Nestled in the southern folds of this equatorial Eden and shrouded in thick, seeping fog is Saraguro. Despite a sizeable mestizo population, Saraguro is known for its storied indigenous cultural heritage, or patria. Interestingly, Saraguro is the name of not only the pueblo, but also the people and their culture.

Perhaps most often noted for their vestido, or traditional dress, the Saraguro do right by Johnny Cash. Black is the color, which when filtered through the subjective film of taste, renders it either morose and somber or incredibly hip. Women add splashes of color here and there; most notable among these are the vibrantly colored and intricately woven beaded collars known as mullos. In addition to beads, women also wear a tupu. Made from silver, these pieces are highly valued and often passed down from mother to daughter as an heirloom. In terms of aesthetics a tupu speaks for itself, but its function is to pin together the loose ends of a shawl, also black, worn about the shoulders.

According to some, Saraguro means ‘place of corn’. Although this translation is a matter of some dispute among anthropologists, its presence is ubiquitous. Lives are planned around its planting and harvest; calling it a staple is an understatement. People cook with it in any number of ways, and during the Christmas season, the indigenous arrange mounds of it in the shape of an equal armed Andean cross. Over the course of the meal, handfuls are added to soup or eaten with cheese and cuy, a traditional Andean delicacy known in other parts of the world as guinea pig.

Try as they might, Spanish oppressors could not stomp out Pagan beliefs following the conquest, and as a testament to resistance and adaptation, these beliefs took on new life within the constructs of Catholicism. In the case of Saraguro, Christmas and Easter are celebrated with a Pagan twist involving a cast of characters unique to each holiday. Perhaps the most colorful examples of this surreal fusion are the masked Huikis that symbolize chaos and disorder each December. For several weeks prior to Christmas, the Huikis wreak a playful sort of havoc on people and property. They have been known to ‘borrow’ motorcycles from unsuspecting owners, are fond of chasing women and have an insatiable appetite for alcohol; only after the symbolic birth of Christ are                                                                                                            they brought under control.

 Of equal importance in this dynamic religious matrix are the celebrations of the summer and winter solstices, which honor the sun and its indispensable role in the processes of agriculture. Inti Raymi and Pawkar Raymi respectively, these fiestas bring the community together under the banner of the rainbow flag, which represents not a rallying cry for sexual orientation, but Pachakutik, an indigenous political party whose name refers to the dawn of a new era in time.

Ceaselessly churning, the wheels of time spin without repose, yet the Saraguro acknowledgement of a new era transcends the political to encompass the practical. As a people they have one foot firmly rooted in their collective history while the other strides confidently into the future, and while tradition grounds them in a context of shared meaning, it does not blind them to what is useful from the outside. They do not fear, resent or reject technology on the grounds of an idealized golden age gone by but rather welcome the pragmatic application of it, and this fusion is most poetically symbolized in the way they braid their long black hair. All folk, men, women and children, wear an intricate herringbone style braid known as the jimba, which represents the synthesis of their world with
all that is other, making it a paramount feature of Saraguro identity.

As I write this, the sparse melody of an Andean folk song rises from cobble-stoned streets to a second floor balcony where it lilts through open windows, mingles with candlelight and fills the room with the mystic. Lost in this moment, my mind’s eye sees fog covered peaks peppered with cloud forests. It fuels my wanderlust, and opens the door to a larger, altogether intangible dimension of sensory wonder.

Visit www.Saraguro.org for more detailed information about Saraguro. Drawing on forty plus years of experience in Saraguro, anthropologists Jim and Linda Belote created and maintain this excellent site. Among the first Peace Corps Volunteers in Saraguro, the Belotes have spent their careers understanding, explaining and working for the benefit of these people and their land.

Kip Sikora is a photojournalist, multimedia producer and digital artist based in Missoula, MT.  Prior to moving to Montana he was quite sure he had left a large part of his heart in Latin America, but after five years, Big Sky country seems to have made a compelling argument for sinking roots.  Aside from art his interests include dogs and music.  Check out his website, KipSikoraPhotography.com

View from Blarney Castle, Blarney, Ireland. by Caroline McCarty

Of all the places, I never expected it to happen here. I figured these people in Ireland would understand my red hair, fair skin, and freckles. Being very distant kin, in mileage and lineage, I thought they might see things like me. I was wrong, so very wrong. First, let’s back up to the prime age of eight.

Mama met Dad at work. He was her prince charming and they quickly started a courtship. Eventually Dad proposed, she said yes and a wedding was had. My hair was quite short, barely reaching mid-ear, and was fixed by Aunt Patti. She had great affection for curlers which resulted in a hairdo making me resemble the main girl in “Annie.” I was not pleased since someone found it necessary to point out the overwhelming similarity. This was just the beginning.

Dad, most likely guessed by now, was not my biological father. Otherwise the wedding might have been slightly awkward and long overdue. Anyway, Mama and Dad made the decision of adoption. Dad was perfectly happy to adopt my two brothers and me. It should be noted, my brothers and I have red hair, every single one of us, as does most of my family. We were already genetically setup for getting teased since people are scared of us. Something about the devil and what not.

Dad’s name is David McDonald, spelled just like the fast food restaurant. Thus, we went from Markham to McDonald, red hair and all. It wasn’t so bad at first, until kids found out our last name. Suddenly I was receiving orders for hamburgers, hold the fries. Already used to brats ragging on us, my brothers and I weren’t fazed all too much. We just went along with the jokes, rolling our eyes and laughing it off. After a certain point, the jokes aren’t even heard and so by the age of 21, I rarely noticed a joke about my last name and red hair. It became expected from anyone. Now let’s jump back to Ireland.

In 2010, I went on a group trip to England and Ireland. I was to be the first of my family to go overseas to half of our “homeland.” My family proudly claims the Irish and Scottish roots of the family tree. Great Grandma Alice Buchanan-Holm and Grandpa Kenny Holm, originally McHolm, were both descendants of Irish and Scottish folk respectively. Even if we have red hair, we can out drink you any day and sing while we do it.

