logo, which turned out looking pretty bad…as long as I can drink from it, it’ll be OK.
I was the first one out of five women to finish; so I had a great time, finishing my wine, promoting the Austin Writers Roulette and polishing off some delicious pizza. At some point, I’m going to receive word that my goblet has been fired by the ceramics expert who hosted this event. It’ll be my first book-inspired wine glass. At least the wine won’t be aware of its container!
OK, so the twins look more like a purple octopus and a red popped balloon, but it does indeed hold wine–almost a little too much! Nonetheless, it looks great on my mantle.
I arrived to the meeting room for the AISD superintendent search a few minutes early and found the room empty. Puzzling. Just the day before, when I’d mistakenly gone to the Carver Museum, then the Carver library, I’d checked the meeting room calendar to confirm the actual date and time.
By 11:25 am, five minutes before the meeting start time, I went to the front desk and asked if the meeting had been cancelled. They checked their copy of the calendar and confirmed that the it was due to take place in meeting room 2 at 11:30. The guy even told me that I was early! I expressed concern that I’d sat alone in the room, which showed no evidence that anyone had come to set up the place for a meeting. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I returned to meeting room 2.
Since I’d come prepared with a spiral notebook, a pen and sat in meeting room 2 alone, I wrote down some thoughts, thinking of how this experience was indicative of why things don’t improve faster for public education. If this had been a meeting concerning an educator molesting students, then parents would be here. Representatives from AISD, perhaps with their legal staff, would be here. Yet to discuss the hiring of one of the key employees of the district, no one besides me shows up. I know I’m not the only one who cares. At other meetings of concerned citizens gathered to make a difference in the pursuit of the best public education of kids, we all somehow feel like pockets of educational activists.
After 10 minutes of journaling, I whipped out my smartphone. I brought up the AISD website with the intention of getting a phone number and letting someone know exactly what I thought of their community meeting. I saw a link for “Superintendent Search.” Clicking on that, I saw another link for a schedule of meetings. I discovered that all meetings from noon to 1:30 would take place at an AISD building for all three days. The Carver Library wasn’t even listed. Fortunately, I was only 12 minutes away to the next location, according to GPS.
I arrived to the meeting location site, where several other meetings/workshops were taking place. After an Easter egg hunt with an AISD board member, we located the room. I was hot. Not the, “Woo-wee, we’re in Texas in the summertime” hot. I was angry black woman hot. Someone offered me a small bottle of water. I said the politest thing I could think of. “That is not the drink I’m in the mood for.”
As I signed in, I vented my frustration about the meeting room mix up. A woman in the know, whipped out her master schedule of all 15 superintendent community forums and assured me that the meeting was at noon at the Carver library–30 minutes later than either the library or I knew about. Much after the fact, I learned the facilitators for the Carver Library meeting had been 10 minutes late due to traffic. No one from the community had shown up. I had been the community member.
Instead, I was one of 12 people, including the school board member, a headhunter consultant and a couple of AISD central office people. The meeting was positive, even the constructive criticism never entered the angry zone I’d been so accustomed to when attended by mostly teachers and parents–those of us on the frontline of interacting with students. Those of us who could put faces to the data that drives the illogical strategies, which may work well for business, but not for the business of educating kids.
The most positive contributions I could make were 1) the district needed a superintendent who collaborated and 2) had improvement strategies for special education and English Language Learners.
Nonetheless, the meeting was beautifully conducted and the conversation flowed like warm, spiced wine with only 12 questions:
1. What do you consider as the significant strengths of the school district? (Most praised the improved attendance and graduation rates. I kept quiet since I no longer trust educational statistics because I understand math, especially math corrupted by political gain. Too much temptation to cheat or play jazz with the numbers. Improvisation is wonderful in music, acting, poetry and other forms of art, but not crunching educational data.)
2. What do you feel are the positives of the community? (We praised things like no state tax; thriving business and arts communities; diversity of culture; oasis in the middle of TX)
3. What are the issues and challenges specific to AISD? (As a group, we came up with lack of money, growing population of students, special education, and English Language Learners.)
