A VISIT TO EL PORCÓN IN CAJAMARCA-PERU

September 20th 2007

I am  three hours away from Tilcara in the Northern Province of Jujuy where Incas built places. It will be a week of shamanic rites with elders or 'los abuelos' in Spanish to denominate Indian sages. Others are called pilgrims, I don't know where I will be put in the sacred circle of worship. There is not going to be any ingestion of hallucinogenics and recording or photography is not allowed. 

 I travelled from Buenos Aires on the 12th -where we stayed three days- to Rosario, where Che Guevara was born, along the rio Parana. But only just four nights ago we arrived in the most scenic area of Argentina in Cafayate where once the Calchaqui confederation of Indian nations lived. They included the Diaguitas in Cafayate, Ululas in Santa Maria and the Quilmes in Quilmes.

The confederation numbered about 100.000 people, but after they had resisted the Incas they they waged a war of 135 years, against the Spanish conquistadors. The Spaniards succeeded in cutting off the water and the food supply after the confederacy fell in their hands. They were tortured, raped, enslaved and marched away on foot to different areas, but the majority went on foot to Buenos Aires, which by bus is about three days drive...just imagine.

In 1812 with the Independence they were assimilated into Buenos Aires' population. The place where they had been kept by the Jesuits in a reducción was called Quilmes, and so Quilmes still exists today, but the real Quilmes Indians as well as the Diaguita, I was told,  have perished or have fused with the Argentineans.

Today, the moment I was about to leave, a friendly old woman asked  me where my poncho came from - my Q'uero one if bought in Cusco-, I had a hunch she was Indian. She said she was from near the Chilean border near the Atacama desert. That rang a bell and I got interested.

"Are you Mapuche?" I asked her to avoid asking her if she was an Indian. She said:" no I am a Diaguita."

I WAS TRASHED IN NEPAL

Dear all,

I arrived on the night of the 31st in Kathmandu, a country known as the Shangri-La. Despite its name it has turned into a chaotic place and anarchy is rampant. Police forces in remote villages are still being killed or punished by the YCL (Young Communist league), which here in the press are dubbed “the young criminal league", because of their violence. The cadres, who are in a coalition government as the Maoist Party, seem to be unable to rein them in.

Anyway, I came here on a mission, believe it or not, for Lord Shiva, from whom I got the vision in a trance about 5 months ago. I was told to go to Pashupatinath in Nepal. Then it would have been appropriate to go, it was still dry season, no floods and one day of Shiv Ratri (worship of Shiva allover the country in India and Nepal. I couldn’t go as I was still teaching in Thailand.

Came what came, I had to go and to my pleasant surprise, I found out that the month of August is an entire month of Shiva worship. I had to go to Pashupatinath, which means protector of animals, which Shiva is. No wonder I thought, why I see so many animals in my trances or I turn in one, ranging from cobra, python, to wolf or eagle and condor. Even owls, mustangs, you name it are part of the panorama of traveling in the 4th dimension. 

So, after one sleepless night in a budget guesthouse (noise the whole morning for they had a wedding party) I headed for Bauda, known as Bodanath. There you visit a stupa erected in 15th century and now worshipped by Tibetan monks, Nepalese, and the to Buddhism foreigners converted, who just like the Tibetans and Nepali prostrate themselves on the ground and make the prayer wheels turn clockwise for good fortune.

To my pleasant surprise I met a bunch of Rajasthani nomads who live in tents in a muddy place behind the stupa. Two shoeshine boys accosted me and took me to their tent dwelling and that’s how I got to know them. Pleasant, ‘because I dreamed of going back to Rajasthan one day to meet those nomads again, and look I found them here. Thanks Shiva!!!