England was nice. Full of cheeky Londoners, found in every city or town we went to. York was the best in, my opinion. In a pub called, “A Hole in the Wall,” I met a fellow Alissa. She was extremely excited to have found someone with the same name and thoroughly interrogated me about why it was my name, how I spelled my name, and the exact number of Alyssas I actually knew. Apparently, my name is considered exotic in England, for what reason I do not know. Over a delicious mushroom burger and some tasty chips, the English version, my group and I were uncomfortably serenaded by Miley Cyrus, “Party in the USA.”

York is historically interesting too. The whole city is surrounded by a watchman’s wall. A person can walk around the entire town on this wall and see everything going on. There is also the Shambles, a group of buildings on crooked streets that sag quite a bit. In the rain, they seem quite dreary but have some of the greatest little shops I have ever been in. One shop made little bobbles and souvenirs made entirely out of trash and recyclables. I bought a picture frame made from the circuit board of a computer. I was sad to leave this place because it was the only town in all the places we had gone that not a single person commented on my long, red hair.

After England was Ireland, the most anticipated part of the trip for me. However, in order to get to Ireland we had to cross the Irish Sea. I hate water, a lot. I stood in the waiting area for the ferry, staring down the sea while drugging myself with as much Dramamine as I could find. I get motion sickness from walking; the ferry ride I knew was going to make me cry in discomfort. I was right. As soon as the ferry began to move, my head started spinning and I about threw up. Eventually a friend instructed me to lie down on the ground and breathe through my nose. I crawled under a table, pulled two jackets under there, built a nest and quickly forced myself to sleep.

About two or three hours later we had arrived in Ireland. Before we docked my friend told me to go up on deck and see the sights. Shakily making my way up, I could smell the sea. It isn’t my favorite smell but the blast of cool air as we walked through the door was a welcome reprieve from the muggy air below. Slowly turning, my eyes laid sight on Ireland, glowing in the dusk with a light fog lying over the land. It was beautiful and one of the few things I found picture worthy on the trip. Excitement once again took over me and I was extremely ancy to get off the ferry and onto Ireland. I had specific instructions from a cousin to lie on the ground in any park and chant, “Middle of Ireland, Middle of Ireland,” while pretending to swim on dry land. I was determined to complete the task and eventually did in Parliament Park. I received many odd looks at my outlandish tourist behavior.

As we docked, our guide instructed us to collect the luggage and form a line to go through Customs. I was ready in no time, luggage in hand and passport at the ready. I could not wait to have the stamp of Ireland in my passport book. Slowly but surely people inched through the lines. We were held up slightly when a group of Japanese students tried to go through. Between the Irish accents and the choppy English from the students, misunderstandings were running rampant. Finally, my friend went through her turn, with me right behind her, bouncing with anticipation.

The man called, “Next,” in a bored voice. I stepped up and handed him my passport.

“First time in Ireland?” he asked.

“Yep! I’m really excited,” I told him, as I watched elatedly for him to stamp the passport. He was taking his sweet time flipping through the pages.

“McDonald huh? That isn’t Irish,” he said.

“Nope, but we did have family from Ireland a long time ago.”

“McDonald is Scottish.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, getting ever more impatient.

“You wouldn’t happen to have an Uncle Ronnie would you?”

I was utterly confused by this question. There was no way he could know some relative of my father’s side of the family. What were the chances? I thought I was going to have some great story and awesome news for my dad, and then the guy ruined it for me.

“He has some really tasty cheeseburgers and I love the fries he makes. You look like him, ya know. With your red hair and freckles,” he said, while guffawing at his own humor. He stamped the passport and looked up at me. I glared back, stuck my hand out for the passport and mustered up some pride.

“Wow, good one! I haven’t heard that one before,” I said while walking away, albeit with flaming cheeks and a hurt ego.

Alyssa McDonald is a student in Colorado. She enjoys making people smile by cracking jokes.

In the second installment of his series, Kip Sikora shows us more of the facets that make ECUADOR.

True Believer

Bananas & Bikes

Diversity in nature begets diversity in those who spring from it, and the biologically rich, geographically diverse environments have had a profound impact on human culture. Clothing, housing, food, and even religious belief vary by region.

El Papa

As in many Latin American countries, Catholicism plays a large role in the lives of many Ecuadorians.

Chanch Burn

In Ecuador the slaughterhouse and the point of sale are one in the same. Flesh and blood scent the air, and the North American layers of insulation that diffuse the grim aesthetic reality of what it means to be a carnivore are nowhere to be found.

Chicken Lady

Roasted Cuy (Guinea Pig), Cuenca, Ecuador

Kip Sikora is a photojournalist, multimedia producer and digital artist based in Missoula, MT. Prior to moving to Montana he was quite sure he had left a large part of his heart in Latin America, but after five years, Big Sky country seems to have made a compelling argument for sinking roots. Aside from art his interests include dogs and music. Check out his website, KipSikoraPhotography.com

In the first installment of his series, Kip Sikora introduces us to Ecuador, an adventure from one extreme to another.

Road to the refugio at Cayambe

Deriving its name from the most famous latitudinal line of them all, Ecuador is Middle Earth. Glaciers, volcanic peaks and the jagged north to south alpine topography of the Andes quickly fall away to verdant transitional zones whose lush slopes cascade into coastal lowlands in the west and the fabled Amazon basin in the east.

Cayambe

Ecologists evaluate the biodiversity of a given area using the Holdridge Life Zones system, which synthesizes climatic and environmental data such as rainfall and vegetation to qualitatively define the area in terms of the 116 recognized zones found throughout the world. Regarded as a ‘mega diversity hotspot’, Ecuador, a country about the size of the state of Colorado, harbors 24 of these zones.

