“DON’T GO TO the archives or the libraries.” And with this, my experienced Peruvian interlocutor let off a laugh that made his spectacles shake. It was 1986. In the 1980s interlocutors let off such infectious laughs at will, their glasses bouncing on the bridges of their noses. His backdrop, the living room of his apartment in Lima, served the moment. Dimly lit shelves. Crammed with books and replica pottery and sculptures of swimming, flying beings, things about which I then understood little (and now know I understand even less).
Beautiful piece, Ken, so evocative. Appropriately, it triggered memories of spending summer of 1986 in Florence, where I was learning Italian in a fine language school as a part of a grant that the German government had generously supplied me with. I did as a 25 year old would. I fell in love, and I fell in love with looking at stuff; the two may in fact not be unrelated. Helmut
This was fantastic - but I need to know what you found that the cat eyed lady was protecting and what it means. I also want to know if your grandpa ever crossed paths with mine (he landed in Normandy too). All the places I never went? Too many. But I’ll get there someday.
Your gorgeous photography and artwork added a whole other layer to a piece already so rich, thank you Kenneth. My 1984 missing place is probably Laos, I bummed around South East Asia for a while in 2005, went to Laos for 24 hours, got super sick so headed back to Thailand as there wasn’t really a functioning hospital there then. I’ve been pining to go back ever since, though I’m sure it’s a whole different world there, now.
Oct 6, 2023·edited Oct 6, 2023Liked by Kenneth Mills
I selected "Yes I'll comment" so now I really have to. Though, that may take away from the anonymity of the poll. Is this poll IRB approved?
I really enjoyed all aspects of it, Kenneth, great writing, pics and paintings. Along with the tale and the words, I especially like the moto-taxi picture and murals in the background.
The question of what got left off the agenda is a good one.
I guess this essay makes me think of the closest I 've been...in the Salta region of Argentina, not all that far from the Peru and Chile borders. It's in the Andes and it was one of my favorite trips, renting a car and traveling around that region. Some great wine, scenery and a James Turrell installation there altered my reality in a good way. But, so many places left off of Argentina and South America and would love to go back. Gotta do Patagonia.
Let's see, 1982-83, La Entrada, Honduras, uniformed 16-year-olds with M-16s wave you down, impromptu checkpoints that were really a way just to catch a ride with a UN vehicle to get home for the weekend, rifles pointed out the open window at the driver's deferential request, a flag-down you cannot decline. The sly, shy 10-year-old street urchin and her brother (?) who tugged at you whenever you stopped to tank up, score a bottle of Nicaraguan Flor de Caña (the two countries were practically at war but all could agree on quality rum), and savor a scalding bowl of caldo (pollo, papas, elote y aguacate) with fat tortillas fresh off the comal--sabroso--sure to leave a quarter bowl and tortillas behind for los patojos.
San Marcos, site of the largest Salvadoran refugee camp in Honduras; swimming in the Rio Lempa a short way from the El Salvador border; the depot yard where I spotted a yellow school bus still bearing the name of my suburban Philadelphia high school; the cantina international relief workers favored for the food, beer and music, and the night soldados borrachos, politely refused a dance by female members of the team, left sullenly and slashed all four tires of the (clearly marked) UN pickup parked in front.
Semana Santa in Copán, predawn processions, fireworks, the street tienda proprietor whose Latin dance music wafted across the plaza drowsy in the afternoon, amenable to share his musical afán with a complete novice, and the enigmatically verdant, nearly unvisited (so it seemed) Maya ruins a short walk from Barrio El Centro...
Tío! I may only have been a year old in 1986, but in some ways it wasn't so different: we moved, and moved again, and I'm thinking about that a lot now for obvious reasons. I wish I could've ridden these cabs with you in September but am glad I get to read and see your memories as consolation. Your kinship with the implement made my day!
This touches my heart. My 1986 was actually 1984, twice, once on January in South Africa and later in the year in Nicaragua. Those days of impoverished travel, when i thought nothingo if traveling with a 10 pound sack of boooks lto carry me through, come back to me nearly every day now. The chance encounters, the regrets of good-byes, the kiss I wish I had the courage to kiss...
