One of my biggest surprises during the trip to Perú was how much I enjoyed Machu Picchu. I’d come there expecting a relatively small archeological site, enough to see for an hour or two but not much more. After spending about 5 hours getting sunburnt and hiking on a broken toe, I still found it hard to leave. The ruins were massive, and the terraces (built both for structural support/erosion prevention and for planting crops) descended all the way down the length of the Macchu Picchu mountain (“old peak” in Quechua) into the valley. It still amazes me to this day how they were able to build such structures, much less descend and ascend to plant and harvest potatoes and other crops (I doubt llamas would have had a much easier time than humans).
There was something eerily beautiful about the blue-green mountains cropping up from the Urubamba Valley (the Sacred Valley of the Incas), with the Urubamba River meandering below and eventually flowing into the Amazon. It made me wonder what those people who had lived there in Inca times thought of their surroundings–did they ever tire of seeing the same mountains? Did they–or anyone else–grow immune to the beauty? How can someone train themselves to not take such things for granted?
In huge contrast to the lush trees, bushes, and flowers (with vines and epiphytes growing between branches) growing by Machu Picchu, the southern coast of Perú is anything but. With the Humboldt current rising up from Antarctica and bringing cool air currents up the coast, the coastal [Atacama] desert in southern Perú and northern Chile isn’t as hot as the Sahara or Arabian deserts, but it’s much drier (in fact, the world’s driest; we didn’t see so much as a cactus). We went sandboarding and rented sand buggies (think 1000-ft-sand-dunes-like-a-roller-coaster-but-real-life) at sunset; I probably wouldn’t ever ride a sand buggy again for fear of a heart attack, but it was completely worth doing once. Apparently, there are even dance parties held at night deeper in the desert, under a blanket of stars.
With the Humboldt current also come nutrients that rise up and support marine life (and all the rich seafood you’ll encounter in Peru). Unfortunately, the waters seemed too warm for some… when we were in Paracas (on the southern coast, by the desert) and went out on a small boat into a bay, dead jellyfish and rotting algae littered nearly every inch of sand within twenty feet of the shore. The jellyfish were deep red and easily the largest I’ve ever seen; I can only imagine that the other marine life are just as fantastic.
And then there was Lima. As I mentioned in my previous post, I preferred Cuzco to Lima. Maybe it was the fact that cuzqueños took more pride in their culture, and were able to because they were more geographically isolated, while residents of Lima were more likely to be immigrants and often held the view that imported products and ideas were generally superior. Mostly though, it was the more obvious income divide, the traffic, the grime, and the lack of duende/soul in Lima’s architecture. But of course, there were still places to see and enjoy: my favorite neighborhood in Lima was Miraflores (considered relatively affluent), and in particular the coast: it was refreshing to get away from the simultaneously hectic and dazed, almost claustrophobic city center. There’s also a park further up the Miraflores coast (Parque del Amor, or Love Park) with gigantic statues and Gaudí-esque tiled walls, like a bit of Barcelona in South America.
Three weeks ago, I spent seven crazy, sleep-deprived days flying and driving around southern Perú with nine other friends. I could probably write a 50-page essay on my impressions, but I will try to sum it up crudely in a few words:
llamas-donkeys-bowler hats-ponchos-coca leaf tea-Inka heritage-ceviche-income disparity-tourism-poverty-agriculture-Andes-desert-terraces-writing on mountainsides-generous people-promising path to development-Lima < Cuzco
Even today, most Peruvian women of non-European descent (i.e. indigenous) wear knee-length skirts–even in the cold, even when they’re farming in the fields. Why? Because Peruvian women were traditionally judged by the size and strength of their calves, as an indication of how capable they would be as farmers, and therefore as good wives. The farms I saw while driving around Lima and Cuzco had tractors, yokes with oxen, and everything in between–but most of the manual work still seemed to be done by women.
In the cities, tourism was certainly a big industry–in Cuzco, it accounted for 60-95% of jobs, depending on who you asked–and not everyone was happy about it. Judging by the graffiti, some Peruvians felt like they were sell-outs, catering to foreigners instead of preserving traditional occupations. But tourism revenue can also have its benefits: when my friends and I were walking by the historic center of Cuzco (the traditional seat of the Inca civilization, and a city which, by the way, is much more impressive than most parts of Lima, the capital), we were approached by two siblings, trying to sell us hand puppets that their mother had made.
After one of us caved in and bought a few, things got more interesting. The boy, 7, told us that he wanted to be a musician, architect, scientist, chemical engineer, and writer (in roughly that order) and was better at multiplication than we were at that age. (We decided to motivate him by buying a bottle of Coke and some mints for a little experiment. It was a bit anti-climatic; I think he almost expected the mini-explosion…) As for his younger sister, she told us about how she’ll be performing Gangnam Style in her first-grade class. This is a city in the middle of nowhere, between the towering Andes and the Amazon. The tourists brought McDonalds, and the internet brought Gangnam Style; I’m thankful the government (and likely private funding) brought decent schools.