4. What words or phrases would you use to describe the qualities you would like to see in a new superintendent? (I drove home the word “collaborative.”)
5. What is the leadership style you would like to see implemented by the new superintendent? (I stated we didn’t need a superintendent to pull the evil stepparent act of talking down to the community and trying to change everything on his/her own.)
6. Given the changing dynamics of public education, what are the critical issues the new superintendent will face? (We all agreed everything ultimately rested upon the shrinking budget.)
7. What are the necessary changes that need to be made for AISD to be more successful in student achievement? (One woman repeated the superintendent needed o get the money back for education!)
8. Are you satisfied with the direction of the district? (Why or why not?) (Can’t remember what the others said, but I voiced concern about the extreme top-down management.)
9. If you could help develop the new superintendent’s first 100 day entry plan, what would that include? (I wrote that the super’s first question at any meeting should be, “How may I best serve you?”)
10. Is there any other information you would like to share concerning the community, school or superintendent position that would impact the search process? (Several were concerned about the $300,000 salary offered and whether the super would see his/her role as long term, at least 10 years.)
11. Do you have questions regarding the search process? (At this point, I waved a piece of paper with the steps of the process outlined and asked, “Isn’t this it?” We agreed that it was clear cut.)
12. If you have any names of candidates you would like to recommend us after the meeting please…(I stopped listening after that.)
On the summer solstice 2014, four other Texas women, or cotravellers, and I started our journey to Peru. When I arrived at the Austin airport, I ate at an organic, locally-sourced bar, served by a spoken word poet.
Two flights later, I took a “sleeping selfie” at the airport in Lima. Although my overnight layover was long enough for a nap, PA announcements and airline workers banging on the glass wall to have the door opened by a coworker prevented that.
In another chapter of my life, I’d lived in Denver, but the Mile High City did not prepare me for how mountainous or altitudinous Cuzco was at 11,200ft.
I could’ve kissed the ground when I arrived at the hotel in Cuzco, especially since I was on time for the continental breakfast. However, the receptionist politely told me that complimentary service began the next morning.
Since we couldn’t check in for a few hours, our trip CEO, Chief Experience Officer, took us on a walk in search of breakfast. She explained the ubiquitous rainbow-like flags did not symbolize gay pride, but the indigenous Quechua culture.
Apparently, our weeklong visit coincided with several celebrations: the summer solstice, St. John’s Day on June 24th, and another celebration, which I can’t recall. For most of our vacation, we saw people in a variety of parade costumes.
After returning from breakfast, we discovered one cotraveller’s luggage had been burned by an outlet short-circuit.
Perhaps that was the risk the nearby electrical sign had warned about.
I was thrilled to check in, but the novelty of my new surroundings distracted me. Such as the negative first floor button, which inspired many creative musings every time I was on the elevator. I never pushed it since I didn’t want reality to disappoint me.
Even my room number amused me since it was the educational accommodations code for students with disabilities, which I certainly needed to help with the combined effects of sleep deprivation and high attitude.
Later in the day, our CEO walked us to the Plaza de Armas where the Iglesia Compania de Jesus lined one side of the plaza.
La Catedral lined another side.
In the center stood the Inca, Pachacutec.
Down an alley branching off the Plaza de Armas, we came upon a series of parade floats. I especially liked this one for incorporating a soccer theme since the World Cup invaded everybody’s mind.
Since Cuzco was a major tourist destination, I gave a few soles to take a picture of a grandmother with her grandkids and a goat. Throughout the rest of my vacation, I could truthfully tell all others who tried to solicit money from me for that shot, that I’d already taken one!
Nearly every public space had a thick gathering of people, whether they were watching a parade, listening to a speaker or just being together with extended family.
For our first dinner, I ordered alpaca brichra mediterranea, which was served with a berry sauce, sliced figs and cream pasta. Tasted like deer, but with less cholesterol than beef.
Afterwards, I was initially delighted to see the bathroom at that restaurant was stylishly covered in straw. Then my mind drifted to how could they possibly keep that sanitary? I chose not to over-think it.
