Chaco Canyon Culture

Whispers of ghosts 

accompany us as 

we walk through

their sun baked ruins. 

They watch as we 

look for traces

of early New Mexicans

who exchanged turquoise

frogs for golden rings and

other valuable things 

with people from 

far  away places. 

It is here they prayed

to honor  their gods In 

kivas deep and round

which abound in this mud

bricked town where

rituals and ceremonies

helped them understand 

the ancient ones who 

came up from deep 

underground.

Here is where they fell in love

with black velvet skies filled with 

jewels that twinkled their minds 

with curiosity about time as

they measured it's movement

With such precision we think 

they must have been aliens.

We look at their past 

from our throne in the now 

seeking a future for humans

while the ghosts observe

and wonder if we too 

can learn to balance our 

pursuit of gold, god and glory.

The Maicao Mall

 The Maicao Mall

The best part of Maicao was the Islamic part of town.  It was clean and people were friendly and helpful.  The worst part of Maicao was the craft market, an area in the middle of town, covered by a variety of large multicolored tents held up by rough wooden poles connecting ramshackle tin roofed establishments creating a crammed maze of dark narrow passages separating clusters of vendors.  The heady odor of food, excrement, dead animals, and the hundreds of people selling and buying goods was not conducive to shopping, but there were not many choices in that part of the world.  The dirt streets surrounding this covered square block caused dust to permeate the air when it was dry. During the rainy seasons the streets were like rivers of deep dark stinking mud that made the streets impassable to pedestrians.  Little boys carried planks around town to help shoppers cross the streets without stepping in the mud.  Thankfully the narrow concrete sidewalks were mud free and fairly ubiquitous, carrying people to the narrow colorful tiendas guarded by serious men holding shotguns.  This was our mall where we bought the household items, imported foods and cigarettes that made our lives in the gray metal house at the Cerrejon coal mine more comfortable.  The mine was over an hour away on the bus and was located on the south edge of a jungle.

We were in front of the International Hotel, all five members of our family, looking around the narrow street trying to find our bus.  The bus with the armed guards who protected us on the ride through the wilderness to and from Maicao.  They were also a reminder that the the huge open pit coal mine where we taught the children of the engineers and administrators, was an important financial presence in Maicao.   Our employers paid royalties to the local government so that the the mine’s employees had a kind of immunity from the harsh life of the town during the day.  We had been told by our Colombian neighbors, “Do not get caught on the streets of Maicao after dark.”  We even knew people who had been pulled form their cars, robbed and left helpless right in the middle of town during daylight. Without the bus and its armed guards we were beginning to feel a little panicked.  We were a remarkably visible foreign presence in the midst the dark natives who saw foreigners as easy pickings.  

It had actually been a pleasant day wandering around town, eating in the Islamic section,  buying items we wanted to take back to camp to make our life a little more comfortable; clothes, electronics, candies, liquor, cigarettes.  We had visited the Wayouu craft tents where we had wandered around disoriented and that was why we missed the bus.   Maicao had begun in 1927 as a stronghold keep the Wayouu people under control.  That hadn’t worked well and now the town was a crossroads for “black market” imports.  Situated on the Venezuelan border and only an hour away from the deserted beaches of the northern coast on the Caribbean.  To the east are the Sierra Nevada mountains, an important pot growing region and from the south, out of the jungle, there is a flow of marijuana and cocaine.  Maicao was given special tax status so there is no import fee for raw materials, but this turned into a free flow of goods from outside Colombia and sold without the crippling taxes you would pay elsewhere.  Drugs and the black market combined with the war against FARC, Wayouu unwillingness to be Colombians, the harsh terrain, and the humid climate made Maicao a place ripe for tough hombres, and we were not those hombres as we stood in front of the hotel and tried to figure out what to do.

