No one else wanted to fly with me but I hadn´t travelled all the way to Nasca to not do it. All my childhood my fascinated parents had told me of the various wonders in Perú, but flying over the Lines of Nasca had never been included in the family outings. This time, however, we were driving to Cusco by road, stopped at Nasca, and I didn´t care about the prices anymore. I felt: this is part of your Peruvian heritage, this is something you must see.
We booked into the Hostel Friends’ House on Avenida Maria Reiche, named after the German archaeologist who dedicated her life to decoding the mystery behind the Lines. We had a very good conversation with the owner of Friends’ House, Maria, who offered to organise the flight over the Lines for $95. I’m told this is quite the offer and after translating it into euros, I decided that although it was over my original limit of $75, well, how often do you fly over the Lines of Nasca?
Since no one knew what time the flight would be, Maria kindly promised to wake me. But the street did that for her. I was up as of 5 am, being blared at by taxis. By 8 am a car came by to pick me up. Accompanied by more adventurers, I was driven to the Nasca airport - a small airport in the desert which had been opened only for planes to fly over the Lines.
There was much waiting going on in this small airport. Patiently, everyone sat with the looks of people who understood that the Peruvian Patience was a unique limbo in which no amount of complaining could ever help. Things would happen… when they happened.
the Waiters Waiting
My passport information was written down, I was weighed, tapped down and my camera was closely scrutinised. I was then led to wait with three fellow Germans who expressed obvious skepsism as to just what they were doing there. They were a family: parents visiting a travelling daughter, and only the father had ever been in a small Cessna airplane. We compared all the horror stories we had ever heard on the flights over the Lines: “The wind is awful, it´s so turbulent everyone throws up on the plane”, “they fly like madmen, everyone throws up on the plane”, “the pilot just told me proudly that everything will be okay, their last accident was a whole three years ago”.
I was terribly excited. My father has a pilot license, so I have spent many childhood hours in Cessnas. I had no fear there. I just wanted to get up in the air and see these lines I had read so much about! On the drive to Nasca, we had stopped at the red-laddered watchtower, climbed it for 2 soles and seen our first two Nasca Lines: the Hands and the Tree.
HandsThe Tree and Trapezoidal Lines behind it
On the watchtower I had gotten a better idea of how the lines had actually been made: they were small, smooth trenches carved into the desert.
On that tower, I was suddenly struck by something I have found difficult to name, but in the end, I think I can only describe it as beauty. It’s one thing to hear all your life that “no one knows why the Lines were made, for ceremonial purposes or as alien landing strips; as an astrological calender mapping the stars; or perhaps as illustrations meant to complement the desert”.
It’s another thing entirely to see them. To stand on the tower and suddenly feel overwhelmed by their unexpected beauty. To let that beauty take you by the hand to a place where you find yourself asking: Where does beauty come from? Why is beauty created? These long endless lines, these pale visions from another time, what do they want to tell me?
I hadn’t expected to be moved so deeply by them. Looking at their intricate patterns, how carefully and lovingly they had been designed; diving into the movement of their patterns; seeing them lying so simply and unspectacularly in a desert where there is nothing; these lines painted a more fertile earth and perhaps want nothing other than to be seen, or are satisfied with just Being… I hadn’t expected to be moved so deeply by them.
And as with the petroglyphs of Chechta, I felt again: illustrations invok a spirit. In paintings, something is being invoked, something is being kept alive; and when we look at the illustrations, the petroglyphs and geoglyphs, we can perhaps feel something - something that the painter also felt.
The View Down: I am still very much afraid of heights and all that wind rocking the watchtower wasn't helping
Back at the airport, our plane was finally ready.
Trustworthy Cessnayes, the pilot took this picture
We climbed in, put on our headphones, and our pilot began chatting away in perfect English. He asked us if we could hear him, we said yes. He turned to his co-pilot beside him and asked: “Can you hear me?” Startled, his co-pilot shook his head: “No! I can’t!” The German passengers giggled nervously. The pilot told his co-pilot off: “Why can’t you hear me? Miguel could hear me!” We all burst out laughing.
The Cessna was a four-seater. That way, we all had our own window and everyone was a winner.
yes, the pilot took this picture
Let me take this moment to say that the pilots who flew us were one of the best I have ever flown with. The take-off was so smooth, I didn’t even realise we were flying. The landing was so gentle, it could have given Lufthansa a run for its money. The skills the pilots showed in swerving the plane vertically left and right were secure, careful, and we were asked after every swerve: “están bien?” Even my German co-passengers, who had had obvious jitters and doubts about getting into the plane, were impressed beyond belief at the security and skill of the pilots. If you, my friends, ever go to Nasca, I heartily recommend Alas Peruanas.
The flight began. The co-pilot showed us a map of the route we would be taking and what Lines we would be seeing along the way. Suddenly, he said: “And now, to the right…” – and at that, the plane swerved vertically to the earth – “we see…” and I saw:
Trapezoidal Lines
An aerial runway? Lines pointing towards the setting of stars, towards the summer solstice? Lines pointing towards the sources of water?
Perhaps meant to be seen only from the sky: for the greater audience of the gods, for a time when men have wings.
From our view in the sky, they played hide and seek with us. “Can you see it? Can you see it? There’s the Astronaut Man!”
Can you see him?
“And now, to the left… the Dog…” This time, I raised the contrast for you.
The Dog
One of my favourite Lines lay on a plateau and seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. According to Andean mythology, the Humingbird is the only creature that can cross the energy worlds and communicate with spirits in different worlds:
the Humingbird
The Pre-Columbian cultures of Perú believed in “art which complements the Earth”. Their temples fit into mountainsides, their shrines mimicked the profiles and shapes of mountains. This time, the Nasca culture used the desert as their canvas.
the Spider
We saw the watchtower from the sky…
Watchtower, Hands and Tree from the sky
I know there are sometimes complaints among tourists that the flight is too highly priced for merely half an hour. Let me say this: 30 minutes is plenty. After swerving left and right, seeing beauty and loving every second of it, you realise: “I’m good, I’m happy to go down now.”
