End of the Desert July 8, 2015
Today the desert turned flat and ugly for a couple hours. I was kind of relieved. I was beginning to worry that I could be raving to myself without justification. Riding through unexceptional terrain reassures me that I can tell the difference. However, things don’t stay dull for long. Whether it’s volcanoes or immense valleys, misty ocean vistas or salt flats, the dessert continues to amaze.
You can tell from the fact that I posted too many pictures that I am impressed with the Atacama. I rode for three hours on the coast the other day with enormous crashing waves on my left, and mountains on my right. As long as you don’t care about vegetation, this compares favorably with anything on California’s Highway 1. I suspect Highway 1 is more “beautiful," but the Atacama is more dramatic, and there’s very little traffic. I can’t say I’ve been thrilled with all the places I’ve stopped, but I’ve been more than thrilled with the roads between them.
I’ve asked myself whether I would recommend the Atacama to anyone else as a destination, and the answer is probably not, unless they plan to ride a motorcycle. For a family vacation the Atacama would suck. For a romantic getaway, there are far better places. For bus-riding backpackers I don’t see the point. But on a motorcycle, I can’t really imagine much better. I can imagine different (because I can imagine trees), but not better.
This is probably why I’ve finally seen a few other motorcycle travelers on the highway recently. We wave to each other enthusiastically. They’ve usually been in small groups, but in fact, I actually met a lone Australian rider who has been in South America for over a year. He bought a motorcycle from a fellow traveler last November. We were camping in the same small compound, and had breakfast together. It was pleasant to speak English for a bit. He was dubious about whether he would ever go back to Australia. I understand the feeling, but my own are more mixed. As I approach the half way point of this trip, I feel time slipping away. In some ways it will be a relief to go home, but I’m no where near ready for this to end. Anyway, I gave him one of my miracle business cards. (Hi Andrew, if you’re reading this.)
I’ve actually given out a handful of cards. After not speaking to much of anyone for nearly a month (except waiters, store clerks, gas station attendants and hotel staff) I found myself in company three times in two days while in San Pedro de Atacama. I spent an hour or so with two Chilean couples on holiday. They invited me to share Piscola’s (pisco and Coke) at the camp site, and somehow ended up telling me about ayahuasca, an hallucinogenic popular with the indigenous cultures around Cusco. The next evening I had dinner with two Brazilian’s watching the Copa América. They nearly persuaded me that I have to visit the salt flats outside of Uyuni, Bolivia. I’m still thinking about it.
I like meeting people; it’s always interesting. But it’s work to keep up my side of the conversation (especially when it’s not in English) and I’m always happy when social time is over and I can relax. Meeting others is the main reason that some people travel. I’m probably not in that category.
Anyway, the riding has been great, and I hope you enjoy the pictures. They don’t capture the drama of the desert, but I do like them. I also posted a few short videos. I’m disappointed by the GoPro; I have over a dozen hours of footage and they’re all underwhelming.
Quick aside: I fear that any person who brings black pants to the desert can never again be trusted to choose his or her own travel apparel.
They did it. Incredibly, they did it.
Chile won the Copa América. This is bigger than you realize. The predecessor of this competition began in 1916, and for 98 years Chile has competed and lost. The competition hasn’t always been an annual event during this time, but it’s still 98 years of failure. Moreover, Chile has never won any other significant team competition. Ever. In the 1960’s they came in 3rd in the World Cup; that was their last greatest victory. Moreover, Chile only has 13 Olympic medals in it’s history, all in individual competitions. They have only two golds, both in Tennis. That Chile should win this tournament, the most important in South America, on their own soil, against Argentina, their greatest rival… it’s too big to describe (just like the Atacama). I don’t think any American athletic achievement could mean so much to Americans. We’ve had way too many successes, and there is no single sport that unites us in this way.
I don’t imagine I deserve a great deal of credit for the victory, but let’s at least note that ALL of their failures occurred when I was out of the country, and ALL of their successes occurred when I was in the country.
Coincidence?
If you’re a Chilean, where do you want me to be for the next tournament?