Months before this trip, I’d attended a slideshow presentation, where I first saw the famous 12-sided rock of Cuzco. It‘s a prime example of Incan ingenuity since the wall was a sturdy construction despite its irregular-shaped rocks that fit together perfectly.
Travelers unused to high altitudes are cautioned not to drink alcohol for the first two days. Well, mama needed her medicine. We split a delicious bottle of Intipalka, a Peruvian Malbec! Most of the world only knows Argentine and Chilean malbecs. While sipping wine and eating a piece of chocolate cake, we watched the US play Portugal.
For the second time in just two hours, I took another picture of a bathroom. These so-called bathroom rules start off as legit since, in Peru, one tossed used toilet paper in the trashcan rather than flush it.
By the time we took our city tour on Monday, I thought we were already on Tuesday. The details of tour were fuzzy, but I remember that this was a baby alpaca. I’d just eaten one of its cousins last night.
Speaking of eating mammal cousins, we got a preview of how guinea pigs were prepared as part of our city tour.
On a rooftop of one of the houses were bulls, which symbolized Catholicism.
On another rooftop was the southern cross, which symbolized Andean religion.
As we took in the ambience of rooftop religious symbols and guinea pig preparation, a parade marched by.
At the next stop, we visited a burial site where Incan VIPs had been mummified and buried with libations for the afterlife. There weren’t any displayed mummies, but I got to experience the coolness of the limestone altar where mummies had been prepared.
From the mountaintop perspective, I appreciated the neat layout of Cuzco where all streets radiated out from the Plaza de Armas.
No Cuzco city tour would be complete without visiting Saqsaywaman (pronounced similar to “Sexy Woman”). With retaining walls to prevent mudslides during the rainy season, Saqsaywaman was the site where the Inca would celebrate mother earth by drinking chicha, fermented maize. On August first, a young girl, who had not yet menstruated, was given chicha and coca leaves and buried alive to appease mother earth to prevent natural disasters. The temporary bleachers shown here had been brought in for people who could afford to celebrate St. John’s Day in style.
I didn’t know that Cuzco had a Cristo Blanco nor that the largest one resided in Bolivia instead of Brazil.
Our last city tour stop was the Convento de Santo Domingo, which was a Dominican convent built on top of an Incan temple. The Incan foundation had the usual trapezoidal construction that made it earthquake proof.
Of all the exotic or questionable things I ate, it was the carrot and pumpkin soup for dinner that did me in. The first two middle-of-the-night trips to the bathroom were just due to diarrhea, but that third time, I leapt out of bed, tied back my dreads and heaved a sulfur and pisco sour flavored vomit. Next time I travel to a developing country, I will buy a small bottle of tequila or whiskey for such medicinal purposes.
I slept like a charm after that. In the morning, I boasted at breakfast about how my body could eject pathogens without further intervention, which was fortunate since I felt well enough to witness the re-enactment of the Inca celebrating the summer solstice.
We continued to the San Isidro market, where the fresh fruits, vegetables, juices, spices and slaughtered animals were sold.
One pleasant surprise was the lack of flies, thanks to the high altitude.
Another surprise was the availability of “potion” ingredients. My upbringing calls it “voodoo”. My mother would call it “working roots”. Whatever you name it, it was available for purchase.
Our CEO purchased a bag of coca leaves for us to try. We’d all drank coca tea, which was supposed to help with altitude sickness. I found the leaves slightly bitter and it had no noticeable effect.
For lunch, traditionally the biggest meal of the day, I ordered lamb stew that came with a huge chunk of lamb that I’d normally eat in a week.
Our CEO recommended we split a fried guinea pig since most tourists don’t like it. It had very little meat, a membranous texture, and a gamey taste most similar to duck. On my first bite, I’d forked what I thought was white meat, but the texture was very soft. The CEO told me that I’d just eaten part of the brain!
At this point, my camera needed recharging. I plugged in my surge protector and heard a loud popping sound. The receptionist reset the circuit breaker. Turns out the camera’s AC adapter worked like a charm without it. Yeah, technology!
Later, we visited a silver jewelry store that had its own on-site jewelry-making room. After seeing how the silver was smelted and the raw stones cut, we were released to shop.