Chamical

Amazonian Monkey

Saraguro

Cotopaxi

Kip Sikora is a photojournalist, multimedia producer and digital artist based in Missoula, MT.  Prior to moving to Montana he was quite sure he had left a large part of his heart in Latin America, but after five years, Big Sky country seems to have made a compelling argument for sinking roots.  Aside from art his interests include dogs and music.  Check out his website, KipSikoraPhotography.com

Photo: Aimee Gaines

It’s the night of All Saints in a village in central Haiti, five years after the earthquake. The night is filled with noises, tree frogs, crickets, dogs barking in the distance, the sound of church bells, all intermingled with the sound of a Vodou ceremony, drumming, people dancing, shouting intermittently. Two Vodou priests, an old man, and a young woman-a Hougan and a Mambo are standing in an area away from the ceremony.

THE MAN: Wat you doing out here? Everything is happening over there.

THE WOMAN: We are not really a part of this.

THE MAN: You doing de An Vwa Mo, ah cleansing ceremony. And we not part of it? Why den? For who?..

THE WOMAN: No one in particular. This is for all of Haiti, and a kind of lure.

THE MAN: Lure! Wat you fishing for? Wat you trying to catch?

THE WOMAN: I need help, securing the pieces for an Aret, Papa.

THE MAN: Pieces for an Aret? Ah knew you had something…why all de mystery? Wat you trying to bring? …

THE WOMAN: Guede, Papa. You know…bring him here…

THE MAN: Bring Guede here? No one tells Guede…and no, ah don’t know. You trying to trick…Guede have two faces, one looking at de dead, and de oder looking at de living? How you going to trick dat?

THE WOMAN: I’ve all this in hand, Papa. Don’t worry.

THE MAN: Is dat fire in your hands? Is dat fire in your mouth? Dis looks like…like de ceremony from de Bois Caiman. Why Guede? And where did you find ah black pig for de summons?

THE WOMAN: A friend found one for me; in the mountains, near the Dominicans. They didn’t obey the Yankees, didn’t kill all their pigs.

THE MAN: You resourceful, I’ll give you dat. Listen…

THE WOMAN: Just do two things for me, Papa, and I’ll be in your debt.

THE MAN: You already in my debt. Ah raised you, remember? But debt, nasty word, leaves a dirty taste on meh tongue.

THE WOMAN: Let’s call it a favor then, one that I’ll … You must act as the Houganikan, the master of ceremony. When Guede comes, keep everything going…help keep…

THE MAN: So you going to be where? Doing wat? Ah should say no to dis and watever else you have in mind.

THE WOMAN: Send me to Les Invisible, to the place of the Loas, at the Crossroads.

THE MAN: (laughing) Tricking ah trickster? Ha ha ha. You so crazy, child. The Crossroads between the living and the dead. You want to walk among spirits as if you in your back- yard. (Still laughing) De temple of Guede? De place of all souls.

THE WOMAN: Yes, Hougan. Why so surprise. This has been done before.

THE MAN: Don’t call me that, I’m no ones Hougan. The Hounfor threw me out, accused me of being ah Bokur, accused me of casting curses, harmful spells, ungrateful… Can you believe… Me! Me! I had no idea dat dis disease called politics…

THE WOMAN: Listen to this night, Papa, feel it. (She pauses. The drums are blazing. She breathes deeply and spins around. She dances to the music.) Can you sense…

THE MAN: Dey accused me of dabbling in de Petro for money. (A long pause.) You listening to me?

THE WOMAN: Yes. I’m listening.

THE MAN: No. You not. Your mind is someplace else.

THE WOMAN: I’ve a confession, Papa.

THE MAN: Ah confession? You sound Catholic. Do anyting, den confess to a man. No consequences…

THE WOMAN: I’m responsible for the rumors about you and the Petro.

THE MAN: You wat? I raised you…you don’t believe…

THE WOMAN: If two little words about you could…they don’t deserve your loyalty, your dedication…

THE MAN: Why! Why did you? Dat was my life.

THE WOMAN: (Another long pause.) All that can be undone. I needed a Babalowo that I can trust.

THE MAN: Ah man’s reputation can’t be rebuilt like ah old house after ah hurricane. Such damage can never be repaired.

THE WOMAN: I knew you would refuse to come if I just ask. Since Mama died you been cooped up…

THE MAN: How did you know ah would come down here?

THE WOMAN: Don’t ask me how. I just knew you would. Like I know how I’ll make peace with your Hounfor when we finish with this.

THE MAN: Wat’s happening to you? Ever since dat quake and your friends died. Wat’s your whole plan?

THE WOMAN: Just a quick trip to the Temple of Guede, that’s all.

THE MAN: And wat for? Wat you going to do dere?

THE WOMAN: Locate the bits and pieces of times past, our mythology, our…

THE MAN: And wen you find wat you looking for.

THE WOMAN: Bring it all back, help us form an Aret, something to satisfy the spirits, bring an end all this suffering, for women, for girls, for all of Haiti…

THE MAN: Quite de task. You speaking about dis as if you think… it’s all so easy? You can’t bring all dat back in ah basket, girl. Baskets have holes. Most of us walk long and never look back to see wat we drop.

THE WOMAN: I’m looking back, at Ashe Fatima, and Boukman. They did what I’m trying to do… They sent Toussaint Louverture to de Temple of Guede, even rumored that he spoke to the Taino Queen, Anacaona. That’s why I’m always looking back.

THE MAN: So if you always looking back how you recognize de present? Sure way to trip and fall on your face, not watching where you going.

THE WOMAN: I’m so sure about where I’m going I don’t need to keep my eyes on the ground. Toussaint went back to speak to the Taino Queen. Why not…

THE MAN: Yeah. Ah know de story. He never told ah soul wat she said. He came back empty handed, with only dreams. You see where dose dreams landed him, in ah icebox on ah mountain in France. So wat you…

THE WOMAN: You think there’s something wrong with dreams?

THE MAN: Nothing wrong with dreams. But you should be careful where you let dem take you. In some places dey believe all existence is de dream of ah god. So you see?

THE WOMAN: Yeah. In our case, that God must be deep a nightmare. We are abandoned; left opened to all kinds of attacks, spiritual and otherwise. They come at us like stinging flies. We need a Lave Tet. (She pauses.) We need to revive … we need to resurrect…

THE MAN: Resurrect? You think de ancient spirits went to sleep, is dead? Dey here with us, right now, in de air we breathe, in de rocks; and de animals we eat and sacrifice. And don’t forget in plants, and de dirt we came from, and de dirt we’ll return to.