And happy we were!
We agreed: it was worth every penny
At the risk of everyone shunning me as a hopeless romantic, I must say this: the Lines were beautiful, seeing them was incredible, and as I flew over them, I felt something new, and when we landed, I realised I felt just a little bit more Peruvian.
Why not use the world as your canvas. Regardless of if you ever see your art or not: is art even created for a viewer, or is it the process that matters? The infinity sleeping in your hours of work.
I believe the lines were created as a way of invoking fertility into a desert. If no humingsbirds, whales, or dogs can live here, why not draw them into the world? That way, they are there and the desert is somewhat less barren.
But something else made Nasca beautiful to me: my new friend from Friends’ House. Her name is Fabiana, she is 6 years old, and when she grows up she wants to be a doctor.
Fabiana and Ritti
Lovely girl, you can do anything you set your mind to. It will demand a lot of hard work, but you can do it because you are strong and intelligent. When I pass by Nasca again, I will visit you!
After Nasca, my friends, came the open road and on we travelled to Cusco. It would be three days before we reach the ancient capital of the Inka empire, and so we travelled over 4000 meters above sea level, into the clouds. With the feeling of having understood something new.
My comrades! I have been meaning to write sooner but the inevitable has taken a train and is now cheekily waving from the horizon. What I mean is that time is flying and my head is spinning. There is much to write, much to catch up on – especially since my good friend and project manager Rose Patton has arrived in Perú and we will embark on our first big adventure very soon: into the highlands we will go to spend New Years in Cusco at 3,400 meters above sea level. But here is what happened last week . . .
Venturing south of Lima to see the towns Chincha, Pisco and Paracas, we found ourselves getting into a speedboat one morning to see the Islas Ballestas, famous for being the home of thousands of birds, penguins, sea lions and even dolphins – and for its high produce of guano. Guano is a bird excrement which is a very effective fertilizer (my brugmansias back home love it) and one of Perú’s major exports. As I had heard a lot about the beauty of the islands, and as Rose loves the romance of speedboats, we joyfully boarded – without a hat for protection.
Rose Patton and the Trusty Swimvest
On board were mostly Peruvians but also excited visitors from Japan and Scotland. As the boat picked up speed and crashed against the water, we were repeatedly surprised by the higher waves that slipped over the edge of our boat and flew into our eyes, mouths and hair. The passengers screeched in delight and horror.
A lovely Peruvian mother confided her theory: “I think the captain of the boat is mad about something and now he’s letting it out on us!” She chuckled and covered her son with towels.
The boat slowed down as we approached the first island. The tour guide explained what we were seeing into a microphone in perfect English and Spanish. It was the famous Candelabro, a large-scale geoglyph that has been causing a stir among archeologists, those who hope we’re not alone in the universe and, well, everyone else.
El Candelabro
There are quite a few theories as to why this geoglyph was imprinted into the side of the island. It could have served as a beacon to mariners, much like the Northern Star. My favourite theory, however, was that it was created in honour of the San Pedro cactus, a powerful hallucinogenic plant which is common in the area and is still used regularly in shamanic ceremonies. Here is the cactus by the ruins of Inkahuasi (more on Inkahuasi in the next post!):
San Pedro cactus at Inkahuasi
After half an hour on the speedboat and not a dry strand of hair on our heads, we approached the beautiful Islas Ballestas . . . And thousands and thousands of birds . . .
As soon as our rowdy speedboat approached, the startled birds took to the skies and performed what Peruvians like to call “a baptism” unto the unwitting adventurers without hats . . . or with open mouths! While Rose got a spot of precious guano onto her arm, a poor little boy staring up at the birds in fascination recieved a baptism . . . in his mouth! What a thing to happen. He panicked and shortly after fell into the deep sleep of shock. His mother demanded some alcohol to revive his spirits but there was none onboard. We all learnt that the Islas Ballestas demand two simple things: wear a hat (or you’ll be washing precious, gooie guano out of it later) and always keep your mouth shut.
The speedboat raced mercilessly to the next island but slowed down as we approached its jagged edges. The birds stared at us in equal fascination as we stared at them. The small Humboldt penguins were spotted with cries of delight . . .
. . . and so excited were we, that we didn’t notice the sea lions until we were close enough to clamber onto the rocks and howl with them: howl at the sea, howl at the speedboat and howl all its joyful passengers like a secret animal circus giving a show for the tourists.
The sea lions basked in the sun with a glorious laziness that made us all envy their lives and question ourselves: why do we humans always create such a fuss? Why do we run in circles, have appointments, chase money, live in cities! So many creatures on this planet simply lie in the sun, gnaw at each others’ ears and occasionally swim with dolphins and jellyfish. A salty life of sleep and flippers. Who will make the first move?
I filmed as much as I could, capturing close ups of a sea lion picking a fight (or simply establishing again to his crew that he was their alpha male), of penguins and swallows - and as our speedboat turned to race back to the shores of Paracas, a flight of pelicans rose from the islands and followed our speedboat in a perfect V against the afternoon sun. It was a poetic farewall of the birds of the island.
To anyone eager to visit the Islas Ballestas (I already told you about that thing with having your mouth open), I need to say this: the ride back to the shore is rough. Waves sprayed over the boat edges from every side with such ferocity and spark, that all passengers rode with their heads down, desperately trying to pass out from the sea motion, the stinging salt in their eyes and the fact that they were becoming soaked through and through. To ride merrily in a speedboat: don’t sit in the back. Our poor friends from Scotland were in the last row and returned drenched and wind-whipped without a dry patch of life to their names. I thoroughly enjoyed the ride back and chatted away to anyone who would talk to me – which was basically no one. My father came along for the ride and he got a few priceless photographs of Rose and I smiling at his camera seconds after the waves hit our faces.
Back on shore I can only say this: what makes a town unique and an emerald to our memories, are the people. As Rose and I strolled along the beach promenade and poked through the colourful artesania shops selling jewellry made of sea shells, sharks teeth and sea lion fangs – we found Franco and his shop of creative wonders.
