I am in the Politics and Prose bookstore, in my now DC neighborhood and I wander to the back wall of the travel section.
The last time I was there, I picked up the Lonely Planet edition of Cuba, a book showcasing the off-the beaten-path places to see in the country which still are noted accordingly, and the ones which are not because of the ironic knowledge. Still I like both the tried and true and the little known.
Going back to the office was challenging after 10 days in Cuba, however this was never so real as how I felt after living in Peru and Bolivia.
Not being ready to be back in the US and facing off with the reverse culture shock I had been forewarned about, I realized I could temporarily transition back by staying in a traveler’s hostel before securing another DC apartment. I would also continue my search for desired NGO and/or development work which I was for now more certain I had the field experience.
Years ago, my horizon had been so broadened that I was ironically too open-minded about my own chances and how people would see me back in the States. The ready circumstances or chances I had to orchestrate the next steps was not how I imagined them to be. Perhaps my heart was just too much abroad. Perhaps, I was unfortunate not to get the chances I needed in time.
I did work. I became ill and after finally getting better in the ER and hospital, I leaned towards what was supposedly stable though dulling to my senses. Unfortunately, the work was similar to what I only wanted to do for a little time when I moved to this area years ago, before doing more with international development. I was at another non-profit trade association and unfortunately, I became skillful at the department in which I worked and my knowledge of the operations as I was inclined to do. I imagine most of us are inclined to master our day-to-day responsibility and what is expected of us, so I became proficient at those operations and once again unfortunately, my tenure geared more towards the inner workings of a trade association. Perhaps in a fortunate way, I had to seek out my own international endeavors and my life still mirrored the experiences I sought out during and after my college years. My friends were international and locally from different backgrounds and I was friends with those who represented the mainstream and my own minority background as well.
Perhaps seeking out my own development work here and disaster relief abroad has molded me into being more appreciative of what I have been able to do and kept me from being burned out. Now I get the chance to select from a second passion and do that as I travel. Still, I recall the confusion of coming back and trying to make everything fit and employers keeping me to the box that I submitted to as well because though the work was something to which I was acclimated and had many perks, this was not my first choice. I dedicated about 15 years to organizations that did not truly speak to me. Thank goodness for travel, cool coworkers, other interests on the side and a willpower, though delayed at times, which will not let go.
The pain in my leg was not letting up. Several days into what was otherwise the paradise of living and volunteering in Cochabamba, I could not continue to ignore it. Just coping and hoping for the best is never a good plan. I had thought I would eventually be okay with just one good stretch following the long bus trip from Sucre. My body was telling me; however, this was more than a serious cramp. I couldn’t ignore being unable to put a regular amount of pressure on my foot. I couldn’t walk at my typical speed, jog alongside my friends, speed up to cross streets or get from point A to point B as I would regularly expect myself to be doing.
There had to be a remedy or at least an explanation. Interestingly, a temporary day of relief came when we popped into a gym and completed our workout with a cardio strength class. We primarily had free styled in a cycling class, not intentionally, but only because the instructor was more so walking around instead of leading. The instructors for the strength-building cardio class, a fit male and female duo, were much more engaged and motivating. We were done being skeptical whether or not this place was a good fit.
Class was fast. I was still high from the workout. We were
in and out of activities, grabbing mats and steppers and various weights from
the back of class and continuously moving. The male instructor alluded to “now
we know who has the best a$$ in class” when I remained in one position long
after we were instructed to shift to another. I was in the zone… kind of😊.
Juan, Margaret and I talked to the instructors about another visit. Friedrich had been doing strength training on his own. I was elated and told him there was no leg pain during the workout. He suggested it may be the blood flow from the exercise. It made sense – it seemed to be something like a blot clot (of all my guesses). Back then, I didn’t realize the very real importance of standing, stretching and moving during long plane and bus trips. Having the ability to withstand a lot for long periods of times caused me to think this too wouldn’t be a big deal for me. The bag on my lap had not helped. I was on one of the less recommended bus lines, so I was more focused on maintaining my belongings. Still, this workout brought hope. I was energized in a number of ways.
The relief did not last. Stretching out carefully or quickly powering through movements was a no. Friedrich massaging the muscle was no kind of solution either. Something had to give. I couldn’t properly enjoy my joy.