THE WOMAN: I know, Papa, I know about the spirits. They feel neglected. They mad as hell and crazy for our attention. Causing all kinds of mischief. I see it plain.

THE MAN: Especially de eternal spirits, Toussaint, Christophe and Dessaline, de ones who died with de sent of power in deir noses, destiny just outside of arms reach.

THE WOMAN: Yeah, I know what you mean. Something has plagued me ever since I visited that fort where they murdered Toussaint.

THE MAN: You went dere. Why would you go to such ah place? Bad juju…

THE WOMAN: The place is a museum now. I heard they had his skull sitting on a shelf, so I decided… I just wanted to see how barbarians celebrate…

THE MAN: Well was it dere, did you see…

THE WOMAN: I entered the place with this urge, this plan to…but this old woman in an ill fitted dress kept following me around as I searched. You know how some shopkeepers follow you with their eyes the moment you enter their store?

THE MAN: Ha ha ha. Yeah, I know. Thieves always think everyone else is ah thief. You should have knocked her down, grab de skull. His essence is still in it, return it to Haiti. Dat would have caused an uprising, an international incident, ha ha ha.

THE WOMAN: Oh yeah, and they could have caught me; put me in jail. I’m glad his skull wasn’t there. The French never relinquish their trophies easily.

THE MAN: Too bad you didn’t find it. That could have caused all kind of…

THE WOMAN: I read something about Toussaint’s last words, written by a doctor, the last man to see him alive. The doctor said Toussaint mentioned something about the Taino Queen, Anacaona. He claimed he couldn’t discern.

THE MAN: Couldn’t discern? Well, wat did he write, if he couldn’t discern?

THE WOMAN: The doctor called it delirium, hallucination. He said Toussaint spoke to the Taino queen about the land, and the destiny of the Devine, strangest bit of writing I’ve ever read. It reminded me of that last book in the Bible, you know the one? The Revelations of saint somebody.

THE MAN: (Shaking his head.) De night sees wat you have in mind, child. Dat’s why all de restlessness. You ever heard de saying, let sleeping dogs alone? Tell me, why you, and why now?

THE WOMAN: Why not me? And if not me, who, when? You said I already missed an opportunity in that French museum.

THE MAN: So, by tricking ah Loa and entering in de Temple of Guede, you think you can unravel de conversation between de Taino Queen and Toussaint? Bring all dat back, form some kind of Aret, appease de spirits, bringing peace and tranquility to Haiti?

THE WOMAN: Papa, you boil it down like cane juice.

THE MAN: Only way to get to de essence of ah matter.

THE WOMAN: Your sarcasm is painful. Don’t you see I’m pleading for help, from everyone and everything? You know the manners of Papa Legba, guarding the Crossroads, speaking to the spirits for us in his many tongues.

THE MAN: I didn’t raise you to watch you, lost in dis…

THE WOMAN: I need to finish this journey… the spirits will see me; can hear me. All these years after the destruction, I see grass and small trees sprouting through the rubble still on the streets of Port Au-Prince, and…

(The man interrupts the woman and she breathes with vexation.)

THE MAN: (Speaking softly, deliberately and pointing one finger.) It’s possible to bite off more dan you can chew, child. Ah have dis feeling dat you might be more powerful dan me, and all ah dem out dere. (He waves one hand at the night)

THE WOMAN: No need for sweet talk, papa. My vanity is…

THE MAN: No sweet talk. If you listen you could hear it, de say-so of our ancestors, dey saying you treading on dangerous ground, middling with de Petro.

THE WOMAN: This is the only way I know. I’m no longer that little orphan girl you found on the street in Port-au-Prince.

THE MAN: Ah realize dat. You tink if you make ah big enough mêlée Toussaint Louverture would stir, de spirits would hear and see de suffering of de people, and dat would do wat? (The man pauses.) You know wat you remind me of? Ah person way up in ah tree, reaching for ah half-ripe fruit way out on ah weak limb.

(There is a long pause before the woman speaks.)

THE WOMAN: Papa, under differences circumstances I would do this alone. I’ve studied all two hundred and fifty-six pages of the Odu Ifa, and still they tell me I can’t be a Babalowo. I sat at the feet of Orunmila, accepted her gifts of wisdom, prophecy and ethics. I know the many ways of Esu, the dispenser of spiritual justice. I know our ways.

THE MAN: At time just knowing is not enough. You must belonging to…

THE WOMAN: Only the Petro can get me into the temple of Guede. The pleasant and compassionate branch of our religion can’t help me. I’m not going there to receive a gift from a Loa, I’m going there to take…

THE MAN: Take wat? Wat would it look like, wat form would it take?

THE WOMAN: I don’t know. I’ll know it when I see it or hear it. For all we know, it might be a song.

THE MAN: Ah song huh? Girl, if anyone got ah hunch dat you might be trying to recreate de Ceremony of Bois Caiman, dey would … You remember dat King Of Israel who went to see the Witch of Endor? Ah think his name was Saul.

THE WOMAN: That’s Christian stuff, Papa. And you know God understand intentions. No one in the community tried to understand my intention.

THE MAN: One must be joined to de community, joined to dis place, and not only by blood. Dat’s why dey refused to give you permission, refused to let you be ah Babalowo.

THE WOMAN: Papa, not from you too? They had no idea what I had in mind when I entered the community.

THE MAN: Oh really?

THE WOMAN: They refused to allow me to be a Babalowo because I’m a woman, that’s all. So, that’s why I’m asking this favor. You have always been connected to this land, this ground. No one is more compelling than you. You know the ways of Orisha. You know the ways of Simbi, the bearer of souls to all places. Only you can…

THE MAN: You learned a lot, child, gallivanting all over de world. Dey gave you all dat money.

