Il Don, il lago sacro e la magia - The Don, the sacred lake and the magic

L'essenziale è invisibile agli occhi

- Il Piccolo Principe

La lancia che mi porta sulla Isla del Sol, nel Lago Titicaca, è piena di turisti. Aspetto di vedere che direzione prendono tutti per andare dalla parte opposta. La scelta è azzeccata, non potevo trovare alloggiamento migliore. La vista dalla camera da letto che mi affitta Eleodoro, il padrone di casa, è spettacolare. I raggi del sole si rincorrono sulla superficie del lago come i bambini dell'isola corrono dietro alla loro palla di gomma. Il lago Titicaca è considerato la culla della civiltà Inca. Il mito della fondazione narra che Manco Capac, il primo Inca, e la sua sposa Mama Ocllo, entrambi figli del sole, giunsero sul lago per portare cultura e tecnologia alle popolazioni primitive e da lì si diressero verso nord per fondare Cusco, la futura capitale dell'impero. La Isla de la Luna divenne il simbolo della donna. È qui che le vergini del sole venivano educate e l'accesso a quest'isola era consentito solo a Manco Capac. Un beato tra le donne versione andina. Ma la Isla de la Luna è conosciuta anche come l'Alcatraz boliviana. Su questi prati venivano detenuti i prigionieri politici della dittatura boliviana degli anni '60. Si vocifera addirittura di una visita in incognito di Fidel Castro per dare forza spirituale ai guerrilleros e incoraggiarli a non abbandonare la loro lotta. 

Non ci sono trasporti pubblici per l'isola della luna, bisogna contrattarne uno privato. Grazie ai suggerimenti di Mariano, un amico spagnolo conosciuto qualche settimana prima, vado a colpo sicuro e chiedo a Eleodoro dove  vive il Don. No, no, Don Vito Corleone non c'entra nulla. Ma, come il padrino di Coppola, Don Tomas è uno rispettato nella comunità. Un simpatico vecchietto con una storia da raccontare. Quando io e Martìn, un argentino mio vicino di stanza, giungiamo alla casa del Don, troviamo il figlio Adrian ad accoglierci. Don Tomas accetta di affittarci la sua barca per raggiungere l'isola della luna, necessita soltanto di qualche minuto per "prepararla". E la preparazione consiste semplicemente nel porre una bandiera lisa e consunta della Bolivia sul pennone. È Adrian ad accompagnarci sull'isola. Qui, dopo averci raccontato le varie leggende popolari, Adrian ci parla della sua infanzia sull'isola, di quando bambino vendeva pane e acqua ai prigionieri in cambio dei loro lavori artigianali. Adrian era lì il giorno della fuga di Coati, il nome Aymara dell'isola della luna. I 74 prigionieri dell'isola, infatti, riuscirono a pianificare e mettere in pratica la fuga verso le sponde peruviane del lago, per poi dirigersi verso Cuba. Ci racconta delle lezioni di democrazia che Marcelo Quiroga, fondatore del Partito Socialista 1, e il missionario Padre Luis Espinal Camps davano ai bambini della comunità, perché un giorno riuscissero a liberarsi dal giogo della vicina città di Copacabana, che fino a 40 anni fa sottraeva  una grossa percentuale dei beni delle due isole. Padre Espinal e Quiroga furono ammazzati anni dopo e del corpo di Quiroga non si è mai trovato traccia. Le ore passano in fretta, distesi sul prato di fronte alle rovine di quello che agli albori della civiltà Inca era il Palazzo delle vergini del sole. L'energia che questo luogo emana è incredibile, le rovine non sono affollate come quelle dell'isola del sole, qui i turisti non arrivano. Siamo solo io, Martìn e Adrian e alcuni abitanti dell'isola incuriositi dalle nostre facce. Al ritorno, Don Tomas ci fa "un'offerta che non possiamo rifiutare", offrendoci una deliziosa zuppa di pesce. È Adrian ad accendere la miccia: "Papà, perché non racconti ai ragazzi della fuga di Coati?" Don Tomas non si fa pregare, calibra i suoi movimenti, si siede lentamente sulla panca di fronte alla porta di casa e così inizia, "Era l'anno 1967..."

