suddenly everyone has the same shawl

am i gonna be a hippie in 15 years?

The first hippie I saw in Pisac, long beachy hair, dresses, slightly tanned skin, arms full of jewlery, I thought, “oh this is fun, it’s like I’m volunteering at Sprouts again!”

Perhaps it was the abudance of vegan food, natural antibiotics, and well, to put it bluntly, white people, that threw me off. This is nothing like sprouts, no slutty outfits, no unintentional diversity quota met—it was almost like somone built a specific brand of barbies and we were recycling clothes on all of them. I can see why Pisac of all places would draw them in, serenity, peace, isolation, and most importantly, cost…

What does it mean to be a good settler?

I imagine it is through the analogy of being someone’s house guest. You adopt to their living habits, you thank their hospitality, you do not steal their appliances or their resources or copy their artwork and claim it as your own. You can cook for them but you cannot make them eat your food, you can bring them gifts but cannot strip them so they are dependent, and until you return to your own home, you cannot forget that your are in theirs.

On our first night in Pisac, Emma and I stumbled accross an open mic, attatched to a bar/restaurant. The types of musicians were diverse, rappers, country, rock, and other genres I don’t know the names of, a few travellers like us who just happened to be there. But there were also regulars who knew each other and had a community there, who’ve made music with each other for a long time now. By the stage, mats were placed for us to lay on, covered in woven blankets and pillows, a woman with greying hair hugged a child close to her chest, two stray dogs curled in a ball as if finally catching a break. When it got cold, a white woman with long dreads and a Quebeqois accent allowed us to share her blanket.

I’ve never done an open mic, but being that I was the last one and the guests had by then, mostly trickled out, I sang a couple of songs nervously (still getting rid of my fear of public singing, and not the karaoke kind) then we helped move the blankets into a shed which apparently is used for a school? Afterwards, those who were left in the venue sat in a large circle, playing instruments together, harmonizing, warmth in the place, connected through art. I’ve severely missed getting to play music, often I listen to a song and long to pick up my guitar, zoning out for hours at a time as the strings fill my bedroom. I bought a flute that morning, a vendor showing me some tunes that I forgot immediately. I promised I would take a video of myself playing back home.

me singing (it wasn’t terrible)

What is difficult about this reflection is that my body radiates two very conflicting emotions, one, an appreciation for these hippies, who smile with every contact, who make space for self-expression, who welcome humans and animals, who cheer loudly without judgement for all who perform, expressing undying support. The other part of me is nervous, thinking back to all the privileged ignorance I’ve encountered, skeptical of a settler-ridden space, skeptical of the arising buisnesses that are not accessible for the locals, skeptical when the spoken word is angry about vaccines admist justified anger towards capitalism.

I tend not to make positive claims, while I’m deeply angered at the fragemented universality of the academic institution, I’m unsure how a holistic perspective to living life would be, espcially in the form I’ve witnessed. A white woman releases medicine songs onto Spotify, and I wonder whose medicine she borrows from, whose medicine she appropriates. I wonder if, behind the groundedness, the calmness and meditation it bestills in my soul, if it was an artform stolen.

But is it stolen or appropriated if it heals something in me, just as a medicine song should? She has fewer than 50 listeners, I doubt she makes money off of the music and she uses the music for her close ones, not to exploit. Yet is it wrong of me to think that maybe there is a curse behind it? What does it mean to make music that is rooted to a land you do not belong on? Will it instill a false sense of connection, security, and home?

If I wanted to reject all the institutions I found problematic, I would be a self-sufficient artist, so being in a space where I’ve witnessed the closest there is to that, I find it so concerning that I am just so close to being a hippie with dreads. But am I?

When capitalism takes it toll on me and I am but a spect of dust waiting to burst into flames by the holes in the atmosphere, I could not even retreat into the ashes of my home to live a quiet life away from the impending doom in the city. Maybe that is what is concerning to me at the end of the day: why do the hippies of Pisaq escape here and make beautiful music and beautiful spaces when their homes in the north are just as in need of them, and they clearly have enough priviliges to stay?

What do you guys think of the hippies?

Annie