     

We began to feel that our space on the sidewalk was not secure.  Scott, our youngest son, was bumped by some young boys running down the sidewalk.  Our daughter, Heather, thought that maybe we should stay at the hotel.  Jeremy, our middle schooler, did not want to stay in Maicao preferring to find the city bus station and pay for a bus to get back to camp.  Although we were not sure where the bus station was located, LaWanda and I decided that was probably the best idea as we noticed the appraising looks we were getting from the many pedestrians while the sun continued it’s descent and the light began to dim. 

So, I asked someone for directions in my heavily accented Spanish.  This drew a group of men who menacingly watched while we attempted to get directions.  After we figured out what was being said, we took off at a brisk pace to distance ourselves from the group of men. The people on the sidewalk did not smile and wish us a good day.  They bumped into us as we hurried along and maybe attempts were made to pick our pockets, but we were moving too quickly for anyone to be effective.  We just kept walking faster and faster, hoping we would get to the bus station before the last government bus took off for the jungle.  We felt as if the whole town was watching our flight through the streets of Maicao.  

   

Finally, after an unnerving walk through town, we found the bus station.  We were so anxious to get off the street that we almost ran the last fifty yards.  Once we were inside the station there was a sense of relief and the unhurried pace of life in Colombia returned.  There were people sitting around waiting for buses who didn’t even look up as we entered.  We approached the ticket counter, requested five tickets for Cerrejon and were told the bus would leave in half and hour.  When we crawled aboard the brightly painted bus we were greeted by a sign telling us that Jesus wished us a good trip.  Our bus trip was uneventful and our imaginations settled down as the bus took us back to our metal house with the bright red carpet on the edge of the jungle where we felt safer and a little more comfortable with the things we had bought in Maicao.

The Blue Goose

 originally written March 14, 2019

    One of the most amazing places our family was lucky enough to experience was a blue apparition in the Atacama Desert.  It was a collection of living spaces, tents, and metal structures at the crossroads of the Pan American Highway and the turn off to Toquepala which began climb of 8500 feet into the Andes mountains.  It was also a place for the police to stop vehicles to check for something, even if they knew you had nothing.  They might be looking for illegal immigrants, drug activity or maybe they just wanted to harass someone.  The Atacama desert is the second driest desert in the world and the Blue Goose was the name of this hot spot on the ribbon of road cutting through a landscape with the Andes mountains towering over the land to the east and vast stretches of sandy desert running north and south along the coast of the Pacific Ocean to the west.  Vegetation was sparse to non-existent.

    LaWanda and I were working as teachers in Toquepala, the site of a large open pit copper mine 8000 feet above the  blue goose in the Andes Mountain. We lived in pleasant house with our two preschool aged children, close to the school where we worked.  The Blue goose was the first sign of civilization after leaving the mine after driving west for two hours.  The descent was steep causing the road from the mine to twist and turn as the flat plains came closer and closer.  There were spectacular views of the mountains and deserts interspersed with dangerous curves that drew your attention back to the road.  Arriving at the Blue Goose one would turn right and head straight up the coast to New Mexico, if you had a lot of time.  If you turned left the road cut across the Moqueqa Valley and into Tacna the major city of southern Peru, with 5000 inhabitants.  Tacna was a short drive from Arica, Chile, a coastal city where there had been no recorded rainfall and a statue of Bernardo O’Higgins represented the proud heritage of Chileans.

    Our family was frequently stopped at the Blue goose when returning from Tacna.  The police were neither friendly nor hostile, but there was always a sense that they meant business and that being a foreigner was a liability.  My favorite place to stop within the boundaries of the blue goose was a small gas station at the southern end of the habitations.  It was obviously as gas station because there were two gas pumps out front, a covered area over the pumps and a small rectangular building.  When you pulled up to the pumps all you could see was desert to the south, west and east.  The most interesting part of the gas station was that after pulling up to a pump you had to go into the building and the attendant would pour about 5 gallons of gasoline into container from a metal barrel in the office.  Then you would carry the gas out to your car and put it into the the gas tank.