Ci racconta che quando i prigionieri organizzarono la fuga sapevano chi degli isolani aveva una barca. Don Tomas era uno di questi. Gli chiedo se era contento della fuga dei prigionieri, visto che gli isolani avevano simpatizzato con loro. Mi risponde che sì, ne era contento, ma non si aspettava di certo che lo costringessero ad andare con loro fino a Cuba, per proteggerlo dall'esercito della dittatura. A Cuba non arrivò mai, riuscì a scappare dai guerrilleros, ma fu costretto a vivere in esilio in Perù, fino a che cambiò il governo boliviano. Solo allora riuscì a riabbracciare la famiglia, e solo dopo molto tempo riuscì a dimostrare la sua innocenza nella fuga e a riavere la barca che l'esercito gli avevano sequestrato. Ora è più facile capire perché Don Tomas viene invitato a tutte le feste più importanti della comunità. Si fa tardi, dobbiamo andare prima del buio perchè l'illuminazione elettrica è un concetto un po' astratto sull'isola del sole. Io e Martìn camminiamo alla luce delle nostre lanterne, con un chiaro cielo stellato sopra le nostre teste. Il mattino dopo abbiamo modo di parlare con un altro nostro vicino, Rodolfo, un simpatico signore che sembra avere 50 anni mentre la sua carta d'identità dice 78. Gli raccontiamo della storia di Don Tomas, della fuga dei 74, di Adrian e delle lezioni di Marcelo Quiroga. A quest'ultimo nome Rodolfo ha un sussulto. Lui stesso era con Quiroga quando quest'ultimo fondò il partito.

Per completare il cerchio delle coincidenze, prima di prendere la lancia per Copacabana incontro anche Mariano, tornato sull'isola a pagare visita al Don, al lago sacro e alla magia, cinque anni dopo l'ultima volta. 

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What is essential is invisible to the eye.
- The Little Prince

The boat that takes me to Isla del Sol, the Sun Island on Lake Titicaca, is packed with tourists. I await to see which direction everyone takes to go the opposite way. The choice is good, I couldn't find better lodging. The view from the room I rent from Eleodoro, the landlord, is stunning. The sunrays chase the surface of the lake in the same way the children run around the island after their rubber ball. Lake Titicaca is considered the cradle of the Inca civilization. The founding myth tells that Manco Capac, the first Inca, and his woman, Mama Ocllo, both sons of the sun, came to the lake to bring culture and technology to the primitive peoples, and from there they headed north to found Cuzco, the future capital of the empire. The Isla de la Luna, Moon Island, became a feminine symbol. It is here that the virgins of the sun were educated, and Manco Capac was the only one allowed to access the island. A "lucky with women", Andean version. But the Isla de la Luna is also known as the  Bolivian Alcatraz. Political prisoners of Bolivian dictatorship were detained on these meadows, during the '60s. Rumor has it that Fidel Castro himself came here incognito to give spiritual strength to the guerrilleros and encourage them not to abandon their fight.

There 's no public transportation to the Isla de la Luna, it is necessary to contract a private one. Thanks to the suggestions of Mariano, a Spanish friend met a few weeks before, I play it safe and ask Eleodoro where The Don lives. No, no, Don Vito Corleone has nothing to do with this. But, like Coppola's Godfather, Don Tomas is well respected in the community. A nice old man with a story to tell. When I and Martìn, an Argentinian staying in the room next to mine, arrive to the house of The Don, we find his son Adrian to greet us. Don Tomas agrees to rent his boat to go to the Isla de la Luna, only needs a minute to "prepare" it. And the preparation consists in putting a threadbare and worn flag of Bolivia on the flagpole. It's going to be Adrian to navigate us toward the island. Here, after telling us the various popular legends, Adrian speaks of his childhood on the island, when was selling bread and water to the prisoners in exchange for their craftworks. Adrian was there the day the escape of Coati, the Aymara name of the Moon Island, happened.

