Pushing the Envelope at Machu Picchu

My clothes soaked through with sweat, I was exhausted after a virtually vertical climb from the Machu Picchu world heritage site (altitude 2400 m/8000 ft.) to the top of Machu Picchu Mountain (altitude 3600 m/12,000 ft.). But invigorated by the sights below I temporarily forgot my burning lungs and leg muscles. The nearby mountains all rose like spires from the valleys below where the rivers were thin, white ribbons bordering our hotel and the tourist village, Aguas Caliente (altitude 2000 m/6900 ft.), now all in miniature. It was the highest point on earth that I had ever been, exceeding the previous day’s high at Cuzco (3400 m/11,200 feet). As difficult as it has been to climb the equivalent of 8000 stairs, the accomplishment was exhilarating. This was truly a mountaintop experience in every meaning of that phrase.  

Having arisen at 4 AM so that we could be on the first buses and up the mountain by 6 AM (along with several hundred others), we had already explored some of Machu Picchu by 8 AM.  A highlight was experiencing the sun break over the mountains and watching it illuminate this ancient Incan city. While my mind had been flooded with images that many people never see, those mental pictures were eclipsed by standing on the mountain summit, looking down on everything. It seemed to put everything in proper perspective.

In a world where my outlook is so often shaped by the Parkinson's disease that has been claiming my body these past six years, it is difficult to find times of clarity, just looking honestly at my world and myself. Most of our lives are spent in the valley. The hubbub of activity and endless distraction dominate our concerns and consume our time. It is like the rivers, which I had marveled at that less than 24 hours ago. Then they seemed so angry and demanding as they boiled and blustered down their jagged course. From the mountaintop, they had become a few white lines. There, high above all that had occupied me hours before, I felt serenity that I recognized from precious times of personal reflection at Westminster Abby (a Benedictine monastery near Vancouver, at which I have been a guest at least annually for over 25 years). It was as if the world stood still, suddenly silent in the constancy of the mountains. The majesty of that moment was not under my control, but somehow existed outside the limitations of my senses. It could not be duplicated or captured by any photograph. 

But, as it had come, unannounced and astonishing, it departed, leaving a compelling urge to return to the Valley; which prompting was given physical reality by the sting left by the bites of flying ants. Even as I write this feeble description I feel the chill of the mountain breeze that confronted 's the warmth of the sun as I made my way down the steep path.

The trip down the mountain was much shorter than the ascent, given  gravity-induced momentum. But its demands were evident, if different, as my knees and legs threatened to buckle at each step in their attempt to brake my dissent, thereby avoiding full flight (for about 30 seconds) and the rather destructive and final landing. 

"Push the envelope", is a mathematical term adopted into aeronautical language and explained as follows: "…envelope is the description of the upper and lower limits of the various factors that it is safe to fly at, i.e. speed, engine power, manoeuvrability, wind speed, altitude etc. By 'pushing the envelope', i.e. testing those limits, test pilots were able to determine just how far it was safe to go." By pushing the envelope physically, I had pushed the envelope mentally, and even perhaps spiritually. My Parkinson's disease had become secondary, if relevant at all. It was not a question of trying to prove something, so much as to demonstrate the reality that "living life on purpose" means "pushing the envelope". By doing so, I could reclaim territory surrendered to the enemy, whether that is fear, pain, insecurity or depression. There was a lesson learned on that mountain. One that I expect will need to be repeated from time to time in order to retain its vibrancy.  Push the Envelope!

Getting High, Feeling Low

It is often difficult to sort out one's expectations, especially when it comes to an around the world trip. Yesterday was my 38th wedding anniversary, and my wife and I were more than 8300 km apart. Skype is hardly a replacement for exchanging a hug and a kiss with your loving spouse on your anniversary. Also, by the end of the day, it was apparent that my only connection with the Parkinson's disease community in Lima was not going to be able to make time available for me. It felt like two disappointments in one day. I suppose I should've expected things to not mesh, at least at some point along the journey. The major goal of mine had been to touch base with at least one person who is dealing with Parkinson's in each of the places we stop. First stop: failure.

Parkinson's disease appears to be somewhat of an unknown in Peru, at least based on my limited experience. My efforts to contact someone, anyone, fell flat. I did not talk to a single person who had ever known anyone with the disease. Other countries in South America have well-developed programs, research and facilities relating to the disease. Peru, like its Incan past, seems to be a mysterious place, at least when it comes to Parkinson's disease.