In fact, I was planning to leave Chile on Friday or Saturday morning, but when Chile won the semi-final against Peru, I realized I couldn’t ignore the aspirations of an entire nation so I stayed for the final.
Watching the last game was both exciting and tedious. It was tied after regulation, and still tied after an additional 30 minutes of play. It came down to penalty kicks. When the last kick went in, the whole country thundered. Afterwards, I walked down the main mall in the center of town. The jubilation was very real, and it was accompanied by about 5 hours cars driving up and down the streets, horns blaring.
I arrived in Chile the night before the tournament began, and I left the morning after it ended. It colored my entire time in the country, and gave it a very special unexpected dimension. I will always be a fan of Chilean fútbol. Viva Chile!
As mentioned, I visited a village on the high plains called San Pedro de Atacama. It’s a town on an oasis in the dessert that’s existed since before the Incas. The village is made out of mud; dry mud walls, dry mud streets, dry mud stores. They call it adobe to sell it to the tourists. In fact, it’s one of those crazy towns that only exists for tourists. It’s a hub for adventure sports and vista-trekking. The main draw is salt flats dotted with flamingoes, hard to photograph without telephoto lenses. The only businesses in town are hotels, restaurants and trinket shops. It’s populated by the standard mix of wealthy day-trippers, budget back-packers, world-weary outcasts, and bemused locals. I’m not certain which category I’m in.
The “thing” here is to rent a bike, so I don’t. Riding in, I’m amazed by the first few bicyclists I see. But by the thirtieth, I’ve figured it out. These losers rode buses into town, and now they’re following the designated routes to see the sites… Wow, I am a terrible snob.
I suppose that one reason I ride is because most people don’t. Whether it’s obligations or laziness, fear or sanity, most people will never ride a motorcycle in South America. If everyone else jumped in the lake, would you do it too? No, I’d probably be the one on the shore building sand castles.
I have mixed feelings about San Pedro: I’m sitting in a restaurant eating corn pie. It’s surprisingly good, but I'm next to a table of American blondes and their Chilean suitors. The dynamics are older than the Andes. I am so ashamed to be human. Do llamas act this way? Llamas spit when they’re disgusted. Is it too late for me to be a llama?
I really am a snob (and I don’t know that recognizing it forgives it).
Another day, another city, another restaurant. I order a seafood pizza because it sounds interesting. But before the meal they bring tortilla chips and a little bowl of ketchup. It occurs to me that I ought to explain to them that seafood, pizza, tortilla chips, and ketchup belong to four entirely different culinary ecosystems. On the other hand, I am in Arica, Chile. It hasn’t rained here in umpteen thousand years. The very fact that these people have not dried up and blown away shows that they can beat the odds. So who am I to discourage their culinary courage.
Besides, it turns out ketchup on tortilla chips isn’t half bad, and just because I can’t recognize any of the seafood on the pizza doesn’t mean it didn’t come from the ocean. Or perhaps I didn’t say seafood? No matter, it tastes O.K., and like most Chilean and Argentinian food it benefits from a basic misunderstanding of the principles of capitalism. No one in Chile seems to realize that the whole point of pizza is to turn ten cents worth of bread into a $10 specialty. In Chile they give you a thin crust and an inch of toppings. Damn socialists!
Perhaps I’m being uncharitable, but if the nations of Latin America don’t want me to judge them by arbitrary American standards, then they’re going to have to stop idolizing American culture. Music, I’m looking at you. Everywhere I go I hear American music, and I’m not talking about touristy places. I’m talking about clearly local businesses catering to normal people, both poor and wealthy. What’s especially odd is that they seem to favor American Pop from the 70’s and 80’s. Right now I’m listening to Michael Jackson, and he was preceded by Dire Straits and Supertramp. The artist I’ve heard the most is Elton John, followed closely by The Clash. Hm–I do hope the Brits won’t mind that I’ve Americanized their music.