THE WOMAN: They didn’t give me anything. I had to work for…

THE MAN: You studied law, philosophy, Religion. Tell me why you ignoring de consequences? Why you acting as if dis is just another walk down de road. Dey will be ah price. Dere’s always ah price to pay. You know, in dis religion we call Vodou, no sins, just consequences.

THE WOMAN: I’m prepared to pay it. And I’m not treating anything like a walk down the road. That’s why I need you. The price will not be as steep with you…I’ll be there and back long before sunrise- (The woman pauses for a moment as if trying not to divulge too much by her words.)

THE MAN: (shaking his head.) Ah can’t be in two places at de same time. If you get trapped in de Temple of Guede, your spirit would be lost. Your body would walk de earth as ah zombie.

THE WOMAN: With your authority to pave the way, all will be well. I just need your help. (The woman is pleading with open palms.) Simbi will bring them. Papa legba will show them the way. But I need you, with the blessings of our ancestors. I’m going to bring them back to help me search, Toussaint included. I know the dangers of Ifa, that road between the living and the dead?

THE MAN: Oh yes. We know dat road. We all walk dat road in our dreams.

THE WOMAN: Yes, Papa. As we dream.

THE MAN: But some never return. (The man pauses, shakes his head.) You such ah loose cannon. You remind me of me, wen I was your age. Ha ha ha. You will have to call dem, one at ah time, and you’ll have to keep dem bound, because you can never tell which of dem might be…

THE WOMAN: You saying… Does that mean… (She’s smiling now as if she understands something in his words.) I left and went away to see the world instead of staying here and learning from you.

THE MAN: Don’t get ahead of me. Ah promised nothing.

THE WOMAN: Are you acting this way because?… Sorry. I’m such an ungrateful daughter.

THE MAN: We missed you real bad. Your letters came only once in ah blue moon.

THE WOMAN: So many distractions out there, books, men, foods, I discovered many things out there, but lo and behold, all of it led me right back to this land… So you see?

THE MAN: You have me almost convinced, but ah need to understand. Wat you going to do with watever you steal from?… You realize spirits can crawl inside you and drive you crazy.

THE WOMAN: I’m already crazy from all this. Can’t you see that?

THE MAN: Let me repeat de question. Wat you going to do with watever you steal from the Temple of Guede?

THE WOMAN: Form a great big lump that I can stick down the throat of…every time I hear the words poorest nation in the hemisphere, poorest nation in the hemisphere, repeated three or four times in every article, every commentary, as if they trying to convince… Enough to drive you…

THE MAN: (The man is looking at the woman.) You always had dat look in your eyes, even as ah little girl.

THE WOMAN: This is a rich country. Below our feet, right here (The woman slaps the palms of her hands to the ground) and the water off shore, enough riches to nourish… Still, they talk about the poorest nation. Thieves. They bleed us and then they blame us…

THE MAN: Dey, dey, dey, who’s dey?

THE WOMAN: You know exactly who they are. Innocuous whites, might call themselves a Club, the rich men’s club. I believe they think of us as game, fair game. Keep us in debt; force us to sell everything we can grow, everything we can cut down, just to pay the interest, on the debt, from the Club. To hell with the people, let them starve.

THE MAN: You suffering from dat disease, too much stuff in your brain. Ah bet you often try to play chess with many people at once.

THE WOMAN: I’ve never tried that. But it sound like fun.

THE MAN: Playing games with ah Loa, raising de dead, making de spirit of de living come and obeys. Juggling den, have you ever tried juggling? Who are you? You not God, child, only Olorum Papa is allowed…

THE WOMAN: (With a hint of annoyance in her voice) I know what God is allowed and what humans are… I’m a child of Africa and of Haiti, absolutely familiar with the hazards of that lineage. That’s why I need you close. I want to bring them back, make them thirsty for…Napoleon and all of them, even the ones living today and plotting our…

THE MAN: You still ignoring de risks. You want to call up ah crazy power man, ah man who once had all of Europe trembling? Ah crazy man. Who else you bringing? Wen dey tell you de truth, wat you going to do with it? You can get more dan your feelings hurt. De truth can be hard as stones thrown.

THE WOMAN: I realize that. I know, I know. But only the truth can lead me… I can stand a licking; I can stand it. It’s the least I can do for this land, the mother who gave birth to me and the woman who raised me.

THE MAN: You sound so sure. None of us know exactly wat we willing to…

THE WOMAN: In this, I’m quite sure, Papa. You ask what I’m going to do with the truth? (She pause, a sound escapes her lips) I’ll walk all over this island, all over this World. I’ll speak about the plight of women and girls, continue the work of the harbingers who died in the quake, such strong women.

THE MAN: (Laughing quickly) Ha, ha, ha.

THE WOMAN: What’s so funny?

THE MAN: You might be lucky if you come away with just ah licking. You remember wat happen to dat fellow in de dessert near Israel wen he spoke too much truth? Dis is so dangerous. Rich people, powerless men with little to loose, they will kill to keep…ah might live to regret…

THE WOMAN: I must have convinced you? Thank you Papa, for your trust in me. Thank you. (She hugs the man and kisses him on both sides of his face.) When Guede…

THE MAN: Yeah, ah know. (Taking the woman by her shoulders, he moves her to arms length.) And don’t you thank me, not yet. Listen, don’t deviate one iota from wat I’m about to tell you. Understand de purification of Gineh. Keep de African prayer in your heart.

THE WOMAN: That’s it? That’s all? They told me…

(The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out two vials. First he sprinkles a white powder in a circle around the woman, and then he sprinkles a clear liquid around the same circle.)

THE MAN: Forget everything dey told you. And be thankful dat you have only one soul to loose, because that’s wat you risking here.

THE WOMAN: I would risk more, if I had it.

THE MAN: Dat’s wat you saying now. On de road to de Temple of Guede dere are fascinations dat can boil your heart inside your chest.

THE WOMAN: No need to try and scare me Papa, I know the road. I’ve walked it many times in my dreams.