Despite the disappointment yesterday, today was an opportunity to experience new heights. Our new friend, Pastor Samuel, was kind enough to take us to the airport where we checked in without difficulty and found our first Starbucks with excellent, free Internet connections to allow us productivity while waiting to board our plane. We went from Lima, at sea level, to Cuzco, at 11,150 feet in elevation. That is more than 2 miles high! Surprisingly, Machu Picchu, where we will be headed tomorrow, is actually more than 3000 feet lower (7840 feet).

I have been interested to discover what this altitude will do to my Parkinson's. So far, it does not appear to make it better or worse. As with most people who arrive here from lower elevations, I developed a slight headache, some difficulty in breathing and a fatigued feeling. However, this did not stop us exploring this incredibly interesting ancient but growing town now sprawling over the nearby hills. Its core is a maze of very narrow, cobbled, streets where great care must be taken even when walking on the sidewalk. They are so narrow that you have to step into the street to pass any oncoming pedestrian, risking confrontation with a bus or car careening around the corner with no intention to slow down.

The city squares were abuzz with people of such contrast that it was difficult to remember where we were. There were attractive Spanish women dressed in tight skirts, low-cut blouses and stiletto heels that seemed straight out of a fashion magazine (I had no idea how they navigated the cobbled streets and sidewalks, unless it was on continuous tiptoe). Nearby were older women bent double carrying enormous loads of vegetables or other salable goods on their backs in brightly colored shawls or blankets, their faces deep brown and wrinkled, exhausted from their efforts. Happily playing in colonnaded walkways surrounding one town square were children kicking a large empty Inca Kola bottle to each other in a time-honored game of ‘keep away’. And, of course, the tourists, from the rich to the ragamuffins, moved in packs among the local folks.

After a meal of Peruvian specialties, including alpaca, we made our way slowly back to our comfortable, though small, off the beaten track hotel to make arrangements for the early-morning taxi pickup to get to the train station.

Inevitably, there will be highs and lows on this journey around the world. There will be serendipitous events that will far exceed any expectations. And there will be those that shake my confidence in myself and others. But, after all, as the name of the tour suggests, this trip is meant to shake up my world in many different ways.

Passion in Peru

Carson has been my friend for more than 20 years, and when I announced almost 2 years ago that I planned to go around the world in 2012, he enlisted. Despite being virtually tied together 24/7 for 10 weeks in less than ideal circumstances, we remained confident that our mutual commitment to open communication, our ability to find humor in most situations, our insatiable appetites for adventure and incurably inquisitive natures made us excellent traveling companions. However, despite similarities, there is nothing like an extended traveling time with someone that can so graphically point out distinct personal differences and habits. Who takes a shower when? How long does one spend in the lavatory each morning? Who is slower at getting ready? What annoying nighttime habits does one have? What kind of eating preferences does one have? All these questions, and many more, can yield answers that affect relationships.  

Carson is currently a pastor in the downtown Vancouver church, First Baptist. However, until recently, he headed up an organization called "Arrow Leadership", which specialized in training young Christian leaders about the art and science of leadership. In that role, he had developed an extraordinary database of relationships and contacts, many of whom were his friends as well. He has also served on a number of boards of national Christian organizations. He has an international reputation as an author, speaker and mentor, for which he was recognized with an honorary doctorate some years ago. He is a credentialed world traveler, and an ideal travel mate as well. He is not particularly fussy, fearful or fanatical

While Carson does not have Parkinson's disease (thankfully), he does have a passion to learn about leadership. So that will be his focus on our trip around the world. He is asking leaders of Christian organizations and churches in the global South key questions that will provide information to be incorporated in his fourth book. He is interviewing these leaders in order bring back to Northern Hemisphere leaders the answer to the question, "What do the Christian leaders of the South have to say to the Christian leaders of North?" Some of the answers may surprise you. For a peek into Carson's perspective on our travels, you will find his blog at: http://carsonpue.net/

It was through Carson's contacts that we were introduced to Samuel Sanchez, the humble pastor of a Baptist Church in Lima. Although we were strangers, Pastor Samuel has treated us as friends from the moment we arrived. The first night we were invited to "observe" a midweek service at his church a few blocks away from our hotel. Despite the language barrier, we were welcomed with smiles and enthusiasm, as if we were there by personal invitation. After some exuberant singing, and without warning but a glowing introduction, Carson was invited to preach for 20 minutes. No preparation, no notes and no real knowledge of what was expected, he spoke on leadership and how we are all called to be leaders in one way or another.