I suppose I should pretend to have some deep insight into the prevalence of dated American pop. It’s got to have many layers of significance, but I find it mainly surprising. At least they’re not listening to Taylor Swift and Kanye West, though occasionally I do hear some rap. It was especially amusing in the Peruvian customs house earlier today. The young woman at the counter, prim and proper, trying to demonstrate the appropriate mix of authority and pleasantness, has Eminem playing quietly behind her. It’s her music, but she doesn’t understand English, and I wonder if she has any clue what’s she’s playing. I want to talk to her about it, but I’m supposed to play the role of slightly stupid, harmless American.
But now I’m reminded of another story from a couple days earlier: On the map, “Cuya" is printed in red. To my mind, if they print the name of your city in red, then you ought to have a gas station. Apparently, my reasoning is faulty, as you can guess, I get there, needing gas, they have none. In fact, all Cuya is, is a line of tiny restaurants. It’s sort of like a truck stop, except they forgot the gas, which makes no sense at all. It’s not even clear where these people live, though they might live behind their restaurants. Who the hell did they bribe to get red letters on the map? Ah well, at certain times, you just have to stop questioning, and accept things the way they are. (That’s a joke.)
So I go to every single restaurant and I ask about gas. Everyone recommends the restaurant at the end of the street, but I’ve already been there. The waitress went outback (with a bit of trepidation) and yelled some guy’s name. I didn’t see him, but I heard him grumble something which she translated as: No gas. Anyway, according to several of the other restaurants, my next option is to continue North. Forty kilometers on there’s another place that might have gas.
Or at least I think that’s what they’ve told me. Unfortunately, I know I have a tendency to turn gibberish Spanish into words I want to hear. Actually, sometimes the Spanish speaker and I will conspire to do this together. He says something, I kind of nod, and repeat back what I think he might have said. He kind of nods, and says a few more words. We continue like this three or four times, and then the conversation stops, and we stare blankly at each other, realizing that we have no clue what the other person is talking about.
Anyway, editing out some of the more embarrassing details, eventually I decide to press ahead searching for this mythical gas outlet. And lo and behold, just as prophesied, at about 40 km from Cuya, standing in the middle of the sand, there’s a restaurant. I go in and ask for gas, as one does at restaurants. The young girl says they’ve got it, and we go to find her brother whose on the roof of a shed outback listening to music in his headphones. He’s not too excited to be disturbed, but he climbs down, and fills a couple of plastic two liter Coke bottles with gas. His interest picks up when he sees the motorcycle, but it’s when he realizes that I’m not some dumb Portuguese-speaking Brazilian that he becomes genuinely curious. He wants to know about learning English. How hard is it? Is it easier than Spanish? He’s been told that it is.
My guess is that he’s been sitting on the roof listening to all this great American (and British and Austrailian) music wondering what the hell they’re saying. We talk for a short time, and I reveal the secrets of the universe, but he really just wants to know English. So I pay him a bit more than he asks because I feel sad for him. His teeth are horrible, and his clothes are filthy. He’s not part of a community; he sells gas by the bottle in the desert. That’s not his fault. What is it like to listen to this alien music full of allure and excitement. Surely it must instill desire and curiosity, but to what purpose? The odds against this kid ever leaving the desert are extraordinarily small, and he’ll never learn English. He’s doomed in the sand.
After a few long days of spectacular riding, I stopped in Arica, the last city on the Chilean coast. In Arica I took care of a few errands. I changed the oil in the bike and adjusted the chain. I bought some toothpaste. I also sent home another package. This time I sealed it before I entered the post office. And this time the box ONLY contains maps and guidebooks. That’s it. There is absolutely nothing else inside the box. There is definitely not an iPad nor even three refrigerator magnets. Bureaucracy works when you understand the system.
I also got my beard trimmed in Arica. It had come down to eating or shaving, and food won. Also, the wind was causing my whiskers to tickle my nose. I took the face shield off the helmet in the desert. When it’s not cold, it’s much more pleasant to ride without. So I’m free to itch again, but even so I don’t need my beard to do the tickling.
