Iguazu Falls

Iguazu Falls
Aerial view of Iguazu Falls from the Brazilian side.

Friday 12 June 2015

The Sacred Valley of the Incas



Vilcanota Valley, with the Vilcanota/Urubamba River, part of the Sacred Valley

Cusco and the Sacred Valley of the Incas. It never gets old...even on the third visit. The highlights of Cusco and environs merit a separate post; this focuses on a two-day tour of the Sacred Valley, which runs north from Cusco to Urubamba.

Day 1: 

Rain kept us from being as energetic as we would have liked. Read: climb 200 steps at Ollyantaytambo (Oy-YAN-tah-ee-TAHM-bow), one of two major Inca sites in the valley. It is built up the sides of two mountains, with the ceremonial centre on one side and granaries and a large man's face carved into the other.
Ollantaytambo--the 200 steps.
Ollantaytambo: granaries and man's head

Looking from the main plaza to the granaries
















The town, of the same name, is the best-preserved Inca municipality in an empire that stretched from northern Ecuador to central Chile.


 
Ollantaytambo-town with Inca walls and aqueduct.

The other site, Pisaq, is closer to Cusco  It too requires climbing, a fairly gentle but steady incline to the main area, then more, steeper climbing to some of the buildings and the Intihuatana.   

Pisaq is notable for the wall and doorway over the Inca Trail, which affords one of many stunning views of the Sacred Valley far below. 

Inca trail and entrance to Pisaq


Simon, Quechua flutist.

The town of Pisaq reminded me a bit of a hilly Antigua, with its well-preserved colonial buildings and houses.  
 
Guide Javier Quispe Cruz with David Abrahams

A large silver factory and jewelry store kept us looking for a half hour but I resisted the temptation to purchase a magnificent spondylus shell necklace.  A couple blocks away we came on the oldest colonial oven in Pisaq, where we enjoyed
 
The oldest oven in Pisaq
Spondylus shell necklace














Our last stop was at the Sanctuario Cochahuasi, a wildlife rescue centre. After getting up close and personal with a 60-year old condor we stopped to watch Antonia, a Quechua weaver, on a backstrap loom that brought up other memories of Guatemala.

A condor and me
Angela, weaver















Day 2:

Better weather greeted us and by afternoon there was some blue sky and sun. Our destinations included Moray, an Inca agricultural experiment station, the Marasal salt ponds, created in Inca times and fed by one small creek of VERY salty water, and the weaving town of Chinchero, which brought back memories of Teotitlán del Valle, Oaxaca. Along the way we stopped at a mirador where we looked down to the Urubamba River Valley while to our right was a hillside covered with terraces of Inca granaries or storage buildings where dried potatoes and other food, as well clothing and wool were kept for times of famine. People in the Inca empire never went hungry.
 
Granaries in the Sacred Valley

Moray is amazing site. First discovered in an archaeologist’s over flight of the region, a dozen-plus terraces were carved into a natural bowl. The difference between the top of the bowl and the bottom is 5 degrees, which created a series of microclimates on each terrace. Here the Incas improved the quality of several foods and spread this knowledge throughout the empire. Two smaller terraced bowls remain to be restored. The Peruvian National Institute for Agrarian Research (INIA) plans to renew Moray as an agricultural test station in the next few years.
 
Moray
Marasal Salt Ponds. The Incas suffered from widespread goiter because of the lack of salt in their diet. On discovering a small salty creek feeding into a steep valley, they began constructing ponds to capture the water, evaporate it, then harvest the salt. Over 2,000 salt ponds were created and are still in use. 
 
Marasal Salt Ponds

Source of the salt ponds.
Men harvesting one of the salt ponds.

Families in the nearby town of Maras own 2-3 ponds, which cannot be sold but are passed down in the family. In the rainy season (the North American winter months), we saw workers on only one salt pond; in the dry season from April to October, the ponds are flooded three times per month, allowed to dry, the harvested once a month. Each pond produces 50 kilos of salt per month.

Our next stop was Chinchero, located 50 minutes north of Cusco where the men farm and the women weave. The men help by going into the countryside and collecting the plants used to make the natural dyes that provide vibrant colours to both alpaca and sheep wool.
 