Now many of my friends are not Hindus and nor am I, but I have turned into this jangri (Nepali for Shaman) and I go where the gods and spirits send me. I waited 3 days, still on antibiotics for a very resistant lung infection and feeling weak and feverish, I decided that I could make my move to Pashupatinath, which is a 15-minute walk over a street, which leads through meadows. Before I went I decided to buy two postcards, one of Shiva and one of Hanuman, the monkey god whom I had seen in a vision in Cuzco in the Sacsayhuaman Inca area. I told the friendly vendor in the shop, that one of my names was Wayra Inti (Wind of the Sun given to me by a Peruvian Shaman on the Island of the Sun Bolivia). "Oh, he said, "Hanuman means wind and Hanuman is also Shiva in another body."

So I would be “Hanuman Surya “ (the latter means sun) and thinking of this I got really startled to find out about the so many signs and messages I received in Thailand, too many to tell, though. It confirmed time and time again my connection with Shiva. "And you know", the vendor said: "Today is Hanuman day."

The very same day I went to Pashupatinath on Hanuman day, could it be more enlightening? At last I stood in front of the Baghmati River; it was a concrete gray with a rapid spewing from my left. I saw children playing and bathing in the nude on an islet in the middle of it. Despite the color I shed my clothes and went down the stairs into the river. The water was not freezing and reached just below my knees. I had a couple of adult Newaris (Nepalese) following my every move with an approving smile. Soon many more got interested and stood on the wall that separated the river a bit from the road. I enjoyed playing with the kids and instantly I was one myself, we splashed water and mud from the river at one another. I let my self float in the strong current and submerged myself followed by rubbing the silted mud over my face and body.

Then I faced the sun and made my vows and sun worship and asked His Lord to continue to guide me. I got out after having sprayed myself with some diluted detergent that a Nepali boy gave me. And I walked on not knowing exactly where the Pashupatinath sacred Shiva temple stood. Following my nose and instinct I ended up following a young Nepali who said he went to a Shiva temple up there where I was warmly welcomed on top of the stairs by elder Hindus. I left my sandals behind and entered the premises. I found a shrine right in front of me, a square building with a huge lingam (Shiva’s organ) cut out in rough rock red with Hindu powder. I took some and made a tikka on my forehead (a red dot on the third eye place). I felt so exhilarated.

When I left the shrine I saw more men sitting on the right side, one was reading the puranas (Holy Hindu texts) and another one was making a fire. Another young guy invited me to sit and we started a conversation. He had seen me as others had. He said they had wondered about why a foreigner was bathing there? What is he doing there? They felt foreigners should be more sophisticated, but then they didn’t know of my spiritual mission. Shambu who then became a new acquaintance, is a Brahmin and told the guys he could see me worship the Sun and so he knew I wasn’t doing the swimming for fun in that river. He heard my story and believed me. We have seen more and more westerners like you who have come here and said they had spoken with Shiva. Shambu itself means Shiva too!

He called his friends to come over and we discussed the many facets of spirituality. Then as it got later we went down to the other side over the hill to face the burning ghats in front of the Pashupatinath temple. A band of starved monkeys found me when I ripped open a banana and stole it from me. A big macaque took place on my head and when satisfied of his domination over me jumped away again. Later in the evening a group of women dressed in pure orange moved in single file from the left to the stairs that lead to the temple. We waited and it seemed the doors would only open around 7 p.m. We got to see a range of shrines built by the Mala dynasty, a maharana, kind of king who had thirteen wives and built a shrine for each, with a lingam and bull facing the lingam for every deceased rani (queen).

Then at last it was nearly dark and the temple doors opened up, but we sat from a distance of about 100 meters and the crowd inside the temple was blocking the view of his lingam, we couldn’t see anything. I’d come back tomorrow with Shambu. Before we left we went to see a sadhu (Holy man) with a white long beard who gave Shambu a fifteen minute lecture on what the ego (atman) soul and God is, basically rebuking my vision quest. 

Shambu and I left him for what he was, an orthodox man who clung to his taught beliefs and could or would not accept that anything can happen outside of the Hindu doctrine. It was nothing but a dream I saw, he had said, as this life is a dream too. I didn’t want to debate with him. I knew what I had seen months ago and what it meant. That was more than enough. Barely had Shambu dropped me off near the stupa and I walked home to my guesthouse Kailash (the sacred abode of Shiva in the Himalayas) -where else would have stayed but I lodge with the appropriate name?