Speaking of noses, ever since the bout of rabies in Santiago mine has been experiencing its own adventure. I’ve been feeling fine, but I can’t get past the phlegm stage. Combine that with dramatic temperature changes and dry desert dust, and you’ve got a recipe for "dark tales from the deepest recesses of my nostrils." Some of the stuff that’s come out of my nose is disturbing. Yellow, green, red and black; I think it’s the full rainbow of death. I keep meaning to get a picture of one of my used kleenexes, but I keep forgetting. But, I suppose, just like the desert, a picture wouldn’t fully capture the experience. Maybe I'll try to GoPro a sneeze.
I’m worried that the philosophical component of this blog suffers in all the worst possible ways. From an academic point of view it’s very sloppy, nearly rubbish. But perhaps worse, I doubt I’m even managing to explain myself in a way that makes things clear enough for others to want to follow further. I’m also disappointed that I don’t merge the travel portions with the philosophy more seamlessly. Seems to me that I have at least two very different voices in this blog, and they clash.
It’s inelegant to point out your own flaws, but I don’t want anyone to think that I’m under the illusion that I’m systematically revealing the secrets of existence.
Ever since I’ve been thinking about philosophy I’ve worried that I might be churning out nonsense. How can one know that this isn’t the case? I used to listen to late night radio on occasion in awe of the delusions and ignorance. There was one program that focused on UFO’s, crop circles and similar pseudo-scientific rambling. It was a hotbed of conspiracy minded cranks. But what was so disturbing was the apparent sincerity of the views and the sober tones in which they expressed them. They all thought they had important things to say, and good reason to believe them.
I’m pretty certain I’m not that kind of crank because I’m not a believer. I’m not a zealot, I’m not a conspiracy theorist, and I don’t even think that anything I say is strictly true. But that doesn’t mean I’m not afflicted by a different sort of lunacy. What if I’ve cobbled together a bit of mysticism, a bit of analytic navel-gazing, a bit of layman’s chaos theory, and a lot of cultural relativist blathering to build my own wildly inconsistent, hodgepodge of nonsense? In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what I’ve done. But it’s unclear to me that philosophy can ever be anything more. Surely most of the great philosophers have done something similar.
What separates lunacy from philosophy? I like to think that one element is self-criticism. In philosophy, you ought to be your own harshest critic. Doing so requires developing the ability to view one’s own beliefs from multiple perspectives, and to explore those perspectives seriously and honestly. I tend to think that I haven’t really understood any position until I’ve felt the compulsion to believe it. Moreover, if I haven’t clearly experienced a belief as complete idiocy, then I haven’t thought about it hard enough. I like this aspect of philosophy; I like trying on different perspectives.
But how do you judge your own ability to be self-critical?! How do you gauge your own honesty!?
You can’t. Ultimately you cannot judge your own sanity. This is one reason philosophy, as well as science, is best done within a community. We need outside critics. But more than just critics, we also need the shared effort to establish the meaning of terms, and the principles of discourse. It doesn’t matter how insightful, and deep and amazing a thinker’s thought; if it’s not delivered in a vehicle that can be shared and understood, it’s not great philosophy. Unfortunately, I’m more or less working outside the framework of a community. That’s why I’m especially at risk for lunacy.
But why do philosophy at all? Why care about the structure of existence? It’s very appropriate to address these questions.
First of all, I don’t think that anyone should have to care about philosophy, and I wouldn’t want to live in a world where everyone spent all their time reflecting on the deepest mysteries of existence. In that world there wouldn’t be anyone to build roads and motorcycles. Moreover, I don’t think anyone should feel bad if they don’t care about this stuff.
I think it’s perfectly OK to live in the world and not care too much about how it works. I don’t understand much about my motorcycle. Somehow you put gas into it, you turn the throttle, and the tires roll. I sit on top of them. Yeah, I know a little more, because it’s important to be able to do basic maintenance. But here’s the important point: There are many cyclists who get their greatest pleasure from disassembling their own bikes and modifying them. They take great satisfaction out of the ability to change their own tires in the field and repair a carburetor with duct tape (or whatever they do). And some of these guys will argue that I deprive myself of an important dimension of riding, or even risk my own safety by not knowing my bike better. These guys believe that if you ride, you have an obligation to explore the metaphysics of motorcycles. I understand this view, and I see its merit. I recognize that there are things I could gain by learning more about my bike, but I don’t care.
