1. You need a willingness to get your feet wet (and cold).

When hiking the 26 miles or so through Crow Pass, you'll see snow-capped mountains (even in August), immense glaciers, bears, moose, and bright, red salmon who have come all the way in from the ocean to spawn. If you're lucky, as we were, sunlight will stretch across the vast expanse of mountains and valley, and give it a all a golden glow at dusk.

But the part you'll hear about most from anyone who's done it, or knows of it, is the crossing. (To confirm this assertion, I actually got pulled over for driving too slowly post-hike, so sore I could barely walk, and the policeman didn't give me a ticket. Instead, he asked all about the crossing, and we swapped hiking stories. Alaska is so cool.)

In order to hike from Girdwood to Eagle River, more than an hour's drive, one must ford a river perhaps 40 meters across, waist-deep and as icy cold as the glaciers from which it flows. And it does flow, quite rapidly. We had been talking about the crossing for some time, loudly, out of nervousness and a desire to scare away the bears.

"I wonder how much farther to the crossing?"

"I wonder how high the water will be?"

"Is it better to cross in the evening or the morning?"

"How much do we have left after the crossing?"

2. It is essential that you bring along good friends to keep you steady.

Since we camped over night, we all had a change of clothes and extra shoes. We (Britta and I) also had two very important hiking partners: the river guide (Cate, our intrepid leader), and the Boy (Jordan, capable of carrying a 60-pound pack and my shivering pup). Hiking boots were tied to backpacks, backpacks unclipped in case of slips -- not a good idea to be tied to a huge weight downriver -- and our tired feet had their first invigorating feel of cold sand and smooth stone while we strategized.

Despite the sign pointing hikers toward the usual spot, Cate explained that the river patterns change seasonally and even daily. She walked up and down the riverbank looking carefully at changes in depth, the current, for big rocks and smooth entry and exit points. Jordan and I handed our trekking poles to her, and he hoisted Leona up into his arms. It was time to go.

3. Whenever possible, face the current head-on.

We held tight to each others' backpacks thus forming a circle of support. Cate, out in front, used the trekking poles to check for depth and anything we might stumble over. She warned us of slippery areas. Jordan, Britta and I side-stepped behind her to keep balance against the current. Our feet went numb after the first 30 seconds or so; it was not possible to feel our way along, and despite our desire to move quickly to the other side, we took lots of breaks to regain our footing and discuss our next movement.

Leona barely twitched a muscle, quite content to watch things happen from her safe little perch. She now considers Jordan to be her savior; for the rest of the journey she would not let him out of her sight.

4. Celebrate on the other side.

These are the things, life's challenges overcome, new experiences, new friendships and accomplishments, that make me feel most alive. We took long swigs of Jim Beam on the second shore and swapped stories with a group of Army guys who had crossed just before us. I didn't know them and probably never would have otherwise, but we shared something that day that made me understand why people always ask about the crossing. While each experience is unique to the group, the day and the individual, each person has made the same choice to take this chance, and come out stronger for it.

Likewise, it was a little risky for me to move all the way out here to Anchorage, Alaska, but it was time for something new, an opportunity to move forward. I get such comfort in knowing that we can all, to a point, choose our life stories. If this had been a disaster, it would still have been a memorable experience (remember that crazy time you moved to Alaska to be with a boy you barely knew?), and I still would have come out stronger for it. But instead, I have an editing job that I like, a boy that I love, and landscape so beautiful that I often forget to breathe. I got my feet wet, I faced every current, and relied on new friends and old to steady me along the way.

You know, we do have a guest room. Come join the celebration!

We are five people packed into the Subaru, which sits low on its tires, laden with sleeping bags, cooking supplies and beer. To be exact: two 24-packs of Miller High Life, a 6-pack of Ubu Ale, a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream (coffee flavored), some champagne, two bottles of wine and a 3-liter box of it, as well.

We are thirsty people. (Would you believe that we ran out of water?)

But we are soulfully thirsty, on our respective quests “to live deep and suck out the marrow of life,” and to “burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars,” and perhaps, somewhat, “to boldly go where no man has gone before,” or at least to do it all a little differently. For example, I’m willing to bet neither Thoreau, Kerouac nor Jean-Luc Picard experienced anything quite like the frighteningly powerful hand-dryer-on-crack in Wasilla that would be better suited to a local taxidermy shop, which attracted admirers from as far away as the next bathroom over.

In the seven days I spent in Alaska, I never saw the Northern Lights. I couldn’t catch a glimpse of Denali though we drove through both the State and National Parks. But we did complete a scavenger hunt that included Carhartt’s patched up with duct tape, glaciers, dog sleds, bunny boots, and a few miraculous additions: refurbished and surprisingly functional military vehicles (patched up with duct tape?), people biking nonchalantly along snowy roads in the middle of nowhere, a cache of long-haired drunkards at an all-night diner in Anchorage whom I thought were speaking some sort of native language, etc.

So while the Northern Lights might have made me tear up with awe, I kind of preferred laughing until I couldn’t breathe when Dawn unintentionally left Brandon peeing by the side of the road; I’m sure Denali is impressive, but on par we had Chauncey creating the world’s first Miller’tini, thereby preserving an ice museum tradition while saving us each $15.

I had awful stomach cramps the second day, a sinus infection the third day and jetlag the whole way through. But I gulped down reindeer chili, mixed a Sudafed cocktail and soaked my tired body in hot springs.

I did a LOT of thinking. I would be lost in a train of thought at any given moment, wondering if I could recover my carefree spirit, about how a sign of maturity is supposedly the ability to make rational decisions, yet I think more and more it’s the ability to see people, including myself, in full color – that no one person is all bad or all good. I think that makes it very difficult to hate anyone, but the opposite is also true. When you see people for all that they are, and all they are not, it does not become easier to love everyone, or anyone.

Eventually someone would bring me back to reality, to a bald eagle soaring above or a moose perusing the roadside. Or perhaps, lounging in our toasty Fairbanks cabin well off-the-grid, to something a little more worldly:

“Are we having mimosas or wine with [breakfast/lunch/dinner]?” ~ Dawn

“No, Erika! Is that the only card you can play?” ~ Amy

Between us, my fellow travelers have lived on every continent except Antarctica. To most people, we have already seen so much of the world. But we are kindred spirits in our understanding of something sacred: it’s the endless journey, not any one, two or ten destinations that define us. Something to ponder:

We find ourselves in the most uncommon places.

We find ourselves in the most uncommon places.

*****

The Official Iditarod Start takes place in Willow, Alaska. I finally give my shotgun seat back to Chauncey for the ride, much preferring to sit with a handsome, (blue-eyed, sandy-haired) not-quite-stranger in the backseat. He was Chauncey’s idea two days ago, I swear. But it was a very good idea, and despite having to pull 48 hours straight because he works nights and had skied with us the day before, he agreed to tag along. We picked up our usual “lunch” at the beer store and headed north, talked our way into a snowy, crowded, non-parking space and added layers over and under everything we already had on. (I imagine that de-layering is some sort of amusing Alaskan foreplay).

The dogs are ecstatic. They jump, bark and poop their ways to the front line before embarking on their 1,000+ mile journey – it takes several handlers to quiet or even contain the 14 or so dogs, and people cheer for everyone who goes by regardless of hometown or nationality (most are Americans and Canadians, but I think there was even a Jamaican this year? Or maybe that was a rumor.) Wow, this beer is delicious.

Just after the last sled slips past and the crowd begins to dissipate, I feel myself hesitate, not wanting the day to end although another beginning – the after-party – is 5 miles up the road, and then a plane is waiting to take me home. I am not alone.

In one unbearably short moment, frozen in time on this frozen lake, my handsome not-so-stranger makes a familiar gesture. Anticipated, craved but unexpected, this epic first kiss permeates my innermost core with white light from all directions. It leaves behind the sweet taste of brandy wine, and an unsettling level of consciousness.

That is, until a little girl in the background says, “Eww, gross!”

I think to wave her away, and then I think, “Just wait! Girl, you have no idea!” and then I stop thinking and just exist, eyes closed, heart open, for several seconds. Later, I wonder if maybe love is not impossible after all. The illusion of perfection takes a backseat to inspiration.

Quick snack break on the ridge. Tamara (left) is a friend we met on the road back in La Paz. She's from Australia.

Helping Tamara through a cattle guard. "You sure this is the trail?"

Purrrrty.

"Guys? I mean, I don't think the waterfalls are anywhere near here. Maybe we should have gotten a guide?"

Our guide (yes, we smartened up the second day) Carmelo. Unfortunately he was married; I adored him!