Franco's Shop
Franco is a creative artesano from Piura, in northern Perú. He travels throughout Perú selling his art but found great joy in being in Paracas because it’s good for business and not yet as tourist-swamped, unfriendly and dangerous as other shores can be. He fastens sea shells into woven necklaces and bent metal into quirky earrings for us on the spot. A braclet of his creation that fascinated me was a silver fork he had bent into a braclet, melting the teeth of the fork into Dalí reminiscence which held a purple spondylus shell in place. If you see me after Perú, check out the braclet on my right arm.
Franco speaks gently and carefully, looks you in the eye when he speaks and gives off a feeling of safety and honesty. He is the kind of guy you want to sit with all day, watching life pass by outside his shop and discuss the things in life that Truly Matter. When I asked him if it was possible to live only off his work as a street artesano, he replied with a soft chuckle: “Yes, it is possible, but only if you have no vices.” After a pause he added: “I have no vices.”
Ah Paracas gave us some poetry that day. It gave us the looks of baffled penguins, the startling baptism of birds, the growling of sea lions. It gave us strangers holding strangers hands as they laughed in fright at the ferocity of the speedboat and comforted each other that we would be on firm land very soon. It gave us pelicans rising as we turned away from the islands, pelicans who followed our speedboat against the afternoon sun like companions, like an ancient and wild ritual. It gave us an artist who said: “Take this green pearl. It used to be in my dreadlocks, you can have it for yours”; a man who chose an open road for his life, and as every day passes still believes that people are fundamentally good and it is worth living so close to them.
Last week, I went to see the ruins of Pachacámac just 40 km outside of Lima. According to Andean cosmology, each person has an „itu“ or energetic portal with the world; a place of energetic transmission which is physically closest to one’s place of birth. I calculated that, according to this, Pachacámac would be my „itu“ and so I was quite excited to visit the ruins, poke around and see how it felt to be there. Pachacámac has, unfortunately, become a rather strict place to visit and I left the ruins feeling somewhat disappointed. Over the following few days, I tied myself up in knots wondering what exactly to take away from this experience – and what to write about it. Finally, after a tangled few days, came the following story . . .
Once was a temple guarded by early Lima cultures, by Huari, by Inkas. Created by men who sought to mimick landscapes with an architecture meant to complement the desert – so perfectly that, when two millenia passed, men could no longer distinguish temple from hill, pyramid from mountain. She was a place of worship pretending to be a hill of sand. Until bricks of adobe and fragments of pottery began to seep out of her sand and glitter in the sun. A dig in the earth lead to an incredible shout: „Ruins! There are ruins here!“
Once again in Perú, appearances are illusions. A hill is not a hill. Those who claim: „I have nothing to say“ have the most secrets waiting. The desert points to its colourful past – to its canyons of secrets – to footsteps that walked silently past us in the sand and disappeared into a mirage… A hill is not a hill. Not here. Not today.
Still is a temple but „my guards never left me“. In the years when the sand covered her face and the people forgot that their eyes couldn’t tell them everything, there was no need to protect her. Sand and time created a vacuum of oblivion and she rested quietly, only disturbed by dogs digging up pottery or children pissing in the sand. As soon as the excavations began, the guards returned to her side. Once dressed in golden headgear, elaborate nose ornaments and wooden spears, they changed their uniform to match the new era. Now they have guns and whistles which they blow at tourists. They are as kind and friendly, as burnt by the sun, as they ever were.
They tell her they came because the government wants to preserve the ruins of their cultural heritage, but she knows they are the same guards from 3000 years before. They are returning because she is returning. Soon all her temples will be above ground and she will buzz with energy once more. The ruins are rising . . . the guards are returning . . . and soon, so will her worshippers.
Or are they already here? She has always attracted pilgrims from all over the world. They come to marvel – and to feed her mighty temples with their enthusiasm, their appreciation and a universal struggle to understand: who is she?
„My visitors are treated strictly.“ Everything is forbidden, everything else is closely monitored. The guards blow sharp whistles at every suspicious move: standing too close, photographing too long – even asking stubborn questions. „We are going to be kicked out,“ her visitors think. The strictness of the guards is suffocating and constricting – especially in comparison to the otherwise relaxed Peruvian attitude. „It’s neccessary,“ a guard explained. „Too many walls were damaged, too many lovers had midnight trysts and left their refuse among the ruins. For now, you must make due with walking around the ruins and not through them.“
The workers uncover her. She says: “You think you’re preserving me but you’re actually restoring.” Restoring her to the minds of the people, who will awake in the morning and be astounded to see a familiar temple has risen from the sand. And one by one they come to her in the desert, touch her gently and say: „I think I remember your name, mamacita.“
She knows it was a prophecy: a new dawn of the Inka returning. A new era of consciousness, a return to living in balance with nature. All over Perú, the sands move aside and old temples reveal themselves. The old ways, who found refuge in the sand when civilisation became materialistic, now re-emerge from the literal desert. When we feel the change and wonder how live with it, we realise our museums can be our teachers, and our ruins can be our temples.
This is the part of the Andean prophecy that is currently being fulfilled: the temples are not being restored; they are being prepared for the return of the Inka.
I later discovered that I had misunderstood something important about the word “itu”: it isn’t a man-made place of worshop but normally refers to a natural formation, ergo a mountain, lagoon, or the ocean. Rather obvious, actually, considering that Andean cosmology is all about returning to nature!
In my writing, I base much of my knowledge on and therefore wish to thank the following books and their authors: “Initiation” by Elizabeth B Jenkins and “Masters of the Living Energy” by Joan Parisi Wilcox.
Well, my comrades, I arrived in Perú on Wednesday morning after a wild ride thanks to the two deportees sitting beside me; one who travelled all the way to Lima with me, the other who bade us a cordial farewall in Colombia and escaped the airport police. After two days of sleep and the joys of Peruvian cusine, I head out to see the petroglyphs of Checta, which is where the following story and photographs were born.
