First Movement

[Later that evening, a walk with Fiorella and Neri]

Turns out Megaphone Man was not harking independence after all, but revving up for 'Festival de Danzas' in the huge yet empty town square. Panpipes a-go go!

We stood in a tight, jigsaw fit of bodies around a makeshift arena while kids of all shapes, sizes and rhythm contributed traditional, regional peruvian equivalents of jazz hands. What do we have? Glee, or country dancing, and I felt sad as I always do that our own traditional song and dance is so lifeless by contrast to most other places I've travelled. The stiff geography teacher saw to that, ensuring this dance was not, and never would be, a party, and spoiled many a wedding for me since. This, however was pure joy: colour, glisten, ruffles and weaves, drums and strings and pipes, and I watched the little faces of these kids as they proudly danced in beautiful dresses, jumped and tapped and wiggled the stories and folklore of their country region by region.

Freddo the 'Inca Fotografica' dipped around with his beat up old Pentax 35mm film camera; stewards held back the pressing crown, 'por favor, por favor', and in our comfortable, cosy fit we all swayed along with infectious rhythms, beaming - luminoso. We left, but the man with the megaphone was still going when I woke in our hotel room at 4.30am.

The overture turned out to be its prophetic self.

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Overtures

[Pisco, 4 hrs drive S of Lima, in a garden]

Cacophony of birdsong in late afternoon, quick fluttering of their little beating wings - like an overly surprised heart - as they fly back and forth over this garden. A soft rustle - plastic bag caught in pale pink geraniums, then a cockerel experimenting with unusual (for him) times of day.

Loud radio amplified off bare brick and plaster, one man's enthusiastic spanish commentary, echoing so he is heard one, two, three times slightly out of sync; the sandy slice and slop of a builder making a wall on buildings that never seem to be finished. A child's hooting toy, nearer, then further, and a man talking on the phone in spanish, leaning out over his balcony because presumably the TV is too loud in his hotel room. Another radio, and another, one playing music rather like a caberet show on a cruise liner and their echoing sounds all coagulate; careful shuffle of a man in flip flops carrying a bag of potatoes. Band saw, car alarm, pigeon, plastering. That man's commentary went, now returns, perhaps not a radio after all but someone driving around leaning out of his car window with a megaphone.

The dusty walls play tricks with sound.

One of the birds is wolf-whistling, and maybe this connects beating wings to beating hearts again; 'Alright my bird?' as we say in Bristol. Yes, alright thanks.

It will be a long wait for enough hush to hear the cactii grow, but someone did think to leave this chair. Finally, I hear my own long sigh through my nose, resting, wondering how this overture will play out in coming days, intrigued that so much noise could be relaxing.


{Today's Soundtrack: yours}

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Peru01 : Funny Vinaigrette

[Yesterday - In Transit]

Here in New York it is around 3pm, though my body thinks it nearly 8. I've so far eaten two very bad meals, watched a terrible film (Paul) and an amazing film (Jane Eyre), sat next to a sweet helpful person, a weird self-help person, a french couple joined at the tongue, and several cute peruvians. Waiting on tarmac to take off for Lima, a baby two rows back is beginning to forget how much it wants to ball all the way to Peru and I'm trying to remember my original motives for making this trip.

*

Waiting at border control in NY I was accosted twice by officials. New Yorkers in uniform always look like they're from CSI, so I then felt like an extra on their film. 'May I see you passport, ma'am?' I think the border staff were bored, and playing games with the girl in the pink scarf.

My flight connection was ridiculously tight - reclaiming baggage and hurling it back at a quiet soul by a hole in the wall, any hole, sprinting with elbows hard at work, humourless security officials scowled more than usual when in panic I reached into the x-ray machine to get my bag out. No dawdling here, not least because as I crashed through check in, a round woman looked up and drawled, "hm, someone's musty." Oh help, I am sorry. That'll be your east coast humidity.

I wonder how it looked, a curly girl pounding marble floors, flying in flip flops with backpack straps fluttering like streamers, but I made it to the gate with time to spare, then the smell of fear sloped off and found someone else to play with.

The whole thing makes me eager to get to Lima, but entertained by this journey, terribly glad I have a small pack of wet wipes to hand.

*

[Today - Hostel in Lima]

Breakfast, in a cellar café that has forgotten how mood lighting can enhance eating pleasure, we work out universal communications that equal coffee and eggs. Trying to remember not to lisp my S's here. Grathias. The few moments before you really get going, you are - frustratingly - your only jet-lagged frame of reference, and then a boy quietly leaves a vinagrette bottle in front of me and walks away. Dipping my finger in and tasting it is the only way to work out that's the coffee, and that tips into there, and those words mean this, and thankfully the sounds up there imply Fiorella's arriving and she will ease me out of this disorientation.

These are the moments before you go out and start discovering, loaded with anticipation, apprehension, wonders and curiousity.

I don't feel at all brave, and yet sitting here with my funny vinaigrette my adventure has tentatively, quietly, already begun.


{Today's Soundtrack: Great Lake Swimmers - Where in the World Are You Now}

Melody, Harmony or Rhythm?

A friend asked me last week, which do you prefer, melody, harmony or rhythm?

Thinking, a few seconds, worried he might be judging my answer, realising he was not trying to catch me out, I braved a thought which was not concluded and suggested 'harmony'. I'm a singer and sometimes feel overwhelmed in the middle of powerful harmonies. He is a drummer and did a grand job of not taking offence. The opposite, in fact. We played around with the idea for a while – individual notes combine to create something much bigger than their sum, a new thing created that didn't exist before. Something happens that you could not have predicted, effects beyond mechanics, resonance striking deep down.

Melody, harmony or rhythm – which of these three could I live without? And what about lyrics? (That was a whole other conversation.)

Rhythm has drive, melody has captivation, harmony is a superpower. Perhaps we are all one or other of the above – some a relentless, driving force to be reckoned with, some a captivating muse, some harmonising in collaboration to make something extraordinary, bigger, not of them but beyond them. In any case, if the conclusion was known before the thought—or sound—was ventured we would have neither rhythm, melody or harmony.

Maybe it doesn't matter which of these ways you make music, just so long as you brave making it. So long as you're in the right company, the thoughts don't need to be concluded before you voice them.


{Today's Soundtrack: Little Dragon - Twice}