Can't do the landscape justice with photographs. Come visit Samaipata! Their slogan is "hiker's paradise." This is a day trip to Los Volcanes.

Tajibo, my favorite tree, found all over Bolivia.

Two happy girls with happy ponies. We were able to rent the horses ALL DAY from a local hotel. We rode almost 3 hours up to the ruins (walked for a while then rode back).

We reached the top! On foot from here ... see you later boys! (we tied the horses to trees)

Trip to El Fuerte, site of Pre-Incan, Incan and colonial ruins.

More Pre-Incan ruins.

Me, howling to my Leona back in Santa Cruz.

Samaipata's little mercadito.

Drinking puro outside my house.

Dona Vicky and Don Yonny threw me a going away tea party, and everyone brought food.

Then we went next door to Profe Negra's (the math teacher) for a proper drunkfest with some teachers. Rosa, Chela, Dawn, Profe Hernan (school director), me and Negra.

Dawn and I busting some moves.

Sair wants to join the party.

We're not sure how they knew we wouldn't end up taking the early micro (as planned), but people showed up to see us off in the morning, too. From left, Don Yonny, my host dad; Jacky, my host mom's sister who has a little baby/eats lunch with us/watches the novela at our house every day; Dona Uba who picked me up when I first moved to town and introduced me to the community; Profe Ruth, the English teacher, my first friend; Profe Negra, the math teacher and my neighbor -- she insists on feeding me (and occasionally Emily) every time my Dona Vicky goes out of town; Dona Vicky hiding in the background because she's crying; Profe Rosa teacher of life scienes thus my work partner; Jhon, one of my older host brothers who stays at the house off and on, who called me something like 8 times on my last day in Bolivia, Profe Marlene, who teaches social studies and makes me drink more beer than I ever should. Regretfully missing: me. I'm in the taxi,waving goodbye.

Fiesta de la Virgen Rosario. First we paraded her through the plaza and prayed on each of the four corners, then we went to a mass -- we entered the church by walking underneath her and a priest with a carnation 'baptised' us with holy water at the other side, then the party literally started right after mass at about 10am. I'm told they change her dress each day!

And the band played on ... and on, and on from 10 am until forever. The party was inside the alcaldia and they locked the doors not so no one could get in, which was occasionally allowed, but so no one could leave!

My lovely site mate, whom I will miss immensely.

Don Yonny brought us a horse to play with from the campo! So we took turns cruising through town.

Visiting Don Yonny's chaco, the land where he raises cattle and grows corn.

Leona, pig. Pig, Leona.

Don Yonny and I chatting by the fence. He always says he wants to move out of Gutierrez and out into the monte.

One of my trees didn't make it, so Dawn planted another in its place.

Local housing on the outskirts of town.

Professor Wilson, a good friend, in Palmarito -- a small Guarani community about half an hour from me.

Dona Vicki in her natural state.

Don Yonny, in his natural state? Or just butchering some pigs.

A homemade stove. Everybody's got 'em.

Dawn, me, a giant cactus tree. You know, the usual.

Cuzco, Peru from above.

Some very silly ladies in Cuzco, one of whom practically chucked her baby alpaca into my arms.

Bet you know where this is ...

... but really all of Peru is this gorgeous, and then some.

A little natural high for the hike. User's note: the white powder is baking soda! It's an activating agent for the leaves. The affects are just slightly above a caffeine high from a cup of coffee. It really helps with the altitude.

Hiking, afraid of heights, coca wearing off. So worth it.

Back for some horseback riding in the mountains! And yes, Dawn and I totally galloped off into the sunset later.

This was my favorite day: a festival for San Jeronimo outside of Cuzco. No tourists, great people, *interesting* food. See below.

Cuy (guinea pig), best washed down with several large beers.

*photos by Dawn*

A whole new world ...

My PC crew! Helen, me, Diana, Sara (Russ is taking the picture).

Probably the world's coolest mode of transportation! DUNE BUGGY!!!

Goofing off and generally thrilled about life! Later we went sandboarding, which could have been like snowboarding but for us it was more like sledding. To say I have sand in my pants is an understatement ... (pockets, underpants, teeth, between my toes, etc).

*photos by Helen Rortvedt*

Paracas ... ocean!! And dinner, ceviche of course -- raw fish "cooked" with lemon juice.

Fishing boats. This whole area is recovering from last year's earthquake, and there's construction everywhere on land. Paracas is pretty close to the epicenter.

Isla de Belleza, otherwise known as poor man's Galapagos. It's gorgeous! We saw sea lions, Humboldt penguins, lots of pelicans and cormorants ... not sure which bird it is but there's one that dive bombs into the water!

A friendly face!

Okay, now this was a lil weird ... a bodega where they make Pisca, liquor famous from this area, and also a garage/museum? Where genuine Incan and Huari artifacts are preserved using cardboard, tacks and plastic wrap. The boat is made entirely of human bones/skin.

*photos by Sara Edgar*

Yeah, in retrospect, that was pretty cool.

The belly of the beast -- it is sooo loud in there! And no windows, really, so three hours later we landed and it was a surprise to everyone.

So we landed, were greeted by the American ambassador to Peru, who was great, the embassy and Peace Corps Peru staff who helped us out so much. But what we really needed after all that stress was a little party ... which turned into a roadblock. The second group of us arrived laughing, crying and carrying their luggage through all the while singing Bolivian folk songs and chanting 'Vive Cuerpo de Paz!" Que viva ...

And later, Allison plus two of my lovely roommates ... one of whom faceplanted, lost her flag (nope, nothing under there) and skinned her knees something fierce. The other managed to switch out her outfit with one of the guys, not sure where or when.

City of Lima, 8 million people. The downtown is very modern -- we have every convenience and there's a Starbucks and a McDonald's across the street from me. The other day I had a dunkin' donut, and that moment of truth made me realize that some things I really missed from home just weren't all that good in the first place.

*photos courtesy of Emily Rupp*

Part of my Chaco crew at Emily's place a few weeks ago. Wes, Mike, Gina, Me (and Leona), Anna and Emily.

On our way to the "airport" in Camiri. We found out after dinner (and for me, after a bottle of wine) that we had to go. It's just starting to sink in.

Gina, me, Wesley ... walking through the Camiri blockade with luggage!

Still going ... we were told the airport was on the other side. So we asked a few people if we could walk there.

Where?

To the airport.

The airport?

Yeah, sure, you can walk there. But no one really flies out of there. There's no plane.

One will come (we hope).

Baggage check? After walking for 20 min on a dirt road.

Waiting for our flight. Some very cool birds flying around but no sign of a plane.

The lone air traffic controller, who was actually using morse code to communicate. Sooo cool.

The waiting room is a lot dirtier than it looks -- we didn't want to sit!

Our chariot arrives!

Umm .. are we going to fit?

Airport security.

Airport tax. (pretty sure the guy upstairs just wanted to get some lunch, but who knows)

Gina the co-pilot.

Me, in flight. Trust me when I say I was not smiling after two hours of turbulence, dips and drops.

Wes, eager to get to Cochabamba. Emily and I are snuggled together because we were freezing, and in the event, would have to share the lone barf bag. It has been a long, long day. I will not know anything more until Monday, but for now we're fine, uncertain, bored. And my tummy is still recovering.

** Photos courtesy of Emily Rupp, as my camera broke about two weeks ago. **

Free Ride

After more than three tries, we finally made it to Camiri on Sunday. We took a taxi early in the morning to the bridge, walked across the blockade (really no more than a mountain of sand, some sticks and a few cars at this point) and hopped another cab on the other side. We had been stuck at site for more than two weeks; I needed wine, milk and dog food, but mostly Internet, paperwork and some quality time talking English. I was beginning to seriously question my sanity and just about everything else.

My friends Mike and Wes live in Camiri. Emily came with me and Jacqui was visiting as well. We were all lounging around at Mike’s place, and I think it was he who said, “do you ever just wake up in the morning and think, Man. Fuck. This.” As in your job, your site, your inability to communicate or make plans or like, leave. I couldn’t have said it better myself (and probably wouldn’t have). We’re thinking of having t-shirts made.

All the prices had gone up in Camiri and the bank ran out of money. Luckily I took out a bunch the first day so didn’t desperately need more before leaving, though it would have been nice to have. Still, we drank beer and played Frisbee down by the river. We found a place that made tacos (score!) and I ordered the chicken. Out came cold, fatty beef tacos, and the kid just looked at me dubiously when I asked why he brought us carne instead of pollo. “No hay pollo.” There is no chicken. Of course not; hey, thanks for letting us know. Later I think I got some mild giardia from the food there. While sitting on the toilet I thought: Man. Fuck. This.

