Spring Lake, NJ, known as the “Irish Riviera,” goes all things Gallic in mid-June – but no green beer.
“We live and eat from the land. Pachamama is our mother and we have to respect her.” Juana, spiritual healer
Our guide pulled the Land Rover off the road and stopped the engine. The lights were off; we were in total blackness and silence. I asked,“¿Cuál es el problema?” believing something must be wrong with the car. Opening the door, he replied, “No hay problema. Las estrellas.” As eyes adjusted, the sky was ablaze with stars. The Milky Way was a sash of white gauze. The Southern Cross stood out clearly despite competition from a few million other constellations. Satellites passed overhead. Stars sparkled white, blue and red. The dome of the planet was a Christmas display. At 10,000 feet elevation in the middle of the Andes Mountains, there were no ambient lights to dim the awe we were experiencing.
No wonder for thousands of years the indigenous peoples of the Andes have worshiped the land as a living force and looked upon the Pachamama – the Earth Mother – as their benevolent protector. The mountain environment provides for the people – pack animals, meat, cloth, water from the glaciers for drinking and irrigating the parched land.
Despite Inca and Spanish conquest, both the indigenous cultures and the Pachamama remain. Jesuit missionaries were far too intelligent to attempt a wholesale, and fruitless, change of attitude. They could understand the correlation between Catholic beliefs in the Virgin Mary with that of the Pachamama and interwove their veneration. Roadside shrines can be seen today in the most remote mountain areas with statues to the Virgin Mary with traditional offerings to the Pachamama of food, jewelry, figurines, coca leaves and hundreds of burning candles.
The Quebrada de Humahuaca
Argentina’s Andean Northwest is home to cultures that have called it home for 9,000 years. Irrigation canals constructed 3,000 years ago still water fields. 3,500 year old villages are alive with people in traditional clothing except it’s not a fashion statement. Hornos, outdoor clay ovens, are the center of the kitchen; adobe houses are constructed as a community effort without power tools.
The ancient village of Tilcara, 1,100 miles northwest of Buenos Aires, is an excellent base to explore the UNESCO World Heritage Site of the Quebrada de Humahuaca. The mountain enclave of Iruya is reached only after a surreal six hour journey. At 13,000 feet, the Salinas Grande Salt Flats seem like a different planet, and not too far north, near the Bolivian border, the legendary Ruta 40 begins its 5,000 mile journey to Tierra del Fuego.
Brown is the color of Tilcara, but don’t let that deter you from staying. Its brown adobe buildings, tan stone streets and dusty countryside provide a beige backdrop for the stunning multi-colored reds, greens and pinks of the surrounding mountains. The brown of Tilcara is also a foil for the bright colors of indigenous handicrafts – multi colored garments made from soft alpaca and llama wool along with many forms of pottery based on ancient designs. The senses are entertained by the aromas from food stalls selling humitas – a creamy corn and cheese mixture wrapped in corn husks – empanadas – an Andalucian savory pastry first made by the Moors of North Africa – fresh grilled tortillas and the incomparable Andean goat’s milk cheese Queso de Cabra.
Angels and Folk Heros
To explore the rugged countryside of the Quebrada requires a four-wheel drive vehicle. Many of the roads are unpaved, twisty and narrow. The journey to Iruya explored a surreal mountain landscape – barren and rocky, nearly unpopulated, at elevations exceeding 9,000 feet – punctuated by tiny villages and steep valleys shrouded in clouds. In Uquia’s 17th century Iglesia de San Francisco de Paula is a priceless collection of the Angeles Arcabuceros(Angels with Guns). The paintings depict winged angels fully dressed as conquistadors bearing guns and swords – not too subtle Spanish Colonial propaganda. Several miles further I spied a road side shrine to folk hero Gauchito Gill. Throughout Argentina, shines to this 19th century gaucho Robin Hood are visible on rural road sides identifiably draped with red banners. He is especially revered in the north where he led a peasant rebellion against landowners, was captured and executed. Numerous miracles have been attributed to Gauchito Gil, and he has a large cult-like following. Red banners and depictions of Gil’s heroism are frequently superimposed on the cross and may be flanked by the unlikely triumvirate of Evita Peron, Che Guevara and the last ruling Inca, Tupac Amaru.