But my happiness turned very ugly when I was bothered by a drunken guy flanked by three other intoxicated youths, sitting like him on the pavement in front of the small restaurant where I was going to eat. He obviously sought to provoke me just before I entered it at around 8.30 pm. He asked me imitating an American accent;"Hey, man whassup?" I ignored him, but he continued: “You look like some kind of Baba (a holy man) - I was wearing my red Karen sarong and a Cambodian scarf on my head, something I had done for premises of Pashupatinath.

I ignored his last one-liner with a smile. After I came out again, three of the four who sat near the restaurant carried someone away who could barely stand on his legs. The guy who had spoken to me was with them and they were either drunk or drugged or both.

I passed them by, just in front of them, and met with a fellow traveler from France who stayed in my guesthouse. Barely having started our conversation, the guy approached us and stood nearly face to face overhearing our conversation. I told him to leave us alone, as it was private. Three times didn’t work and I got really worked up about him, I told him that I would call the cops if he didn’t leave right away. He said: “Let the cops come!"  So, I pushed him away by his shoulder. During this my lady friend was pushed brutally aside and others in the street just looked on. That’s when he punched me and I instinctively punched back. Before I realized I saw fists and feet from blowing from all corners and feet kicking on me until I fell on the ground, more kicks hit my head, face and body. In the end I managed to escape and screamed “POLICE!" at the top of my lungs. I found what I thought was a teenage policeman, near the stupa, (I found out the day after, he was only a security guard with no power).

 

I was bleeding from my eyes which were now seriously swelling. My entire body was aching. The young policeman with a lathi in hand warned his colleagues. In five minutes they arrived at the scene but did nothing but watch when the tough guy attempted to attack me again, though some people withheld him. I had run for my life to the cops, but no one, even a group of monks and tourist who passed buy seemed to be bothered to offer some assistance. No doctor was found and I ended up in the guesthouse where I felt safe but in awful pains.

That was my day; it had started so beautifully, I wonder why it ended this way. I am now at the press, but no one seems to be willing to publish the assault story. I haven’t gone to the cops, as from my experience I know they won’t do anything.

 

Laatst bewerkt door alann (2007-08-04 09:02:41)

A PRESS STORY/INTERVIEW WITH ME (in a Nepali daily in 2001) THAT WENT WRONG-CAN SOMEONE TRANSLATE THIS?

CREATING ART IN THE INDIES

I believe it was the year 2000 that I ended up in Mahabalipuram, a little tourist village south of what was then still known as Madras. Madras, now known as Chennaí is quite a big city, hot and steamy, where the scents of flowers and car exhausts mix with the sweat of the many backpackers lost in the turmoil of the traffic.

I was going there for my first time, a stopover on my way from Kathmandu to Trivandrum, to meet my Dutch colleague-in-the-arts Jan Dames, who enjoyed his time as usual with the ladies on the Kovalam beach.

In 1994, I was supposed to end up in Madras with an onward ticket from Sri Lanka, but I ended up in a hospital with a slip disc instead. So, now I could make up for my failed visit.

Besides the archaeological museum which I visited for its huge Gupta buddha art collection and dozens of war paraphernalia, I managed to see Madrassan young artists at work, who were busy creating a bas-relief of scenes from the famous Mahabarata epic. I nearly took a course, I was so impressed with the work , but the fees and visa restrictions didn't really encourage the idea.

The heat was getting oppressive and so I sought refuge in a cinema, where they happened to be showing Mrs. Doubtfire. I cried my eyes out with this tragi-comedy, as it reminded me so much of my own two darling children I had left behind in Belgium.

The next day I moved on to the town of Mahabalipuram; a historic place by the seashore. Busloads of domestic tourists and backpackers, used to hang out there (and still do so today) for a few days or even weeks, clicking their cameras away or simply enjoying a evening stroll on the beach.