On Thursday, May 3, Pastor Samuel drove us around the city commenting (through his university student daughter who capably interpreted whenever required) on the work that he felt called to do in Lima’s barrios perched haphazardly on the steep slopes forming the eastern extremities of the city. He was passionate about the people and his desire to provide them with hope instead of a life lived in destitute desperation.

The pastor, together with other Christian leaders gathered by him from around the city, provided Carson with significant insights into the challenges of ministering to the needs of those in this densely populated city of economic extremes. But he did more than that. For me, he mirrored the tenacity and intensity of those seeking a cure for Parkinson's, and a better life for those living with this degenerative disease.

When you think of it, the pastor and those who are part of the army raising awareness of PD and funds for its eradication have similar objectives. They both have a passion for the people they serve and a strong desire to give them hope. I was inspired by Pastor Samuel, as I have been by those who are part of the World Parkinson Congress. May they all be encouraged and equipped to carry out the pursuit of their passions.

Honk! Honk! Beep! Beep!

Peruvians drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the horn. Given that there is a general disregard for traffic laws that is probably a good thing. Honking is not generally an expression of anger, although sometimes the horn is used in frustration. Sometimes it is a warning to a careless pedestrian (anyone in the path of a vehicle, regardless of whether they are in a crosswalk, is deemed careless).  But, most of the time, it is simply a form of communication. Not so much a greeting as a statement of one's presence. "I am here" each vehicle seems to announce from time to time. It is like a language, understood in some parts of the world, but foreign to Canadians and Americans.

We awoke our first day in Lima, Peru, to a discordant symphony of honking horns. The word "cacophony" crept onto my tongue as a perfect description. Each one seemed to have its own character, whether reflective of the driver’s personality I could not tell. Notably, they were not blaring horns, like angry, overweight men bellowing and shaking their fists at other similar characters. Rather, they were chirping, like women out doing their shopping who stop every few feet to chat with another shopper about the weather, the latest gossip, or to share news about a bargain just discovered.

Having arrived at our humble hotel in Lince, a middle-class section of Lima, at about one in the morning, things were pretty quiet. Although exhausted from the travel, we were excited at having started our long anticipated journey around the world. Somehow, we didn't want to sleep. It seemed to be a waste of valuable time better used to explore and encounter the culture around us. But, having checked in with our respective spouses, we fell asleep seconds after lying down. The final thought in my head was, "I am living my dream. If has finally come true".

The morning of Day 2 brought some challenges, mostly of the linguistic variety. It appeared that my Spanish, which is pathetic at best, was about as good as the English spoken by any of the hotel staff. This left us wandering the halls of the second floor looking for the complimentary breakfast, only to discover that what the desk clerk meant to say was "seventh floor" not "second floor". After several trips back to the front desk, we discovered the miscommunication and found ourselves alone enjoying a simple meal of two buns, a glass of delicious and thick orange juice, and a great cup of coffee. What breakfast lacked in volume it made up for in flavor.

Shortly after returning to our very simple but inexpensive ($60 a night) room, we got a call from Pastor Samuel, the Peruvian contact made by Carson in relation to research he is doing for a new book he wants to write. More about that later.

In talking with a number of people, it became evident that Parkinson's disease is not well-known in Peru. Even interpreters give me a puzzled look when I try and explain what it is. As I have only one contact, whose scheduling has made it difficult to arrange a time to meet, I am anxious to try and locate someone I can talk to about Parkinson's disease. I can plainly see that may be difficult to do if most people don't even know what it is. But, for some reason, I'm confident that before it is time to leave Lima I will meet someone from Peru's Parkinson's community. Although, I must admit, I feel a little like a horn-honking Peruvian driver proclaiming, "I'm here".

May Day! May Day!

There were three of them; each were blond, Spanish-speaking and obnoxious.  I noticed them as we entered the very last and most distant boarding “lounge” #146 in the sprawling Bradley Terminal at LAX.  Of course, the darling children were given first priority to board our flight, as if locking them down earlier than other passengers would encourage passivity.  Undeservedly last to be called to get on LAN flight 601, by the time we had found our seats it was obvious that the pint-size rebellion was in full tempo.  The apparent parents of this trio were a hapless and helpless smartly dressed couple who seemed immobilized either by their own indifference or some sort of a magical trance.  As if announcing our arrival in their section, the two boys, 3 and 7, became banshee-loud as they entertained themselves by jumping from seat to seat as if testing the cushions for the luckless passengers.  Within moments of being seated in row 19, I was getting ready for my typical takeoff snooze, when those same punishment-deprived youngsters (who occupied row 20) began drop-kicking the back of the seats in front of them; our seats. 