Our guide had prepared a picnic lunch. Before eating he poured a portion of our drinking water onto the soil. It was the offering to the Pachamama. This was not a gesture to fascinate tourists – this was for real.
Iruya, with a population of 4,300 at an altitude of 9,120 feet is perched on the mountainside high above the Rio Iruya. Its white buildings, dominated by its much photographed Igelsia de Nuestra Senora del Rosario y San Roque, gleam in the sun as they rise in a jumble up the green-brown hills. Many of its streets are literally stone staircases and negotiating this labyrinth can be bewildering at first when the street dead ends at the door of a house.
Salinas Grande Salt Flats
The following day our excursion to the Salinas Grande Salt Flats traversed numerous switchbacks as we climbed through the spectacle of the Cuesta de Lipan offering panoramas of snow covered peaks and barren steppe. A road side marker indicated the highest point for this route, 13,344 feet. As we descended, the gleaming salt flats came into view. Amid the treeless, brown countryside of the altiplano, the vast Salinas Grande Salt Flats reflected the sun like an immense solar collector. These are among the world’s largest and highest naturally renewing salt flats in existence covering an area of 3,200 square miles. Salt extraction has gone on for decades using unchanged hand methods. Walking on the flats is nothing less than other-worldly. In the thin winter air at 12,000 feet the strong wind was biting yet the experience exhilarating. Sunglasses are necessary – the glare off the salt is blinding without them. The flats resemble cracked concrete except there’s a crunch under your feet.
Comunidad Aborigen Tres Pozas
Comunidad Aborigen Tres Pozas is eight miles west of the flats, and the only human settlement for many miles in any direction. It’s the home for most of the workers and consists of a few dozen simple adobe buildings as brown as the surrounding desert. The winter winds were creating a sand storm. Sand whipped by high winds can find its way through closed car windows and doors lodging everywhere inside your clothing, your mouth, nose and ears. The café, Comedor Las Guapas Salineras, is not an establishment any guide book would recommend for dining, but I’d highly recommend if you want to actualize that overused phrase “an authentic experience.” The education is startling and humbling. For an absurdly small price, coupled with genuine kindness and effort, you dine on simple food in conditions few of us would ever accept.
We were startled awake at 5:30 AM by a loud rapping on the bedroom window with shouts of “tsunami…evacuate.” Stunned, we learned that a Pacific wide warning, following Chili’s catastrophic 27 February 2010 earthquake, had been issued. Throwing our clothes into the car, not knowing if we’d see the beautiful Japanese-style beach rental house again, we decided to drive the 40 minutes up the mountain into Volcano National Park.
Stopping first for gas, my wife, Jill, went into the store next door for bottled water while I waited in line. Hawaii’s beautiful pink dawn was breaking as I observed the locals in no particular rush, certainly no panic. Jill returned with water and a 12-pack of toilet paper. “Toilet paper?” “Everyone was buying toilet paper so…” her voice trailed off. Was she in shock? Laughter convulsed us both as relief replaced fright. At least if we had to camp …
Volcano National Park on the Big Island of Hawaii is home to one of Earth’s most active volcanoes – Kilauea – in an island chain born of volcanoes. We stood on an observation platform, in the middle of the devastating lava field caused by Kilauea’s most recent eruptions, with a sweeping view of the stunning coastline. Then it struck. No, not the waves, the realization we had fled to the safety of an active volcano to escape a possible tsunami.
Nine hours later, as the evacuation order was lifted, there was audible disappointment among the other tourists – no photo ops. Fortunately, Hawaii was spared that time, but that hasn’t always been the case.
Later in the week we drove into Hilo for a day at its famous market. A substantial swath of land forms a buffer between the historic commercial center and the Pacific Ocean. It makes for attractive park land and athletic fields but that’s not the reason for its existence.
For nearly a century before 1946 that same swath of land had been Japan Town, a warren of immigrant shanties. It lives on in Hawaii’s superb Asian fusion cuisine. Yet in a brief time frame on April Fool’s Day 1946, Japan Town and many of its residents were swept into the sea by a tsunami created by another catastrophic earthquake thousands of miles distance in Chile.