Dyeing alpaca
Olga



Our guide, Javier Quispe Cruz, led us to the Mink’a Chinchero co-op, a group of 15 women who weave, demonstrate their art to visitors, and sell their products. We were treated to a well prepared demonstration narrated by Olga Huaman, whose English and sense of humour were sharp. 

After demonstrating how they wash the wool with a natural detergent made from a tree root, make the dyes, dye the wool and weave on a back-strap loom, Olga held up a bone used in weaving and asked us what animal it came from. Cow, sheep, alpaca, llama? No, she said with a broad smile. “It’s the bone from a tourist who didn’t buy anything!” We couldn’t stop laughing. It was, in fact, alpaca. Olga also demonstrated how they use the red colours from the cochineal insect (a small white insect that lives on Nopales cacti) for lipstick. After applying a dot to her cheek and some to her lips, she looked at David and said, “This is good for a thousand kisses.” More laughter. We left with an alpaca scarf for David and small purse in which my notebook fits and hangs around my neck.
 
M'inke coop weavers and their products.

Back in Cusco we invited Javier and our driver to lunch, saying only that we wanted typical Peruvian food.
They took us to La Casona del Inca, which has two locations, one near Sacsayhuaman just outside Cusco, where ceviche made with mountain trout and accompanied by sweet potatoes and corn was memorable.

Sunday 7 June 2015

Across the Andes: From Santiago to Mendoza




Manzano Historico, Mendoza, where San Martín and his troops rested.
It took General José de San Martín 21 days in January 1817 with 5,400 men, 1,500 horses, and 9,300 mules.  They were the Army of the Andes and they were on their way to liberate Chile, having already driven the Spanish from Argentina.  Once across the mountains, San Martín joined with Chilean General Bernardo O’Higgins to begin the second war for independence in the Southern Cone.  On 12 February 1817, at the  Battle of Chacabuco—60 km. north of Santiago—the Royalists lost 500 and another 600 were taken prisoner while the Army of the Andes suffered 12 killed and 100 wounded. 
Chacabuco Park, an hour north of Santiago.

San Martín wrote: “The Army of the Andes has attained glory and can report: In twenty-four days we have completed the campaign, passed through the highest mountain range on the globe, defeated the tyrants and given freedom to Chile".   
(San Martín didn’t know about the Himalayas!)

The war would drag on for another year but at Chacabuco independence was assured.  The monument and the park in which it sits are located at Chacabuco.

We had a much easier time of it. 

After disembarking in Valparaiso we made our way to Santiago where we were met by Rodrigo del Valle, a tour guide arranged through a Chilean agency.  Rodrigo’s English is excellent; he lived in Los Angeles for 25 years.  We had asked to see the Maipo Valley, an area west of Santiago that we hadn’t visited on previous trips.  If you buy Chilean wine you have probably seen “Maipo Valley” on some bottles’ labels.  
Maipo Valley

La Vasquita Eché
First stop, however, was lunch, at La Vasquita Eché, where the grilled lamb shank and an obscenely large chunk of tenderloin are standard fare.  Argentines and Chileans are not acquainted with small cuts of meat.  We were also treated to a guitarist/singer and a pair of folk dancers.

Century-old corking machine.
Then it was on to a small, family-owned winery, the Cavas del Maipo, where the owner, Jaime, gave us a detailed tour, explaining along the way why he does things the way he does.  The result, as we found during the tasting at the end, is a superb chardonnay with no oak taste and the only cabernet sauvignon in memory that I would choose to drink: smooth with no harshness.   One of Jaime’s treasures is a 100-year old corking machine that he still uses to cork his sparkling wine.

Back at our hotel, we checked in, found a light supper, and were in bed by 10.  We had to be up at 06:00 for a 07:30 bus to Mendoza, Argentina. A few years earlier we had rented a car and driven up to the border and three decades ago I had driven from Mendoza almost to the Chilean border.  The bus was first-class with wide, comfortable seats, and our agent had gotten us the best seats:  front, left on a double-decker.  Lots of photo ops!