THE MAN: Just listen. Pay attention. You’ll hear de warnings of crows as you enter de bush, you’ll hear babies crying, you’ll see ah old woman sitting near ah house on de side of ah road pounding something in ah mortar with ah pestle. Don’t look into de mortar and don’t greet her. You’ll pass ah bunch of snarling black dogs at ah junction. Show no fear and you may pass without being bitten. If you are wounded do everything to prevent dem from licking your blood. At de end of dis road, across ah river, you will meet a great white snake coiled around ah rainbow. Know dat you are in de presence of Dambala and Aida Wedo. Dey will ask you questions, answer dem truthfully and dey will allow your passage to de Temple of Guede.

THE WOMAN: What if they are displeased with my answers, what if they…

THE MAN: (Shaking his head.) Better if you don’t go dere with doubts and fears. Clear your mind. You de one who wants to know, you can be saved by de spirit known as, Tonton Macoute, just once. You can be saved by de gourd if you hold it tight, allow no one to get it away from you. So get ready. Guede out dere right now. You ready or not?

THE WOMAN: Okay. I’m ready. (They are both standing in the circle. The ceremony outside is heating up. The drums are loud and ferocious as the Guede Spirit enters.)

THE MAN: (Speaking ceremonial.) Dambala, Aida Wedo, dis woman is coming to Bara, de Crossroads between de living and de dead. Aida Wedo, mother of de universe, show dis soul de light of your rainbows, keep her feet on de path. Let her be blameless in your presence. (The man taps the woman on her forehead she staggers, trembling she falls to the ground.)

The lights fade.

::

What you just read was an excerpt from a new play by Claude Alick.  To read the continuation, and learn who the woman meets in the Temple of Guede, keep your eyes trained on this magazine, or check out ccalick.com.  And if, on your way there, you see an old woman sitting near ah house on de side of ah road pounding something in ah mortar with ah pestle, don’t look into de mortar and don’t greet her. 

Claude Alick was born and raised in Granada, spent his youth traveling, and now lives in Missoula, Montana.  His books Wet Storage and Dancing with the Yumawalli are available in bookstores everywhere. 

Revolutions Southward(Ep. Dance But Only if You Want To) from Ace Aseltine on Vimeo.

When I met you and Davin in Guanajuato, México you had a glow about you. You were both beaming. What has biking to México taught you about life? Who’s idea was that trip?
My friend Davin Hart came up with the idea and invited me. I couldn’t resist. I suggested we make a movie while we were at it. Traveling through Mexico on bicycle has taught me to value the simple things in life like eating, sleeping, laughing, reading, and loving. The trip proved to me that you don’t need much to live a happy and exciting lifestyle.

My sister Julie, Davin and I biked together down California and met up with a cyclist named Jordan Bailey. He was writing his own blog and had interest film making so we recruited him to our team. Together we biked through the biggest storm in recent Californian history and across the Tijuana border. The four of us stayed together through the Baja desert for two months then split up in La Paz, Baja Sur.

Davin and I crossed into Topolobampo, Sinaloa Mexico on the fairy. Julie took the bus back to San Diego, and Jordan hitched a ride on a catamaran to Puerto Vallarta. We rode the train to the Copper Canyon and put ourselves in the middle of Mexican culture. From Batopilas we hitch hiked to Zacatecas. From there we biked to Guanajuato and lived there for two months.

While in Guanajuato I formed many life long connections and recorded a collection of songs in my bedroom inspired by my experiences and the people I met. Shortly after I returned to California on June 1, 2011 Dante Ochoa a friend I met in Guanajuato came up to visit me in Arcata Ca. He stayed a month with me working on his own music and helping me develop my Film. He is now my producer.

Why do you make these videos and songs?
Because I like to tell stories. However, I got into video blogs after reading my sister’s blog called My Velvet Bumper. My sister opened my eyes to the potential of the blog world with her simple memoir style humor. Since I majored in Theater, Film and Dance I figured I should get my feet wet with Revolutions Southward.

What do you want people to know about you and your work?
Well, With Revolutions Southward my friend Davin and I carried our Camera, sound and editing gear on our bicycles and posted our videos while on the road. Whenever we could find wi-fi we tried to make something happen. I guess what I want people to know is that what I did was very achievable adventure. Lots of people should try it.

Did you write that song “Dance But Only if You Want to”? I love it!!!
I did write Dance With Me (But Only if You Want to). I write all my own songs with the exception of Llovi Por Ti, Ana Karen G Barajas the girl I fell in love with in Guanajuato wrote that. However, I did do all the instrumentation for Llovi Por Ti. Dance with Me was the first song I wrote for Karen while I was in Guanajuato. Most of the songs in this collection were inspired after meeting her.

How would you describe the people of our generation in the US, comparing and contrasting that with the people of our generation you met in México? (That´s a big one, on my mind a lot).
Well, I would say that both the United States and Mexico have rich emerging cultures. However, like analog vs. digital, Mexico’s scene is founded on a much older society that has maintained its quality over time. On the other hand, the US like digital has characteristics that focus on expanding convenience rather than quality.

While I was in Guanajuato my eyes were opened to an emerging generation who is dissatisfied with apathy, a generation who appreciates what they have and where they came from. Guanajuato is a prime example of where the old world meets the new. Although analog technology and the community centered Mexican way of life seems primitive to the unacquainted eye, they form the basic foundational support needed for people in the 21st Century to leave something of value for the next generation.

I feel that in the United States and in Mexico people will always find a way to escape. Sometimes its as simple as discovering literature, art, music, and food.

::

To see more of Acey’s videos check out this page.

Biking and climbing – Two of my passions. This video is a preview of a video in-progress about biking to access climbing around Boulder, Colorado. In this preview, I’m working on my own “project” in Boulder Canyon. The rules: pick a challenging climb near Boulder, bike to it, and “project” it. This video is not about cutting edge “projecting;” Instead, it’s about the visceral human experience of climbing, and accentuating this process and acknowledging the accomplishment by biking to it. As always, I aim to celebrate a sense of place, the human experience, and a passion for art and adventure in this video. As with most of my work, I’ve written and recorded all the music. The final video will include additional footage of my friends working on their own “projects,” and additional original music with found sounds from bicycles, rocks, and climbing gear.