I bought two pairs of earrings to remind me of Peru. One pair was in shape of a kantu flower and the other symbolized the solar calendar.
After walking around Cuzco a couple of days, I finally found my namesake. Of course, I had to take a picture with the little plaza sign.
I was delighted to discover Cuzco had a chocolate museum, where an employee passed out samples of dark, milk and white chocolate without vanilla and other added stuff normally found in chocolate bought in the States. I sampled tea made from cacao leaves and bought two dark chocolate bars, one with cardamom, the other with aji chili. I liked the cardamom best.
I split a Peruvian malbec and merlot blend at an upscale restaurant to have with the chocolate. Since I wanted a light dinner, I ordered a salad and discovered Peru has the creamiest avocados on earth!
Not only that, but I loved the food philosophy of this restaurant.
On the way back to the hotel, I stopped into this liquor store for a 2.5L bottle of water. I could not resist taking a picture of the Peruvian fertility god sitting among the alcohol.
One afternoon, I had a little downtime to sit in the Plaza de Armas. Some local women told me that the propped up tree, named Queuna, couldn’t be cut down because it had been there since the time of the Incas.
Later, we took a private bus to the House of the People of the Sun to volunteer with some kids. Due to large potholes in the dirt road, we had to walk uphill with our donations.
The director greeted us and explained the different programs offered: jewelry-making, leather crafts, homework help, especially math, music, and psychological counseling.
In the past, there had been programs to raise awareness about recycling, composting, and promoting the use of native languages such as Quechua, native cultures, and educating rural people about labor and sexual exploitation.
I was alarmed to see that the house, dedicated to helping children at risk economically and/or intellectually, was across the street from a women’s penitentiary.
All the kids had assigned duties.
I was eager to them with their math homework, but the one student who had finished his, packed up his notebook and wouldn’t let me check over it.
Most of us chose to paint the mural, which had been sketched out in pencil. The theme appeared to be an ecological message about how everyone was responsible for maintaining the well-being of the environment.
After painting, I visited the music room. My presence caused the kids to be giddy. Finally, the teacher got them to play a traditional song.
As soon as the bus dropped us off from volunteering a half-day, we went to a nearby little bar to take a medicinal tequila shot, Followed by two helpings of a local mint Bailey’s imitation on the rocks. This became our place for a couple of nights.
On the way up the stairs to breakfast, I came across a little boy, chasing after a lemon-sized yellow ball. Unfortunately, he and two other boys were playing soccer in the dining area. I have an on-going irritation with parents who allow their kids to play in undesignated areas, especially restaurants. I joined two cotravellers at their table, but was preoccupied by the boys. Finally, one cotraveller got the ball. I pocketed it since I was comfortable with being the bad guy. I explained to one boy in my broken Spanish that we were in a restaurant and I wanted to eat in peace. I told him I’d give the ball back when I finished eating. Of course, the parents and grandmother were all there, thought the situation was funny, but apparently agreed with me keeping the ball. One cotraveller returned the ball when she saw they were leaving.
For our second day of volunteering with the kids, we stayed the whole day. Some cotravellers helped with preparing lunch.
I managed to help a few kids with their math, algebra problems and one geometry-based algebra problem. One girl made posters out of the problems. I was so happy to understand and explain the problems in Spanish.
The jewelry-making teacher showed me the basics of making silver earrings.
That was a steep learning curve, but I eeked out a pair of earrings after a while. I have a newfound respect for jewelry designers.
Then I went into the leather craft room to make a bookmark. The design was already engraved on the bookmark. So I painted it. As usual it took longer than I thought it would.
As soon as I finished, I went outside to thaw out. Next thing I know, I had a paintbrush in my hand and I started to paint the grass part of the wall mural. The painter in me just had to make the grass have more depth.
We ate lunch with the kids, which consisted of sopa de viernes or chupe, a carrot and tomato salad, a veggie fritter and half a boiled potato.
After lunch, I found a quiet spot and whipped out my ever-present journal. I wasn’t alone for long. The boys were fascinated by both my cursive handwriting and how quickly I wrote. They couldn’t read my writing until I printed—just like my students in the States.
