The Tepui Chronicles: South America, Part I

Te·puí:

noun \au̇-ˌyän-tā-ˈpwē\ Land of the Gods

We were mapless.

Chucking our battered suitcases in the back of a touchy four wheeler, my Aussi friend Jess and I whizzed down the streets of Ipis, Costa Rica. The lush, humid air was so dense it felt as if it were combing through our hair. 

Flashes of green bombay shoots whooshed past as I veered along the winding, crooked streets of this model-like village. Locals walked along the mossy canal waterways, disappearing into close-quartered colored houses. 

It was the beginning of our love affair with South America.

We were sitting cross-legged in a small seafood shack on the corner of the street, catching glances and sometimes smiles from passerby's as we feasted on crab legs and calamari. And I realized that this was it. Wholesome living. Caught in the fear of missing out, I had forgotten that at the root of it all was something as simple as deep breaths, fresh food, human connection and, if necessary, words. 

The rest of the night was a blur of faces and spanish phrases didn't understand. It was a mingling of conversation over hymnals sung in a local cathedral, followed by stops at exotic fruit stands and latin dances with men whose hips shake better than any lady I've ever seen. And then I again took the wheel. Where to? The wind would be our compass, our intuition our guide. 

As the miles under our wheels increased, time was measured by thoughts rather than minutes. We ventured into the rainforest terrain. It was pitch black, but beyond our car window there seemed to be a vast unknown something — something that seemed to suggest we were cradled in the palm of some mysterious, immense natural wonder. We drove through tall vegetation and across what had to have been towering bridges. Under the guise of nightfall, the vast rainforest was untouched by the prying eyes of tourists. And at that moment I swear we were in an undiscovered ocean of foliage that was neither East nor West. 

I felt a sense of possession. I wanted to lay claim on it, call it my own, without the dictates of paperwork or the convention of bills. 

The road took us completely across the country in one night, to the Pacific Ocean, where we ran headlong into the waves. We breathed in salt that stung our noses and cleansed so much more than our air passages. We fell asleep in our car, to the gentle lap of water at the edge of this continent.

We had determined it would be our little secret, this place that remained hidden from a cheap brochure. This place touched by the gods — or rather, as I would believe, one God. 

Rachel Lowry, The Tepui Chronicles Part I

Image via

Maps & Things

Apologies for the absence, folks. I traveled to Chicago on a road trip across the states this month, where I learned things like greeting people as 'folks.' My sister and I endeavored to travel across half of the states in the U.S. old school, with just a map. The result was many u-turns and some wonders off the beaten path. 

Soundtrack to My Life

I can still remember it all. This gawky little freckle-faced five year old sang into her plastic fisher price microphone for ten hours on that long stretch of a highway, on a road trip my parents are still recovering from, I'm sure. I'll never forget the way I could feel the music inside of me, relieving any weight gravity could induce. And the only name I could give it was magic.

And now. Here I am, a frazzled college student with five papers to write, four hours' worth of reading and a thesis to start, listening to Hans Zimmer's The Holiday score, reminding myself that this doesn't contribute to any school work I have to do, and yet, continuing to wonder how I could possibly put into words the way I have to bite my lip every time the violins come in.

The scores of Elmer Bernstein, Elliot Goldenthal, Rachel Portman, John Powell, Hans Zimmer, Peer Raben, Henny Vrienten, Patrick Doyle, Michael Kamen, Howard Shore, Gabriel Yared, Ennio Morricone, Stephen Warbeck, George Fenton, Michael Nyman, Nicola Piovani, and my recent favorite, Hans Zimmer, have contributed enormously to the modern day film medium. In combining the sweet charm of the strings with the triumphant jolt of the brass, they set the mood and tone of a scene. In doing so, this form of art allows a film to present the viewer with certain insight, and connection with the characters. A comedy is often mistaken as serious, unless clued in by a comical and light-hearted melody. One is able to connect certain scenes with certain characters through a motif, interwoven throughout the story in certain pivotal scenes. And, of course, everyone knows how dryly ridiculous a horror film is without the eery music lurking in the background, making you jump at every corner. When successful, music portrays to the audience what the director intended the audience to feel. The hero's battle speech is monotonous, the much-waited-for kiss at the end is ordinary, and the one hundred gunfire shots at the bank robbery is merely unnecessary and childish without the drama that music lends it.

I often wonder what the soundtrack to my life would sound like. Sometimes I can construct a vague melody or string variation as I am taking an evening walk with a good friend, or gaze across the valley from a mountain peak in awe. I can hear a swinging beat and feel the pulse of the bass as I walk down the street in my four inch heels and sunglasses. Other times, I feel a rhythmic jolt of trilled notes, suspended for measures as I hold my breath to find out whether I got excepted into the London Study Abroad Program, or wait to discover what my professor thought of my well thought out thesis paper. Even in its seeming silence, my life has always had its own beat and rhythm. It makes certain moments sweeter, some instances more terrifying, and other moments more exhilarating. The soundtrack to my life becomes a melody only I have sung. Indeed, we all have our melodies which define who we are and what we can become. And perhaps there need not be a word to put to that, but simply, action. As we take the stage and play our parts, it is us, essentially, who decides which song will be played and what that song will be called.

@ 2009 by Rachel Lowry. All Rights Reserved {photo vi.sualize.us}