The next day I had some better luck. After some phone calls home, a late night chatting away online and a rare and elusive hot shower, I felt much better. I knocked out most of the errands on my list and opted for a fruit salad over another plate of mystery meat. We ran into Emily’s work counterpart in the market and he offered us a free ride home (score!). He planned on driving through the river to avoid the blockade entirely; we said we’d meet him on the other side at 3.

We were still twiddling our thumbs at 4, but the sun was out and there was a nice breeze. Emily pulled out some fresh mandarin oranges and I had bought along some wicked homemade cookies made with coconut and dulce de leche (Sweet milk? More like caramel). Finally Profe Pedro, whom Mike once dubbed ‘the father of the world,” rumbled down the road and we mounted up. He put on some mariachi type music and we yelled and laughed over it. There’s a tollbooth along the way that was closed, but some guys let the gate down for us to pass by and Pedro joked, look how jealous they are! Here I am with my two beautiful choclitas! Then he proceeded to lecture us on how we should get married and stay in Bolivia forever.

A little ways up the road, he told us about a party for the Virgin Guadalupe we’d pass by on the way home. “Vamos a parar un ratito,” he said. Just for 20 minutes so he could pay his respects to the virgin. We reluctantly agreed given that we had little choice in the matter. The family we visited had built an entire little house for their delicate statue, who was adorned with flowers and offerings for the occasion. A smattering of people milled around. We visited briefly then sat down as Pedro lit his candles and prayed. He then stopped to talk to an old woman whom he referred to as the abuelita – not his grandmother, just the grandmother. He said he was going to walk her up to the house and greet the family then we could go.

So he starts walking with this ancient woman up the hill, and she takes these tiny, wobbly steps leaning heavily on his arm and a cane for support. It is evident that they will not reach the house anytime soon. We watch their painstaking progress. A man strides over with a bucket full of chicha, homemade beer, and obliges us to drink a cup. We talk him into letting us split one and agree not to make eye contact with anyone else for fear of beverages. Then we decide it would be less rude to just go sit in the truck.

Finally we see Pedro making his way down the hill. He’s out of breath but excited. “Vengan!” he says. “Come up to the house and drink some chicha with the family. They want to meet you!” We give him weary looks and doubtful replies. “Just one and we’ll head out. I told them you’d come.” So the three of us make our way up the hill toward an old adobe house where an extended family, some ducks, chickens, dogs and cats are seated in the sunshine. I am handed a dirty glass filled with thankfully non-alcoholic chicha, but I’m pretty sure there should not be a greasy film on top. I beseech Emily to split one but she thinks it would be rude. They hand her one, too, and we sip and make small talk as the women cut vegetables. We finish our glasses and thank them graciously. Pedro fills up a second glass. The women peel boiled potatoes. I am exhausted. The music gets louder and couples start dancing chacarera; the women flare their imaginary skirts and the men jump from side to side tapping their boots to the beat. We’re up and headed toward the car, Emily ostensibly for her glasses and me for a sweatshirt. We’re down and seated again; “no chicas, ahorita vamos.” No, girls, we’re going now. Right after we eat.

I am pretty close to saying you-know-what, but not quite there. Pretty soon the whole situation just becomes riotously funny. A never-ending plate of beef and rice and beet salad appears in front of me and we’re sharing one knife between all of us. Pedro is thinking hard about whom he should marry Emily off to so she’ll never leave and I’m thinking, good lord we’re probably never going to leave this party, let alone Bolivia. All in all it took us three and a half hours to get home from Camiri, which is an hour away. And believe it or not, that’s making pretty good time.

My little brother, Jhonicito, in Altillo. My host dad said we'd be there for half an hour. Four hours later ... I had some fun with my camera anyway.

Sair, 6, with a "hot chick." He loves animals.

The two boys peering through an upstairs window in the old farmhouse. Don Yonny says he wants to move out there. Home sweet home, eh?

At least three Guarani farm workers live at the house currently, along with a slew of chickens and some very, very skinny dogs.

Packing up the chickens to head home. In the Jeep? Don Yonny at the wheel, Sair on my lap for a lovely 40 min of campo roads, Jhonicito crammed into the middle and regularly leaning over me to stick his head out the window. In back, a bag of fertilizer for my school garden, a spare tire, some large tools, two men and a boy and about 12 squawking chickens. You can imagine (actually, you probably can't ... )

Wednesday

[PHONE RINGS]

Emily: Hey, you! How’s it going? Did you get your garden done?

Me: No, of course not. Right now I’m busy reading magazines and hating on my town.

Emily: Aw, don’t do that! What happened?

Me: Well, I couldn’t find Profe Hernàn (the director/principal) yesterday, and when I finally found him he was too busy to talk to me so he said come back tomorrow at 7 am, of all times, to talk about where to put the plants. So anyway, I got up early and went. We talked. But then I saw Laura, the president of the class that wants to do this garden, and she said that her whole class had a music test at 9 am that the professor had just announced (usually they don’t even have school in the morning). So I said, okay, come and get me when you’re done with the test and we’ll work. But she never came! Maybe because there was a big “hooray literacy” party in the school today that we had no idea about.

Emily: Yeah. That happens.

Me: Well, it gets worse. The girls invited me to play volleyball with them tonight and Laura was supposed to let me know when … so here I am waiting around in my gym shorts and a sports bra. I just went to her house and her brother said she was in the school playing volleyball! And my dog? Is chasing chickens. This is a new hobby and my host mom is rightly pissed about it. I yelled at her when she did it this morning, but just now I gave her a good whap over the nose and tied her up. She was so mad she ate more of her bed (most of which she tore apart the day I left for consolidation). So I swatted her again, took it away, and now I can’t help but think, geez, does everyone hate me today?

Emily: Of course not! We all have days like that, trust me.

Me: Ugh. I’m sorry you had to hear all about it. By the way, how do you say ‘go to hell’ in Spanish?

Emily: Umm … I don’t know. Probably better that we don’t know.

Me: Yeah. I’m going to bed with my magazines and a Dove bar. I’m done with this day.

Emily: Sounds good. Tomorrow? Are we going [to the campo]?

Me: If I don’t ET (early terminate my service) by then. Or like, kill myself.

Emily: Don’t talk like that! Nobody’s ET’ing and you’re not going to kill yourself.

Me: [sigh] I know. See you tomorrow.

Thursday

[dial up the office]

Me: Anna! (our 3rd year volunteer support staff)

It’s your new best friend in Gutiérrez.

(I told her she had to be my new best friend because I can call her at the office anytime for free)

Anna: Heya, what’s up?

Me: Here’s the scoop. We can’t go this weekend (to the rodeo, or to our secondary plan, a hike/party in Camiri). Blockades on both sides of the highway now; I’m totally stuck. Peace Corps is sending us a car with supplies. Tell me you’re coming.

Anna: Oooh, I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything about it yet.

Me: Yeah, I just got off the phone with Ivan (head of security). I told him I wanted cooking gas, milk, money and a phone card. But what I really want is WINE!!!!

Anna: [laughs] (no alcohol is allowed to be transported in Peace Corps vehicles)

Me: No really. I’m gonna go stark raving mad here! How about a bottle of Malbec? A nice Cabernet? Hook me up, girl.

Anna: Can’t you just buy a box of whatever in your site?

Me: Ugh. I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a connoisseur!

Anna: Okay, I’ll see what I can do.

Friday

Switching tracks in a major way: Stayed up half the night reading The Alchemist. I’m giving you an obnoxiously long passage because I think it might have changed my life. And I think you’ll see how it applies.

“Whenever we do something that fills us with enthusiasm, we are following our personal calling. However, we don’t all have the courage to confront our own dream. Why?

“There are four obstacles. First: we are told from childhood onward that everything we want to do is impossible. We grow up with this idea, and as the years accumulate, so too do the layers of prejudice, fear, and guilt. There comes a time when our personal calling is so deeply buried in our soul as to be invisible. But it’s still there.

“If we have the courage to disinter dream, we are then faced by the second obstacle: love. We know what we want to do, but are afraid of hurting those around us by abandoning everything in order to pursue our dream.

“We do not realize that love is just a further impetus, not something that will prevent us from going forward. We do not realize that those who genuinely wish us well want us to be happy and are prepared to accompany us on that journey.

“Once we have accepted that love is a stimulus, we come up against the third obstacle: fear of the defeats we will meet on the path. We who fight for our dream suffer far more when it doesn’t work out, because we cannot fall back on the old excuse, ‘oh,well, I didn’t really want it anyway.’ We do want it and we know that we have staked everything on it and that the path of the personal calling is no easier than any other path, except that our whole heart is in the journey. Then, we warriors of light must be prepared to have patience in difficult times and know that the Universe is conspiring in our favor, even though we may not understand how.