The next morning, I sprang from bed at five thirty-three—thirty-three minutes AFTER my wake up call was supposed to ring. Eleven minutes later, I joined my tour group on the bus to Ollantaytambo. Despite the breakneck speed around curvaceous roads, I saw snow-capped and cloud-covered mountains.
We arrived at the train station with just enough time to use bathroom…
and to hear our daily dose of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence” on pan flute.
We took a comfortable, clean train with sunroof windows and complimentary snack and beverage service to Aguas Caliente, the city just outside of Machu Picchu.
The CEO had told me earlier in the week that the puma represented the present world; the condor represented the future; and the snake represented the past.
For the first time on my trip, I saw a Peruvian hairless dog. Apparently this one was a Batman fan.
We hiked along the Urubamba river up to the base of Machu Picchu. I stood on the pedestrian bridge where hardcore hikers ascended. The next day, I’d take the bridge to my right for the brave who traveled up by bus.
This is one thing that happens when six women travel together: time to break out with the hand sanitizer before eating!
Half of us made a short trek to the hot springs after lunch. It was a bust since they wouldn’t allow us to soak our feet in the pools because we didn’t have bathing suits. Yet, I made use of the toilet since our hotel temporarily had no running water. We chilled the bar area, overlooking the pools and rushing river water while listening to Bob Marley and Pink Floyd. A Chinese film crew showed up to document the hot springs.
On our way back from changing money, we went to a restaurant to watch Italy vs Uruguay because as one cotraveller said, “I’ve never seen an ugly soccer player.” I watched more sports on TV in the past few days than I’d watched all last year.
For the second early morning in a row, we stood in line for a Machu Picchu shuttle. Some tourists speculated about the safety of the infamous shuttles. I shared the same sentiments as one cotraveller: “I’ve walked too much this week to roll off a bus!”
Once we arrived safely at the entrance, most of us got off the bus in a civilized manner, but this impatient European shoved me in the back twice saying, “Go, go! Go, go!” when I paused to allow people across the aisle to get off the bus first. I turned around, put my finger in his face and threatened, “Push me one more time!” He repeated “Go, go!” softer, but didn’t touch me again.
And just look at the line that he’d rushed to wait in. Our CEO told us that many tourists have the delusion that they’ll be the first at the gate.
My visit to Machu Picchu was amazing even though it was the only time while in Peru I was immersed among other tourists, some of whom were absolutely rude when it came to taking their pictures at prime spots then moving on.
A tour guide explained that Machu Picchu had three parts: Agriculture, Urban (homes), and spiritual. East-facing doorways signified residences. All other facing doorways were either storage spaces or temples.
We came upon a bright green coca bush. Our guide explained that cocoa leaves needed chemical processing with sulfuric acid to make cocaine, which eats away at one’s flesh. He stated that all countries should legalize marijuana like Uruguay did since it’s a safer drug. Our CEO concluded, “If you can’t beat them, joint them!”
The Incan canal system below ground still collected more than enough drinking water through rainwater harvest to supply the estimated ancient population. During the wet season grounds became saturated. This temple was falling apart because of water damage.
In one part of Machu Picchu condor wings and the body of a condor were etched in stone.
For some inexplicable reason, I thought it would be a good idea to take a 45-min hike to the Sun Gate. I’d already walked too much on my recovering broken ankle. The best part about the steepness of the trail going down was my knees hurt so much, I didn’t even feel any ankle pain!
Three cotravellers and I made the Sun Gate trek.
Before leaving Machu Picchu, I put a decorative stamp in my passport.
I was so exhausted when I hopped on the shuttle bus, I didn’t care that it barreled down the narrow winding trail.
Once again, my hotel room number in Cuzco was prophetic. I certainly needed to clean up after hiking Machu Picchu, then spending hours traveling.
Since this was my last day, I took a picture of the Cuzco street dogs. They were so sophisticated in that they knew how to cross the street and otherwise interact with humans. I’d heard that none of them were strays although they freely roamed the streets.
After the city tour a few days ago, many shoeshine guys had approached me. I purposely waited until my last day to have them shined up. He gave my shoes the best shine since they were bought. Charged only two and half dollars, but I ended up giving more than that.