The trip normally takes five hours but Chile was doing serious road construction on the stretch near the border—above 3,000 m. (10,000 ft.) clearly trying to finish before winter sets in and skiers want to drive up to Portillo, a large ski resort just short of the border.   
 
Portillo
The delays for one-way traffic cost us an hour and the stop at customs on the Argentine side another hour. 

In 2008, on our first trip to Chile, David and I had driven up to Portillo just to see the Andes.  It never gets less spectacular but the best part is the 29 hair-pin curves (they are numbered) up the last mountain before the border.  At this point we were at about 4,000 meters or 14,000 feet.  On almost every straight stretch between curves, one can look down as see not only the valley but all the curves below.  We had a VERY good driver!
Some of the 29 curves.
The border crossing is efficient.  Everyone drives into a huge building with several lanes
Customs and Immigration, Argentine side.
for cars and two for buses.  Bus passengers must get off and present their passports or—in the case of Chilean/Argentine citizens their national ID card.  Sitting side by each in a glass-enclosed stall, a Chilean agent stamps the passport out of Chile and the Argentine agent stamps it in.  A random check of suitcases (ours escaped), then back on the bus for a non-stop to Mendoza. 

The Argentine side of the Andes is quite different from the Chilean; one is descending to 1,000 m (3,500 ft.) at Mendoza and the road, for the most part, snakes through wide valleys.  We got a partial view of Mt. Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Western Hemisphere, but its peak was, as usual, shrouded in clouds.  
 
Oasis in the Argentine Andes.
The Mendoza River accompanied us most of the way and it was great fun to see rafters at different points.
Rafting on the Mendoza River
A hundred km. outside Mendoza we passed a huge gas refinery, then the vineyards began.  
YPF Gas Refinery.
Ruca Malen Winery


Arriving at our hotel In Mendoza City we were greeted by a friendly and helpful staff who made our week-long stay a pleasure. 

More on our time in Mendoza in another blog post.

Friday 22 May 2015

Oscar Arnulfo Romero Remembered /Recordando el Arzobispo Oscar Arnulfo Romero

Tomorrow, May 23,  Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero will be beatified. The ceremony will take place in San Salvador and I regret that I cannot be there. I met and got to know Monseñor Romero during five months of research in El Salvador, 1979-80. Indeed, I left the country to return home and write a book just four days before his assassination.

Below is an op-ed I wrote and submitted to three newspapers; one declined because they already had a Romero piece, the other two didn't bother to respond.  So, here is my tribute to Romero (En español a continuación):
Archbishop Oscar Romero during his homily on 9 March 1980. He is speaking into a telephone connected to a 50,000 watt radio station in Costa Rica, which is broadcasting the Mass live. The previous week, right-wing thugs had blown up the transmitter of YSAX, the archdiocesan radio station in San Salvador.



May 23 is a glorious day for Salvadorans, one that most of the population has awaited for decades. Oscar Arnulfo Romero, the archbishop of San Salvador from February 1977 until his assassination by a right-wing death squad while saying Mass on March 24, 1980, will be beatified. 

Romero’s murder was the first time a Catholic priest had been killed in a church since Thomas Becket in 1170.  Both were archbishops who paid with their lives for standing up to their governments.  In Becket’s case, he ran afoul of King Henry II for refusing to put the Crown ahead of the Church and the king ordered his death.  

I had the privilege and honour of meeting, interviewing, and getting to know “Monseñor”—as he was affectionately called.  He was one of the moral giants of the late 20th century—up there with Martin Luther King, Jr., Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu, and other Latin American Catholic bishops who spoke truth to power during the dark years of military dictatorships.  I have never known anyone as humble, as clear in his faith, as courageous and unflinching. 
Monseñor Romero and me during an interview, December 1979.
Romero was plucked from the obscurity of a small diocese in eastern El Salvador where his focus was entirely on pastoral work and avoiding anything that smacked of politics. He was chosen precisely for this reason; Auxiliary Bishop Arturo Rivera Damas, the popular choice, was bluntly told in Rome why he wasn’t selected: “We don’t want anyone who will oppose the government.”   