“I ask myself, are defeats necessary? Well, necessary or not, they happen. When we first begin fighting for our dream, we have no experience and make many mistakes. The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and get up eight times.

“So, why is it important to live our personal calling if we are only going to suffer more than other people? Because, once we overcome defeats – and we always do – we are filled by a greater sense of euphoria and confidence. In the silence of our hearts, we know that we are proving ourselves worthy of the miracle of life.

“Each day, each hour, is part of the good fight. We start to live with enthusiasm and pleasure. Intense, unexpected suffering passes more quickly than suffering that is apparently more bearable; the latter goes on for years and, without our noticing, eats away at our soul until one day we are no longer able to free ourselves from the bitterness and it stays with us for the rest of our lives.

“Having disinterred our dream, having used the power of love to nurture it and spent many years living with the scars, we suddenly notice that what we always wanted is there, waiting for us, perhaps the very next day. Then comes the fourth obstacle: the fear of realizing the dream for which we fought all of our lives.

“Oscar Wilde said: ‘Each man kills the thing he loves.’ And it’s true. The mere possibility of getting what we want fills the soul of the ordinary person with guilt. We look around at all those who have failed to get what they want and feel that we do not deserve to get what we want, either. We forget about all the obstacles we overcame, all the suffering we endured, and all the things we had to give up in order to get this far. I have known a lot of people who, when their personal calling was within their grasp, went on to commit a series of stupid mistakes and never reached their goal – when it was only a step away.

“This is the most dangerous of the obstacles because it has a kind of saintly aura about it: renouncing joy and conquest. But if you believe yourself worthy of the thing you fought so hard to get, then you become an instrument of God, you help the Soul of the World, and you understand why you are here.”

Paulo Coelho, 2002 (The Alchemist)

Saturday

Hermel from the office arrives with my goodies, sans wine, but later tells me if I just call his cell phone and keep quiet about it, he’ll pick me up some next time. I love Hermel. I also love Allison, Tom and Joan, Erin and my stepdad, Dan, whose packages made it through the Bolivian postal service AND several roadblocks (Hermel said he had to drive around on some crazy campo roads to get here). Yesterday I was too bummed to leave my room; today I am too excited to leave my room where I am currently stuffing myself with chocolate bars, listening to country music, slurping pink lemonade and nestled in with a mountain of magazines.

So, don’t worry about me. It is my choice to be here every single day, the privilege of my American passport. This life does have its ups and downs but I surrendered myself to them long ago. I will be here tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after that (blockades or not); I will be stronger tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after that, closer still to whatever it is that I’m here to accomplish. But feel free to send more chocolate. A little fortification now and then never hurts.

We finally rocked out the school garden today. Of 12 students, only four showed up but in the end I think that was a really good thing. By comparison, four hard-working students beat 20 goof-offs hands down. Before in the schoolyard, we had dirt, ants and garbage. Now we have seven trees, six roses and three vegetable gardens, plus five large and freshly painted metal trash bins. I’d love to put in a jungle gym and a beach volleyball court, but anyway, it’s a start!

Naturally I could not find the school director today, nor my alcaldia counterpart, both of whom I needed to talk to about projects. But I was invited to the English professor’s birthday party, the second of three I’ll go to this month. I wish she had given me a little more notice so I could find her a nice present; here it’s pretty customary to wrap up whatever you have lying around your house. It’s also almost required that the birthday boy or girl “bites” his or her birthday cake – ie they stuff your face into it after you blow out the candles. For both reasons I’m hoping to head home for my birthday this year … but if I do end up staying I have such a plan. I’m going at that cake full force. There’ll be none of this bashful reluctance; I’m going to get whiplash with my mouth wide open, and I might even plunge myself in for round two, for the love of icing. Hah!

For the dinner, we had pig (they call it ‘coochie’ here; har har) with the usual rice and potatoes, tomato and onion salad and mote, which is a greasy fried corn concoction that I’m not particularly fond of. At one point the birthday girl was out back stirring a large, black cauldron over a little bonfire with a dark oar-like wooden thing. Complete with her long black hair, the scene was so Halloween! I couldn’t help telling her she looked like a witch. She took mock offense and handed me her oar. As I came to discover, the whole pig was inside the pot and nothing else, bones and all. It was pretty tough to stir those big, meaty chunks around. The only thing missing was my pointed black hat (and, like, some candy corn would have really hit the spot).

I ducked out early when the sweet wine and singhani (vodka) pitchers started coming around, the music got louder and the respectable people (or at least the ones with young kids) hit the road. It was a dark and quiet walk but I have never once been afraid here. In keeping with Latin culture, I have quite the extended family in town, and I do feel sort of like I belong to them, and vice versa. The verb they use to denote belonging here is pertenecer – to pertain. So at the very least, I pertain to my host family, their families and friends, our neighbors, the market stall where I buy vegetables and the tienda where I get my toothpaste and laundry soap, the teachers and the students and everyone who works in or with the local government. From a Peace Corps perspective, this whole town belongs to me; a big responsibility and sometimes, like today, an amazing gift.

**still no luck putting up photos but I'm taking lots so stay tuned!**

During the election they put us up in a NICE hotel – like, nice by international standards, not just nice for Bolivia. Of course, the hot showers were cold and the sauna was closed and the food at first was almost sans vegetables until we complained, but hey. The beds were comfortable; the pool was fabulous and I got to play beach volleyball and learn to salsa dance.

Most importantly, I met some of the most amazing people. I can put it very simply: everybody dances, in that cheesy “I hope you dance” sort of way. We are diverse and talented, funny and fun, driven and successful. We are in love with our lives. The collective knowledge, pride and creativity of this group makes me feel so blessed to be a part of it, and intensely patriotic. This is America in Bolivia, and it is awesome.

All 120 or so of us were consolidated for about a week; we were especially grateful to be there after hearing about what happened in Georgia (invaded by Russia; luckily all of the volunteers were located and evacuated soon afterward). It was a reminder to us that as tranquil as it seems, we do live in a developing country that can and will be unpredictable at times.

For example, we had to stumble through tear gas to get to dinner in Santa Cruz the other day. Our eyes burned; our throats ached and we struggled to breathe. We walked down Calle Arenales with our heads bowed down like a herd of horses in the wind. We were far enough from the actual event; it started several blocks away where a group of disabled people was on a hunger strike. From what I understand, the president had promised them a government compensation of about 3,000bs per year (about $450, not even a livable amount). No one got paid.

The police came with tear gas; the people began to attack with crutches and throw things from wheelchairs. The sad part is that the police themselves are underpaid and probably completely agree with their supposed opponents. I only hope nobody saw anything about this on the news internationally; I can’t even imagine what the world would think. I want to tell you it’s not like that, but I’ll have to settle for, there are great things about Bolivia so don’t close your eyes just yet. It is young and impetuous and eventually, that energy will be channeled in the right direction. At least, I hope so.

* * * *

I was away from my site just more than two weeks. Our project design workshop took place in the city after consolidation and one of my professor-friends from Gutiérrez came to be my work counterpart. I wasn’t sure if bringing a professor was the right choice, as teachers (especially women) don’t have a lot of power here. My fears proved unfounded. Rosa not only held her ground among the representatives from local governments and school officials, but she impressed both our workshop facilitators and me more than once. I was so proud of her!

During one of our last lunches together, I was sitting with Rosa, Carla and Christa (our awesome facilitators, and they were technical trainers from before so I knew them), and several other orphaned work counterparts whose volunteers had lunched elsewhere … so basically a table full of Bolivians and me, though I hadn’t thought about it that way at the time. We were joking (in Spanish) about my lack of a love life and other ridiculous things when Carla, who has worked with probably more than a thousand volunteers, grabbed my arm, looked me in the eye and said, “You know what? I love gringas like you.”

“Umm … thanks?”

“Really,” she said, shaking her head. “No todos son asi.” Literally: not everyone is so.

Later, my host family called. First Don Yonny put Leona on the phone (his idea; he says her tail was wagging like crazy). Then I chatted with my little brother, Sair. My other brother, Jhonnicito (the annoying one) stole the phone and the first thing he said was, “te extraño.” I miss you. Not wanting to waste all of their phone credit, which is expensive here, and very much wanting to finish my lunch, I asked Don Yonny to say hello to Doña Vicky for me. No such luck; in half a second she was on the phone and asking all about my trip. My reluctance to return to site abated more than slightly.