A cotraveller and I returned to the chocolate museum. After a few sips of Mayan hot chocolate mixed with red pepper (aji), honey and hot milk, I proclaimed, “All black people should smell like chocolate.” The cotraveller said, “All white people should smell like vanilla, then there’d be no racism.”
At the Cuzco airport, security and a group of passengers huddled around a flatscreen TV. I didn’t have to remove my newly shined shoes nor throw away my opened bottle of water because of a tight game between Costa Rica and Greece. The crowd roared when Costa Rica won. Then magically, the airport announcements resumed.
My last supper in Peru was the most expensive, courtesy of the Lima airport. I bit the bullet and ordered Malbec with fettuccine and shrimp. I bought a $3 bottle of water afterwards to counterbalance the saltiness of the sauce.
Before we boarded, about six airline workers donned disposable rubber gloves and hand searched all carry-ons. As soon as I saw them confiscating all beverages, I chugged my expensive bottled water, which had resided in the front pocket of my backpack.
The DFW airport has a new thing: cue up for an electronic kiosk that scans your passport, takes an unattractive picture, and asks for the same information as the paper immigration form, which I’d already filled out, but no one ever asked for.
Yet throughout my travel, I was a big fan of the old school technology: pen and paper for my notes, edits and long-division money exchange calculations! Make no mistake, I’m happy to return to the land of time-saving devices, even though I’m not sure where all the saved time goes.
For this year’s rendition of Mattie Gilmore, I went to a costume shop in north Austin and tried on a stylish maid’s outfit. Much finer than the clothes that I had strolled in with! The cherry on top was the maid’s hat. The woman at the costume shop originally suggested that I bobby-pin the hat onto my hair. I tossed my dreaded head back as I laughed, assuring her that no bobby-pins were going through my hair. Ingeniously, I threaded a dreadlock through each loop, which secured the hat well.
One of the best things about playing Mattie Gilmore again was being already familiar with the 8-line narrative. A few people asked me follow up questions, but I politely told them I did not know more about her. I referred some to the four Juneteenth summary panels, conveniently located in the same room where I was stationed.
A few visitors laughed at the part of my narrative, which stated that “[negroes] ain’t never done no managin'”. Many thought too many blacks were still in that situation.
A few of the older visitors wished more young people learned this history and had been in attendance. One woman, who had picked cotton as a child, sent her grandkids with some food one day to do the same. They and their food didn’t last but a few hours. She teased them about how both were supposed to last from sunup to sundown. She wished all kids these days, especially those who don’t like to study, could get a taste of the same.
Another group of visitors were an older couple who were visiting their adult son from Algeria. They did not understand enough English to follow my narrative, but I looked them in the eyes as I emoted my lines singularly, allowing their son time to translate into French. His mother really enjoyed what few lines I uttered and broke into an interesting conversation about how similar slavery in the States was to slavery in Algeria. I gave the son a break by letting him know I could understand the gist of what she said since I’d studied French for 6 years. This allowed him a bit of a break on two-way translation. Once again, I wished more of my French remained in my brain. As much as I struggle with foreign languages, I know this is just a fantasy. I was pleased to hear that the word for slave, “esclavo,” was the same in both French and Spanish.
At the end of our interpretation time, we took a group picture, and dashed away. The other woman and I were more than happy to change into our regular, cooler clothes, then eat a delicious barbecue lunch provided for volunteers. While eating, I caught up with one of the movers and shakers in Austin, who actively works to keep the historical black areas renovated and well-known. And, for the second time this week, I got an offer to teach a creative-writing course, this time with an emphasis on genealogy narrative.
All in all, I had a fantastic time reenacting a newly freed slave, thanking God I didn’t have to live through the real thing.
A few days later, on the actual day of Juneteenth, I finally had the satisfaction of seeing “Infinity & Negativa Rejoice” on the wall for the “100% ” fundraiser at the Carver Museum. This fundraiser is so named because 100% of the silent auction proceeds goes to the Carver’s education program. The 12 x 12 canvases were donated by a local art store and all the artist participants worked on and submitted their completed canvases. The silent auction will last for a month.