Fact is funnier than fiction. The place Margaret and I
moved into was across from a health clinic. If I knew about The Secret
back then, I would have guessed I somehow manifested this medical building to
have doctors and staff inside just so I could meet with one doctor who would
carefully listen to my symptoms as I explained them in Spanish and instruct the
nurse to give me the quick curing hip injection – the injection to end days of
not knowing exactly what the issue was and having to realize I wasn’t invincible.
I was ready to feel a little unstoppable again😊
I recall afterwards, hanging out in the main area where Margaret and I lived. Her room was on the first floor and my room was up a level. We were now sharing with two cool roommates from England and Norway (They had replaced an unfortunately snobby couple who consistently appreciated Margaret way more than me. It was actually more so the girlfriend.) I was in sync again with the new girls and the four of us found ourselves hanging out and venturing out together, easily.
I digress. I recall this one evening, going up to my room to retrieve the bottle of medicine prescribed by the doctor for aftercare. Fredrich held it, taking in the red fluid and dropper. Knowing I felt better, he said a little cautiously, “I wouldn’t take that if I were you”. I couldn’t decide for a while until it cracked on the floor one day. It wasn’t necessary then… he was right?
Magic finally happened. I was better. I could get back to life as I knew it for then. No more worries about something I didn’t know how to fix and gratitude for being able to do and enjoy all my opportunities again. Strange and interesting experiences were waiting for me.
You simply needed to be a community volunteer to seek a home at the Sustainable Bolivia house in Cochabamba. As Margaret’s time, subleasing in the Brazilian couple’s home, was coming to an end, we would find ourselves there. Margaret was the sole volunteer of our group at that moment, before Juan had the inspired thought for us to likewise help out at her school. One visit there and he would also have quite the unchallenging time convincing me to join. 😊 The school was how she came to live in the city.
Margaret and I were prepared to live in the Sustainable Bolivia house, though we would actually just end up being everyday visitors there. Juan would be the one we were visiting. He was with us on the initial day we were checking it out, but more so on the periphery. Funny it became the perfect find for him. There was just one spot open.
Margaret and I wanted to stay in the same house so when we were informed there was another smaller rental property around the corner, we opted to look there. Alternately, he would be our regular guest there. The added bonus: Visits from Friedrich. The four of us were able to rendezvous on the regular between his freelancing, our volunteering, various sight-seeing, clubbing and low key hanging out with people from Sustainable. Our routine was just a little different from Melrose Place.
Juan’s new home had the PSF small-footprint vibe which calls to unique experiences. Out and about in some places in South America may not always be ideal (like anywhere) but rather than limitations, I’m impressed how creative the organizations, travelers and locals can prove to be. My daily was now assisting with Margaret’s day care class and Juan was helping with one of the primary levels. How easily everything had transformed into my ideal scenario. My only immediate issue was something I briefly introduced – what I was sure was a relentless leg cramp from the bus trip from Sucre. It had to be. I was loving life. I was doing more than okay only I wasn’t okay.
Cochabamba was about to be forever a part of my lexicon (though I have to admit I was unfamiliar with this city in Bolivia) but also how lightly she begins and rolls off the tongue. Leaving La Paz and Sucre, I had admittedly tucked an entire country away into a box. For shame.There was no love like my love of Peru until a couple days following the warm night I rolled into Cochabamba’s main bus station. Even getting to that terminal sparked my senses. Instantly I felt incredibly underdressed. After roughing my way a bit between the cities, there was a notable difference between me and the passersby. Though I had gained a real knack for cleaning up quite nicely in between physically demanding volunteer life, this area shouted modern city life and it didn’t hurt that the timing wasn’t all that far from Carnaval.
Cochabamba was another one of those completely unexpected circumstances in my South American plans. I can’t forget falling into a daily routine there (that could have continued so effortlessly for so much longer) and it’s almost a little scary to think I entertained the thought even for just a moment of not being able to stop there. Roads not taken and what not. I would have allowed a very important chapter to pass me by.