We are a gathering - but we are not rocks. All who were once warriors now live on as storytellers. You may think we were a mountain that once fell apart, a god who crumbled and scattered his ashes over the bodies of friends. No, we are warriors of the gods, the spirits who live in the mountains. We onced walked and spoke to the people; we once rose in rebellions and fought against Spaniards. We lost, but it doesn’t matter. A conquest cannot make the gods leave their mountains nor can it make the stories leave their warriors.
You can walk over a mountain as though you were walking through a life. Each mountain has a character; a spirit we call the apu. Some apus are widows, others are dancers - some want blood, others want family. If your life were a mountain, would she be lush, covered in jungles, with the sudden flight of birds? Would she be a desert mountain, realising that you don’t need very much and you love her silence? Is she steep? How are her caves? Did you go in them to paint or did you seek refuge?
Her rocks are the symbols of the apu, the stories of your lifetime. “These are the creatures that lived by my side; these are the myths I preserved despite wind, rain and time.”
This is what I chose to believe in; the eye of the mountain. These are the animals I looked at, who I thought were perhaps like me, like the snake who taught me to burrow or the puma who taught me to laugh.”
These are my ghouls with a good sense of humour. Perhaps I’m a little bit morbid but I’m glad to be laughing:
This is the face I thought was a monster - but when I finally dared to hear him speak, I realised he was not a monster but a wise man with the following message: “Every person is born as a fragment of the sun, illuminated with their individual colour. We all shine in different ways. True wisdom, however, is learning to shine not only with your colour but with all the colours of all the people.”
These are the creatures who said, “Go away, I won’t tell you who I am and I certainly won’t let you in.” I wanted to tell them they had it all wrong; they were in my life and there’s plenty of room on my mountain for being grumpy and weird.
As I listened to the stories of rocks who were once warriors, a cold wind grew on the mountain and I had the insistent feeling of being watched. But between the rocks and on the peaks of the other mountains were only cacti. Repeatedly I mistook the cacti for men. Men standing, warriors watching. I attempted to photograph my feeling of being watched but the men decidedly remained cacti.
Pre-Columbian cultures believed that every thing is a spiritual manifestation which is free to change its form.They knew a time when the illusion of appearance was easily manipulated: people transformed into birds, pumas transformed into people. The deeper you travel into the Andes, the stronger you will realise this traditional belief to be. In unique Peruvian poetry, the mountains are gods, the rocks were once warriors – and men became cacti who could survive the passage of time without water and so remain forever on their mountain. Can you blame my mistake? In Perú there is still much room for magic.
The petroglyphs at Checta are over 3000 years old and lie scattered about the mountain without any form of protection. It’s incredible to see these rocks in their “natural habitat” and not behind a glass window in a museum. It’s incredible to be able to touch them and photograph at will. But unfortunately, quite a few have been ruined with vandalism, scribblings, graffiti, “Felipe was here”, etc. Hopefully the Peruvian government will seek to protect the petroglyphs without removing the rocks from Checta. A small family lives at the base of the mountain and voluntarily take tourists up to see the petroglyphs. They even clean up after messy visitors. Please read everything else on the beautiful petroglyphs and the local people who voluntarily take care of them HERE.
I did a lot of filming at Checta and am very excited to edit it into a short film! That is, after all, the basic plan for Perú: film & write.
I don’t believe in coincidences. I also don’t believe that you can think of an idea no one has ever thought before. This post is about both these things.
Those of you who have been to my readings, or have been inquisitive on my website, will know that I base my novels on the philosophies of the Q’eros of Perú. The Q’eros are a native tribe living three days away from Cusco by horseback, at 4000 meters above sea level, who are believed to be the last descendants of the Incas. They live according to the traditions and philosophies of their ancestors, upholding the religion of worshiping the sun father Inti and mother earth Pacha Mama. They live in complete isolation in the Andes and most of them don’t, to this day, speak Spanish. They communicate in Quechua, the ancient language of the Incas. Our project manager Rose and I going to try to visit them when we travel to Cusco. It will be a challenge: not everyone knows how to get to the remote villages.
Q'eros Village in 2005
The more I read about the ancient Inca philosophies, the more they fascinate and inspire me. They explain the universe in great poetry and beautiful metaphors, speak of chakras, meditation, and cleansing the soul. So much of this philosophy became the fundament for my novel Qayqa. They were the basis for Damian’s knots and what happens in the end.
The more I read, the more I was astounded to realise that I had been living my life according to these Inca philosophies, without ever knowing or hearing them beforehand. I never identified myself as a Peruvian – due to my upbringing as a Third Culture Kid, I never identified myself as anything. So to discover that I had been living the life of a native Peruvian shook me to the core and made me restructure and re-evaluate many things in my life. I discovered that especially my writing was typical Peruvian. Over the last two years, I have come to slowly understand my Peruvian roots and I try to pass on my knowledge wrapped up in a way Westerners can relate to. Isn’t it ironic that when I finally find my roots, I find it in my writing? It was in me all along. Surprise!
The Q’eros are also keepers of an ancient prophecy, one which is called “the Return of Inkarí”: the Inca. According to this prophecy, we -humanity and Pacha Mama, Mother Earth- are in a state of transition. We are about to enter a new era, a Golden Era, one they call Taripay Pacha, or “the age of meeting ourselves”. The prophecy states that a new Inca will rise and, much like the Buddha, will guide humanity back to a life in balance with nature. Ofcourse there are those who believe the Era will begin when the Maya Calender ends. I believe it’s up to us people to change our ways, and I can already see a great change in the people around me. There is a heightened awareness of spirituality, of the damage we are doing to the Earth, and a general desire to live more “green”. Comparing these changes inWestern society with the prophecy of the Incas was endlessly fascinating. So one year ago I wrote a concept for a documentary based on exactly this.
So imagine my surprise when I walked past the Lichtburg cinema in Ulm two weeks ago and saw a poster for a documentary entitled “Pachakútec”. Pachakútec is a Quechua word meaning “world / time in change”.