After getting a thrill of seeing the twins on the wall, I went into the theatre for a screening of the documentary, “Freedom Summer” about how a thousand white northerners came down to Mississippi to help educate and encourage blacks to register to vote. This year is the 50th anniversary of that event. Although it was a hard thing to watch, I felt a renewed sense of purpose for the mission of writing bits of my narrative through spoken word and novels. I’ve got a theory that I’m going to explore further. People will read/listen to my works if it’s entertaining enough.
I enjoy volunteering my time in exchange for getting in free to worthy events such as the olive festival. I’ve never heard of such, but then again, there is always a festival or two in Austin and the surrounding areas. This one took place in Dripping Springs, where I’ve never driven through at night without seeing at least one deer and an occasional stray hare.
Although I originally signed up as a “wine vendor,” all vendor volunteers were warned that we’d be expected to pitch in wherever we were needed. We were also warned that we would stand during our entire 4-hour shift. Mother Nature gave her overcast warning as well. Putting all three of those things together, I secured a spot at the only sit-down, covered vendor spot: selling olive trees. The three volunteers who I replaced gave me the lowdown on olive tree basics and then split to get their complimentary 6 wine tasting tickets and buy food.
Over the course of 4 hours, I learned more than I ever knew about olive trees. Fortunately, most people asked the same questions:
1. Which types of olive trees were for sale? Two varieties of French; two varieties of Spanish; and a lone Italian. (everyone loved the “Lone Italian” description and thought that should be the title of a movie.)
2. Do they grow in any soil? Yes, but if the soil has a high clay content, then you should mix up to 30% of sand with it and plant the tree high so the water can drain.
3. How often do you water them? While they are “young,” you should give them 2 gallons of water every two days, but be careful not to overwater them. You should pinch the stem. If it is moist, then don’t water it.
4. Do these olive trees grow the green or black olives? All olives start off green and become increasingly purplish-black as they ripen. When green olives are picked, they have to be brined to reduce the bitter taste.
5. How long does it take for the trees to start producing olives? One of the Spanish species, Arbequina, will mature in 2-3 years. The rest will mature in 3-5 years.
6. How old are the trees in the grove? the ones for sale? 4 1/2 to 8 years; 16 to 18 months
7. Do they do well in the winter? All the trees are cold resistant to 15 degrees Fahrenheit. If worried, you can place a smudge pot beside the tree to keep it warm. All the olive trees in the grove survived a few ice storms without it.
8. Do I need to by two trees for pollination purposes? The two Spanish species are self-pollinating. The other varieties need a “mate.”
9. They all look the same. How can you tell them apart? I read the tags.
10. How often do they need to be pruned? once a year
When potential buyers asked a technical question that I couldn’t answer, I’d laugh and tell them that I only knew the answers to ten questions and theirs just went off the grid. By some miracle, the owner, his daughter or the olive expert who’d given three olive mini-workshops would happen to walk by. I’d flag them down to answer the question.
Toward the end of my shift, I was nearly beside myself with hunger. Sometimes, the wind shifted and I’d catch a whiff of paella. At one point, a potential olive tree buyer took pity on me and offered a sip of her red wine. I thanked her for adding about ten more minutes of my patience while I waited for my replacement to arrive. Once she did, I gave her the lowdown and the list of olive questions and answers (which I’d neatly written out on a piece of paper) and dashed away to get my volunteer bag with a wine glass and 6 drink tickets.
I had about three tastes of wine while waiting for the latest batch of paella to finish. When it was just about done, people gathered around like it was feeding time at the human zoo. With a relaxed red wine smile I asked one of the food vendors, loud enough for everyone in the crowd to hear, “Now, you guys serve the people with dreadlocks first, right?” Yes, that did work. Thank God for the ol’ Jedi trick!As I left, I saw a bigger wine enthusiast in the bluebonnet-laden “parking lot.” The license plate read, “I (heart) WINE.” I figured it must have belonged to one of the twelve Texan wine vendors who were present. Perhaps when I have a lot of disposable income, I can have vanity plates, too. Although I think mine will read: “KISS MBA.”
