On The Road To The Andes

I recall sleeping on the way south by the roadside up near Big Sur.  On the highway early the next morning, a horse and rider appeared out of the fog.  They were majestic, the rider wearing a knitted Peruvian cap with long ear flaps and pointed peak, gray-bearded, looking for all the world like a mounted Tibetan lama.  "Easy Rose", he spoke gently to the horse, as they moved past down the highway like ghosts. 

It should've been an indication to me that I'd already reached my Himalayas but I was determined.  Although my health and general strength was not great, it improved dramatically as I moved slowly southward, giving my body ample time to adjust to the different climate and thus avoiding the malaise that comes to many travelers once they enter Mexico. Slowly, slowly southward through the Sonora desert I crept, my awe growing daily at the sheer size of the undertaking I'd committed myself to. I'd somehow assumed that I'd be in Peru in a week or so, but the reality of the journey was dawning on me.

I stood in the sweltering heat outside Mazatlan for a whole day, saved from dehydration by a schoolboy who kept bringing ice-cream to me every couple of hours from a nearby school where I suppose the children and teachers could see me from a window. Snail-like I plodded on, my physical health increasing daily from the rigors of the journey until I felt absolutely wonderful and it no longer made any difference to me how quickly I moved.

Somewhere along the road I was picked up by two Canadian men traveling to the Yucatan in a VW minibus. The driver was all for having me accompany them as far as their journey took them but his partner was far more reserved and resented my company. We arrived in Guatemala City late at night and his temper strained to the breaking point, his partner checked into a hotel. The driver locked our bags up in the van and we went into the zocalo, or marketplace, where a fiesta of some sort was taking place. We weren't gone long but when we returned to the van we found that the door had been removed and it had been ransacked. My guitar and knapsack were gone and along with these, my passport. Without a passport there was no way I could travel further and so I took a little room in a pensione and waited out the good graces of the Canadian embassy. A month later I still had no passport and if I had not been accidentally picked up by the Consul himself while hitching back through the countryside from a day trip to Lake Atitlan, maybe I never would've got one.

In the meantime and to help pass the time, I'd been practicing the Hare Krishna mantra by way of deepening my meditations.  I spent many afternoons at the pensione, where the food was quite good and included in the cost of the room, listening to a bongo player from Belize named Shine who played with a fluency and articulation that I would never have imagined possible in so simple an instrument.  Other travelers would gather in the courtyard afternoons and listen to him play for hours.  It was better than entertainment. 

One afternoon, while visiting the post office in downtown Guatemala City, I noticed a fair-complexioned man dressed in deep orange and wearing a turban coming down the front steps.  My attention was riveted by that bright flash of color in the street and the exotic nature of his dress but I didn't know then that we would soon meet. 

A few days later, I met some followers of the Ananda Marga Yoga Society, young Latinos with a good command of English, who invited me to their center for meditation and lunch.  Years before, I believe it was in Toronto, I had visited one of their organization's centers and had been given instruction in meditation and received my very first mantra, "Baba Nam, Keyvalam", which I had practiced assiduously at the time. 

I was eager to visit the center and arrived at the appointed time.  After removing my shoes I was invited into a small auditorium where the devotees were already in the process of chanting, standing on their feet, arms above their heads, swaying back and forth to the rhythm of a mantra.  As one does in church, I joined them by copying their movements and for a while remained mindlessly swaying and singing but did not notice any appreciable change in energy within me.  However, after about twenty minutes, a new group of devotees came through the door in the company of the man dressed in orange who I'd seen at the post office.  The effect was like throwing a match into gasoline.  Immediately the energy in the room increased at least a hundred-fold and I felt totally swept up in the flow of it.  My own vitality jumped with everyone else's and for the next hour I was deeply immersed in a group meditation and following lecture, given by this same individual in Spanish. 

Afterwards I was taken to the kitchen for lunch and was waiting for a plate to be given to me when the orange-robed man, obviously the teacher, entered.  Immediately, everyone stopped to feed him and to my surprise, he took the plate given to him and handed it straight to me. Sitting down across from me, he began to engage me in conversation, asking where I was from and when I expressed interest in his background he told me he was Dutch, and had been sailing down the Ganges one day when he met his teacher, after which his life had never been the same. I was awed and impressed by his energy and yet in person he was familiar and friendly and obviously not on a power-trip of any kind.

I digested this experience back at the pensione, still practicing my Hare Krishna mantra.  A fellow traveler who had asked me what I was doing with my eyes closed gave me a book by Swami Bhaktivedanta on the subject of Krishna, and I read it avidly. I had been reciting the mantra incorrectly, and was able to correct it. An American girl whom I'd helped when she was sick by bringing her cups of tea, sewed me a passport pouch so that I would not repeat the mistake of separating my passport from my person.  When my passport finally came I headed further south, by bus this time, an education in itself in this country.

At the border of El Salvador I was taken off the bus and scalped by a customs officer who used a pair of child's paper scissors to cut my long "hippie hair" at a shaggy angle, ridiculing and humiliating me while earning the cheers of his fellow officers.  So far the signs of my journey had not been too positive and yet with dogged persistence I traveled on, finally reaching San Jose, Costa Rica.