But the 5 year old “princess” of the trio tribe was the cake-topper.  Obviously spoiled by passive, permissive or non-existent parenting, she repeatedly announced her demands at the top of her voice.  If her parents deigned to ignore her, or even whisper that most despicable of all words, “No” (which, as one would expect, they rarely did), the volume and pitch of the shrieking went up. This would be followed by tantrums in the aisle, screaming challenges to any feeble attempts at discipline, and crying jags that would qualify her for any day-time drama.  But, as a final move, Goldilocks had a secret and most effective weapon.  When she was not getting her way, or suffered even a temporary loss of attention, she would express her disdain for us, her doting subjects, by coughing in dramatic and exaggerated style with such broadcasting affect that every one of the 300 Airbus passengers were assured of whooping cough, croup or pneumonia.

“Mayday” I screamed silently as hopes of recovering from the last few days of sleep deprivation vanished amidst the preschool diva’s well-rehearsed whining.  Alas, we were all buckled in for an 8 ½ flight to Lima.  I felt as if I were strapped into a torturer’s chair.  Scowls,or turning and staring at the “precious” young demons, did little to dissuade them from beating out a drummer’s riff on my seatback.  Moving to other seats was impossible and the Jennifer Lopez-imitation flight attendants seemed mildly amused by the tyrannical tyke’s behavior, chatting with the parents in smiling, rapid fire Spanish.  Even pumping Bruce Springsteen through my personal sound system and into my eardrums at full volume barely dampened the din from row 20.  If only the rules against air rage applied to child flyers perhaps we could drop off those terrorists in training at a suitable facility in Mexico.

It was a temper-testing trip, but I refused to let the ill-behaved hellions spoil the beginning of our round the world adventure.  Although I had not counted on my world being shaken up by a kid’s pair of designer sneakers hammering the back of my seat, 19C, this accurately demonstrated an aspect of the trip that we had not actually anticipated: unpredictability.

Like any other journey, or like life itself, there is a significant degree of unpredictability involved. Who would have guessed that at 53 years old I would be diagnosed with a chronic, degenerative disease that would impact, with increasing persistance, every aspect of my life?  On the other hand, adventure requires at least some unpredictability.

How do you respond to unpredictability? Given the nature of living, that will become, if it has not already, a key question. Of course, you can try and control it when it creates negative consequences, but some things (like three strong-willed, misbehaving children on an 8200 km full flight) are not so easily controlled without using drastic measures (gagging the three little monsters and locking them in the airplane lavatory would likely lead to predictable but undesirable consequences). However, the one thing I could control was my attitude.

I was not about to allow some unfortunate and undisciplined children to ruin the first leg of the trip of a lifetime. I decided humor could be found in this annoying circumstance. Observing the responses of other passengers seated around the kids became a fascinating distraction. Before long, it struck me that these different responses ran in parallel to the reactions to being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. First, my fellow passengers tried to ignore what was happening. As a common alternative to that ill-fated attempt, there were expressions of frustration and thinly veiled anger. Finally, exhausted and resigned to many more hours of disruption, those seated nearby, including my traveling companion (Carson Pue, who will figure more prominently in future posts), attempted sleep in some incredibly awkward positions. Finally, acknowledging the situation and being fully convinced that we simply had to do the best we could, everyone seemed to choose their own response, trying the inflight electronic games, reading, typing this blog, or whatever.

Other than the cherubic children seated behind us, the 8200 kilometre long flight was uneventful and had safely deposited us on Peruvian soil just before midnight on the first day: May Day.

Shake Up My World

Scanning the bookshelves in my den, I quickly spotted the seriously damaged binding of the old atlas I had been looking for. Worthless, except as a curiosity, I found it many years ago among some unsaleable, water-damaged books at an estate sale. Its original owner had stashed other maps among the torn and yellowed pages of the oversized book. A world map is a curious thing when you think about it. It is not a photograph (certainly not from 1923). Rather, it is someone's image of a world, typically divided in an illustrative sort of way by blue wiggly lines that are rivers and black lines forming the sometimes shifting boundaries of countries. Given the scale involved, almost anything on a world map is approximate, a cartographer's creation.

