Trash middens and catholic swagger, which will last forever more, the plastic or the guilt? Enough lifetimes will never wander this far to see this remarkable omage, even persuaded by the ease of petroleum, and I am grateful for this and I continue to be amazed at the consistent durable, relaxed nature of the people here. They clamour biodegradable sonnets, bent in labor across fields, but that isn’t preamble to any misery. There is as much rest and joy here as I’ve ever seen. Mañana, as they say.
What I know of modernity is here anyway, or should I say, in low orbit as every village has internet, so I tend to think how unfortunate, or perhaps more positively, look at the progress they will now see. But given my timing all is not lost. Work exists in fields and ranchos sustain and ciudads extinguish in the vast nature of wilderness ceasing the pavimento we call progress. This outer slowness supports siestas, and family and heritage and craft. I do sense some undermine of malcontent in places. I wonder what expectations cause this. The low orbit, I am certain.
I’ve now toiled over 1300 miles and 75,000 feet in ascent and have found what I think is the sanctuary of my dreams, of this place. Still, I am unsure where or if this ends, or what this is, and how I will carry it to my home. It is the deepest reserve of authenticity that I might ever see. That was the essence of this sojourn. People living deep in canyons who do not know any value of likes. How remarkable. I may see it again, or in another place, but doubt on that so far is stringent. There is, inversely, a sustenance they might never imagine, a mere fence line away, although they must have heard by now.
It will be a dedicated choice not unlike the current to arrive here, or anywhere to this depth, again, in the same way of course, transient and soiled in sweat and dirt and life via bike. For now, there is still work to be done.