From the Valley to the Void

The last time I thought about God in any real way, I was here in this valley.

They say that the Valle de Elqui is a mystical place. Mountains cast shadows over dead or dying vineyards, and a river cuts through cracked earth, pressed in on both sides by green banks. At night, the universe is put on display, and telescopes pull whole galaxies in for a closer look. Some say there are magnetic forces that lend the valley a sort of gravitating power, a focal point of energy at the center of the world. Each of these things, the stars, the mountains, the rivers, the natural forces at work, compound to make this a divine place. And it is here that I think about what divinity means.

I have seen glaciers stretch across the horizon. I have watched sunsets and sunrises on different costs cast the same oranges, pinks, purples, and baby blues. I have watched moonlight filter through the wreckage of a sunken ship as I sit on a sand bed. I have been to places that are strikingly beautiful without thinking of God for a moment. Here, in this valley, I do.

I'm not sure that I believe in God enough to designate a pronoun or delineate from my beliefs an entity that is a separate individual. I don't believe that God, or the divine, exists in any way that we would be able to articulate. When the Buddha reached enlightenment, he refused to teach. He believed there was no way for him to formulate and convey a way to enlightenment. Brahma/God had to beg him to continue his existence on earth and teach what he had learned through his individual experience. But the Buddha knew that many times, the teachings get in the way of learning.

“[A] true seeker, one who truly wished to find, could accept no doctrine. But the man who has found what he sought, such a man could approve of every doctrine, each and every one, every path, every goal; nothing separated him any longer from all those thousands of others who lived in the eternal, who breathed the Divine.” -Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

Out of all of the teachings in the world (Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, Jainism, etc.), none are perfect.  None convey divinity simply because divinity, by nature, cannot be conveyed. Each religion is a path that is limited by language and the distance that separates a story from an experience. Each seeks to express the ineffable, and all of our sermons, services, and ceremonies are merely shadows on a cave wall.

I spent the afternoon by the river, listening like Hesse's Siddhartha did. I didn't hear what he heard, but I listened anyway. I meditated for the first time in months with the sound of white water running in the background. I wrote down my thoughts, scribbling out half-formed beliefs and rhetorical questions. I reached zero conclusions, and I feel just as distant from understanding as I did before. I'm not even sure that understanding is a goal I have or an objective to reach.

I came here with three concrete objectives: drink pisco, read poetry, and watch the stars scatter across the night sky. Yes, it was the most romantic vacation I could think of, and like the Romantics before me, I contemplated my relationship with the divine. I was intentionally existential.

Going back to my normal, un-Romantic life, I ask myself what it all means. In the silence that follows, I keep going, waiting for the next time I get the chance to come back to this valley and shout out over the void.

What's in a name?

Since coming to Chile about a year and a half ago, my name has been the source of endless grief. I brace myself for every introduction, prepping my memorized summary of how to say and spell it with as little confusion as possible. Almost everyone forgets by the second time we meet. And the reason is simple.

My name is Joe. Pronounced with a hard English "J" followed by an "oh."

Joe= J-oh.

In Spanish, "J-oh" is written as "Yo," which translates to "I." So every time I introduce myself, I say "yo soy Joe," which sounds indentical to "Yo soy yo" or "I am I." They look at me, eyebrows furrowed, mouth turned up, and I read their expressions as "yeah, and who the hell isn't?"

I understand their confusion.

For a while, I sought solace in the Bible. When God manifested Himself in a burning bush, Moses asked Him who He was. God's answer, "I am who I am." Sound similar?

My train of thought: "Yo soy yo," becomes "I am I," becomes "I am who I am."

Conclusion 1: my name echoes God's, and thus my, claim to divinity.

But still, I wanted to help people pronounce my name correctly, so I broke it down to its most fundamental components. Really, Joe sounds like "Jow." There's that sneaky blended vowel at the end  of my name that blunts the abruptness of the "Jo." It's been a while since I've taken math, but here was my basic arithmetic:

English          Spanish
J             =     Y
O            =     O
W            =     U

My name, written phoentetically in Spanish, is "You." "Yo soy You" or "I am You."