Mahabalipuram's beaches are kilometers long, quiet and desolate. The village was so picturesque it made me want to stay. However, most bungalows or guest houses were booked months beforehand. But, I managed to secure a room for myself and within a few days I started painting on rice paper which I had bought in Kathmandu. I used my brushes and paint like a madman, outside on the patio, where the acrylic colours dried too fast in this heat. I had to create a whole body of work for an exhibition I would stage in April in Kathmandu that same year.

Between my frantic creative spells, I went out to discover the village and its people. I loved the Indians, especially those from the South, who are so much more easy going than their northern fellow Hindus. After all, they are the aboriginal Indians (having said that, many of them do look like their aboriginal brothers from Australia), the Dravidians, (with a black complexion, a broad range of white teeth when they smile, it is only a matter of seconds to thaw a frosted westerner) who were pushed to the south by the invading Indo-Aryans from the West.

Mahabalipuram, however, was known and still is, for its carving in soap stone. It didn't take me long to realise that I could have them carve my designs out of that soft stone. I decided to create some tribal good luck charms with a shamanic appeal on paper.

Everything worked out fine although here and there I had to retouch some of my pieces with a keen interest in learning the trade.

Still, I had no idea of what exactly I was going to do with them. Until I was back in Kathmandu with about 2 dozen paintings under my arm to show in the gallery. As if everything had been planned, it dawned on me I could have cast them in metal, so I went looking for a blacksmith. I found two smithies, but neither  were really interested or they were too busy to accept any order of mine. At last one young smith accepted, but he wanted money up front.

So I gave him what he wanted as a down payment. But guess my surprise, when next day he wasn't there. I had ordered one hundred pieces and he had been given eight different orignal designs in soap stone. Another day went by and still he was not at his post. I started panicking, thinking he had run off with the originals and the brass pieces. His colleagues tried to calm me down by telling me not to worry. Don't worry, no te preocupes (in Spanish), mai pen rai (in Thai) are key phrases in business to soothe anyone who wants to do business in a culture he is not familiar with.

The third day he was back with a hangover. He had spent all the money on booze and was now ready for the job.

I liked the first batch, but I still wanted more copies, this time with my name engraved at the back of the pendant. However he couldn't do that straight away, as he was caught up with more important orders. So I had to wait until after the show. It took weeks, time was running out and so was my visa. Just 2 days before I had to leave he had told me to come and pick them up the day after. I did so, but he gave no show. The last day was the day I had bought my bus ticket, and I had waited 2 hours at the smithy, alas, he never showed up.

He had my originals which were very dear to me. I suspected, he could make as many as he could and sell them to the local shops catering to tourists. How would I know? I wouldn't. I simply hopped on the bus and said Namaste Nepal, hope to see you next time.

PS: Oh, one thing more...my show was at the Siddartha Art Gallery, and despite Maoist activities I did get a large number of visitors.

To see some of my pieces, please go to:


http://www.artists.de/81308-1-1-alann:dancing-shaman

Namaste

Alann

I AM NEW TO THIS

Dear visitors of this blog,


I am a polyglot and would love to write in 6 different languages, but alas it is so time consuming. I have decided, though, to start up some writings here about my past travels. 


Fifteen years ago there were no blogs, but fortunately I sometimes kept a diary. 

Out of the very few diaries I will publish some anecdotes or fragments. You will be able to read and hopefully enjoy some of the read, even if it happened back in 1989 or earlier.


It is hard to find a publisher for my book, which I have finished last year, about my experiences with Brazilian Indians. 


Not many people in the Old World care to read about the indigenous peoples of South America, I was told by an English publisher, and so perhaps, some of the content here maybe of  interest to someone in the field of travel literature, short stories or cultural anthropology?

I am new and hope for the best that my blogs will generate enough interest to be followed and read.

I used to be very fast, -my mum used to call me the Flying Dutchman, because I ran her errands so fast. 


Nowadays, I have slowed down a bit; that comes with the wear and tear of thirty years of travelling, however my lips still tend to speak quicker than my my mind can think...so bear with me if I stumble sometimes over unexpected hurdles.

Until later


Yours

Alann