Finally. The alarm goes off — I jump out of bed, head for the shower and dress. After feeding and dispensing pills to our pups, we go for a short walk. During a few quiet moments with Rick, I tell him how much I love him and appreciate this opportunity to work with Q’ero medicine men and women in Peru. Before long it is time to carry out my two new extra large black duffle bags and put them in the back of our SUV. All three dogs — Magic, Bello and Cody — are coming to see me off at the airport. All set. Ready. I drive. I am on my way.
Not much traffic on the highway, we speed quickly into town. After checking in, I return to the car to say my good-byes. Bello, needing extra attention and love, wraps his front legs over my shoulders in a hug. Cody is needy, too. Magic, our oldest, hangs back. He becomes anxious when he sees suitcases come out of the closet. Reaching in, I try to reassure him that I will be back soon. It is even harder to say good-bye to Rick. I wish he were coming with me, but know that it is essential for me to focus solely on whatever mysteries will unfold on this expedition.
Walking back towards the terminal I am both sad and excited. Airport security waves me through without needing to remove my shoes and socks. A magical sign, I think. The skies are overcast over Santa Barbara, but the plane takes off effortlessly and on time. Silence. Except for the outside roar of the jet engines and intermittent creaking of the plane’s armature. Climbing in elevation, below is a sea of fluffy, thick ivory clouds, which are corded in chaotic patterns. No water is visible though we are flying over the Pacific Ocean. The land, too, is invisible until the second or third set of mountain ranges. Is this what the landscape would look like if a massive tsunami hit, or the sea level were to rise, I wonder. The plane banks to the south. Sun shines through the window onto my face. Outside the endless sea of white begins to be punctured with brown mountaintops that look like baby’s teeth breaking through its gums. There is no sure way of knowing exactly where we are until segments of Mullholland Drive become visible. As we near Los Angeles, spaces begin to appear between the clouds, and I catch glimpses of the world below. Descending, we cross the I-405 and I-10 interchange. Traffic is heavy and backed up to the south; to the east and west it appears to be clear. The sea of clouds transforms into a sea of rooftops — mostly brown and grey sheltering houses painted white, tan and occasionally bright yellow or brilliant blue. The landing is smooth and very, very fast! The plane pulls to the left, then right, then left again before the pilot makes a sharp turn to the right. We have arrived: LAX.
Disembarking, I head for a shuttle bus to the main terminal following signs to “Baggage Claim.” Having made a detour to a restroom, only my duffle bags remain circling around the carousel. Leaving the baggage area, I show my ticket stubs and ask directions to the Bradley International Terminal. “Outside, turn left and head past terminal 4, the sidewalk bends to the right,” I’m told. Silently, slow and steady I push the luggage cart with my two extra large and heavy duffle bags past terminals six, five, and four. Sure enough the road and sidewalk do indeed bend to the right with the International Terminal just ahead. A police officer asks where I am heading. “Lan Chile!” I reply. He points towards double doors while explaining that I need to turn left once inside and up the elevator to the third floor. It’s 8:27 a.m.
A sign in Spanish in front of the counter seems to say that the Lan Chile reservation desk opens at 11:15 a.m. There is only one flight a day and it is scheduled to leave at 2 p.m. To wait I settle myself at one end of the upstairs lounge. All conversation around me is in foreign languages. How beautiful to hear the sounds and cadences of language without having a clue about what is being said. Rather, the sounds become a complex series of overlapping melodies that conjoin into one. With plenty of time to spare, I call Rick to let him know I arrived safely. He is napping, having woken and taken me to the airport so early, and still feeling anxious. I love him so. Before I left home, he found a beautiful, smooth stone and blew his intention for renewed health and well-being into it. I carry it in my mesa or medicine bundle to the apus or mountain spirits that dwell in the sacred mountains. I am also carrying stones for a client and her father that are imprinted with their prayers for healing. Two plus hours. I go in search of hot chocolate and a ham and cheese croissant. Success. I head back to the lounge area to read, but instead find myself slipping sideways, in and out of consciousness.
Upon waking up, I reorganize myself and my bags, and head to the Lan Chile reservation desk. Where two hours ago there was no one, now there is a line that extends past every other airline and is almost outside the terminal doors. The line moves slowly. Very slowly. An employee gives me some airline identification tags to put on my luggage. I am fascinated by the size and quantity of other people’s luggage — and Rick thought I was over-packed! Fifty minutes later a very friendly reservationist processes my electronic ticket and suggests that I head immediately to the boarding area because “everything takes time.” Instead, I head to the bathroom, only to later discover another impossibly long line waiting to go through security clearance. Electronic messages announce the procedure for security check-in. It reminds me of Disneyland. Security, it turns out, is no hassle. An Asian woman scans my carry-on bag. No one wants to “wand” me or asks me to remove my shoes. At the gate my next wait begins.
