People who live in stone houses.....

Susan Straight, who has a new novel coming out in September, writes this splendid essay about the stone houses of Southern California. 

Fundraiser for Amy

All the big yoga studios in the Lehigh Valley, PA got together for a Fundraiser for Amy.  It was held in the parking lot of the West End Yoga studio in Allentown, PA.  A kid zooming down the street on a skateboard yelled "hello, yoga people!" and I thought, yeah, that's one of the things I am, a yoga person.  Last night, it was a nice thing to be.

The girl from Tulum...Fanny Barry

A very dear friend of mine, an artist and engineer, had a life crisis, wrote some books, moved to Tulum, Mexico, fell in love, got scammed, wised up, became a yoga teacher and is writing about it all on her blog here.  Hang around for a while.

Rolling Down the River

This is part of the diary of Tom Carter who is spending some time this summer in the rain forest with the Huaorani...

June 10

Yesterday afternoon was even more exciting than the morning. And I realized that the morning was pretty mind blowing when it dawned on me that my lengthy description had failed to mention one thing that would be the highlight of most days. As Mike and I were headed to the regional government meetings we saw a commotion the opposite lanes of the main road that comes from the airport. The traffic was backed up by two guys in the middle of the road, on unicycles. But not just any unicycles; they were on those elevated unicycles, about eight feet above the potholed street. They were pedaling back in forth in short strokes, basically staying in one spot. And here is the kicker, they were juggling machetes. They had about eight in the air at any given time, flying between them and over their heads. Funny that I forgot to mention that...

In the afternoon I took a refreshing dip in the hotel pool and then headed to the market with Mike and Jake. The place was a massive swirl of vendors that takes up several blocks. The most common stands featured meat and fish, cut and butchered before our eyes, fruit, and herbal remedies. Everyone tried to sell us performance enhancing tonics and hallucenogenic drugs. The place was also filled with massive vultures that perched on the rooftops and wandered underfoot, picking up the butcher and fish scraps. They had absolutely no fear of the throngs of people around, and one practically landed on my shoulder at one point.

There were also rows of women rolling cigarettes from massive mounds of freshly chopped tobacco, sealing the papers with a gum made of yuca and grapefruit. We also saw caiman claws, python heads, anaconda skins, and the pelts of otters, jagaurundi, and a jaguar.

Just down the river bank is a massive shanty town called Belen. It was the edge of Belen that I had seen on my morning run, but we now sought out a guide to take us into the heart of the impoverished village. We asked a few vendors to suggest a guide and suddenly a little fellow appeared and cheerfully announced: I am George, which I initially took as I am yours. This guy had a haircut from an Ah Ha video and a letter of recommendation from the manager of the Ahwahnee Lodge in Yosemite. He insisted on speaking English and was filled with so much energy that we could not resist settling on him as our guide. At that time some young guy approached Jake with an offer to get high on pot or the local hallucenogen. Somehow he ended up tagging along on the tour.

About a third of the way down the ancient, eroded steps to the river we crossed the high water mark of the recent flood. Beneath us the damage inflicted was immediately apparent. The slapdash corridors between the ramshackle houses were filled with muddy ridges of detritus: shoes, trash, furniture, bottles, human waste, everything that had washed up and settled onto this muddy flood plain turned city.

Everytime someone greeted George, he proudly announced that everyone in Belen knew him. He took us deeper and deeper down the gentle slope towards the water. With each step the piles of muck got higher and the smell got more strangling. Finally the makeshift road turned into a canal, and we were limited to a narrow sidewalk along the houses. We were greeted by cheerful old men drinking rum straight from their basement stills. At the point the houses were on stilts, but even the upper levels had been flooded. At the point where even the sidewalk reached the water there were several long handmade boats. George loaded us into one narrow and rocky boat and off we went through the fetid water. The canal through the village opened into the river. On what appeared to be the opposite bank were many more shanties. As we approached we saw that this was simply the floating extension of Belen.

George pointed out the highlights of the floating village, including schools and churches. We passed people bathing and washing clothes and dishes in the filthy water. George reached down, cupped his hand, and demonstrated that the residents drank this water. Of course, he told us how sick we would be if we did the same, but he had spent his life in Belen and his body was prepared for the barrage of microbes and pollutants.

Eventually he took us to his house. The raft of tree trunks that defined his domain measured perhaps five by eight meters. A roof covered the whole raft, but only a small portion had walls made of boards and blankets. In this area, perhaps the size of a king-sized bed, George lived with his wife and four children. He also a dog and four cats who wandered around the raft. His neighbors had a healthy flock of chickens.

Georges kids were adorable, charming, and happy. The most striking thing about Belen is how cheerful and friendly the kids are. They have everything they need, that any of us need. Being greeted by so many of them changed my mindset entirely. I had entered Belen pitying their squalor but came up pitying the rest of us who think that we need so much more than a roof, food, water, and supportive companions.

After the boatman, who was Georges neighbor, took us back to the shore, George guided us back up to the market. We paid him 10 Soles each, the equivalent of four dollars. In the evening, Mike met with the Maijuna regarding travel arrangements, supplies, and the Congresso. So Jake and I walked to local market and got some beer to drink poolside. We watched the bats and lizards flit about and talked about travel, music, and other shared interests. When Mike finally wrapped up, we went to one of the few fine restaurants in Iquitos. A motokar (which I learned was the name of the three-wheeled cycle taxis) took us to a well built porch over some stairs down to the river. Here we boarded a boat that seemed like the QEII compared to our afternoon craft. The boat took us maybe a kilometer out into the river to a floating restaurant. The two story structure was made of beautifully polished wood and featured an enticiing freshwater pool, lit blue in the dark night. Soft ambient music completed the scene. The food was spectacular, as was the view of the city, yet the total bill for beer, appetizers and entrees was under 200 Soles, or around 80 dollars. It was such a stark contrast to the afternoon poverty and a surreal way to end a long and adventurous day.

Copyright 2012 Tom Carter