I promise as soon as my girl, Margaret knew I had reached this magical Bolivian city, she asked just why I couldn’t stay with her and her current roommate rather than anywhere else. Made sense. After all I was finally there and not quite there – at her place yet. Her “can’t you just stay here” in that genuinely hospitable British accent took me back to a myriad of sentiments, never to be erased.
What I had done was not taken for granted the ease with which I might be able to get to their part of the city from the bus station at night – planning mixed with a lack of planning on my part. I was left corresponding with her from the quaint hostel I had reserved just prior to arrival. Thankfully, I saw very little of it – save for a short night, followed by a brief stop back to retrieve my barely unpacked things). I would spend the rest of her subleasing time with her before we moved on. Leaving the hostel like hotel, I could see the remnants of the staff’s peculiar looks about me and/or my fleeting situation. Certain curious looks are just now something I’ve really come to appreciate😊. It probably means I’m on the right path.
My timing came together. I made it to the spacious apartment for Margaret’s birthday celebration, and it could have been my own😊. Reconnecting in Cochabamba also meant reconnecting with Juan de España/Spain and our American friend, Friedrich (all of us: PSF throwbacks). We were easily prepared to be as thick as thieves with mostly good and some daring intentions. Margaret and her roomie’s temporary subleased space was that of a Brazilian couple currently on holiday. Her birthday night was easy: Catching up. Cracking up. Dinner followed by dancing before our days would fall into the lovely routine of responsibilities laced with paradise.
By winter of 2011, my 183-day volunteer visa in Peru was about to be a wrap and Bolivia was already on my radar as my means to stay longer. (I revisit then with promises of returning to South America soon). I had preplanned my Bolivian journey to some extent. I would need to reset my time in Peru and knew I could do so by visiting this neighboring country. At the same time, my visit would also fulfil some curiosities. My ex (not boyfriend but in the sense of dating someone/trying to make it work) is from there and like Peru, it has the intriguing precolonial history that merges with the modern and remains beautifully present today in the people and the landscape. It’s defiantly brilliant, almost feigning to be coopted by tourism.
Back then, my reasons became more personal after my South American life began. Three of my former co-volunteers from Pisco were now already in Cochabamba, Bolivia and I would find myself gingerly, happily making my way there following my start in the capital of La Paz and adventuring through Sucre. The intent was to get to Cochabamba by one of their up and coming birthdays. I would make it just in time, though with a major blood clot in my leg. It was a condition I had mistakenly deemed a charley horse, aka cramp that didn’t know when to stop. A kind Cochabamban doctor eventually resolved this mystery for me.
I went from Pisco to Arequipa to Cusco. Getting the best in-country tips (before leaving one country) for the best bus companies, I thought I was ready. I was on my way and for a minor moment I thought I wouldn’t have to pay the customary fee for US citizens to enter Bolivia. (The practice was mutual). I wasn’t sure exactly how they were going to charge me. Taking the buses between cities and now countries (instead of flying) seemed so casual to the point I thought I might just roll into La Paz sans the fee. However, when I walked down the bus aisle, continuing all the way to the back, slowly realizing my seat number did not exist, I knew something had to be up. Perhaps this was not something being up in a bad way but rather a reminder to them I was a US citizen. Random to write, I ended up sitting in the passenger side next to the bus driver. The sun was better than any seat warmer I’ve ever enjoyed and I had the added bonus of getting the panoramic scenery of Peru behind me and Bolivia ahead of me – this was more than I could have taken in from the peripheral of a regular seat. This was an effortless picture painting itself out in front of me. I was doing the least (versus the popular expression of “doing the most”). The only other person with this view had to focus on the road. Joke was on them.
We made it to the immigration area, and I was becoming quite
jealous of the other travelers having less to do but knew this was more about international
government relations rather than personal reasons. I just wanted to be done already
and back en route. I had opted for a cute hotel in La Paz and my bed was
waiting to be rested in so I could later explore. I remember walking up a steep
incline from the bus to the customs offices and feeling my duffel bag beginning
to grind into my shoulder. It was also getting to weigh about a ton. I
exaggerate though I did start to question my fortitude. Ultimately, I was reminded
how adaptable and capable us humans can be.