I stood before the poster fascinated by the fact that someone I have never met before had a similar idea. It strengthened my belief that we all feel the tide of change. It fascinated me to know that more people feel the tide pull towards South America. I felt confirmed that something really is about to change in the world. A new consciousness is being born.
I was delighted when I heard that the director Anya Schmidt and the documentary’s protagonist, sun priest Ñaupany Puma, would be present at the film screening and would host a discussion round afterwards. I struck a deal with Radio Free FM: I’ll go for them and report later about the evening and about my own journey to Perú in two weeks; including the filming projects and writing plans. Thank you to Fabiano Nitsch for the interview, which you can listen to here: (or visit the Radio Free FM website for more)
The film “Pachakútec” accompanies the sun priest Ñaupany Puma on his mission to heal the heart of the Earth. Please check out the beautiful trailer on the official website, because my words are no match for the beauty of the Andes! It’s available in either English or German here: http://pachakutec.com/trailer.php
This is the German version on Youtube:
I was very moved by the film. Having read a lot about the Inca philosophies and rituals, it moved me deeply to actually see a sun priest revive holy rituals that were abolished with the death penalty under Spanish rule – holy rituals that have never been filmed before. As he meditated, a condor, holy bird of the Incas, swooped down to sit beside him. As he washed his body in the Lake Titicaca, the holy bird of the lake flew in circles above him. I was terribly excited when he visited the Q’eros (what a coincidence, ey) to perform an ancient healing ritual for the tortured souls of all native Americans. He spoke about love being the greatest healing ritual of all and acknowledged that each and every person has the power to heal the wounds of the Earth and bring on the Golden Era. If you have the chance to see the film, I really recommend you take it! Even if you don’t believe the “shamanism mumbo-jumbo”, you’ll still be swept away by the scenery. If you do go, I’d be delighted to hear your thoughts on it, so just comment the post.
Find out here if Anya Schmidt and Ñaupany Puma will be at film screening:
Ñaupany Puma & director Anja Schmidt answering questions about the film
Ñaupany Puma is a charismatic, funny man with a surprising booming, joyful laugh. Immediately after the film, the theater lights remained dimmed while Ñaupany Puma drummed and sang as he performed a healing ritual for Pacha Mama in the presence of the audience. I closed my eyes and immersed myself in it. Everyone else seemed very moved to enjoy the rituals exceeding the film and entering their immediate, non-digital lives.
In the discussion afterwards, the audience expressed how much the film had touched them, and were very interested in finding out if they could participate in healing rituals with Ñaupany Puma in the future. Anya Schmidt said that they were indeed planning on organising that for next year and these would be published on their website.
After the discussion round, everyone swarmed around Ñaupany Puma just to hear him speak. It was as though they simply wanted to be near him, to stand in his aura and inhale everything it gave them. It must have taken him half an hour to just get up the stairs, and another half hour to actually get out of the cinema. It was like watching Buddhists gather around Buddha. I was amazed to see that so many non-South Americans were so open for the film’s message, and should afterwards feel the wish to stand beside him and hear him speak. It speaks highly of his charisma and aura. And he was so kind everyone, embracing everyone who came to speak to him. But it was never weird or pseudo-hippie. It was sincere. He was exactly how I had imagine a priest to be.
Ñaupany Puma spoke about the prophecies concerning the Maya Calender and the assumed end of the world in 2012. He passionately denied the existence of the Maya Calender, saying that it was a misconception born under the Spanish Colonial rule. “I’ll tell you one thing about the year 2012. It will be the year of the women. We are moving away from the patriarchal system. We are moving towards a balance between the masculine and the feminine. So it is a good thing that the year 2012 will be the year of the women.”
Ñaupany Puma speaking about the year 2012
When I spoke to Ñaupany Puma, I told him of my plans to visit the Q’eros when I go to Perú in two weeks. He looked at me and said, “You will not find the answers you seek there. Sometimes we hold onto ideas so strongly, we become blind to everything else. Do you understand what I mean? There is so much for you in Perú. Travel first. Let Perú show herself so that you can see in what direction to walk in.”
As he spoke to me, I felt so small. I felt completely exposed, seen right through. How did he know to say those things? At home, I sat down and thought about what he had said. I can be so very stubborn. I can get all knotted up. So I held my ideas in the wind of my mind and thinking – “Your story will reveal itself, whether it’s the Q’eros or something else” – I let go and watched them flutter away. Suddenly I was surrounded by open space. I love open spaces. Enough earth to RUN.
I was afraid of going to Perú without a concept, without some form of preparation. Perú is such a spiritual land, I don’t think I can miss it. I’ll watch it unravel before me and let it inspire me in any way it chooses.
“You know what I liked best?” Mark said as we walked home. “You could tell that their motivation for making the film was to spread the message of healing the heart of the earth. All they want to do is spread the message. It’s their sincerity that makes the film so unique and beautiful.”
The hardest part about being a writer is actually being a WRITER. In order to survive, we take on day jobs and when we return home, we are tired and beat. The typewriter remains silent. The weeks pass.
Many writers have writing routines. Many writers have assistants who manage their emails and day-to-day business so that they may remain enclosed in their silent writing rooms. Where the typewriter rages like the king of an endless empire.
I need a schedule. There are things I promised myself I would accomplished before I leave for Perú in 2 weeks. And we all know the Christmas season brings a great deal of childrens’ theater with it, so time will remain sparse. Once in Lima, however, I will be given my father’s office to write. That will be a blessing.
Being a writer is all about self-definition. No one will chase you, identify you, and you’ll be lucky if they encourage you. I think Mark has the same issue. No one tells him to paint. The award we won recently has encouraged him to work more on puppets – but it’s above all the plans for upcoming films that encourage him the most. A few film projects are being currently planned, which we are both very excited about. We’ve agreed that he’ll take the steering wheel on the film projects because I would like to dedicate my 2012 to my writing.