The 74 prisoners on the island, in fact, were able to plan and put in practice their escape toward the Peruvian side of the lake, before heading to Cuba. He tells us about the lessons of democracy that Marcelo Quiroga, founder of the Bolivian Socialist Party, and the missionary father Luis Espinal Camps gave the children of the community, because one day they could escape from the yoke of the nearby town of Copacabana, which until 40 years ago was getting a large percentage of the production of two islands. Quiroga and father Espinal were killed years later, and Quiroga's corpse was never to be find. Hours go by quickly, with the three of us lying on the lawn in front of the ruins of what once was the Palace of the Virgins of the Sun. The energy that this place gives off is mind-blowing, the ruins are not as crowded as the ones on the Sun Island, tourists don't come here. It's just me, Martìn and Adrian and some islanders who came by, intrigued by our faces.

Back on the Sun Island, Don Tomas makes us "an offer we cannot refuse", a delicious fish soup. Adrian is the one who lights the spark, "Dad, why don't you tell the boys about the escape of Coati?" Don Tomas doesn't need persuading, he calibrates his movements, slowly sits on the bench opposite the house door, and so begins: "It was 1967..."

He tells us that when the prisoners organized the escape they knew who among the islanders had a boat. Don Tomas was one of them. I ask him if he was glad that the prisoners were escaping, as the islanders had sympathized with them. He replied that yes, he was pleased, but certainly did not expect that they forced him to go with them to Cuba, in order to protect him from the army of the dictatorship. He never got to Cuba since he managed to escape from the guerrilleros, but was forced to live in exile in Peru, until the Bolivian government changed. Only then he was able to come back and hug his family, and only after much time he could prove his innocence and get his boat back after the army had seized it. Now it's easy to see why Don Tomas is invited to all the most important festivals of the community.

It's getting late, we need to go before dark since electric lighting is just an abstract concept on the Sun Island. Martìn and I walk in the light of our lanterns, with a clear starry sky above our heads. The morning after we get to talk to another of Eleodoro tennants, Rodolfo, a nice gentleman who seems to be 50 years old while his ID card says 78. We tell him the story of Don Tomas, the escape of the 74, of Adrian and the lessons of Marcelo Quiroga. At hearing this name Rodolfo has a start. He himself was with Quiroga when the latter founded the socialist party.
To complete the circle of connections, prior to leave for Copacabana I meet Mariano,  who has returned to the island to pay a visit to The Don, the sacred lake and the magic, five years after the last time.

My friend Jorge

Originally posted on the 5th of February

 

"Me encanta que me escuches", I love that you're listening to me. Says Jorge after he filled my head with words for forty-five minutes.

Jorge, year '61, is 49 and got a life behind himself that could be pure material for a novel. He spots me in the street from the furniture shop where he works while I was consulting the map of El Calafate and offers to help. I actually know what direction to take, but I stop to chat with him anyway. After the introductions, Jorge becomes a flood of words, we begin to talk about everything. Literature, philosophy, religion, politics, history, humanity... He's an idealist, Jorge. It is clear from how his eyes light up when he speaks about Borges as if he were his own brother, or when he explains the ideas of Ernesto Che Guevara  as if he had traveled around South America with him, or again when he talks about how beautiful were the valleys where he grew up when he was my age, in the Rio Grande.

He decides to present me with a gift, pulling out his guitar. He's got a country folk singer voice, the kind you see in the streets of the villages singing of times that no longer exist. When I ask him who wrote the song he had just sung with such passion, a broad smile appears on his face: "Pero claro: yo", Me, of course. He explains me that life has to be music and poetry, the one doesn't exist without the other. Nothing more, nothing less.