Conclusion 2: my name is simply recognizing that you and I are not only equal but synonymous.

Yes, I am smiling while I write this. Who knew that "Joe," a name that is used to embody mediocrity and the common man could actually be one of the most profound existential statements about the divinity you and I share?

Average Joe
Morning Joe
Joe the Plumber, no more!

I am Joe
Yo soy Joe
Yo soy yo
I am I
I am You

My given name may be "Joe," but underneath the name, I think all of us are just "Joes" trying to identify and distinguish what is truly an essential and shared existence of Joe-ness.

The only other alternative is that all of this is purely coincidental. But as Sherlock Holmes once said, "there is no such thing as coincidences." And isn't he also, underneath his intellect and fictional existence, just another "Joe"?

Aren't you?

The Gringo Gone For Far Too Long

There is something intrinsically insecure about blogging.

My everyday existence and my occasional adventures are shown to the world in a way that says, "look at what I'm doing. Please read it, please like it, please comment."

But what I'm really saying is, "please tell me that what I'm doing is worth doing at all."

Last year, while I wrote, I wanted people to read about my life and wish they were living it. But, beneath the bullshit, the winter months were cold and lacking any sort of purpose. I had few friends and a job that was underpaid, moderately rewarding, and ended each night long after the sun set. I wasn't happy, so what was I doing here? I read through the comments section looking for an answer and never found one.

Then, when spring came, the city thawed and I warmed up. Life was good. I cut back on my work hours, picked up some Spanish, and filled my day with sunshine and red wine. But it wasn't "blog worthy." It was just what it was: life with no profound realizations beyond the fact that the Starbucks on Manuel Montt never changed their Wifi password.

In short, I stopped writing this blog because no one seemed to care. Including me. My family knew that I was okay, and Facebook kept any interested friends well informed of my mundane meanderings. So why write about what everyone already knew?

I didn't have an answer. At least not while I was writing with the hope that on some far-away screen, someone would read it and walk away any better because of my two cents.

If I am writing for a reader, I'm forced to be cognizant of them. I am forced to present, refine, and exhibit my experience so that someone tells me that it was worth living through and sharing.

Now, I've decided that I don't care. I want to remember my year because a year is too long to not remember, and this blog is a way for me to keep that record. Yeah, I have a paper journal, but it's mostly full of nonsensical chicken scratch and brain barfs. Here, I feel the need to synthesize those bits into a post with pictures and a title. The structure of blogging makes me write something real enough to refer to later when I'm old and struck by the desire to remember.

So here I am, embracing to its core my self-centered reason for coming back. This blog is officially reclaimed as a journal in the truest sense of the word: reader-less.

So if you are here, tip toe around and quickly take your peek. Look over your shoulder to make sure that no one else sees what you're doing. Open different tabs and go into Private Browsing mode. Then go on and read as if you are guilty of doing something wrong. You are. When you finish, delete your search history and pray to God that no one finds out about our secret rendezvous.

Because this is not for you. But forbidden things are always a little more exciting. Here you are, or may be, reading thoughts that are private. And here I am publishing them on the Internet, knowing that I'm a hapless Google search away from being found out.

If there is any hope of me exposing my long-buried secrets and scandals or hanging dirty laundry out to dry, I can't promise that you'll be gratified. It's very possible that what I have to write is completely unremarkable, and the most I can guarantee is at least one rant about how shitty and gritty Nescafé is. Then, because I'm shameless, I'll confess that I don't even mind it anymore.

Maybe this blog isn't worth reading. But for me, and for me alone, it's worth writing. And finally, that's enough for me to keep going. That's enough for me to come back.

On the Road: Of Trekking and Chocolates

Bariloche

Maybe I overacted. Maybe I didn't need to take things so literally, so personally. But for a year, everyone and their abuelita told me about the food in Argentina.

If I liked a Chilean asado, I would just love Argentina's. Carmenere is nice, but isn't malbec simply divine? Savor the meat, cherish the chocolate, and douse everything in dulce de leche. And isn't that Messi player is a fine bit of eye candy too?