The Pacific Tsunami Museum is a short walk from the Market. Staffed mostly by volunteers – many who survived the devastating 1946 tsunami – they showed no sympathy for the tourists that lost photo ops a few days before.
As long as the carbon dioxide and sulphur gas levels from Kilauea’s simmering crater do not force its closure, Volcano National Park is open 24 hours. We drove one night to the observation area that’s closest to the caldera. There in the pitch blackness of an overcast Hawaii night, we looked in awe at the vast, blood-red glowing cauldron of Halemaumau, the eternal home of Pele, goddess of volcanoes. The fragility of paradise, Pele is indeed home, prepared to remodel the land at her pleasure.
You are reading that correctly: “…every effort to appear civilized.” The author was Aleko E. Lilus and the article, “The Old Seaport of the Sulu Pirates,” appreared in the highly popular monthly magazine, Travel, October 1931 (Robert M. McBride & Co., Camden, NJ). I did not seek out this magazine. This treasure of Western mores illustrated through travel was a recent gift knowing full well my interest in antiques and popular culture through the ages.
Travel (1902-2003) “…was reflective of the world at the time…” (Contextualization, Clay Dillon) and let’s remember the time. 1931, the depth of the greatest world economic depression ever, Fascism is flourishing in Italy with many European and American supporters, the Nazi Party is gaining ground in Germany, the Western empires control most of Asia, Africa and South America. In the USA the Klu Klux Klan is terrorizing and murdering African Americans, Jews and Catholics – and not just in the south – and the United States has shut the immigration door to all but white Christian Western Europeans.
Yet for the affluent who could travel, and the majority that could only dream through films and lavishly illustrated magazines, this was the “Golden Age” of Aryan dominance – the opportunity for the “savage” to rise above his station. Travel writers could transport minds from a 3-room Hoboken apartment to exotic lands, “educating” their audience that there were people that had it “far worse” than you had it at home.
The articles run the gamut from the cathedrals of Mexico, the American Southwest, the vineyards of France, a once great Medieval European city to the wilds of Australia. Yet the language used to describe non-Western cultures is far different than those used for lands closer to home.
“The sultan’s niece…became a co-ed of the University of Illinois. She was thoroughly Westernized, but on her return…she promptly forgot her pretty American ways…and went native…As an educational and social experiment she must be considered a complete failure.” (p.25).
“Some of them…have bought Fords…but in the back country they still shoot bows and arrows and have never heard they belong to a vanishing race…” (p.28 “Exploring the Southwest in Your Own Motor” by Harry Fergusson).
“They love their children but they are inclined to spoil them for discipline comes hard to the southern mind..” (p.17 “Malta – Stronghold of the Sea King” by Francis Mc Dermott).
“The Spanish Colonials…upon this land they called “New Spain” … lavished their genius, endowing it with…civilization…” (p.7 “The Glory of Mexico’s Cathedrals” by James Jenkins).
Despite the racism, my 1931 edition of Travel is a gorgeous magazine, especially its stunning black and white photography and its advertising illustrations. In researching the history of Travel, it was second only to The National Geographic in readership for an audience interested in the world outside the United States. Indeed the last article in the October issue is on Australia’s unique animal life, “Nature’s Side Show in Australia” by Georgia Maxwell.
Naturally, for any modern traveler, 1931 prices for hotels and steam ships seem absurdly inexpensive until one factors what a 1931 dollar purchased compared to 2011. Today’s traveler needs $14.00 for what $1.00 was worth during the Great Depression.
The queen of Philadelphia’s hotels, the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel, had rooms as low as $4/day in the depth of the Depression. You need $56 in 2011 – cheap but these were teaser rates if you didn’t have a job..). A 12-day cruise to the Bahamas started at $125 ($1,750 in 2011 dollars) and the French Railways campaign that “Everybody’s back” speaks to today’s travel ads urging the recession weary to travel once more.
I well remember this anticipated magazine that arrived at my home as a child and young adult. I assume the strong cultural inclusion of my parents negated any latent racism in the 1950s– 1960s. As a travel writer I’ll be the first to praise the work I’m fortunate enough to enjoy, yet I’m well aware of the fine line that separates being the eyes of the reader from the human that may color the picture with their own cultural prejudices.