One of the things I need to do before I leave for Perú is write abstracts for my books “Qayqa” and “The Double Closet”. Those two want to hit the road and explore the world next year! Only when these abstracts are written and on their way to publishers / sponsors, am I truly free to work on the next book. Perhaps I can even write on the plane! I wonder what they’d say if I unpacked my typewriter on board . . .
I don’t know what’s blocking me, but I have a few ideas. Our apartment is my office, so it’s hard to let go of work and relax. Mark is a loud artist who stomps around in my head – he says I stomp around and am really loud in his head.
I think those are the two main factors. The first is about discipline; the second about communication. I can tell Mark I need silence; he respects it and tiptoes around me. That reminds me of a great anecdote: a few months ago, he tiptoed past me to his work room and on the way out somehow managed to get tangled in a bit of string! So there he stood, in the middle of my room, for a good 10 minutes, trying to remain quiet as he swore under his breath, fumbled with the string and only made it worse. He looked like a confused cat, angrily snatching at the loose ends. In the meantime, I was trying not to let his futile antics distract me and write on like a serious person. But I failed. I burst out laughing. How did he manage to get himself tangled in a bit of STRING!
But I digress: With the Christmas theater madness about to begin (and us bracing ourselves for the storm), there is little possibility to demand silence and unconditional privacy. So it’s actually perfect that I’m about to leave for Perú. “Munay” (or whatever she will be called – perhaps I will really call her “Taripay Pacha”, as I have been thinking of doing) is waiting patiently. I have ideas, I have her feeling, but I have no space around me for the flow of words. Perú is the perfect earth to sink her roots into.
Writing the abstracts for the other two books will hopefully be a good way to get back into the writing process. Writing really is like the third form of meditation that my Buddhist friend in Cologne was telling me about: weave it into your everyday life, use it for reflection and cleanse yourself with it. When I leave Germany, perhaps that will inspire me to write about Anahata leaving to join the caravans.
Mark’s applying for an art studio at the moment and the idea appeals to me as well. A solitary room just for writing, apart from the apartment and somewhere in the city. But what I am increasingly beginning to think may be the best idea is actually reserving months for writing. My day job is giving sporadic workshops which disrupt my focus on writing. I think reserving some months for writing would be very productive. Who knows? The idea feels right . . .
I love sharing these thoughts with you while I make my way through the terra incognita of being a writer. So much happened the last 7 days that I cannot write about individually, so here are some photographs of what happened this week…
A Thank You party for the participants of the Berblinger Anniversary Year. This is a beautiful animation projected onto the Zeughaus, where the party was. To the right are Mark and Christian Pfeifer, project manager of the Culture Bureau Ulm, shouting up to the neighbor kids.
Ms Mann, the head of the Culture Bureau, giving a thank you speech while everyone hoped to be mentioned personally – or was that just me? I salute her vintage background.Bumped into Nancy Calero, co-director and actress at the Theater in der Westentasche, who organised our film tour in 2009. That was when Mark and I produced our first-ever puppet-documentary “Children of Roots” (the beginning of it all!) and toured through northern Perú. I hope to meet some of our friends when I’m back in Perú. So much has happened since we were there, including the death of the actress Anali Cabrera, who came to meet us despite her cancer treatment. News of her death shocked us profoundly, for she was warm, so sweet and kind, and so full of life. Here’s an article on Anali: http://archive.livinginperu.com/news/15300 You live on in our hearts.
On Tuesday & Friday, we were at the International School of Stuttgart giving our “Children of Roots” film workshop. We’ve been giving this workshop for 3 years now and I’ve written all about it here. This is the scene in which one of the students shows Ochoa all the places he’s lived.And another of our students inventing great places to hide the puppeteer.
On Saturday I went to an acrobatic convention in Kaufbeuren to breathe in the sweet circus air. All around me were jugglers, acrobats, poi and hoola hoop swingers, Chinese pole dancers – all ridiculously talented and the nicest people you could hope to meet.I did a lot of filming while I was there and am toying with the idea of editing a short sequence before I leave for Perú. It was such an inspiring experience and I can’t wait for the next convention!
Sunday was the first Christmas theater performance. I accompanied Mark with his Kasperltheater Schlabbergosch and made this “Theater in Three Easy Steps”:
But I’m allergic to hay. Everyone at the Ferienhof Lecheler had a great chuckle at my Michael Jackson impression. And yes, I once again wrote the above blog post on my typewriter! Here’s proof.That was my week, dear friends. I cannot express how much I enjoy reading your comments, so I wholeheartedly encourage you keep it up. As for all those watching quietly, thank you for watching!
The last two weeks have been pure madness: running from one appointment to the next, working on five hundred different projects at once. On the one hand, that’s a great thing because I’ll have loads to tell you about…! On the other hand, it’s been headless-chicken madness. I recently spent an afternoon opening the RittiMark Archive. Young artists out there, believe me when I say you are going to need an archive! Now we have a collection of folders boldly shouting things like WORKSHOPS, PROJECTS, PRESS, FILM PRODUCTION. All I’m missing is a pretty assistant with a hot cuppa coffee.
If you want to know where Mark and I will be this month, we have several lovely theater performances you can see on his website here.
So in order to escape the madness, Mark and I took off for Cologne. I am now sitting in a quiet room in a village outside of Cologne. My personal favourite in the room is undoubtedly the light wooden table I am sitting at. It has the vibes and beauty of a proper writer’s table. And on it is my beautiful new Remington typewriter…
beautiful Remington on a beautiful table
“Hemingway wrote on a Remington,” I told Mark at the second hand shop where we bought the delightful machine. I’m not sure if that is entirely true but I felt I had heard or read it somewhere. But, if anything, everytime I look at this machine, I think of Jack Kerouac, of Allen Ginsberg – and I love the machine. I’m thinking of writing something thought-provoking on it like Woody Gurthie has on his guitar.