The murder of a rural parish priest, Rutilio Grande, just three weeks after Romero’s installation, was transformative.  In an interview three months before his own death, Monseñor recalled the moment: 

Father Grande’s death and the subsequent deaths of other priests impelled me to take an energetic attitude before the government. Because of Grande’s death I said that I would not attend any official acts until this situation (who had killed Grande) was clarified…. I support all of the priests in the communities. We have managed to combine well the pastoral mission of the Church, preference for the poor, to be clearly on the side of the repressed, and from there to clamor for the liberation of the people.

Thus, Romero ran afoul of the government and economic elite—known as the “oligarchy”--for his relentless defence of human rights and denunciations of the increasing numbers of dead and disappeared  that unfolded in El Salvador in the late 1970s and early 80s.  While the Salvadoran government didn’t order Romero’s death, it created a climate in which right-wing death squads operated with impunity—often out of military barracks.
Sunday Mass was a must-do during my first months in the country. The Mass was traditional but Romero’s homily, often 90 minutes long, was not. Broadcast on the archdiocesan radio station, he became “the voice of those who have no voice.” 

Beginning with a theological exposition on the day’s scriptural readings, Romero related them to the reality of life in El Salvador. After church announcements, a recitation of the previous week’s events followed, which included a reading of every documented case of persons who had been killed, assaulted, or tortured—no matter by whom.  The homily was, in short, an oral newspaper. 

Romero once said, “If they kill me, I will be resurrected in the Salvadoran people.”  With his death the church was effectively silenced. Rome kept his successor, Arturo Rivera Damas, on a short leash by naming him “apostolic administrator” and waiting three years to make him archbishop.  

On February 1, 1992, the day peace formally came to El Salvador after eleven years of civil war (a cease fire had been in effect for several weeks), the former guerrillas, soon to be a legal political party, held a celebration in the plaza in front of the cathedral. As I entered the plaza and looked up, an enormous banner, billowing from the roof, stopped me. It held Romero’s visage and the words, “Monseñor, You are resurrected in your people.”


On May 23 that sentiment will flow through the streets of San Salvador and across the country. The Legislative Assembly, at the request of President Salvador Sánchez Cerén, a former guerrilla commander, this week approved a bill that gives workers in San Salvador and surrounding municipalities May 22nd off with pay, and all workers throughout the country the same benefit on the 23rd.  

The oligarchy, many of whom funded the death squads 35 years ago—even as they never missed Mass and sent their children to Catholic schools--will stay hidden behind their high walls and gated communities.  No matter. May 23 belongs to Oscar Arnulfo Romero and the millions of Salvadorans to whom he gave hope and a vision of a better country.  
__________________________________________________

Mañana, 23 de mayo, Arzobispo Oscar Arnulfo Romero serán beatificado. La ceremonia llevará a cabo en San Salvador y lamento que no puedo asistir. Conocí y llegué a conocer Monseñor Romero durante cinco meses de investigación en El Salvador, 1979-80. De hecho, me fui del país para regresar a casa y escribir un libro tan solo cuatro días antes de su asesinato.  Abajo es un artículo de opinión escrito y presentado a tres periódicos; uno disminuido porque ya tenían un artículo sobre Romero, los otros dos no molestan a responder. Así que, aquí está mi homenaje a Romero


El 23 de mayo es un día glorioso para los salvadoreños, uno que la mayoría de la población ha esperado durante décadas. Oscar Arnulfo Romero, Arzobispo de San Salvador desde febrero de 1977 hasta su asesinato a manos de un escuadrón de la muerte derechistas mientras decía la misa el 24 de marzo de 1980, será beatificado.

El asesinato de Romero fue la primera vez que un sacerdote católico había sido asesinado en una iglesia desde Thomas Becket en 1170. Ambos fueron arzobispos que pagaron con sus vidas, resulta de oponer las políticas de sus gobiernos. En caso de Becket, se enfrentó con el rey Henry II por negarse a poner la corona por delante de la iglesia y el rey ordenó su muerte.

Tuve el privilegio y el honor de reuniones, entrevistas y conocer "Monseñor" — como lo llamaban cariñosamente. Fue uno de los gigantes morales de finales del siglo XX — junto a Martin Luther King, Jr., Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu y otros obispos católicos de América Latina que habló la verdad al poder durante los oscuros años de las dictaduras militares. Nunca he conocido a alguien tan humilde, como claro en su fe, como valiente y resuelta.