Once my friend Gina told me that after being here a year, her biggest accomplishment was that her town liked her. While politically this country might never like “us,” I feel like the people in my town (plus my very extended host family, Peace Corps staff, taxi drivers, the owners of the hotel in Santa Cruz and the waiters at my favorite restaurant) already most certainly like me -- not a bad goal at all.

It’s been a long and boring week, which once again prompted my mother to ask, “what exactly is it that you’re doing there? I mean, what is your job?” Right … that.

Personally I’d rather tell you about the great books I read this week (Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms and Ishmael Beah’s Long Way Gone, to name a few. Yes, I have a morbid fascination with books about war. I do not, however, like movies about war. They give me nightmares. Go figure.).

And naturally I could talk a blue streak about my faithful and happy hound, who no longer pees on the floor and sometimes eats large bones whole even when I tell her to slow down and chew. I contracted a doghouse from a man here in town, the husband of one of the professors. He was so excited about it, he had his little boy rush over her to get me at 8 pm. That it was painted came as a surprise, but better yet he had put her little name in lopsided red letters over the door.

I will also tell you that “work” has been slow for the past two weeks because the school had winter vacation so the kids and the families and most of the professors skipped town for a bit. Things were dusty and quiet. I didn’t technically have to do anything but “integrate” for three months, though I have done more than a few things. I handed in my participatory diagnostic report more than a month early and my boss was thrilled and impressed (it wasn’t that hard).

Furthermore, now that Peace Corps postponed a project planning meeting that was supposed to occur from July 22-August 5 and implemented a consolidation from August 5-15, I not only didn’t plan anything for these two weeks because I thought I’d be away, but also am reluctant to start anything new when I won’t be here to see it through. * sigh *

My job as an environmental education volunteer does not include giving vaccinations or handing out food packets, though there are days I wish I could do both of those things. I am also not the English teacher. My whole town assumed it at first and still pressures me to pick up some classes. I do, however, have two weekly sessions with the local English teacher and with her I am writing an English curriculum for all four of the current classes. I write out lectures and examples, worksheets, activities and games for each new topic. (Neither she nor the students have an ESL book.)

First I teach them to her (she really doesn’t speak English – she’s the psychology and philosophy professor. She somehow got roped into this job on the credential that her mom – not from here -- is an English teacher). Then she uses our lectures in her classes. I like teaching English and I do it once and a while when she wants help or is traveling on a day she has class, but in this way the English education is more sustainable. She will be a better speaker and a better teacher when I leave. She’s already a wonderful person and I look forward to meeting with her every week.

I’ve done three projects with the Life Sciences professor in the school. First we had a cleanup campaign, which was a lot of fun but marginally successful because now it is gross all over again. We need more than to skip classes and pick up trash and wash floors. The place needs new chalkboards, new windows and paint for the walls. Outside is all dirt, no place for the kids to play; they use it as a garbage dump for their candy wrappers. Furthermore, no one goes near the bathrooms at the school because there is no water to flush or clean or wash hands (it flows three hours a day but the school doesn’t have a tank like my family does). When it is hot they suffer from the smell in nearby classrooms.

As an aside, recently the director had four showers built outside to use during the “Olympics” in which professors from all over the area form teams and play for two days. This is on par with using precious water to wet the streets in Ipitá for a car race. Thinking too long about the mixed up priorities here is enough to make one’s head explode.

I planted seven trees in the school with a sixth grade class. The boys cut sticks with machetes and sharpened them into points to make a fence around each one while the girls came with soda bottles full of water. There are four shade trees, a fruit tree and two ornamentals right in front, a step in the right direction with miles to go. I am currently researching a better method to kill some awful ants that see fit to eat the leaves and trying not to strangle everyone who wants me to pour chemicals all over the place. “Si podria matar una hormiga,” I tell them, “se pueda matar un niño.” If it can kill an ant, it can kill a child. They look at me like I’m crazy. It’s okay; I’m used to it.

We made garbage cans for the next cleanup campaign out of old oil barrels. First my host dad cut them in half, then a group of professors and I sanded and painted them with paint I had gotten from the local government. I have a small budget to share with Emily to do little projects. I usually go to meetings on Monday mornings to listen-in and let them know what I’m up to.

Trash lines the streets in Gutierréz; the common practice is to dump it in the ravine where no water flows except in the “rainy season” which barely lasts a month. No trash collection exists other than one man who cleans up the plaza with a wheelbarrow and dumps it down the hill. It is hard to teach kids not to throw junk on the ground when no specific place for trash exists, when they’ve been doing it that way forever and so have their parents. They know that if they were to put it in their pockets and wait for a trashcan it would just go into the river later anyway. The alcaldia has a well-written and fully approved plan to dig a garbage dump outside of town but according to my sources there’s just no money to do it. Furthermore the plan costs $25,00, which I find hard to believe when they already have much of the equipment, and the dump is projected to last only five years. I have become painfully aware of my own trash production; it really is starting to affect my purchasing decisions (as is my negligible salary).

My rationale is to stop focusing on the things I can’t change and work on the things I can. Thus, I started a compost pile in the backyard to use as an example. When it’s ready, I want to call a meeting of our semi-official local garden club and encourage the women to start compost piles in their yards. Recently I proposed a battery-collection campaign. Batteries are nasty things when they start to decompose, full of heavy metals and toxicity. The campaign would be modeled after the work of another volunteer and include the surrounding communities. I’ve already solicited the cooperation from all of the teachers and also signed them up for a three-day general environmental workshop with a German nonprofit that I heard about through the grapevine. I’ll be organizing the whole thing.

One last note and I’ll desist boring you with the details. I’m starting a news mural in the school. The walls are completely bare so I asked one day if I could have one. The director has been supportive of all my project ideas, in fact, he almost always says, “I’ll put down 20 bs!” Meaning he will give me about two dollars to get started. I love it.

Anyway, I brought back a stack of Time (thanks Audrey!) and Newsweek (PC recently cancelled our subscriptions and I’m furious) magazines from Santa Cruz and my neighbors were so fascinated by the pictures. They kept asking me to explain them and had no concept of where in the world those places were. In response to a photo of food riots in Kenya, my host mom looked at me and said, “We are not poor like that.”

I hope to encourage the same curiosity among the students. I wrote a short caption in Spanish for each photo I plan to put up along with a large world map where they can find the countries they’re reading about. In this way I am linking my town to not just United States but to the whole world. And, of course, linking the whole world with my town … via email. When I’m walking down the street and greeting, you know, everyone, I always ask ¿qué tal? or ¿cómo está? o ¿qué pasa? By far the most common and my favorite response is pretty noncommittal. Aquí estamos. Here we are.

Dear Dawn (and Erin, and the rest of you just for kicks):

A few things you should know before you visit me …

To meet and greet:

A woman greeting another woman or a man greeting a woman would take their right hand and the two would kiss on the right cheek. One person says “mucho gusto,” and the other “igualmente.” (Nice to meet you … likewise). Two men greeting each other would start with a handshake, and then there would be a simultaneous clap on both upper arms, followed by another handshake. It’s a funny little dance. Also, if someone’s hands are dirty or wet, it is perfectly normal for them to offer you a forearm to shake instead.

You greet everyone you meet, so if there’s a group of ten people there you have to go around the entire circle. When I first met my family in Cochabamba I thought I had all of my bases covered. I had greeted everyone properly except my youngest cousin who seemed really shy so I just shook his hand. Anyway, apparently he turned away not because he was afraid of me but because he was awaiting his little beso (kiss!). So my aunt said, ¿qué pasó que no le gusta a su primo? How come you don’t like your cousin?

For passers-by you say buen' día in the morning, bueñas tardes after lunch and bueñas noches when it gets dark. Most of the time people reciprocate warmly. Sometimes though, people look at you like you’re nuts. The Peace Corps training director explained this phenomenon. “Sometimes they take one look at you and decide they won’t possibly be able to understand what you’re saying, even if you’re speaking perfect Spanish.”

Food:

We don’t really eat breakfast or dinner here, but we always have a good lunch and you’re practically required to ask for seconds. Please, talk with your mouth full and eat with your hands or you’ll make everyone feel self-conscious. If your hands get greasy, you can wipe them on the tablecloth! I have never burped at the table but my little brothers do it often and with gusto, for which I apologize in advance. Also, at night they often drink coffee with about five scoops of sugar. It’s no wonder they’re out of control.

A few favorites here in the house include chicken feet soup and fried cow stomach. They usually cook me something else on those days but since you won’t have to eat it once a week for two years, you might want to just go for it. Once you’ve finished your second plate, it’s most polite to say gracias to everyone at the table (not just the chef) and they will reply with “provecho.” Likewise, that’s how you reply to others when they say gracias to you, or how you greet a table of eaters whether you plan to join in or not.