This weekend, Argentina had its chance to step up to the plate and put my money where my mouth is.

I'm still unsure what is essential to milanesa short of it being a sandwich. Regardless, I loved the stuff in all of its manifestations, whether it was chicken, steak, with a fried egg or a full salad on top. The steak was melt-in-your-mouth delicious, and the beers were wonderfully affordable during happy hours. The bartender even complimented my Spanish and gave me a free plate of fries as a welcoming gift.




For about $10, a chocolate factory let me take my pick of its sweetest treasures on a box of luxurious Barilochean chocolates. If I had bought a fur coat and a bottle of champagne, I couldn't have felt more fancy, especially when it was all washed down with a foamy cappuccino.

Bus Ride

Jurassic World starts playing again on a blurry, six-inch screen. In a semi-conscious state, I glaze over the Spanish subtitles, and Chris Pratt tells another joke that doesn't seem to translate well. A man comes over and asks if I would like water or juice. The juice looks a pale yellow, so I go for the warm cup of bus water. He gives me my third alfajor of the day. It's 1:00 p.m., and I still have another full twenty-four hours ahead of me. I pull an orange lever that lowers my seat, pull the blinds against a blinding sun, and pretend to sleep.



El Chalten

The air smells like nature and freedom and being outside in the rain. The ground feels soft, perfect for stretching legs and cracking joints. I reach up and out, arms spanning the horizon above the national park. My toes flex in my running shoes, ready to walk, to run, to climb, to move.

Patagonia spreads out in front of me. Tiny chunks of ice bobble on the lake's surface and drift into the shore. Jagged mountains are jet-black silhouettes against a beautiful blue day. The wind ripples endless fields of green grasses and golden yellow fields of barley. Every guidebook tells me that the rain comes in March and the winter should be settling damp into my clothes, my skin, my bones. But as I breathe in a bit more mountain air, I can only taste the crisp, clear Fall.

This is my warm-up for Los Torres, a trial run to test my tent, put some miles on my running shoes, and wipe the rust off my Cub Scouts skills. I still have a few more weeks to refine my camping skills, and by April, if I'm not half-clad in spare scraps of leather, eating wild berries, and surfing on tree branches, I missed the opportunity of a lifetime.

On the Road: Of Bees and Beers

Pucón

Silence like this is fragile. Already, my footsteps sound too heavy, too intrusive, too threatening to the stillness of the place. I stop, wanting to truly experience this solitude, this unbroken, unshared quiet. And in that moment, the world seems to come to life.

The wind stirs, buzzing with the vibrations of bees' wings. Dragonflies flicker in lightning blue flashes, hovering into focus just long enough to lose sight of them again. Lizards scurry across the dirt path, a dark dragonfly blue until a ray of sunshine catches them and they transform into a shimmering sea green. I look out over the unbroken surface of the lake, watching as the crystal catches the reflection of an insect, the ripple of the wind. The world is brought to life in an orchestra of tiny, innumerable players, and I am only one more among the chaos.

Puón is a natural oasis carved out by lakes and rivers, and governed by an active, indomitable volcano. Here is a haven for kayakers, rock climbers, trekkers, and travelers who don't mind breaking a sweat for a good view. Like most adventure-driven towns, Pucón thrives on tourism, and every block is full of hostels and expedition offices vying for the tourists' attention. I can't blame them. Right outside of the hustle of the town's center is a natural wonderland.

Valdivia

"The rivers make the city look like Venice," they said.
"The architecture and aura of the city will make you feel like you're in Germany," they said.
"The beer is the best you'll find in this hemisphere," they said.

Unlike the winding river network of Venice, Valdivia's wide rivers split the city into distinct, large islands. Lie #1.

Unlike the dark panels, Grimm-spired architecture of Germany, Valdivia gave off a riverside-suburb vibe. Lie #2.

But much to my pleasure, the beer--oh, the beer--tasted like the flavors of Belgium and Germany poured into the purest of Patagonian waters. The Golden Truth.