::

To learn about the rewards and details of supporting the backyard project, checkout the Kickstarter page!

CONDUCTED ABOARD THE M/V KENNICOTT IN THE GULF OF ALASKA

James, a former pro BMX rider from small-town Minnesota, is riding his Surly Long Haul Trucker around Alaska to raise money for cancer research. That’s like three thousand miles, in case you were wondering.  He hopes to raise ten thousand dollars though donations.  He pays his own expenses and every penny donated goes to the Randy Shaver Cancer Research and Community Fund.

James with his whip, disembarking in Whittier, Alaska.

High Contrast Review:  Are brown brears and grizzlies the same?

James Rienstra:  I thought so, ’till Sam made a bet, earlier on. Boom! It’s short, it’s short and . . . it turns to the left. Grizzlies are more famished, brown bears eat more salmon. Nice. Ha ha ha ha.

James stares out to sea and thinks about how bad cancer is.

HCR:  What’s the best thing that could come of your plight?

JR:  Show people what one person can do to make a difference.

HCR:  Wait what is your mission exactly again?

JR:  To raise ten thousand dollars for cancer research, dipshit.

HCR:  How many times have you gotten laid while raising money for cancer?

JR: Once. In Bismarck. Smoking redhead. End of story.

HCR:  What do you want people to remember about this whole deal?

JR:  (Sips Jim Beam from plastic bottle) Repeat the question. (The question is repeated) Got to fuckin’ think… (James takes a picture of interviewer) To kick ass in what you want in life!!!

James Rienstra, ready to battle cancer.

HCR: If you had the ten grand to do the research yourself, what would you research?

JR: Pancreatic cancer. It’s the hardest cancer out there to survive with the lowest survival rate.

Random dude next to James:  Super cool lady I know, badass kayaker, manager of liquor store, she gets a phone call that she had stage four cancer in her pancreas and liver, quit her job and hour later and is back in Michigan now… Cricket is her name.

JR: FUCK CANCER!!!

::

In addition to being a humanitarian, James is also a pretty soulful writer.  Check out his trip notes & photographs, and make a donation at PedalingForPennies.info.

(Have you read Part 1 and Part 2 already?)

Photo: DE

By the time I get to the schoolhouse, I can make out Vlad’s voice as he guides the rest of the group through the destruction. There are several floors to explore and I tread carefully over the rubble and smashed up remnants of furniture in order to rejoin the party. From there we move on to a swimming pool, which I had already seen in a couple of pictures online. The paint peeling off the walls. The giant clock near the shallow end of the pool. The moss and small weeds growing through cracks in the tiles. I wonder how long it will be before these buildings fall to pieces. Vlad refers to Pripyat as a paradise for photographs as he puffs on his cigarette. Indeed, everybody has a camera with them and it seems difficult to imagine some of the objects that we find laying around not to have been positioned strategically for photographs. Random gasmasks, children’s books and part of a broken globe lay distributed on a selection of surfaces, making for excellent photo opportunities.

Photo: DE

It is as though we are walking through a living museum, an encapsulated 3 dimensional archive of abandoned property and paraphernalia intertwined in a pulverised panoply of Soviet architecture. The fact that this area was occupied for less time than it has been abandoned, takes the whole experience to a new and fascinating plateaux of exploration. With birds, bears and other wild beasts being able to sustain the cycle of nature otherwise retarded in parts of the world that have become increasingly populated by humans, this concrete desert, this mangled detritus makes for a brand new insight as to what the world might look like if we human beings decided to pick up and leave.

We exit the school and traipse through several crèches, cloakrooms and classrooms, negotiating pitch-black corridors and dilapidated doorframes before reaching one of the most frequently documented areas of the city. The abandoned fairground in the centre of Pripyat hosts little else other than a small dodgem car area and the famous ferris wheel. The bright yellow paint of the compartments sparkles in the sunlight below the smashed wooden decking at the very base of ride.

The second swimming pool we visit is a lot bigger than the first, it is located in a larger complex that was also fitted with a basketball court. The walls are tarnished with a soil coloured cement and the hoops are missing from the backboards. I decide to split from the group once again and climb several flights of stairs where I find another box of gasmasks and a small series of rooms intertwined with cubbyholes. The damp air is ripe with asbestos, making it difficult to breath as I stagger about taking pictures. Vlad bellows from the ground floor that we have only a few minutes left and I work my way back down the skeleton stairwell, catching Johan’s eye for the first time since alighting the bus. There is little left to do but follow the group to yet another building that is filled with photographic delights, including a run down theatre and a dismantled gallery filled with painted portraits of great Soviet leaders.

Photo: DE

The tour promised a complementary lunch at Cafeteria Number 19, which I am thoroughly looking forward to. What I didn’t realise is that the dining hall is located opposite the power plant, but for some reason this does not bother me. Johan and I begin to discuss what we had just seen. As the coach passes by Reactor Number 4 and approaches the dining hall we have the inevitable discussion as to the feasibility of nuclear power and whether or not this is the way that was should proceed. Nuclear energy is the only way we can go, isn’t it? I suppose that depends who you ask, sure I have read Lovelock and appreciate what the man has to say, but whether one can come to a conclusion based on his argument, I am not sure. I do however recall that Lovelock predicts that most of Europe will be Sub-Saharan by 2040 and that natural resources will remain so very low that we will have to rely on nuclear power to support a specific ecosystem that grants living conditions in very small corners of the world.

Photo: DE

Our conversation continues after we are served dishes of chicken, cabbage and potatoes. The dinner ladies are most jolly in serving extra coffee and pastries as Johan and I move from the subject of nuclear energy to the nicotine infused pouches he places under his lip instead of smoking cigarettes. He offers me one and I suck at it awkwardly while trying to drink my coffee. Our conversation is interrupted by the man in charge of the trip who tells me his chip and pin reader now has a signal, I pay the $150. After stepping foot outside of the cafeteria, it is almost as though I had forgotten where I was. The coach brings the group to a statue depicting a large stone hand, the fingers pointing heavenwards, with a power plant emerging from the palm. Reactor Number 4 and the sarcophagus that supports it stand a couple of hundred meters in front of us. The Geiger counters go berserk.