Water comes from a big cement tank in the backyard. It is green with algae, full of calcium and lord knows what else, and there are definitely some bugs swimming in there. I boil it for seven minutes then filter it to use for cooking and brushing my teeth; my drinking water comes in a bottle, a luxury I pay for and refuse to give up. My host family does at least bring water to a boil before we consume it. I have püro with them all the time and haven’t died yet.

After tea, my host dad will start chomping on a bunch of little leaves and putting white stuff in his mouth. The leaves are coca and the powder is not cocaine – it’s baking soda, which apparently activates the drug in its natural form. It doesn’t really get you high. Mostly he just sits and smiles and tries to talk to me but I can’t understand him with a big wad of leaves in his mouth. He tells me all the time it’s his only vice, and if that were true I’d say he’s doing all right for himself.

The Party Scene:

You will never have to pay for anything here; the family throwing the party provides it all (DJ and/or band, food, drink) and there’s even a special ceremony to pass next year’s party on to another family. It is possible to fake your way through most dances and I’ll let you know which ones to skip … or teach you if I’ve learned by then.

This is very important so you might want to print this out or take some notes! DO NOT just get a cup and drink it or you’ll be on your ass before you know it. Wait for someone to say “salud,” then take a small sip. There will also be someone walking around with some very sweet wine mixed with soda. BEFORE you drink it, look to someone else and say, “te invito.” I invite you – otherwise they’ll continue to pour them for you alone (you can imagine me figuring this out the hard way). If they try to give you the bottle, don’t let them! The pourer inevitably drinks the most and you don’t want to be tied to this job for the rest of the night; better to be first in line for the food (which usually comes around midnight or later).

At the last party I went to, the first person fell face-first in the dirt at 7:30pm. We do not run out of alcohol here; Emily and I put some serious effort into avoiding the bottles as they go around. She told me in a pep talk the other day that it’s best to “go in with a strategy.” For good reason, as Chaqueños (those from the Chaco) drink an alcohol they refer to as “pure” even though it’s usually mixed with soda. It is, in fact, rubbing alcohol. The same kind you buy at the pharmacy to clean wounds. Consider me thoroughly disinfected.

Transportation:

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Bolivians have carpooling down to a science. They fit more people into a car than you would think is possible. For starters, there will be at least two people sitting at shotgun. It is very likely that crude seats have been constructed behind the driver’s and passenger seats facing backwards, knee to knee with those in the backseat. Kids and occasionally men ride in the trunk of what is usually a hatchback of some sort.

I have waited as long as four hours for transportation. Taxis leave when they’re full (see above). The micro that comes here at three actually comes between 2:30 and 5pm or not at all. If you do manage to get a spot, it’s lucky for you if you don’t have someone’s baby (or even like, their 10-year-old) sitting in your lap. There will definitely be something squawking in a canvas bag and quite possibly something with hooves tied to the roof, and it may or may not fall off during the journey. We may or may not stop to get it.

One time Doña Vicky asked me to drive her, in Don Yonny’s ancient jeep, to pick up some cheese from the farm when he wasn’t around. “Yo sé manejar,” I told her. “Pero no sé arreglarlo.” (I know how to drive but I don’t know how to fix it.) Luckily, every taxi driver is also a mechanic. I’ve been broken down on the side of the road with shocking regularity and he always manages to patch things up. I’ve also seen some pretty impressive rigs, for example, lawn chairs welded in where proper seats would be or one special car in which the driver tied a rope to part of his ignition and looped the other end around his rearview mirror to idle it while we waited for passengers. “Easier than starting it again,” he told me, at the beginning of a long journey.

Sleep

Last night there was a party at one of my neighbor’s houses. Loud native and Argentine cumbia music blared through giant speakers late into the night, loud enough to shake my walls and the insides of my eardrums. In the wee hours of the morning, the dogs started barking, literally, to beat the band (maybe they were telling the late night partiers to shut up?) A little while later, our very annoying black and white cat, who desperately needs to be neutered, started positively howling outside my window. I chased him away with a cup of water, but he came back about an hour later to continue his sad song of lust. Of course he can’t be bothered to go out and actually find a girlfriend – must be a man thing.

At about 3 am a PC friend who will remain nameless sent me a very funny drunken text message, to which I felt compelled to respond. It was almost four when my host dad got up and shuffled about, then left for Santa Cruz. Between 5 and 6, the chickens flocked onto the patio. The rooster climbed aboard the table by my door and mercilessly crowed his little heart out. One of the workers arrived, shouting at my host dad to get up (Don Yonny, of course, had already left). He then started up the crazy old jeep and used a sledgehammer to bang the broken door shut. I had brief homicidal thoughts but instead rolled over, smiled, and went back to bed. There are few deadlines in my job, and few concrete commitments. I was tired and I went back to bed. Thus begins another day in the Corps.

I was in the shower when they showed up, by which I mean I was dousing water over my head with the help of a bucket in the bathroom. My town assumes I know and/or am related to every other American in Bolivia (they still think Emily is my sister). Thus, someone led two young missionaries from North Carolina and their translator to my house.

Now, if there’s one thing people have here, it’s religion. Indeed, sometimes it’s all they have: a faith that the sick will soon be well, that someday their lives will be prosperous and the world a better place, that heaven is waiting when our days come to an end. The result is somewhere between divinity and apathy. Change is difficult to inspire when everything is in the hands of El Señor, but sometimes the thought comforts even me.

I learned that their church has sent missionaries to this area twice a year for the past eight years, and that the same group five years prior built the evangelical church in Gutierrez. I said I hoped my trees in the school held up as well as their church five years from now.

They were curious about the local culture – no one spoke a word of Spanish, let alone Guarani. I described the outlying communities where no one has electricity or access to water. They seemed surprised when I explained the school schedule (4 hours per day, little kids in the morning and older kids in the afternoon), which meant the older half would miss their activities in the church. They hadn’t seen it, so I told them about the trash everywhere (I’m working on it), about how the kids don’t have books, just notebooks, and are required to pay for their own exam copies on test days. I explained that the windows are broken and the students shiver in their chairs during winter. My host mom often keeps my littlest brother home on the coldest days. These are not things you learn on two-week trips while staying in swanky hotels and zipping around in a private bus.

Their plans included a bible-themed puppet show, games and some coloring, face-painting and balloon animals.

I thought they would be interested to know that the PDA, a branch of World Vision (a Christian organization), works wonders here. They provided the notebooks, coats and backpacks that all the students have. I coordinated with them to start my school garden; they gave me the seeds. They covered medical and transportation costs for a local boy who needed an expensive surgery. PDA hosts festivals that always include (locally-contracted) lunch; they coach sports teams and run summer camps. Most kids have padrinos, or godparents, in other countries that send money at Christmastime. My host mom was able to buy Sair (age 6) a new mattress, winter coat, some clothes and a bicycle with last year’s gift.

I couldn’t help but add that the Catholic priest here, Father Tarsissio (from Italy), started a scholarship-based public health school that is thriving just down the road, and furthermore he adopted an entire community, Palmarito, way out in the campo. I’ve seen it and was blown away. He built an entire school, bought instruments so the kids could have music class and computers plus the generators to run them. He started adult literacy classes in his community room. The list goes on.

But my visitors were eager to get to the point. They practically cut me off. I do love to talk about my town. “I have to ask,” piped up the sandy-haired young man who appeared to be doing all the talking. “Have you been born again?”

Those of you who know me well will be impressed by my courteousness.

“No,” I admitted. “I’m Catholic.”

“Do you think you’re going to heaven?” he challenged.

“Yep.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m a good person.”

He countered with the usual argument, and I nodded politely because there’s no sense arguing with someone so (Young? Inexperienced?) vacantly certain of how and why the world works. He was obviously not interested in a respectful discussion of differences and truthfully, neither was I. I’ve done it one too many times. Finally, somewhere between the Resurrection and my burning in hell, he seemed to run out of steam.

“Hey listen,” I said. “I’m really glad you all stopped by. It was nice to meet you and great what you’re doing for my kids.”

“We’re just here to bring the light,” he said, and the three of them got up to go. Of course I immediately thought, what else ya got? This business of saving souls might better be executed with the light and say, some hats and mittens for the second graders. Imagine how many one could buy with the price of those plane tickets!

But living here has changed my outlook immensely. So much that I’ve decided, after mulling it all over, that the next time someone asks me if I’ve been born again, I am going to give him or her a wholehearted “yes.”

I will never be certain of how and why the world works, but one thing’s for sure: I get closer every day.