Sometimes a Great Notion back then was to simply hit the road and let a stranger at a diner offer directions to a place that would lead to an amazing encounter that would chang my life, but more often it was to simply go with the flow and have faith that the road would eventually lead me where I was always going to go anyway.
Beautiful piece, Ken, so evocative. Appropriately, it triggered memories of spending summer of 1986 in Florence, where I was learning Italian in a fine language school as a part of a grant that the German government had generously supplied me with. I did as a 25 year old would. I fell in love, and I fell in love with looking at stuff; the two may in fact not be unrelated. Helmut
This was fantastic - but I need to know what you found that the cat eyed lady was protecting and what it means. I also want to know if your grandpa ever crossed paths with mine (he landed in Normandy too). All the places I never went? Too many. But I’ll get there someday.
Your gorgeous photography and artwork added a whole other layer to a piece already so rich, thank you Kenneth. My 1984 missing place is probably Laos, I bummed around South East Asia for a while in 2005, went to Laos for 24 hours, got super sick so headed back to Thailand as there wasn’t really a functioning hospital there then. I’ve been pining to go back ever since, though I’m sure it’s a whole different world there, now.
I selected "Yes I'll comment" so now I really have to. Though, that may take away from the anonymity of the poll. Is this poll IRB approved?
I really enjoyed all aspects of it, Kenneth, great writing, pics and paintings. Along with the tale and the words, I especially like the moto-taxi picture and murals in the background.
The question of what got left off the agenda is a good one.
I guess this essay makes me think of the closest I 've been...in the Salta region of Argentina, not all that far from the Peru and Chile borders. It's in the Andes and it was one of my favorite trips, renting a car and traveling around that region. Some great wine, scenery and a James Turrell installation there altered my reality in a good way. But, so many places left off of Argentina and South America and would love to go back. Gotta do Patagonia.
Such a colorful adventure! I felt as if I were there with you. And those photos! Magnificent, Kenneth!
Ken, le temps perdu, many thanks.
Let's see, 1982-83, La Entrada, Honduras, uniformed 16-year-olds with M-16s wave you down, impromptu checkpoints that were really a way just to catch a ride with a UN vehicle to get home for the weekend, rifles pointed out the open window at the driver's deferential request, a flag-down you cannot decline. The sly, shy 10-year-old street urchin and her brother (?) who tugged at you whenever you stopped to tank up, score a bottle of Nicaraguan Flor de Caña (the two countries were practically at war but all could agree on quality rum), and savor a scalding bowl of caldo (pollo, papas, elote y aguacate) with fat tortillas fresh off the comal--sabroso--sure to leave a quarter bowl and tortillas behind for los patojos.
San Marcos, site of the largest Salvadoran refugee camp in Honduras; swimming in the Rio Lempa a short way from the El Salvador border; the depot yard where I spotted a yellow school bus still bearing the name of my suburban Philadelphia high school; the cantina international relief workers favored for the food, beer and music, and the night soldados borrachos, politely refused a dance by female members of the team, left sullenly and slashed all four tires of the (clearly marked) UN pickup parked in front.
Semana Santa in Copán, predawn processions, fireworks, the street tienda proprietor whose Latin dance music wafted across the plaza drowsy in the afternoon, amenable to share his musical afán with a complete novice, and the enigmatically verdant, nearly unvisited (so it seemed) Maya ruins a short walk from Barrio El Centro...
I loved reading this, Ken! It brought back many memories for me as well :)
Tío! I may only have been a year old in 1986, but in some ways it wasn't so different: we moved, and moved again, and I'm thinking about that a lot now for obvious reasons. I wish I could've ridden these cabs with you in September but am glad I get to read and see your memories as consolation. Your kinship with the implement made my day!
This touches my heart. My 1986 was actually 1984, twice, once on January in South Africa and later in the year in Nicaragua. Those days of impoverished travel, when i thought nothingo if traveling with a 10 pound sack of boooks lto carry me through, come back to me nearly every day now. The chance encounters, the regrets of good-byes, the kiss I wish I had the courage to kiss...
Sometimes a Great Notion back then was to simply hit the road and let a stranger at a diner offer directions to a place that would lead to an amazing encounter that would chang my life, but more often it was to simply go with the flow and have faith that the road would eventually lead me where I was always going to go anyway.
Beautiful piece.