After months of vineyard tours and tastings, it was refreshing to trade in my cabernet sauvignon for a stout. The beer (or at least the ones I ordered) were dark in color and flavor, and its flavors were bitter, toasted, and unafraid to linger long after the first sip.

I wish I could say more about the city, but it's highlights were spent in the wooden restaurant of the Kuntsmann brewery or the dimly lit haze of a bar. Strangely, after two days of bar peanuts and cheap beer, there are few to no regrets.

Puerto Varas


I'm hungry, and the world begins to take on the form of food. An hour ago, the volcano gave off an ominous, imposing vibe. Looking at all of the ash and oxidized red rock, it was impossible to not think of Mordor. And the fact that only last year, the neighboring volcano erupted only reinforces the mental image of hellfire, brimstone, and an all-seeing eye.

But I'm hungry, and the growl in my stomach calls to me much more than the grating of any tectonic plates. Suddenly, the intermingling of rock face and snow aren't so reminiscent of Frodo's climactic struggle but more like the gentle swirl of chocolate and vanilla soft serve ice cream. The lake that had been so majestic spanning the horizon now has a tinge of blue that looks artificial enough to be a 7-11 slushy. God, I love traveling and adventure and the like. But right now, I'd trade it all in for a Snickers.

The tour guide stops us at the top of the trail and says that we can't go further without ice picks and spikes in our shoes. My stomach rumbles again, maybe too loudly, and I realize that stopping is totally fine with me. I take a picture, smile for the camera, and start making my way down the volcano, past the lake, and back to town, where a warm dinner is waiting for me.

For being so close to the much larger and largely unremarkable city of Puerto Montt, Puerto Varas is charming. Neighbors lean in each other's doorways and stand on lawns, laughing and touching hands and arms in a friendly sense of familiarity. The man working at the microbrewery smiles with those drop-dead dimples. The owner of a sushi stand gives us some free rolls as a welcoming gift, and the woman working at the convenience store apologizes with a small blush and her hand to her cheek when she doesn't have any empanadas. Street dogs have nothing better to do than follow you for hours, and a gentle rain casts a little rainbow over the idyllic town.

On the Road: Of Cities and Stars

Since I've left, there has been a lingering notion that every second of every day must be filled with a memory ready to make, capture, and put on Instagram. The caption usually reads:

Look, world, I'm having an adventure! And the proof is in the pictures.

This week, I decided to put that pressure to be an all-star adventurer on hold. As a result, the last seven days have rolled by in a lazy succession of starry nights, beers on the beach, and glasses of the finest cheap-Chilean wine. My time in the north is coming to a close, and in a few days, I start my way towards the south. I've been through the mental checklist of things to do and places to meet, so for the few days I have left, I want to simply be.

Let sloth be my sin, my laundry be done, and my groceries be bought. Sometimes, just functioning is enough for a day or two.

La Serena

Van a mirarme los cerros
como padrinos tremendos,
volviéndose en animales
con ijares soñolientos,
dando el vagido profundo
que les oigo hasta durmiendo,
porque doce me ahuecaron
cuna de piedra y de leño.

-Gabriela Mistral, "Valle de Elqui"

Looking out over the valley, I brought the Poet's words to mind, and the world around me brought them to life. This is where she was born and buried, and throughout her long life, she drew her inspiration from the ground I'm standing on. The mountains, the stones, the rivers, the sun. I am only a visitor here, and the museum's No Touch signs remind me of my place. But still, I want this valley to fill me as it did her, if only for a day.

La Serena and Valle del Elqui are known not only as the homeland of Gabriela Mistral, Nobel prize poet, but also to the orchards that give most of the country pisco. During the day, the fields of the valley are kept under a hot, dry sun. But at night, the cosmos is put on display.

The Milky Way stretches across sky as if God had taken to finger painting with starlight. Planets shine bright in their orbits around an absent sun, and constellations remind us of their legends. Here I stand, an unnoticed witness to this valley and the spiraling universe that governs it.