It’s 10:30 in the morning and I’m already buzzed. I’m sitting across from whom I later learned are representatives of Camiri’s alcaldía (ie very important people). But right now, they are just a bunch of guys looking to booze it with the white girls. Someone says, “salud!” Cheers. Another chimes in, “seco!” as in, bottoms up and drink it down, folks. Emily flashes me a grimace and I grin back at her. After a year as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ipitá, she can say with some authority: “it’s all downhill from here.”

The fiesta for San Juan begins on Saturday and continues through Tuesday. The Ipiteños have been planning for a year and killing things to grill for a week. Extended family started rolling in at 5am from Santa Cruz, Camiri and beyond. Giant sound systems compete from every corner of the plaza as locals set up tables of handmade wares to sell. The tiendas display walls of beer, imported for the occasion. Tractors roll by and dump water on the dusty streets. “For the stock car race,” Emily explains. It amazes her to watch it happen. Every other day of the year, villagers use donkeys to haul jugs of water in for their houses.

After sobering up with some picante de pollo (spicy chicken), we meander over to the race where the mayor and the local school principal, both of whom are already tipsy, stand way too close to the revved up cars waving checkered flags. A lone police officer whistles at the crowd to get out of the way -- surprisingly they do, but it doesn’t last. Emily shakes her head. “Just wait,” she says. “This is going to turn into a shit-show.”

I should explain that Emily is my favorite Mennonite. I didn’t know that about her until the third time I met her and occasionally, like today, I still find it hard to believe. This is a girl who knows how to have a good time, to drink and dance and fall madly in lust with a man she refers to as “hot cowboy.”

But she’ll tell you how much she loves her town, and it’s obvious how much they love her. She knows almost everyone there, even the visitors. Kids from her English class yell her name from across the plaza and trail behind her wherever she goes. She has the kind of close girlfriends that I can’t imagine making in a foreign language and culture. They have no qualms about putting her to work; she moves tables and mixes cake batter and runs from one end of the fair to the other. It seems like nothing would function without her.

In the afternoon, we park ourselves on plastic chairs with some of the Santa Cruz people. The cold is setting in, or at least we’re starting to notice. We share Leona between our laps, and my poncho over our shoulders. Her friends offer cups of beer to help warm us up. We get colder but ultimately more cheerful. The boys pop open a few more bottles and fill our glasses. “I’m telling you,” she whispers in English. “It’s the beginning of the end.”

The dirt is as tough as bricks but I hack away, eager for something productive to do and something physical to occupy my mind. This is the spot my host family designated for my compost project. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I hit another rock and try to pry it up using the shovel as a lever. It won’t budge but a centimeter, and it’s not a rock at all; I tuck my fingers underneath and heave with all my might. Archaeologists work here uncovering treasures. I uncover, quite laboriously, random scrap metal from the backyard dump. The book says to dig about a meter deep, which at first seemed easy but now is bordering on the impossible. My homemade shovel is durable but dull and small. Neither of us is quite up for the job ahead. A jackhammer would do it, maybe.

It helps to get a little angry at the dirt, so I think about how nuts my work counterpart is turning out to be and how my little brothers are about the noisiest creatures that ever lived. Chop, thwack! I mull about how I need to find a better flea control method for my dog, get her fixed before she gets knocked up by a dirty, half-wild street animal.

Oh, and yesterday we planted seven new trees in the school as part of an arbolization project and wouldn’t you know, it took about five minutes for one to get stepped right on and busted (and all my restraint not to bust the head of the child doing the stepping). Chop, scoop. There is nothing satisfying about the tiny piles of rocky soil as I toss them over the edge.

When I start to feel the ache in my shoulders and lower back – it’s been about two hours -- I sit down on one of the random metal pipes lying all over the place and take a slug of my noxious boiled filtered water. Leona abandons her stick, comes up and plants herself beside me with one paw and her whole nose in my lap. I look out at a tough morning’s work disdainfully but my lips curve into a half-smile. “Leona,” I say. “It appears that I have dug myself into a very big hole, here.”

I had two thoughts when I boarded the micro (bus) at 6:30 this morning. One: this could be a complete failure on a number of levels, for example, this could be the wrong micro, it might not stop to pick up Emily, she might not be ready, or I might forget something important. Two: this could be fun, which should always be your backup frame of mind as a Peace Corps volunteer, whether things go as you planned or not. Thus, I sat myself down armed with a backpack full of warm clothing, some snacks, water and three giant packs of seeds.

First fear realized: the micro decided not to drive into Ipita, where Emily lives. I had all the stuff and no idea where we were going. I convinced the driver to stop at the highway and he blasted the horn until her blonde head appeared, ponytail bouncing. First crisis avoided. We arrived without a hitch in Taterenda Viejo, one of the community schools surrounding Gutierrez. Here all of the houses are mud and sticks; they have no electricity. No roads network this tiny town, just little goat paths that jut off in various directions. For all intents and purposes the school is the center of town and the language is Guarani.

The internados are students who spend the weekdays with families nearby the school because their homes are much farther away. With this group we proposed to start a huerto escolar, or school garden, to ease the burden of feeding extra children on the host families. Sixteen boys and girls from the afternoon group, grades 6-11, appeared with shovels and machetes in hand, flip flops on their feet. A local family donated an enclosed garden patch, so we crossed the highway and went up a steep path to a thatched roof home then descended on the other side toward a large field with misty mountains in the distance and the beginnings of a clear, hot day.

It soon became abundantly clear that the kids knew much more about farming and gardening than we did, something Emily warned me about. I was pulling up roots in my lovely blue garden gloves while they hacked away much more quickly with their tools. At one point I fell squarely on my butt with a small tree in hand and proclaimed, “Gané!” I won! A boy handed me a machete, which I stared at dubiously. I made a half-hearted attempt to use it for the first time in my life until he laughed and did it for me.

The biggest challenge was not clearing the brush, which was hard, or finding some “fertilizer,” which took a good hour as well. It was trying to keep the young teenage boys out of the nice family’s orange tree. “No sacques la fruta,” I told them. Don’t take the fruit. “No es nuestra.” It’s not ours! I continued muttering angry bits of Spanish until Emily discovered a much more effective methodology. She ran them halfway up the hill with a machete.

As we sat drinking the powdered chocolate milk the school had provided along with some animal crackers, one of the boys turned to me and said, “no quiere llevarme a los Estados Unidos?” Don’t you want to bring me to the United States? This is a common question among kids and adults alike, one that makes me uncomfortable. They all envision this perfect society in which everyone is educated, rich and powerful. It’s taken some time to realize, by comparison, how very right they are.

In Santa Cruz I bought two seats on the flota (bus) back home for lots of reasons: one being I didn’t want any problems about the dog and figured they’d be more lenient if I paid double. Also I didn’t particularly want to carry her in my lap for five hours, as she’s getting quite heavy, and furthermore the price is cheap: just 20bs. That’s less than three dollars each.

So of course a family of three sat across from me and shared two seats. The little girl clutched a hungry kitten wrapped in a sweatshirt. The boy squeezed into the middle and the mom flashed me a warm smile from the window seat. No elbow room there, no room to wave. The little girl, whom I would find out later is called Iliana, was about to sit next to me before she saw the dog curled up (it was dark). “Oh,” she said, disappointed and a little incredulous. “¿Ud. ha comprado dos pasajes? You bought two tickets? I had literally put Leona’s name on seat number14 and had a good laugh with the secretary at the terminal.

I mumbled something about her getting too big and heavy to carry in my lap, but as soon as it came out I had to bite my tongue. Her little brother was probably about six, and far bigger than my dog. No one buys additional seats here, and more often than not they take the chance that an extra will open up somewhere so they can stash their kids.

I thought about putting Leona in my lap and inviting the girl to join us, which would be in effect buying her seat, but then I thought up a bunch of excuses before I got around to it. I spend a lot of time uncomfortable here, so I take my few “luxuries” where I can get them. I just wish I didn’t feel so bad about it.

La Paz, from the airplane; my first view of the mystical world in which I live. My heart was racing when I took this photo, and still does sometimes when I look at it. I wanted to capture the moment -- the anticipation and delight and fear -- forever.

To me this represents quintessential Bolivia, a mixture of tradition and a steady influx of modernity. We went back and forth all night from a traditional live band who played music for the cueca, a dance, and during the breaks loud Argentine cumbia music blared from the speakers like in an urban club. The woman pictured was my host grandmother in Cochabamba, Dona Magdalena.

I can't take a bad picture between Cochabamba and Santa Cruz; the landscape is so beautiful and the people are so diverse. This was taken in the high-altitude region of the Chapare where a cold wind kept people dressed warmly but the bright sun lured them out to picnic.