Unfortunately, I had made the mistake of leaving my Andean migrations card in Pisco, Peru. I had my passport – I needed both. I really thought I lost the card. I would end up finding it much later as I had purposely left my large suitcase at PSF headquarterswhile I continued backpacking and volunteering around the two countries. Some of my former co-volunteers had graciously made a space for the unneeded items until my return. They were still working on earthquake recovery in the small city. Yet, in all that gear lurked the Andean card I needed to present at customs.
I immediately discovered my mistake would fit in just one category. This would be immigration fraud, according to one officer and a couple of nearby signs. The signs warned anybody attempting immigration fraud would be fined. Consequently, I had a very awkward though fluent conversation (in Spanish) with the security officer who continually asked me what I wanted to do. What did I plan to do?
Well, I had taken the signs to heart and thinking I had no other choice, I planned to settle for the “immigration fraud route” and pay my fine in addition to the US citizen entry fee. As noted earlier, I wanted to be on my way. I responded there were no other options to his repetitive questions. I would have to pay. His last notable reply: “Well, there are other options”. Suddenly, I had the image of myself throwing bolivianos (money) his way as I headed in the opposite direction. (Bolivianos = the Bolivian currency, and interestingly denotes the citizens as well). I had very little interest in “other options” and less and less desire to be hanging out at this border crossing. I fortunately was able to move forward with paying just the fine referenced on the signs and the US entry fee. It wasn’t so important to prove I had done nothing intentionally fraudulent as it was for me to get to the other side. I would never be so intentional…until years later when I’d agreed to go to Cuba😊.
My “riskysafe” more so speaks to daring myself to be light and adventurous. Reflecting back to the moment at Bolivian customs is surreal. I had faith I would be okay though it was still unsettling. There have been a few situations as recent as previewing a beach in Old San Juan without my new companions with whom I later ventured back. It was another fleeting yet too extended moment where an individual had preluded to some not-so-safe outcomes for me. I know others who can relate. Notably, my life in the States, as a native has not come without some unexpected risks as well. We have to be vigilant for ourselves and each other.
Fortunately, while traveling, these moments have been minimal and more often materialized when the sun is shining down around me in virtual paradise while I’m surrounded by good spirits, both local and foreign. It helps me to be brave yet cognizant of ways to practice safety. I’m also reminded there are so many more random positive situations. The smallest and grandest gestures are undeniable. A quick question like which number bus goes to Loiza Street in Puerto Rico and I found locals looking out for my new friends and me.
I see people look out for you not to be lost in their various cultures and traditions. They look out for you to share the space and enjoy your time. There’s suddenly an extra setting for you whenever it’s dinner time. People thank you for coming all this way to help when you feel like you have done just a little. People find a place for you to lay your head when it’s gotten too late or expertly get you back to your dwelling. People smile deeply from ear to ear – just glad you came – just glad you’re there. It’s a reflection of you – grinning back. Turns out, corruption ain’t got much of anything on moments like these.
I am still trying to work out the logistics for my trip back to Peru. I was particularly intense about this while at the gym on Christmas Eve and I recall tossing reality around with nostalgia while working out a little harder than usual. The gym would be closed for Christmas and I was hard at work because I wanted to be particularly chill and comfortable with feasting delightfully the next day.
I have known for a while that I need to reignite my personally designed humanitarian tour that began in 2010. During that time span, I volunteered with an earthquake disaster relief organization in Pisco, Peru. I later volunteered at a school in Cusco, Peru and finally ended up in the adorable daycare section at Proyecto Horizonte in Cochabamba, Bolivia.
I am returning late for the Pisco Sin Fronteras (PSF) 10ish year reunion (planned for December) but I’m still planning on visiting my friends of Pisco and reconnecting in person. We’ve been communicating over the years with the promise of seeing each other again but I was more than a little afraid that our salutations were turning into simple expressions.
Returning is one of those things in my life that I know is happening but I don’t have the organization completely laid out yet. It’s one of my travel plans that starts out as an interestingly muddled outline that eventually becomes an almost complete straight path, from my apartment to the airport to the country to the cities to the cathedrals to the museums to the dance clubs. It is a path that becomes delightfully jumbled (just ask Cuba).
I see it happening. I know I will . . . and soon too, because February is on the the horizon! I plan on being under the Peruvian sun on my birthday.