The same points can be made about computers. As they get more complex, I understand them less and less about them, and I care less and less about learning. I just want to know the things that I need to make them do the work I desire.
Before I go further, note that I believe very strongly in the value of a liberal arts education. Exposure to extraordinary ideas is one of the most important elements in expanding our ability to think creatively and critically. This is valuable regardless of what one does or cares about. A broad education, in which philosophy and literature play some role changes who we are. Challenging travel does something similar, and it’s no accident that travel has traditionally played a role in a complete education. But all of this is very different from saying that caring about philosophy for its own sake is intrinsically important. It’s not. If your motorcycle is running fine, you’re not obligated to know how or why. If you're happy with your life, and your belief system is working for you, you’re not obligated to examine the underlying assumptions.
Of course, I’m very happy that there are people who do care about the way motorcycles and computers work and want to improve them. I benefit enormously from their efforts. I think sometimes people suspect that nothing philosophers care about could ever change or improve anything. Here I disagree.
We all have an enormous web of beliefs, or at least, this is a very useful way to think about ourselves. We have beliefs about tables and chairs and motorcycles and computers and morality and politics and on and on and on. The beliefs we have characterize who we are. If I believe that stealing is wrong, I am much less likely to do it. Note, I say much less because we might also have a belief that having a car is very worthwhile, and the belief that stealing one is the only way to acquire it. If so, we would have to weigh these beliefs against each other to determine our behavior. The point, is that our webs of belief can be very messy, inconsistent and confusing. To be sure, we could also talk about desires and other elements of psychology, but I’m not trying to create a full-blown model of human nature. I’m merely suggesting that thinking of us as possessing a massive web of beliefs is very useful. I even find myself thinking that I am my web of beliefs. My self is my beliefs.
Where do our beliefs come from? Undoubtedly, many of them, are more or less innate. Studies of newborns seem to show that we are programmed from birth to believe that the world contains objects, and that objects don’t generally disappear. I’m inclined to believe as well (following Jonathan Haidt and others) that the rudiments of many moral beliefs are also innate. However, the framework of belief with which we are endowed at birth is dramatically incomplete and flexible. It’s filled out by the experiences of a lifetime. The long period of childhood is about constructing a web of beliefs, constructing a self.
As humans, we function best when we have a solid, reliable, well-tuned, web of beliefs. What constitutes such a set is as complicated a subject as anything in philosophy, but it obviously involves a host of elements of fit. A good web of beliefs fits with the environment one lives in. But moreover, a good web fits with the members of ones community. Having beliefs which do not fit your community is going to be a problem. Note that you don’t necessarily have to have the same beliefs. If you’re a Jew among Christians, in the middle ages you can have opposing beliefs as long as you also have beliefs about hiding what you truly belief and the acceptability of that dishonesty. Moreover, though I’ve already stated that every web is fraught with tension, a well-functioning web of beliefs will be “consistent" in it’s overall architecture. By consistent I don’t necessarily mean logically compatible, but more simply that all the internal parts can work together. The beliefs aren’t creating internal turmoil.
Motorcycle analogies are again appropriate. A good motorcycle fits the road you’re riding, and better run on the gas the local merchants are selling, and it’s pretty obvious that the internal parts have to fit together.
In the broadest sense, philosophy is the exploration of our web of beliefs. What are our beliefs? Where do they come from? Are they justified? Are there alternatives? To be sure, all of academia is involved in the same investigation. The sciences are merely aspects of philosophical investigation that have become more or less specialized and entrenched. All of the sciences originate in philosophical investigation, and each poses a set of beliefs to be incorporated into our overall framework.