He tells me of his life, the years when an Italian woman took care of him together with his father; his passion for Adriano Celentano and Sofia Loren; his middle name, Luigi. He speaks of his time as a soldier in the Falklands War. There, fortunately, he never had to fight. Jorge was simply terrified at the idea of shooting another man.

Meanwhile time goes by, my excursion to the lagoon in search of flamingos is already going to hell. By his side, Jorge is getting hungry and drags me to lunch with him and his two patrones, employers, Mario and Jessica and their two daughters. Why not? It's a sunny Sunday and it's time of asado, barbecue, which stands to the average Argentinian the same way pasta stands for the average Italian. We eat tons of meat in a barbecue campsite, where I enjoy the typical Argentinian pace of life. Peace, tranquility, relaxation rule here.

I ask him how an idealist can be so happy in the world of today. "When I was younger - he says - I was always looking toward the tree in front of me, but I was forgetting the forest. One day I met God, he made me look around and I found that a tree is only a part of the forest. There are so many opportunities out there." But I know that Jorge is not a religious fanatic. Religion has nothing to do here, so I try to widen his vision. He decides to tell me the real reason behind his apparently neverending happiness. "Until a few months ago - he goes on - I was out on the street begging for money, almost always drunk. Had it not been for my patrones I wouldn't be here talking to you now." Tomorrow he will have one more reason to smile: his 17 and 13 years old children will visit him. Seven years went by since the last time he saw them. That's why Jorge keeps on smiling, smoking cigarette after cigarette due to the anxiety, with the laughters and teasing of Mario and Jessica in the background.

Before leaving, he askes me one favour for when I'll return to Italy. "I have always been fascinated by pizza chefs... Would you send me a video of one of them spinning the pizza in the air?"

Among the many direct questions with which he bombed me, there was this one: when does a man really die? I try to come up with some clever answers, give him a couple, he accepts them too. But none of these has the same simplicity of his one. "A man dies when nobody remembers him anymore."

I'll try to treasure it and to not forget about this little big man who, for one afternoon, made me spend a day as a true Argentinian. "Un dia diferente hoy, eh Alejandro?". A different day today, hu?
Holy words. Word of Jorge.

On the shoulders of the giants

On the shoulders of the giants, originally posted on the 4th of February

Francisco P. Moreno, nicknamed "Perito", expert, is a key figure in Argentinian history. Scholar, explorer and archaeologist, he was appointed perito for his demonstrated ability and commitment in establishing the boundaries of the Andes between Chile and Argentina in favor of the latter. He is present in the daily life of this country in the streets dedicated to him almost everywhere, a bit like the Italian street Cavour and Garibaldi. Perito Moreno is also the name of a mountain, a river, a lake, even a small village in the steppes of Patagonia. Undoubtedly, however, his fame is linked to the namesake glacier, 80 km west of El Calafate. The Perito Moreno is the great attraction of the South, the one that attracts people forever and always.

The agency to which we rely upon calls the excursion they organize "alternative". Perhaps only in name. It is true, though, that other agencies don't go through the old road that leads to the glacier, where you can see some of the estancias, the ranches so popular in this area, with lots of native animals playing in the background. The post opening picture is just a small example of the vastness of the old landowners' estates. Here below we can see mother Barison bottle-feed a baby guanaco. From her expression one can only deduce what she's thinking. I guess something like "You give these damned the bottle and they try to suck your whole arm!"

From here we head towards the Magellan peninsula, where a series of switchbacks begins to offer us the sight of the glacier, little by little. In the last corner before the great apparition, our guide tries to create an atmosphere of expectation by playing a medley. It starts with Beethoven's 9th symphony, switches to the countdown of the Apollo mission on the moon, to finally conclude with the famous Star Wars theme at the view of the glacier.