An attractive fifty-ish woman engages me in conversation. She lives in Los Angeles and is on her way to Lima for her parent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. She has eight brothers and sisters coming in from all over the world, along with their spouses and children. Her father was a Peruvian diplomat and as a result she grew up living in Europe, Asia, and North and South America. Each of her siblings is married and living on different continents — so very international, and so very different from my own family! She describes family reunions where many languages are spoken around the dinner table, and some children have brown, white or black skin, slanted eyes, and are toe-head blond, dark brown or black haired. Her grandmother, who will not be attending the celebration is 101 years old and still living alone in Barcelona, Spain.
Waiting for the bus to take us out to the Lan Chile plane, I talk to a couple who are meeting a friend in Lima, then flying to Iquitos for a week long trip on the Amazon, followed by a few days at Machu Picchu. I am told their friend, Pasqual Lancome, is a Peruvian shaman and author, who is now living in Paris, France. I relate to them my own studies of shamanism and how I will be working with Andean medicine men and women, and making a pilgrimage to Apu Ausangate.
Finally, the bus arrives and takes us to the plane, which seems to be parked in the middle of a long runway. We disembark and walk into a building and up two flights of stairs to board the plane. Wow — a modern and beautifully maintained plane! The service is impeccable. Upon asking about refrigeration for my medication, a flight attendant brings me dry ice to pack around it. The men seated around me all seem to be discussing, in Spanish and animated hand gestures, the World Cup Soccer Games underway. One of the flight crew comes on the intercom to give periodic score updates, in Spanish. I don’t understand what is being said, but the body language around me suggests that Venezuela is losing. A young, early 30s, Argentinian woman sits down beside me. As the jet engines begin to roar and our plane pulls out father onto the runway, my stomach finally starts to relax. Picking up speed, we race past various airport terminals. I am being carried by the four winds — now it is time for me to soar!
My seat-mate, it turns out, is going home for her sister’s wedding and the funeral for her best-friend’s mother. It has been three years since she was last home. During that time she has been traveling and working in Mexico and the United States. Her plans are to return to the States sometime around August and resume her travels. Over a glass of Chilean wine she tells me about living with a family she met while traveling in Arizona and helping out with their children in exchange for room, board, and pocket money. Two days ago they put her on a bus to Los Angeles. She already misses the family and plans to spend more time with them when she returns.
During dinner I watch a movie. Still not feeling sleepy, I switch the video selector to “Games” and play several until I am finally tired enough to sleep. Eye shades on, earplugs in, neck pillow blown up and in place. I sleep for a few hours. When I wake it is 11 p.m. Peruvian time (9 p.m. PST) to the smell of breakfast — omelets, croissants and fresh fruit. To my surprise, it is really quite tasty.
Not much traffic on the highway, we speed quickly into town. After checking in, I return to the car to say my good-byes. Bello, needing extra attention and love, wraps his front legs over my shoulders in a hug. Cody is needy, too. Magic, our oldest, hangs back. He becomes anxious when he sees suitcases come out of the closet. Reaching in, I try to reassure him that I will be back soon. It is even harder to say good-bye to Rick. I wish he were coming with me, but know that it is essential for me to focus solely on whatever mysteries will unfold on this expedition.
Walking back towards the terminal I am both sad and excited. Airport security waves me through without needing to remove my shoes and socks. A magical sign, I think. The skies are overcast over Santa Barbara, but the plane takes off effortlessly and on time. Silence. Except for the outside roar of the jet engines and intermittent creaking of the plane’s armature. Climbing in elevation, below is a sea of fluffy, thick ivory clouds, which are corded in chaotic patterns. No water is visible though we are flying over the Pacific Ocean. The land, too, is invisible until the second or third set of mountain ranges. Is this what the landscape would look like if a massive tsunami hit, or the sea level were to rise, I wonder. The plane banks to the south. Sun shines through the window onto my face. Outside the endless sea of white begins to be punctured with brown mountaintops that look like baby’s teeth breaking through its gums. There is no sure way of knowing exactly where we are until segments of Mullholland Drive become visible. As we near Los Angeles, spaces begin to appear between the clouds, and I catch glimpses of the world below. Descending, we cross the I-405 and I-10 interchange. Traffic is heavy and backed up to the south; to the east and west it appears to be clear. The sea of clouds transforms into a sea of rooftops — mostly brown and grey sheltering houses painted white, tan and occasionally bright yellow or brilliant blue. The landing is smooth and very, very fast! The plane pulls to the left, then right, then left again before the pilot makes a sharp turn to the right. We have arrived: LAX.
Disembarking, I head for a shuttle bus to the main terminal following signs to “Baggage Claim.” Having made a detour to a restroom, only my duffle bags remain circling around the carousel. Leaving the baggage area, I show my ticket stubs and ask directions to the Bradley International Terminal. “Outside, turn left and head past terminal 4, the sidewalk bends to the right,” I’m told. Silently, slow and steady I push the luggage cart with my two extra large and heavy duffle bags past terminals six, five, and four. Sure enough the road and sidewalk do indeed bend to the right with the International Terminal just ahead. A police officer asks where I am heading. “Lan Chile!” I reply. He points towards double doors while explaining that I need to turn left once inside and up the elevator to the third floor. It’s 8:27 a.m.