I can go on, about how the residents of Cuzco still seem proud and a bit resentful of the Spanish conquest, even 500 years later, while the residents of Lima seem to have forgotten … or of how we saw someone unloading alpaca stomachs from an unrefrigerated truck, still dripping blood, into the main bazaar in Cuzco … or of how we ran into a herd of lambs crossing the road near Moray (close to Cuzco). But instead, I’ll just show a few of the thousands of photos I took in this warm, photogenic country.
Next post–Machu Picchu, Lima, and Paracas. Next time I visit–the Amazon (Puerto Maldonado) and areas further inland and to the north. I’d love to hear about other places as well though!
Ever wondered where your aluminum Pepsi can goes after you throw it out? Or your blue pen and old notebooks? Yesterday I visited the PSSI (the Peninsula Sanitary Service, Inc.), which handles Stanford’s recycling and waste management, to get a better idea of where our waste goes. Sure, it smelled like rotting spaghetti sauce at some points, but I found glimpses of beauty there too. (Side note: this is probably not representative of all sanitation/collection facilities; I think the images would vary hugely if I were to be in another country, and even a different part of the U.S.).
The current “divergence” rate, or amount of waste that isn’t going straight into the landfill, is currently 65% or so at PSSI–pretty decent, especially when compared to Houston, Texas (3% !!! = actively opposed to recycling anything). Nonetheless, there is still progress to be made.
One promising corner of the industry is the increasing use of biogas from landfills being used to generate electricity (where it is naturally emitted from the decomposition of our apple cores, banana peels, and cotton gym socks). Half of Sweden’s natural gas vehicles are now fueled by biogas, but the U.S. lags worse than a snail in taking advantage of this resource. Capturing biogas from landfills seems especially promising for inland states, like Colorado, Idaho, Kansas, and Nebraska, who cannot simply ship their waste to China or to Eastern Europe the way that coastal cities do.
Other interesting tidbits: the funding for California’s waste management agency comes from taxes for filling landfills. But as waste management facilities like PSSI become more efficient, less money goes to the agency, and there is less funding for investing in projects to further improve the waste stream. It seems like it ought to be an important consideration when designing policy that you shouldn’t create perverse incentives. Hopefully this would be taken into consideration for biogas projects (which also presumable depend on the filling of landfills to be functioning and profitable.)
I haven’t posted since getting the unexpected honor of “Freshly Pressed” two months ago (thanks to everyone for your kind comments!)… in part because I hate disappointing people, and wouldn’t want to disappoint a now slightly-larger group of followers. But also because I had no idea how many people a few photos from Italy could reach, something that HONY probably realized this year.
A person could see this wondrous map and think a number of things:
- Photos break the language barrier.
- Some places, like North Korea, Papua New Guinea, Bolivia, and Greenland still have no access to the internet [or even the electric grid].
- People living in these places have better things to do than read blogs.
- A good chunk of us want to be in Italy right now.
As I begin the job hunt, I can’t help thinking about how to have the biggest positive impact. Not in the white-man’s-burden kind of way, but helping people where and when they want to be helped. I’m not sure that photography is the only way to go, but I think it needs to be part of the equation. A recent Lens blog post (among a stream of others) profiled an artist that wants to do just that–turn art into stronger activism. Several others (on violence against women in Norway, sexual abuse in South Africa, and domestic violence in the US) are possibly even more powerful. Just some food for thought…
In the spirit of awesome global cities, here are a few photos from a week spent in Istanbul this spring.
As my neighbor on the flight there said: Paris is a beautiful city. Istanbul is an ugly city with beautiful places.
I might have to agree, to a point: Istanbul still feels like a developing country, even in Taksim (a lively neighborhood near where we stayed)–but the beauty of the mosques on every other corner and the ability to cross over to another continent [Asia] on a 30-minute ferry more than make up for it.
There’s so much I can say about Istanbul and my time there–equal parts getting ripped off and finding many warm, hospitable people; eating great kebabs and shaking my head in disbelief at how popular fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice is in Istanbul (in case you’ve never tried it, it’s the most sour taste I’ve ever encountered); the mix of secular European and religious Middle Eastern influences, possibly skewed by the many Saudi tourists with their women in full head-to-toe burqas and hijabs [some with no eye openings]… I could go on for days.
Following a weekend in cold, cloudy Edinburgh, I spent the next weekend in Milan and Genoa (Genova in Italian). Expecting cold stone buildings reminiscent of Paris in another “world capital of fashion,” Milan instead surprised me with its color, warmth, and friendly people, and a distinctly more relaxed charm than Paris. I still associate it with walking by the business district and seeing a 50-60 year old man, well-groomed, in a well-fitting black suit and crisp white shirt–and a neon orange silk tie.
Some people fall in love with Indonesia for its orangutans, others with France for its food–and I, with a country that most would name “unexotic” at best. I’ve wanted to go to Scotland since I was about 10 years old; I had neither Scottish ancestors nor living relatives to relate to, but rather, only an inexplicable fascination with its early history of conquests, tribesmen, and magical stories.