Woody Gurthie's Guitar
As the rest of the world moves in one direction, Mark and I seem to move in the opposite. Modern films are made with 3D animations – we make films with puppets. Most people watch films on bluray – we watch VHS. There are ipads iphone itunes – we have computers, yes, but we only listen to music on vinyl. In the beginning, it wasn’t an active decision. We just both happen to love the scratchy sound of vinyls and think it’s brilliant that lp players are becoming cheaper while everyone runs after the latest HD 3D invention. But the mad scramble for the latest technology is simply ridiculous and I want no part in it. How necessary is bluray? HD? 3D? CGI? Not. At. All. Don’t get me wrong: I’m a filmmaker, I love films. But 3D television? Count me out. I think I’ll write “THIS MACHINE KILLS 3D TELEVISION” on my Remington.
Yes, I prefer the typewriter, where you cannot erase your mistakes, where your fingers hurt after pounding at the machine (no, it’s not an electric either), where typing too fast causes the iron letters to tangle. I find great beauty in it. It’s a dedication to slowness, to the simplicity of human inventions. A simple creature whose sole existence is for one pure reason; who is worthless without this existence; who is being discarded for multi-functional computers. It’s my personal symbol of all that is, in fact, necessary. What magnificent works were written on such a machine. What writers knew only this form of font and ink!
But I digress. We love second hand shops. We could spend hours in them. This is the last paradise for long-lost beauty; nostalgia before it fades away in the shrill dawn of a computer-orientated life. The Matrix got ya!
Wandering about the shop, I told a friend that I had always wanted to start a typewriter collection. “But, you know, that’s an awfully space-consuming thing to collect,” I said, “and heavy.”
Musing about the disadvantages of such a collection, I wandered to the technology section to have a look at these machines that are not suitable as collectibles. They were beautiful… I saw the Remington, I saw an Olympia and I thought, “One, just one, to type letters, or addresses on an envelope. It has such style!” And yet, as I walked to the cashier with three typewriters under my arm, Mark gave me a Proper Talking To.
“Look, you can’t buy three. It’s not a real collection if you buy them all at once. You should just buy one. What are you going to do with three? Exhibit them like museum artifacts? That’s nonsense!”
This coming from the man whose room is full of robot arms, foam mattresses, puppets, Hulk figurines, fluorescent orange plastic toy gun darts… “Those are all for my work,” he said patiently, as though speaking to a child. “I’m going to use them to build a robot one day… Or I’ll use them in my workshops. Will you build a robot out of your typewriter?”
… foam puppets in the conservatory, foam arms in my bookshelf, foam bits in his hair, in my hair, in the bedroom… A plastic guitar (yes I know it’s cool), a mini amplifier, a plastic disco machine – absurdities! absurdities!
“Two,” he begged. “Settle on two.” The lovely shopkeeper poked at my typewriters, an Egyptian plate, two Christmas trees and a vinyl for Mark, and said, “Take everything for twenty, darling.”
And just because it was pretty, and because I felt it looked like something from a ladies’ boudoir during the Golden Era of Louis XIV, I bought a strange blue and white straw… thing… Here’s a very happy me with two typewriters in their cases and the Louis XIV Boudoir Accessoire.
Two Typewriters & Louis XIV
Mark still disagrees that my typewriter collection bears any resemblance whatsoever to his collection of toy guns, plastic guitars, squeaky dog heads, Hulk Spiderman Batman Mr Fantastic figurines . . . but he’s pleased that I’ll be putting the machines to use and not just exhibiting them on my bookshelf. Ebay sells ink bands for typewriters. Hurrah!
And here’s the fun part of the story: I wrote this blog post on the Remington typewriter. And then I copied it onto the computer. What a life. What a bizarre compromise between Loving the Past and Living in the Future. I’ll get a Twitter account, carve each tweet into a small stone, and send the stones to my Twitter-followers. This’ll be my first tweet:
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT: As I’m sure you know, I’m not a very consequent blogger with an iphone at the ready, blogging from toilets, autobahn and airports. I do this blog thing on a comfy sofa with Time to Think.
But I have decided to weave the blog closer into my life in the future. For the following reason: I am going on a writing journey to Perú to gather information for my new book. From December to January, I’ll be traveling throughout the country with our project manager and very good friend Rose. And I will be reporting about it on the blog. So in the upcoming months, you’ll find pictures of beautiful Perú, hear about our adventures and find out how the new novel is progressing… I’ll see you on the other side, in the mysterious country of shamanism and literature!
After battling with youtube for two days, and it constantly thwarting my every move, I finally managed to upload the video I promised you in the last post. So without further ado and much tadaaa, here it is!
“From Foam to Film: Our Puppet World”
If you enjoyed it, PLEASE SHARE IT WITH ALL YOUR FRIENDS.
Back in May, the SWR Television accompanied Mark and I on two days of filming our project The Tailorettes of Ulm (German: Die Schneiderlinge von Ulm). We had a lot of fun with the film crew because we know them personally from when I worked for SWR. We were so proud of the tv report when it was aired. Here it is for those who missed it:
Now this is where it all gets a bit crazy… On the evening it aired, it was seen by a chairman of the Board of Foam and Polyurethane. For the last 15 years, this board has presented an annual award for the Innovative Use of Polyurethane… and was now announcing a new award for the Innovative Use of Foam! Seeing as Mark’s puppets are created from foam, the board immediately got in touch with us to tell us about the award competition.
We were thrilled! I mean, really, what are the odds?!
So Mark and I applied for the award in the field Design / Creative Use, and in June 2011 received the exciting news that we had won!!! So in early October, we filled the car with puppets and drove north to Wolfsburg to the Awards Ceremony.
Mark with his puppets at the AutoUni
The only disgraceful problem was that in my panic and excitement, I had forgotten to take a shower in the morning, so I arrived in Wolfsburg rather smelly. After testing all equipment at the conference center, we had four hours to kill and explored Wolfsburg – desperately looking for a shower. We discovered the city has a ridiculous amount on offer: a high wire forest, a water ski park, a Colombian clubhouse (what’s that all about?), skating ring, and a Swimming Pool Adventure Park… But no bloody shower. We briefly tried to convince the Swimming Pool Adventure Park to let me in just to wash, but the second problem was that I didn’t have a towel. I told them I could dry myself off with a t-shirt but they weren’t convinced.