Santiago

Before I arrived, I had the grand idea of traveling through Santiago as if I was a tourist. I planned on going to the top of Costanera, eating sopapillas off the street, and seeing all of the shiny bells and whistles of the city that fill guidebooks and travel blogs. An old city from a new perspective. Or at least, that was the idea. But as soon as I was on the metro again, my feet took me where my heart wanted to go- and it wasn't Cerro San Cristobal.

I knock on the apartment door, and Jordan answers with that Hey, J smile that makes the world just a little bit lighter. It's Sunday Funday, and the room is full of friends, red wine, and the sounds of Netflix playing in the background. My spot on the couch is empty, and I plop right back into my old life. Everything is exactly as it was.

My life in Santiago was a good one, and being back here reminded me just how good it was. At home, Angie, José, and I lounged in moon chairs in a haze of sandalwood and cigarette smoke. That night, I slept in my old bed, and the next morning, I thought about staying for an extra day, maybe two.

But my time to travel is too short and only getting shorter, and half of the country is still on the horizon. Starting tomorrow, I'm southbound.

On the Road: Of Sand and Sunburns

Seven days ago, I woke up to a bright white dusting of snow. The world had wrapped itself in winter, tucking itself into every uncovered inch of the city.

Today, I woke up in a sugar-sand desert with the ocean outside my window. The sun weighs down hot and heavy, sending temperatures into well over 30 degrees Celsius. The familiar rhythm of reggaeton filters in from the hallway, and I know better than to think I can fall back asleep again. I pull open the curtain and face Chile head on. Another day, another... well, who knows? 

Since starting my six-week journey through the country, I've met a number of incredible people doing equally incredible things. I've been sunburned, bitten by bedbugs, and eaten too many dinners made up of a green apple and a cereal bar. Honestly, it shocks me that it's only been seven days since I've been back in the southern hemisphere. If laundry loads and bank balances could tell the time, they would beg me to slow down and rethink my most recent life style choices. But unfortunately, one week down means five more to go, and there is a lot of country left. This is the road so far:

Iquique

I picked this city as a starting point mainly out of convenience. Arica, to the north, was inaccessible, and although they have mummies, Brendan Fraser already gave me my fill of kings turned corpses way back in the nineties.

But the beauty and energy of Iquique came as a pleasant surprise. The boardwalk was colorful and alive, the cold ocean water took the edge away from a biting and blistering sun, and evening runs with a sunset background took my breath away. On my second night, I quite literally ran into a parade celebrating the city's Incan heritage, and the night started off with two-hours of singing, dancing, and blaring instruments.

    

San Pedro de Atacama

Gringos pay a high price to see the crowning jewel of the North, and white faces slathered in sunblock washed through the clay streets of the city's center. But my hostel was far from the bustling tourists, and our asado only had the full moon as our witness. It was here that I met other travelers from the Netherlands, Germany, Austria, Ireland, Australia, and the U.S. all on journeys that seem to put mine to shame. Most were working their way up from Santiago into the mountains of Peru and salt flats of Bolivia, but I've never been one to follow the road most travelled.

The landscape was beyond beautiful, and the sunset blossomed in ripe oranges and plum purples across the desert canvas. I looked out over El Valle de la Luna and floated face-up in Las Lagunas de Cejar. Rising out of the salty water felt like a rite of passage: I have been baptized by the Atacama, and it's red mark sets me apart as yet another traveler who has seen what the North has to offer.

Caldera

The only other English speakers rode out in a cloud of kicked-up sand just hours after I arrived. A lunch of fried empanadas and a quick conversation of t.v. shows added our names to an ever-growing list of people and places left somewhere between the checkered lines on a map. Time to practice the art of one-day friendships and being alone, and there's no place like a small beach town to do that. Judging by my skin's shade of red, I'm putting in a good amount of practice time.

Fifteen minutes away, cafes and churro stands line a beautiful white beach named Bahia Inglesa. Inspired by the Little Mermaid, I climbed up onto a rock jutting into the ocean and let the salty water whip through my flowing brown hair... all before dropping my phone in the water. The lack of photos is evidence of a failed attempt at intensive rice recovery.

Next Stop: La Serena