    During one trip I was pouring gas into the tank of my Brazilian Volkswagon, while LaWanda and the kids dozed in the heat.  I was staring at the void that was the desert when, through the shimmering heat waves, I spotted an emerging man with a donkey.  My thought, was de donde vine?  There was no civilization in that direction.  The figure kept walking toward the highway and eventually I could discern that it was an elderly man with a long goatee wearing a wide brimmed hat with a serape thrown over his shoulder.  He looked like a Mexican Paisano not a Peruvian Indian.  He kept walking, his donkey following heading right for the highway.  They crossed the road and keep walking into the desert and I watched him until he could no longer be seen.  

    I have often thought of that man and his donkey and wondered where he came from and where he was going.  As far as I knew the Blue Goose was right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.  He probably knew a lot more about what was out there than I will ever know or perhaps can imagine.  Although I can try. 

Peru was a wonderfully strange place!

Looking for the Kahn Kahlili

“ Hello my friends, Welcome to Cairo!” The smiling man said as he peered at us from the doorway of the store where we were window shopping.  

“Hello my friend.”  I replied looking up from the display of souvenirs for tourists in the window of his shop.  

“Come in, come in, there are many things for you to look at many fine souvenirs to take back when you go home.”  He said in accented English.  He stepped onto the sidewalk and gestured for us to enter his store.

“No thanks, We are just looking, we actually live here in Cairo, really in Heliopolis, and we are out on a walk, we’re on our way to the Khan al Khalili.” 

“I have many fine items in my shop, just like you will find in the Khan.  Come in, you needn’t buy anything, we are all friends.  Are you an American?”  he smiled at me under his thick mustache. 

“Yes, I’m an American, so is my wife.  We have been living here for about a year already, we are teachers at the American School of  Cairo, and we love walking around your city.”  I remarked trying to move away from the store and get back to our walk.

The store owner stepped further away from the doorway, he was dressed neatly in a starched white shirt, creased black trousers and shiny leather shoes.   

“Where are you from in America, I have a cousin in Detroit.  Do you know Detroit?”

“No, we’re from Albuquerque, New Mexico and have never been to Detroit.” I replied.

“You are from Mexico, not America?  The store keeper looked puzzled.

“No, no, we are Americans, you know, we live close to Texas.” I said as I took LaWanda’s arm ready to step out on the sidewalk and take off.

“Ah, Texas, please enter my shop and let us share a cup of tea, we will talk, you don’t have to buy anything just look.”  His enticement punctuated by a bow, a gesture to enter his store and a slight movement to block our passage.

“Alright, just a cup of tea and we will talk.” I said worn down by his persistence.  

We entered the shop passing between shelves loaded with souvenirs as he led us to a small sitting area with a coffee table, two chairs, and a small couch that all looked as if they had been plucked from Louis XIVth’s palace.  We sat down and a young woman wearing a black head scarf and a full length black dress covering her body from neck to foot entered, her exposed face expressionless.  She set our tea on the table in front of the couch and withdrew. 

“Many Americans have been here, many famous people.  Let me show you.”  He opened a book on the coffee table and there were pictures of famous people, I even recognized a few.  “Let me show you a some nice things.”  He quickly stood up scurried to the surrounding shelves and picked up a small ceramic statue. 

“Here is something many Americans like, it is the Sphinx, better than you will find at the Kahn al Kahlili.” he said pushing the statue toward LaWanda.  

“No thank you!” she told him refusing to hold the Sphinx, “We are not interested in buying AnyThing!  We want to walk around and find the Khan Khalili!”  

It was as if she had told him to go to hell.  He straightened up, his eyes narrowed and holding the statue, he gesticulated emphasizing his displeasure while he spoke.   “Why you don’t buy anything, it is good merchandise, help Egypt, help me, buy from my shop!”   

He said something in Arabic and the woman reappeared, picked up our unfinished tea and retreated to the rear of the store.  The owner turned his back on us and went back to the doorway ready to cast his line again leaving us sitting all alone on the uncomfortable French furniture.

“Well,” I said, “that sure pissed him off.”  We smiled at each other, got up, walked past him in his doorway, and continued walking toward the Khan Kahlili.