Rejectedly, we drove back to the conference center and halfheartedly asked the lady at the desk if she knew of a shower. She looked us over suspiciously and (rather sensibly) asked us who the hell we were. Smellily, and somewhat ashamed, we replied, “We’re winners at tonight’s ceremony.”
“Oh, that’s alright then! Follow me please,” and she led us to room complete with five showers. Apparently smelly award winners is a common problem. Who knew!
Here’s us being clean and posh with the sign of the evening:
Mark, Ritti and Polyurethane
The awards ceremony was quite the experience because, in our line of work, it’s obviously not often that we’re surrounded by so many suits. And in their line of work, it’s obviously not often that they have artists among them! The awards coordinator gave it to us straight: “Your presentation is last because you’re the exciting bit of the evening.” Everyone was lovely to us and Mark and I had a great time cheering for the winners of the other categories.
Before Mark and I moved in together, I never gave foam a second thought. Honestly, who does? Now the apartment is slowly but surely being taken over by foam puppets and we fly to Holland to get students to think about their roots by making them talk to a foam potato – and now, here I am, surrounded by people who work with foam to make the world a better place! I was naturally quite intrigued to hear all about it.
So let me just say this: foam is everywhere. It’s a pretty cool material that can be used for just about anything you can think of. The winners of the other categories had it all: sofas whose shape you can change depending on how many guests you have, pop-up chairs for when the bus is late… My favourite was a bathtub that promises babies the bath of their lives. Fully recyclable, warm to the touch and bright pink. Watch out for “Baby Shower Base Lena”, she hits the market sometime in 2012. We took one home in case we have a sudden baby that needs washing.
Here’s Mark giving a speech about his work with foam, holding Ochoa from Children of Roots:
Mark, Ochoa and Polyurethane
There was a glorious rock ‘n roll moment when Mark received his award, boldly held it over his head and at the top of his lungs shouted: “YEAH!!!!” It was so unexpected that everyone in the room burst into laughter and began cheering. The other award winners whistled! What a star.
Here the official picture of the Winners of Innovative Use of Foam & Polyurethane 2011:
Cheeky Ochoa stayed centerstage throughout all the other speeches:
Ochoa the Star
Tomorrow, I’ll upload a short film on our film website www.goldenpotato.net that I made especially for the awards ceremony. It’s a pretty film with beautiful footage from our film The Tailorettes of Ulm and behind the scenes material, so please watch out for it online!
In the meantime, I leave you with a picture of Mark’s latest creation, which he’s been working on quietly while I wrote this post. It’s the Incredible NerdBird!
Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. I’ve spent a lot of time in the past few days thinking in big headlines like: “What Is the Writer?” and “The Difference Between Artist and Writer”.
Living with an artist (yes, Mark) gives me lots of time for comparing myself to him and him to myself, backwards and forwards, upside and down. I’m realizing that concentrating on being a full-blown writer ultimately means this: sitting alone in a room with armwarmers and glasses.
my trusty Peruvian armwarmers
I love the creatures I find when I’m alone in my room. Mystical creatures who roam the landscapes of my dark mind, who are transformed and made immortal by choice of words. Rhythm! Rhythm! My beautiful children, sleep on my fingertips, ride the foams of imagination.
But then there are the dreaded Hours Inbetween . . . Sitting at a wild party, realising I have nothing to say. Want to get to know me? Come to my readings. All I have to say, I say there. Thinking: “Get me back on the stage so that I can show you 100% of myself. This person you see now, she’s not even 50% me. Let me write and I will show you who I am.”
So we come to the realisation that as a human being who does not write, I am a merry extrovert. But as a writer currently working on something, I am an absolute introvert – and there’s no finding me, no catching me on the phone, no getting me to meet up. I recently participated in a “guerrilla exhibition” in the neighborhood. I exhibited my collages. Or rather: I hung them up and ran away. A journalist caught it on camera:
Where does the human end and the writer begin? How to balance the two? Or rather: remember the film The Hours? The soul of the writer caught on 35mm. And the dialogue between Clarissa (Meryl Streep) and the writer Richard always stayed with me, ever since I first heard it so many years ago:
Clarissa Vaughn: You don’t have to go to the party, you don’t have to go to the ceremony, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You can do as you like. Richard Brown: But I still have to face the hours, don’t I? I mean, the hours after the party, and the hours after that…
It’s all about the hours. The hours between performing, the hours between writing. Who are we then? Who is the writer when she just put down her pen and goes grocery shopping? How do we balance between so many worlds?
I swear it would be easier to be a rock star. I’m looking at Amanda Palmer in her underwear, cheekily playing the piano, suddenly tearful, brutally honest, beautiful as she bares her breasts and spreads her wings.
Being a rock star seems like such a delightful way to balance the extroverted nature with an extroverted art. Writers live in their heads, among joyful creatures no one else can see, that they can smell taste touch. That they have affairs with, whose flesh they dig into and whose souls they shudder. Writers fly in their realms like gods – and the higher we fly into the sky, the less anyone can see of us from the ground.
How invisible are you in your life, Gabriel Garcia Marquez? How did you balance writing with living, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?
Maybe it’d be easier with an alternate ego. You have to be careful with alter egos though: I had one once but she was useless because she forgot she was a writer and just got drunk.
So let’s invent one right now and we can call her “Kohl Eyed Sonq’o”. She’ll be the rock star when I just put down my pen. She’ll be the one who talks at parties. She’ll remind me to be bold, bare my breasts and spread my wings. Above all: she will be the rock star in the writer.
Writers, don’t get stuck in your heads. Find a way to live in both worlds.
My name is Ritti Soncco; I am a writer currently travelling through Peru while I finish writing my second novel "Munay". On my blog, you'll find all the updates of my journey as a writer as well as updates on my books, readings, and other art projects. If you like it, leave me a message; if you enjoy it, come back for more. Thank you!
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