I found another little pensione and enjoyed the sights and sounds of this beautiful old city relaxing in the cafes, parks and the library which had an excellent selection of English books on the occult and mysticism.  In particularly I found myself reading Byron's poems and Rudolph Steiner. 

One beautiful afternoon I was sitting in the park, my  eyes closed, silently chanting my "Hare Krishna" mantra when I had the eerie experience of hearing the mantra coming from outside myself.  Opening my eyes, I was astounded to see a young, blond monk in sanyasin-orange robes standing directly in front of me, staring at me and chanting the same mantra.  Somewhat shocked I asked who he was and he replied that he was follower of the Hare Krishna movement and that he lived at their center here in the city.  I learned that he and his friend had been in the US Navy and stationed in this area when they met their teacher and abandoning the military, became monks.  He suggested I come to visit the center.

My first visit is etched in my mind.  I had taken a bus to the address and had to walk some ways from the stop.  It was pouring rain and I arrived at the front door soaking wet.  A young girl, not more than five years old answered the door and when she saw me she retreated without a word and returned smiling, a towel in her hands. 

I dried myself off as best I could and was invited inside by her elders and asked to join their tulsi ceremony, a chant around a small plant that was a symbol of good fortune for the community.  I left the center late into the evening, stars in my eyes and draped in a huge wreath of jasmine flowers around my neck, their sweet scent filling my nostrils.  I walked to the bus stop and made my way back to the center of town.  I felt as though I had taken the aura of the temple with me.  I was very high.

Walking down a side street, I was approached by a prostitute. "Where ya goin' man?" she tendered in a throaty, Caribbean accent.  I was not and am not accustomed to being solicited, perhaps I am not the type, but this come-on was unmistakable. I did have some money in my pocket and one would imagine a young man alone in the city to want some female company but I couldn't get past a certain harshness in her attitude. 

She came up close to me and fingered the flowers, "Where you get them beautiful flowers, boy?" she said and followed this up with "You give them to me, eh?".

"Not in this lifetime." I replied, feeling quite light-hearted and yet repulsed by her. I began to move away. "Hey" she shouted after me angrily, "You don't like women?"  The last thing on my mind at the moment was sex, especially with someone like her but I said nothing.  For the moment, I suppose, I was in love with Krishna.

I visited the center regularly over the next few weeks, helping with duties and was even interviewed by the teacher, who told me that I was not yet ready to become an monk but that when I was, he would send me to Virginia to begin my training.  I have to admit that I didn't like his energy very much. He was served by the monks and by his wife like a minor local pasha, giving orders from a reclining position in his office. However, my personal dislike didn't get in the way of receiving the energy of Krishna and his devotees directly. I understand only too well how a young person could be swept into this movement, or any other, quite easily.  At the time,  I knew I wanted to become a devotee but I also knew I had strong reservations about the life in such a center and my ability to live it fully.   

Finally, I visited Puentarenas on the Pacific coast and then took a train to Limon, through the jungle to the east coast.  In Limon, despite the good advice of a fellow traveler from Brazil, who first beat me at checkers when I thought he could not (so I should've listened), I trusted a couple of  locals who told me they could get me a job on a banana boat to Columbia and who then returned to the room I was sharing with my wise traveler friend, at my invitation and robbed us both at gun point.  They took all my travelers cheques except for $50. worth and drove me to the outskirts of town, advising me that it would be in my best interests not to be caught in town. 

I can still remember that long, lonely walk into the jungle in the dark of night and the long trek through it until the next morning. There was enough light from the stars to make my way along a dirt road and after several hours of walking on I was rewarded by what appeared to be a kind of miracle. Ahead of me I saw a tree silouetted against the night sky. In its branches were brightly lit jewels which I thought were stars showing through. As I approached closer though, I could see the stars moving slowly, swarming about the branches. It took a while longer to see that they were not stars at all, but fireflies.

From then on the journey got easier, but it was a long hitch back to San Jose and an even longer wait in the offices of the Canadian Consul who could, of course, not really help. Too bad, old chap.

It was my good friend Robert James who came to my assistance, wiring me a few hundred Canadian dollars and giving me the option of continuing.  By now, however, something had percolated through my consciousness, that all was not well with this journey and so I reversed my direction, this time heading homeward.

I was hitching just north of Oaxaca, Mexico, when I was picked up by a group of medical workers from the Mexican Social Security department. 

When the jeep first pulled over I was taken by surprise.  Music blared from the 8 track player and the occupants, two women and four men seemed to be having a wild party.  Only the government insignia on the side of the vehicle reassured me as I climbed in. 

The driver, a young man dressed in a cowboy shirt embroidered with roses, was passing a doobie around and everyone seemed in high spirits.  One of the women was a public health nurse, one of the men was a was a Brazilian-born doctor who was practicing medicine in Mexico and the others were, I guessed, social workers.  They had been given the task of going up into the mountains and inoculating the inhabitants of one of the remote Indian villages. 