When you write - a letter, an article, a blog, even just a text to a mobile phone - the line between triviality and originality is thin, is a crystal that can break anytime. You can't describe a natural phenomenon of this magnitude in few words. It is simply necessary - and this is trivial to say - to be physically present on site, with all five senses alert. You can't describe the majesty of something that is immensely there and cares nothing about the two or three hundred people armed with camera, waiting for a start. The roar of the dreadful ice pieces breaking off and falling into the lake, the dazzling white walls of the beast, the condors flying over it... none of this will ever come out of words or pictures. The emotion at the sight of something totally unexpected is great.

Click on this link to the original post for some of the shots I took. I was also lucky enough to catch some pieces of ice breaking off.

Traguardi - The finishing line

Ho ancora quella forza che ti serve quando dici: "Si comincia!"...
Ho ancora la forza di non tirarmi indietro, di scegliermi la vita masticando ogni metro...
e al mondo sono andato, dal mondo son tornato sempre vivo...

Francesco Guccini, Ho ancora la forza

Quando ti maledici perché te la sei andata a cercare da solo, quando ti manca l'aria e i polmoni non ti sostengono, quando a tentare di arrestare l'emorragia di paura rimane soltanto l'adrenalina, quando vorresti vomitare l'anima, quando il sudore ti copre gli occhi e nemmeno il fango ti lascia in pace, quando la vita ti sta sanguinando tra le mani, quando tutto ciò che ti circonda vorresti fosse soltanto la scena di un vecchio film in bianco e nero, è lì che taglio il traguardo.

Se non avete mai sentito parlare della strada più pericolosa del mondo vi basta cercare su google "carretera mas peligrosa del mundo" e visualizzare le immagini (mamma, non lo fare). Abbiamo percorso 63 chilometri, siamo partiti da un'altitudine di 4700 metri, all'arrivo erano 1200. Pensavamo fosse un'escursione turistica con qualche pericolo. Ci sbagliavamo. Nel contratto che abbiamo firmato era scritto a chiare lettere che si correva anche il rischio di morire. Le croci che abbiamo visto lungo il cammino non mentono, qui c'è gente che non è tornata a casa a raccontare le scene mozzafiato delle valli dello Yungas boliviano. E allora capiamo che dobbiamo soltanto pedalare, mantenere la concentrazione, non voltarci ad ammirare il panorama, per quello c'è una pausa ogni quindici minuti. Alle foto ci pensano i nostri due accompagnatori, Salo e Simon, ottime guide quanto pessimi fotografi, purtroppo. Siamo sopravvissuti, e le maglietta che riceviamo al traguardo più le foto che Salo e Simon hanno scattato ne sono la prova (mamma non le guardare).

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I still have the strength you need when you say: "Let's get it started!"...
I still have the strength to not draw back, to choose my life chewing each meter ...
and to the world I've gone, from the world I've always come back alive ... 

Francesco Guccini, Italian songwriter

When you curse yourself because you asked for it, when you lack oxygen and the lungs do not support you, when adrenalin is the only one left trying to fight back the haemorrhage of fear, when you would like to vomit your soul, when the sweat is covering your eyes and even the mud doesn't leave you alone, when your life is bleeding in your hands, when you wish that everything around you was just the scene of an old movie black and white, that's when I reach the finishing line.

If you've never heard of the most dangerous road in the world you just need to google "carretera mas peligrosa del mundo" and see the pictures (mom, don't do it). We rode 63 km, started at an altitude of  4700 meters, arrived downhill at 1200. We thought it was a tourist excursion with some danger in it. We were wrong. In the contract that we signed was written very clearly that the risk of dying was high. The crosses we saw along the way don't lie, here people didn't make it home to tell the breathtaking scenes of the Bolivian Yungas valley. In that moment we understand that we just have to ride, to keep focused,  to not turn our head to watch the view, for that there's a break every fifteen minutes. Our two companions, Salo and Simon, are the ones thinking about taking pictures. They're really good guides as well as bad photographers, unfortunately. We survived, and the t-shirt we get at the finishing line plus the photos that Salo and Simon have taken of us are the evidence (mom, don't look at them).