Well… maybe being exotic isn’t everything. After visiting Edinburgh for [sadly] only 3 days, I could see why so many writers were inspired while living in Edinburgh… the views from Carlton Hill are breathtaking, and the moody skies are straight out of a gothic novel. I had to wear fleece gloves to sleep at night and three sweaters to explore during the day [and this was in May] but the people of Edinburgh couldn’t have been warmer and more hospitable.
Having lived in France (where “socialism” is a positive buzzword) and in the US (where it isn’t), I had mixed emotions about state-sponsored healthcare, education, construction, etc., especially after witnessing firsthand the many ways in which it failed in the former Soviet Union. But if a positive, purer example of socialism were to exist, Scotland might be a great starting point. (To clarify, by positive I mean that the population doesn’t abuse the system and overwhelm the economy). I encountered a fair share of immigrant families and the elderly, but virtually nobody who was either very rich or very poor. Despite the brisk wind, frequent rain, and decades-long economic downturn, people were content.
There were many charity shops benefiting Goodwill- and UNICEF-like organizations, but there were also plenty of small businesses and private ventures, many with names borne of a distinctly Scottish humor; all in all, I got the impression that the Scots were both extremely proud of their origins and history, at the same time that they were wise enough to open their borders and communities to new influences. (Of course, this was not always so: Scotland also saw “witches” burned at the stake, different tribes turning against each other, and more recent incidents of ethnic violence, often targeted at South Asian immigrants.)
Aside from the scandalous bits I picked up about Scottish culture (like how a “real man” wouldn’t wear any underwear beneath a kilt), I also got a better sense for why, perhaps, Edinburgh worked. Because the city center is fairly compact, there’s a sense of community among the pubs and coffee shops, a sort of beckoning that leaves even foreigners feeling welcome. The eroding, darkened stone buildings hint at the city’s age, but the greenery throughout the city is so lush that you don’t want to stay indoors. It’s a great balance between the brown–historical buildings and business parks–and the green–the many urban parks and open spaces. It finally made me realize that a city girl doesn’t always need to escape to a forest to be inspired by old trees.
This post (and my visit) has been a long time coming, but I hope to post again soon–next time about Italy.
I thought this was a great first start by two African photographers based in Ghana (Nyani Quarmyne and Nii Obodai) trying to portray Africans, and climate change in Africa, as they are rarely portrayed: through the eyes of Africans.
I say “great start” not because the photos aren’t beautiful or interesting–they definitely are, especially the second, of an amazingly well-framed young boy standing among the remaining walls of his house near the sea–but because I think that there is still more that could be done to get away from portraying the stereotypes and conventional stories, as well as portraying more diverse facets of the effects of climate change.
Also came upon this photo on Quarmyne’s website:
As Obodai said,
“I can see that there’s a mentality of confusion at play, but it’s not a poor place. Africans are not poor people. We might be making wrong choices, but we’re not poor people. I refuse to play that poverty game. That’s a choice we’re making.”
Looking forward to seeing more work from both of these two that validates Obodai’s conclusion.
…. until I leave behind the soaring stained-glass windows of Sainte Chapelle, the miles and centuries of skeletons stacked inside the Catacombs, and the glow of the Eiffel Tower at night [as well as a few more wondrous things I mentioned here.]
Three months ago, I came with no grand expectations, no lengthy to-do lists of shopping on the Champs-Elysées (too expensive), climbing up the Eiffel Tower at night (worth it, no matter how cheesy), or trying overpriced macarons (definitely not worth it; alfajores are much better). In about 11 days, I will leave this barbaric paradise, appreciative and relieved.
Appreciative for the chance to get the living-in-romantic-Paris-for-a-few-months bug out of my system; to witness a city that’s changed much in terms of history and architecture, but very little in terms of mindset over the last few centuries; to eat the best crunchy-outside-and-soft-interior baguettes you can imagine; to better appreciate [American] washing machines that don’t jam your fingers as you attempt to close them and [American] windows that have screens to keep out mosquitoes and [American] diets that include real vegetables and fruits, not drenched in butter or syrup.
Relieved to find out that I will not need to move to Paris to be happy, as I had naively thought as a kid. I’ll miss the endless array of colorful, completely unhealthy pastries on display in neighborhood bakeries; the ability to walk along the Seine on a warm night with the yellow haze of lights transforming the water into Van Gogh’s Starry Night over the Rhône; and the inevitable respect for the old and older while walking down the small, winding streets of the Marais… But I won’t miss the many rude waiters, the urine-stained streets, the racism and resistance to change, the need to wear heels to a grocery store to fit in.
My humble verdict: Is Paris worth visiting? Absolutely. Is it worth living in? Only if you live with friends.
Taken during the Nuit européenne des nuits (European Museum Night), when many, many museums all across Europe are open much later than normal operating hours, often with free admission to the general public. Unfortunately, “night” is meant only loosely, as most museums closed by 11:45 PM, with only the Centre de Pompidou (Paris’s main modern art museum) open until 1 AM. The shots above are from the inner courtyard of the Louvre (I didn’t make it there early enough to get inside).