We hadn't gone very far, when the driver suggested I come with them.  They were going,  he explained,  to a village where the people lived much the same as they had for hundreds of years. It was a one week trek out to the highway from their mountain home and having no vehicles, they were quite isolated from the modern world.

At first I though he was joking until the doctor spoke up..."My friend is ahead of me amigo.  Yes, why don't you come with us. You are a musician and we can get a guitar and play some music and drink some beer and it will be an unforgettable experience for you."

I'd had my share of strange experiences on the road and the marijuana was now kicking in.  I started to get that old familiar twinge of paranoia, but for whatever reason, the energy around me was so good that I let myself be persuaded.  The truth was, I wasn't even sure, by this time,  whether there was a choice or not.

The jeep pulled off the main highway and headed toward a range of low mountains to the east.  We drove for several hours along a dusty road that climbed into the foothills and then serpentined it's way upward, taking us by late afternoon to the top of a lofty hill, overlooking a panoramic vista of valleys.  It was here the jeep stopped.  "Come outside, said the doctor, "I want to show you something." 

"What now?" I said to myself as my pulse began to quicken.  I got out and followed the doctor to a crest beside the road. 

"Look out across the valley" he said.  I was quite stoned, and I did as he asked.  The enormous sweep of it was breathtaking.  "Now, look about halfway up the other side of the valley, where I am pointing."  I sighted down the length of his arm.  "Do you see a little clearing with some white buildings?"  At first I could see nothing but after focusing a while, I replied..."You mean that little white speck over there on the hillside?"  I could barely make out separate shapes.  "Yes, there"  he replied.  "That is our destination."

By early evening we had arrived at the small village.  As we drove through, the doctor pointed to a group of about 8 men sitting on chairs in the village square, watching us pass.  "They have no work to do now and for several months at this time of the year, they simply sit like this.  Let me ask you, do you think sitting like this doing nothing is easy."  It wasn't a question.  "You have to be very, very together,  to sit like this, day after day."

We were soon introduced to the chief, a man in his mid-twenties but with great dignity and reserve, who was the only one who had been to university and because of this, appointed chief.  That evening we had dinner in the chief's house, with his wife and children and food was lavished on us.  I was reminded by my friends that, although food was scarce, we were guests and this was a tradition.

The chief informed us, in very quiet serious tones, that a neighboring village had threatened to attack his and that his men were even now preparing.  "We have to be ready," he said.  It was impossible for me to imagine these gentle, peaceful-seeming people at war with each other.

Over the next few days I helped the workers distribute disinfectant soaps, to the villagers who lined up outside the tiny office that had become the clinic.  At one point, the nurse handed me cotton swabs and alcohol and I helped by cleansing the arms of the children who had come in to be inoculated.

One evening, we were drinking beer with some of the men outside the clinic.  No one was saying much but suddenly a guitar was produced and handed to me.  As I tuned it, more villagers, men, women and children began to gather and within a few minutes we had a crowd of maybe 30 people.  I will never forget the night I sang John Denver's Country Roads to that little, silent crowd.  When I had finished, no one clapped.  The doctor chuckled softly and said, "Oh yes, man....Country Roads!"  I tried to hand the guitar over to somebody else but it was put back in my own hands, and I played for the next couple of hours to rapt, silent attention.  It was one of the deepest playing experiences I have ever had.

Instead of dropping me back on the highway when we returned to it, three days later, the doctor suggested I come back and visit him as his guest, in Oaxaca.  He gave me a full tour, over the next few days including a fascinating trip to the ruins of Monte Alban and an explanation of the rock carvings depicted there as showing women in the various stages of childbirth. 

The night before I left, we were sitting in his living room talking.  I was reclining on a couch across from him and in the midst of our conversation his voice suddenly changed and he said, quite calmly and in low tones, "Don't move.  Just be very still and whatever you do, don't move."  I couldn't understand but his tone said it all and so I remained very still, while he retrieved a pair of tongs from the kitchen.  He came towards me slowly and once again stressed that I remain completely still and then suddenly he stabbed the tongs at the wall above my head. Writhing in the tongs was a large, black scorpion which he carefully carried outside and deposited in an earthenware flower vase in the courtyard.

The scorpion didn't bite me but the portent was not lost on me when I was arrested off the ferry from the mainland at Cabos San Lucas by the Federales on the way north.  The doctor, as a gesture of friendship had given me a little leathern bag containing several sticks of marijuana. I had kept these under my shirt but when the Federales, not one of them over 25, drove me in a van out into a cornfield in the middle of nowhere and produced a sawed off shotgun, I was compelled to show them what I had been given.  I am proud to say that although I was threatened with an electric cattle prod, I never revealed the source of the gift.

But I was not to escape the south without spending a couple of nights in a jail in La Paz, however, a terrible experience.  And to make matters worse, my three journals full of intimate details of my journey, poems and songs were confiscated and never returned. 

By the time I hit North American soil again I was one grateful pilgrim.  Perhaps, after all, my mountains were in a northerly direction.