::

Daniel Emmerson is currently finishing his master thesis, ‘On the Depoliticisation of Confucianism in Chinese Politics’ and is about to start his fifth summer managing the film and photography academy at Millfield in England. He is a regular contributor to High Contrast Review both online and in print. For more of his work, investigate www.danielemmerson.com.

(Have you read Part 1?  Or are you looking for Part 3?)

Photo: DE

The coach pulls up to the 30km exclusion zone after about an hour and a half of travelling from the capital city. The sky is a perfect blue and only a couple of white fluffy clouds linger over this tortured landscape. The bubbly man from the first video announces that everybody needs to have paid in order to receive insurance and that we are only allowed through the barriers of the exclusion zone if we have the relevant insurance documents in our passports. Everybody scrambles off of the bus in order to take pictures of the sign at the entrance. I imagine photographs of the sign paint an eerie and grim atmosphere of the site thirty kilometres away from the exploded power plant. Though with the sun shining and birds singing in the nearby trees, this almost seems like the perfect spot for a picnic. I ask the man in charge if I can pay by card but he has no signal on his chip and pin reader. He hands me my insurance and I promise to pay him later on. The barriers are lifted and the coach crosses through into the zone.

We stop momentarily while our tour guide climbs on board. His name is name is Vlad and he will be our ‘informer’ for the remainder of the day. Johan wakes up and we begin to discuss our excitement for the trip amid our mild concerns for the possible dangers that continue to hang invisible in the air. Our first stop is on one of the main streets in Chernobyl, a city that over a hundred people still refer to as ‘home’. Abandoned houses crumble and rot next to occupied buildings as I flutter about with my camera, taking pictures of rusted streetlights strangled by ivy and stray cats pounding the dusty ground with their paws. A wild juxtaposition exists between the tormented buildings of old and the houses in which people still live, read, work and sleep. Although I am told to stay with Vlad throughout the tour, it is easy enough to wander off by myself and I take full advantage of that. The sun continues to beat down and I remain hesitant about consuming any water while I am in the zone, for fear of what I am unsure, but something wicked lurks in the air.

Photo: DE

I board the bus once again with the rest of the group and we head towards the 10km zone after passing through a small open air ‘museum’ that is gradually being put together for the tourists that pass through. So far it consists of a selection of armoured vehicles that were used to transport soldiers to the plant during the initial stages of the explosion. There is no information concerning any of the tanks or trucks that are littered about this unassuming field.

Photo: DE

When the bus takes off once again, Vlad explains that everybody needs to sign a consent form stating that we will not press charges against the tourist information bureau concerning any long-term illnesses we might get as a consequence of visiting the zone. He is careful to reiterate that Chernobyl is now very safe and in fact the level of radiation in Podol, a district of Kiev, is five times higher than that of some of the areas within the 30-kilometer exclusion zone. Johan and I exchange glances of curiosity as Vlad proceeds to tell of the dangers that we may face if indeed we decide to stray from the tour group. He announces that there are wolves and bears in the Pripyat area and that there have been instances of tourists being attacked by them, particularly one Russian man who proceeded to get drunk on the coach before leaving the group before he went missing for several hours. Vlad continues to inform us that everybody on the coach with the Russian man had to split into groups in order to look for him late into the night and that he was eventually found building a fire somewhere in the woods, covered in cuts and scrapes, drunk out of his mind.

We arrive at the entrance of Pripyat and take pictures of the entrance to the city. The pure white Cyrillic letters shimmer in the sunlight as everybody on the bus takes photos. A bizarre humidity forces me to turn my back to the sign and look down the road that leads to the abandoned city. I try and envisage what it must have been like for the 50,000 inhabitants who were told that they had to leave their homes as a consequence of an invisible threat that had already claimed so many lives. I wonder how they must have felt when the affects of both the radiation and the massive volume of lead that was dropped into the inferno began to take shape. We are hurried back onto the coach and journey continues deeper into the 10-kilometer exclusion zone.

Photo: DE

The city is scattered. The buildings that still remain after 25 years of disregard appear to have been carefully selected by Vlad with regards to which ones we are allowed to visit. He proceeds to take the group through an open concrete square and towards a multi-story building, possibly a school, and I decide to explore on my own. I hang back in a derelict warehouse that is full of broken desks and smashed glass, cables creep out of cracks in the ceiling and I watch my step while walking over shards up to 30 centimetres in length. As the group approaches the school in the distance, I veer to the right and peer up, with only a slight sense of trepidation, at another building. A mural of a girl on a space-hopper, a schoolboy pulling faces and an abandoned shopping trolley all make for particularly odd photographs that just about capture the feeling of emptiness. Unable to see the group, I decide that I will try and catch them up later, if worst comes to worst I can see the coach parked off of the main square and will listen out for the engine. In the meantime, I head up a flight of stairs and come to a concrete platform, the floor is absolutely covered with smashed glass. I tread over it carefully and catch a glimpse of an entrance to the roof of the building. I walk across a wooden beam and climb a third flight of stairs which leads out onto the open roof, which itself has two levels. From here I can see the iconic ferris wheel in the background over a series of crooked rooftops, though I need to clamber up a small coalbunker in order to be able to see the entire city behind an amalgamation of solid metal Cyrillic lettering I am unable to translate. I stand motionless on the rooftop, looking down at the scattered buildings below. The group are nowhere to be seen and I can almost imagine the wild fire, scorching the sky as it blasted from Reactor Number 4. I take one final picture from the rooftop before shimmying my way back down to the ground floor.

Photo: DE

(-)

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

(+)

Daniel Emmerson is currently finishing his master thesis, ‘On the Depoliticisation of Confucianism in Chinese Politics’ and is about to start his fifth summer managing the film and photography academy at Millfield in England. He is a regular contributor to High Contrast Review both online and in print. For more of his work, investigate www.danielemmerson.com.