Not all beliefs are equally central. I think of metaphysics as the branch of philosophy that focuses on the examination of our deepest, most fundamental, core beliefs. I have many beliefs which I don’t care about very much, beliefs that are peripheral to the web, beliefs I’d be happy to change if you give me half a reason. If Alexis (my soon to be medical doctor niece) tells me that I misunderstand rabies, I’m happy to defer. Some beliefs I change myself every day. l believed it would be colder in Santiago than Arequipa, because Santiago is something like 1500 miles further south. But it turns out that altitude trumps latitude in this case. These types of beliefs aren’t central, and they can be easily changed. Obviously there are parts on the motorcycle that are not so important, and others without which it won’t run.
Metaphysical beliefs are the ones in the center. They can be so fundamental that it’s hard to recognize them as beliefs. That there exists a physical reality is probably one of these. Other metaphysical beliefs might be so fundamental that we can’t even articulate them, so I won’t talk about those. Our deepest metaphysical beliefs are not things we normally discuss; they are the framework on which other beliefs are built. Think about the frame of the motorcycle, it’s not something you normally talk about. You take it for granted; it’s just the holder for all the other stuff, and yet it’s absolutely essential, and it gives form to the motorcycle more so than any other component.
Elements within our deepest metaphysical beliefs typically only come to our attention when they begin to malfunction. Belief in God and belief in the ultimate meaningfulness of existence are examples. These beliefs are no longer as fully functional as they were in the past. And yet, they are not easily replaced or adjusted. You can’t just switch the frame of a Honda with the frame of a BMW. This is why doubt about God can create such distress. This is why exposure to philosophy can result in existential crises. Mucking around in your metaphysical beliefs can be dangerous.
I tend to think of religions as prepackaged sets of beliefs. In traditional, well-functioning societies, the vast majority of its members don’t have to do any philosophy; they simply buy into the shared framework of the community. Having a prepackaged set means that most people can go on about using the beliefs and living their lives. They don’t all have to build their own motorcycles. Moreover, having a shared set of beliefs allows people to work together; it creates beneficial efficiencies. Perhaps most importantly, a successful set of shared beliefs justifies the structure of society and gives meaning to individual lives by explaining their purpose vis a vis society and even the whole of the universe.
In a well-functioning Catholic society priests are the motorcycle mechanics of our webs of belief. When things don’t make sense, they help us repair the tear in the web.
So what is the purpose of philosophy? You might think I’m leading up to the claim that philosophers should be thought of us as the motorcycle mechanics of a secular society. And yet, I’m afraid the analogy begins to collapse. Priests and motorcycles mechanics operate within a relatively settled framework. Philosophers rarely do. Philosophers are more like the engineers who design the motorcylces and yet, even this isn’t right, for at least two reasons: 1) a web of beliefs is so monstrously complex that you can’t design one from the ground up, and 2) you’re always within a web of beliefs even as you consider adjustments. It’s like trying to rebuild your motorcycle even while you’re riding on it. (Apologies to Neurath and his ship.)
And yet, humans do change there webs of belief, and philosophers play an integral role in the process. They do their best to map the current state of our beliefs, identify the weaknesses dream the revisions and articulate the possibilities for change. The great philosophers don’t create our beliefs, but as they are midwifes at the birth of change. (Adapting a quote from Socrates). From Plato and Aristotle to Descartes and Kant to Nietzsche and Wittgenstein, philosophers observe our beliefs. There suggestions for revision are probably less important, and certainly less successful, than the mere calling of attention to the under appreciated. Often, just by bringing beliefs to our attention philosophers create the possibility of change. Unfortunately, change is unpredictable, and even the best intentions fail to produce good outcomes.
However, a society that cannot change its beliefs will fail. Why do philosophy? My answer for the current moment is to facilitate adaption of our web of beliefs. I’m trying to be an engineer, riding a motorcycle full speed down the highway, tinkering with the machinery.
I think I’ve noted an unjustified assumption of determinacy operating near the core of our web of beliefs. I have a suspicion that if we could see how this assumption works, it might be beneficial. But I might be a lunatic.
I am in Peru, and 506 things have happened, and I want to write about all of them.
I take it back about the desert; the desert sucks, mountains are awesome.