Maps fascinate me. Looking at one requires imagination, a willing suspension of disbelief. Like when I held up the tiny globe my grandson had chosen as a prize for something or other and I pointed out to him, "That is where grandma and grandpa live". Naturally enough, he was mystified, looking at me strangely as if to suggest that my dopamine-deprived brain had finally begun to run on empty. "How could that be?", I'm sure he would have said had he been old enough. But after all, we read a map like we do a book, believing the places we point out are real. Mystery or not, a map can stir one's passion. A world map can depict great adventure. A world atlas, like its mythical namesake, can be a way to hold the world in one's hands.

Maps often tell stories in a very fundamental fashion, like the one I found in the old atlas that showed Africa in the grip of fascist powers during World War II. But add narrative and a map can become a drama about  dangerous destinations and the trials of traveling there.

Hidden on the inside of the door of my bedroom closet, carefully taped at eye level, hangs my own private fantasy. Actually, it is an encyclopedia of potential experiences.  It is a world map, a depiction of my dreams. Every night as I prepare for bed, and every morning as I get dressed, I mentally track through the locations I anticipate experiencing in reality. Starting with the fog-engulfed Lima, Peru, then to Cuzco, Peru, the gateway to the mysterious Machu Picchu, the list of destinations goes on as I trace with my finger the path of travel from the left margin, one location to the next, until I hit the right margin of my map.

Just a few days from now, May 1, I will begin writing a nonfiction story on my map of the world. Not literally, of course, but still, it will still be real. It will be part autobiography, part history, with some medical science, travelogue and even comedy thrown in.  But mostly it will be biographical. It will be a script extemporaneously written by the actors, those I meet, will play themselves. But even before a word is written, or a line spoken, I know the title. It summarizes  both the quest and the outcome of epic proportions. It is the title of a journey that cannot help but "Shake up My World".

Waiting: the Anticipation of Adventure

I could hardly wait for my 15th birthday. There was nothing special about the birthday itself, but it meant that I was about to embark upon an adventure of a lifetime. Those days of early 1967 were filled with planning, saving money, reading the packing instructions and travel itinerary, and anticipating everything I could about what was ahead. The nights were even better. I went to bed every evening clutching in my mind the imaginary start of the 3000 mile railway journey from my little farm town in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia, to the sprawling metropolis that was host to the world exposition in 1967, Montréal. I knew that if I went to sleep thinking about the trip I would almost certainly dream about it. Every morning I awoke more excited. My dream was coming true. And when that day of departure arrived, I felt as if I had lived it before, perhaps 100 times or more. It was those days of anticipation that prepared me for one of the greatest experiences of my life, up until then. It fed the craving of my soul to know more, to reach beyond my limited horizon, to meet others who knew nothing of my life: walking to a four room school in the country, picking apples as a summer job or peddling our single-geared bikes 20 miles one Saturday just for fun.

Today feels much like it did 45 years ago. Of course, there have been many extraordinary intervening adventures, too numerous to mention. But 10 days from now I will start a journey of a lifetime; one I have been dreaming about since before I was 15; a trip around the world. Five continents, 16 countries, more than 21 cities in 75 days; it is by any measure an Odyssey. Yet, in the same way as when I was 15, I do not dream of the sights to be seen. Rather I imagine the interaction with cultures about which I know nothing.  I see lessons I will learn about lands far away. I dream of deep discussions with some who live geographically on the other side of the globe (and in other ways farther away) but with whom I share a disease and the fears and frustrations that go with it. I know already that the days had will shake up my world, indelibly touching each of my senses.

But for now I must wait, and waiting is difficult for those of us who battle impatience. At first, waiting always seems like a waste of time. Let's get on with it! Just do it! Today is all we have! The religion of immediate gratification has gripped our culture, and me, and made waiting a sin. But I am learning, albeit slowly, that waiting, like the planning and preparation that goes into the making of a sensational meal, increases the appetite, enhances the experience and extends the memory. Imagine a world with nothing but fast food. Meals would be uninspired, unappreciated and unsavored. There is much to be said for waiting; not passively passing the time, but actively anticipating the adventure that is to come.

For some, Parkinson's disease starts a worrisome waiting game. Waiting fearfully for the tremor to migrate from the right side to the left side of the body. Waiting anxiously for the stiffness to trip them up and cause a fall. Anticipating in terror the potential loss of…well…of everything we dreamed it would be.

But for me, I choose to wait with anticipation for each adventure that may come. As for me, I will reach out and link arms with comrades from around this world, friends who refuse to give in, fellow warriors who will fight alongside. As for me, I will live the life I have, not the one I thought I would have.

"We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us."  E.M. Forster