Romero fue sacado de la oscuridad de una pequeña diócesis en el oriente de El Salvador donde su enfoque fue enteramente en trabajo pastoral y evitar cualquier cosa que golpeó de la política. Fue elegido precisamente por esa razón; el Obispo Auxiliar Arturo Rivera Damas, la opción popular, le dijo sin rodeos en Roma porque él no fue elegido: "No queremos a nadie que se opondrá al gobierno".

El asesinato de un sacerdote de una parroquia rural, Rutilio Grande, apenas tres semanas después de la instalación de Romero era transformativo. En una entrevista tres meses antes de su muerte, Monseñor recordó el momento:

"La muerte del padre Grande y las muertes posteriores de otros sacerdotes me empujó a tomar una actitud enérgica ante el gobierno. Debido a la muerte del Grande le dije que no asistiera ningún acto oficial hasta que se aclaró la situación (que había matado a Grande)... Apoyo a todos los sacerdotes en las comunidades. Hemos conseguido combinar bien la misión pastoral de la iglesia, preferencia por los pobres, a ser claramente del lado de los reprimidos y desde allí al clamor por la liberación del pueblo".

Por lo tanto, Romero se enfrentaron con el gobierno y la élite económica — conocida como la "oligarquía"--por su implacable defensa de los derechos humanos y denuncias de los crecientes números de muertos y desaparecidos que se desarrollaron en El Salvador al finales de los 70 y principios de los 80. Mientras que el gobierno salvadoreño no ordenó la muerte de Romero, creó un clima en que los escuadrones de la muerte derechistas operado con impunidad — a menudo fuera de los cuarteles militares.

La Misa los domingos era un deber-hacer durante mis primeros meses en el país. La Misa era tradicional pero la homilía de Romero, a menudo de 90 minutos de duración, no. Transmitido por la emisora de radio de la Arquidiócesis, YSAX, se convirtió en "la voz de quienes no tienen voz".

A partir de una exposición teológica en lecturas de las escrituras del día, Romero los relacionaron con la realidad de la vida cotidiana en El Salvador. Después de anuncios de la iglesia, siguió una recitación de los acontecimientos de la semana anterior, que incluyó una lectura de todos los casos documentados de personas que habían sido asesinados, agredidos o torturados — no importa por quién, derecha o izquiersa. La homilía fue, en definitiva, un periódico oral.

En un momento, Romero dijo que, "Si me matan, seré resucitado en el pueblo salvadoreño." Con su muerte la iglesia se silenció. Roma mantuvo su sucesor, Arturo Rivera Damas, con una correa corta por nombrarlo "administrador apostólico" y esperó tres años para hacerle arzobispo.

El 01 de febrero de 1992, el día de que la paz formalmente llegó a El Salvador después de once años de guerra civil (un alto de fuego había sido en efecto durante varias semanas), los ahora exguerrilleros, el FMLN, pronto a ser un partido político legal, llevó a cabo una celebración en la plaza frente a la catedral.

Cuando entró en la plaza y levanté la vista, una enorme bandera, ondulando desde el techo, me detuvo. Sostuvo el rostro de Romero y las palabras: "Monseñor, resucitaste en tu pueblo."

El 23 de mayo ese sentimiento fluirá a través de las calles de San Salvador y en todo el país. La Asamblea Legislativa, a propuesta del Presidente Salvador Sánchez Cerén, un ex comandante guerrillero, esta semana aprobó una ley para dar asueto pagado el día viernes 22 de mayo a nivel metropolitano de San Salvador y el mismo beneficio el 23 a todo el país.

La oligarquía, muchos de los cuales financiaron los escuadrones de la muerte hace 35 años — aun cuando nunca perdió la Misa y envió a sus hijos a escuelas católicas--permanecerá oculto detrás de sus altos muros y comunidades con portones. No importa. El 23 de mayo pertenece a Oscar Arnulfo Romero y los millones de salvadoreños a quienes les dio esperanza y una visión de un país mejor.