A sign in Spanish in front of the counter seems to say that the Lan Chile reservation desk opens at 11:15 a.m. There is only one flight a day and it is scheduled to leave at 2 p.m. To wait I settle myself at one end of the upstairs lounge. All conversation around me is in foreign languages. How beautiful to hear the sounds and cadences of language without having a clue about what is being said. Rather, the sounds become a complex series of overlapping melodies that conjoin into one. With plenty of time to spare, I call Rick to let him know I arrived safely. He is napping, having woken and taken me to the airport so early, and still feeling anxious. I love him so. Before I left home, he found a beautiful, smooth stone and blew his intention for renewed health and well-being into it. I carry it in my mesa or medicine bundle to the apus or mountain spirits that dwell in the sacred mountains. I am also carrying stones for a client and her father that are imprinted with their prayers for healing. Two plus hours. I go in search of hot chocolate and a ham and cheese croissant. Success. I head back to the lounge area to read, but instead find myself slipping sideways, in and out of consciousness.
Upon waking up, I reorganize myself and my bags, and head to the Lan Chile reservation desk. Where two hours ago there was no one, now there is a line that extends past every other airline and is almost outside the terminal doors. The line moves slowly. Very slowly. An employee gives me some airline identification tags to put on my luggage. I am fascinated by the size and quantity of other people’s luggage — and Rick thought I was over-packed! Fifty minutes later a very friendly reservationist processes my electronic ticket and suggests that I head immediately to the boarding area because “everything takes time.” Instead, I head to the bathroom, only to later discover another impossibly long line waiting to go through security clearance. Electronic messages announce the procedure for security check-in. It reminds me of Disneyland. Security, it turns out, is no hassle. An Asian woman scans my carry-on bag. No one wants to “wand” me or asks me to remove my shoes. At the gate my next wait begins.
An attractive fifty-ish woman engages me in conversation. She lives in Los Angeles and is on her way to Lima for her parent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. She has eight brothers and sisters coming in from all over the world, along with their spouses and children. Her father was a Peruvian diplomat and as a result she grew up living in Europe, Asia, and North and South America. Each of her siblings is married and living on different continents — so very international, and so very different from my own family! She describes family reunions where many languages are spoken around the dinner table, and some children have brown, white or black skin, slanted eyes, and are toe-head blond, dark brown or black haired. Her grandmother, who will not be attending the celebration is 101 years old and still living alone in Barcelona, Spain.
Waiting for the bus to take us out to the Lan Chile plane, I talk to a couple who are meeting a friend in Lima, then flying to Iquitos for a week long trip on the Amazon, followed by a few days at Machu Picchu. I am told their friend, Pasqual Lancome, is a Peruvian shaman and author, who is now living in Paris, France. I relate to them my own studies of shamanism and how I will be working with Andean medicine men and women, and making a pilgrimage to Apu Ausangate.
Finally, the bus arrives and takes us to the plane, which seems to be parked in the middle of a long runway. We disembark and walk into a building and up two flights of stairs to board the plane. Wow — a modern and beautifully maintained plane! The service is impeccable. Upon asking about refrigeration for my medication, a flight attendant brings me dry ice to pack around it. The men seated around me all seem to be discussing, in Spanish and animated hand gestures, the World Cup Soccer Games underway. One of the flight crew comes on the intercom to give periodic score updates, in Spanish. I don’t understand what is being said, but the body language around me suggests that Venezuela is losing. A young, early 30s, Argentinian woman sits down beside me. As the jet engines begin to roar and our plane pulls out father onto the runway, my stomach finally starts to relax. Picking up speed, we race past various airport terminals. I am being carried by the four winds — now it is time for me to soar!
My seat-mate, it turns out, is going home for her sister’s wedding and the funeral for her best-friend’s mother. It has been three years since she was last home. During that time she has been traveling and working in Mexico and the United States. Her plans are to return to the States sometime around August and resume her travels. Over a glass of Chilean wine she tells me about living with a family she met while traveling in Arizona and helping out with their children in exchange for room, board, and pocket money. Two days ago they put her on a bus to Los Angeles. She already misses the family and plans to spend more time with them when she returns.
During dinner I watch a movie. Still not feeling sleepy, I switch the video selector to “Games” and play several until I am finally tired enough to sleep. Eye shades on, earplugs in, neck pillow blown up and in place. I sleep for a few hours. When I wake it is 11 p.m. Peruvian time (9 p.m. PST) to the smell of breakfast — omelets, croissants and fresh fruit. To my surprise, it is really quite tasty.