I lived in Barrio Kami San Jose, outside of Cochabamba, for three months. This is the only picture I have shown despite the many I have. The reason is that I am committed to showing you the beauty and energy and hope here, not the poverty.

This is me, my job and my life.

My host mom jokes that everyone in the plaza can hear her kettle whistle. More often than not, a crowd appears at the doorstep just in time as she pours the first püro full of maté for the day. The people I meet always ask me, sabe tomar püro? Or occasionally remark with surprise, sabe tomar püro?!

Literally: you know -- to drink -- püro. Could be, you know how to drink püro? But I doubt they’re surprised by my uncanny ability to suck tea through a straw and pass it along. More likely, you know about drinking püro? In which case, everything sacred about the daily ritual and the people involved. It is how to welcome friends into your home, how to relax. It is a much healthier conversation lubricant than a bottle of whiskey (although no me falta the occasional foray of that nature) and thus the well of local chisme (gossip).

In any case, I reply with a sí, me gusta. Yes, I like it. Their acceptance becomes evident with a slow nod, a smile and the passing of the püro my way. They watch me the first time around to make sure I do it right, so I’m careful not to wince when I inevitably burn my tongue on the hot liquid and not to notice if I spill a little on my shirt.

Dona Vicky drinks it first thing in the morning, last thing in the evening and several times in between. As I venture into the kitchen half-asleep to slurp down my Nescafe she perches next to me, sips from the silver bombilla and winks. “Mi desayuno,” she says every day without fail. My breakfast.

Another token catchphrase, when one of her friends cracks a joke, is “vaya, che!” In Spanish, vaya means more or less get out of here, and che, in Guarani, friend. Then again, she tipped over the ketchup and mayonnaise at the table one time and I heard her say it to them, too. That’s my host mom, friend to all, and always telling them to get out. They’ll be back when they hear the kettle.

Over püro we discuss everything and anything. The other day she told me she got married at age 15 and had her first baby that same year. She became a grandmother at 31. This is not uncommon here, and from her tone she may as well have been discussing the weather, just stating facts. She has been widowed and remarried, almost lost her son to a car accident, and now she has three kids away in Spain – she cries when they call -- and two little boys to raise. Still she tells me from time to time, especially when she’s complaining about some pain or other, that I am “so young.”

When there’s something she doesn’t know, usually trivial (adding minutes to her cell phone, for instance), she blows it off by saying she’s just a campesina, a country girl. She teaches me which herbs and flowers make tea for fevers and sore throats, which leaves make good compresses for pain or congestion. She knows where the chickens lay their eggs; she says she can hear them do it. We made cheese together last week and humintas, tamales of cheese and corn, yesterday. My clumsy hands ripped the husks in all the wrong places, too thick to tie, too narrow to hold. But her fingers know the humintas; they know püro; they know how to knit entire sweaters while her mind is free to be mother, friend, neighbor and wife.

Some days I think because I’ve traveled so much, read a ton and earned two college degrees that I’ve lived a couple of lifetimes already. And then there are days when I feel just as she says, so young. My life in Bolivia feels kind of like summer camp, like those field trips to fake Amish villages where the grown-ups dressed in costumes and taught us to churn butter, milk cows and grow seeds. At the end of the day we all came home to our microwave ovens, our waterbeds and cable TV, to the real world. A part of me still believes that the poor people in my village, who live in huts made of sticks and mud, eventually go home to someplace utterly different. Someplace surreal.

My new address and care package ideas:

Erika Kelsey, PCV

Cuerpo de Paz

Casilla #3998

Santa Cruz, Bolivia

South America

Cellphone: from the US dial 001-591-7-310-4000. Same time zone as NY.

Please don’t feel compelled to send me anything! I have plenty to eat, layers to wear and lots to do. Given how few resources my town and school have, I feel almost sick requesting things for myself. But many of you have asked me, so here’s what I came up with:

Needs:

1. World maps. If someone could find me a blow up globe, that would be amazing. Most people here have no concept of geography, so it’s hard to explain where I’m from, where I’ve been and on which continent is that country on the news today.

2. Plastic balls from the dollar store for my teething pet. She adores them; they keep her occupied for hours (and keep me amused). Furthermore, we’re down to our last one.

3. Chewable children’s vitamins, generic brand is fine. I hate the horse pills Peace Corp provides.

4. Oil-free sunscreen, spf 45. I am almost out of my Coppertone and the PC version wreaks havoc on my skin and generally makes me feel dirty in a land where I can’t shower it off every day.

5. Magazines!!! I am so out of the loop. What’s happening with the election? The world? Time, Newsweek, Week in Review, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Economist, Harper’s, New Yorker, Mother Jones etc ad infinitum. National Geographic in English. I will scrutinize every page, pass them on to other volunteers or cut up the photos to use in my English class.

Wants:

1. Rawhide bones and chew toys for the pooch. Milk bones. All virtually impossible to find here.

2. Spices! This is more of a fervent desire than simple want. Can’t seem to find allspice, dry mustard or a decent curry. Happy to cook with whatever else you deem appropriate including sauce packets (gravy, tacos, alfredo).

3. Long sleeved shirts, size medium usually. Plain colors are great. Old Navy and Target are good options. It’s surprisingly cold here at night.

4. Can somebody send me a simple recipe for making my own bread? I have no temperature gauge on my oven and limited resources. Snail mail or email.

5. Crystal light packets to make my filtered water taste less gross.

Guilty Pleasures:

1. Good, dark chocolate would cost me more than a month’s rent here. Lindt, Ghiradelli, Godiva … lord. I am drooling. York peppermint patties. Gummy snacks (Yeah, Emily! The wine gummies rocked).

2. Girl scout cookies: Thin mints. 20 postcards to whomever actually finds me these.

3. Dentyne or otherwise sugar-free good for your teeth type gum (Good choice, Tommy and Joan!)

4. Books: Read something lately you thought was good? Pass it along, and I’ll donate it to the library afterward. Highly recommended read for you all is the Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (Dana, thanks for the tip!)

5. Letters. I want these more than anything on this list. They don’t have to be epic, just tell me what you did today, what you had for lunch. Enclose a photo or two, a caricature or a silly article from the paper. I miss being a part of your daily life.

As a reward for reading this far, two funnies:

For real, my host mom here is an Avon lady! And it’s so awesome to me that the whole catalog is in Spanish, prices in Bolivianos, yet the women here have no idea what to do with half of the items especially the cooking stuff. For example, that contraption where you cut eggs for egg salad … no one here can figure out why you would want to slice an egg up like that.

My host parents are friends with a man who goes by Don Booby. He’s super nice and here all the time, but I can’t say his name without smirking. I explained it to my host mom using the appropriate gestures and now we both crack up every time he comes in.

Also, the reason that the cup for püro is rounded on the bottom is because it’s not wood; it’s a big old seed! Mystery solved … stay tuned for more.

Here’s what died in my house the other day: a goat, two chickens, several birds (pretty parrots, because apparently they eat the corn) and my desire to eat meat, or eat at all, really.

My host dad arrived home in his old jeep that he says is as old as him and he’s not joking. The floor is thin, at best, and in places missing altogether. It starts about every other time he wants to go somewhere. He doesn’t get frustrated. “I like old things,” he jokes. “My wife, for instance.”

So the old jeep comes careening into the driveway probably shedding parts along the way. Out steps Don Yonny and then his son, Orlando, who lives and studies in Camiri. Orlando is on the handsome side of things with a dazzling white smile, a rarity in Bolivia where the excess of sugar rots your teeth and chewing coca leaves makes them all fall out.

However, I’m a little disturbed by the tied-up bleating animal he yanks out of the trunk. They let it flop around for a while and watch them sharpen knives. A nephew arrives to join in the fun. My host mom insists I go watch, and I go out of curiosity, and to make sure Leona is in not involved.

Stop reading here if you want. I don’t blame you.

First the nephew drives some sort of stake into its neck, and the goat is flailing but not dying. They argue a bit over the best way to kill a goat and who’s better at killing goats, meanwhile the goat is flopping around in the dirt in a total panic. Even Leona crawls into my lap and averts her eyes. Orlando takes charge, slits the throat and blood pours out into a pot ‘for the dogs’. Ahem. Except for my dog. She eats Purina puppy chow.

They string the thing up by its legs and Orlando actually manages to skin it without getting a speck on his decidedly non-farmer clothes. I am impressed but have already decided this man is entirely too manly for me. Later the innards appear in a bowl. Turns out we eat those. And the head complete with eyes and skull. Ahem. Except for me. I have a new stove in my room and one last precious box of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese.

The thing is, I really respect the way Bolivians do not waste food. They raise their own animals without hormones or chemicals. They kill what they need to survive and use every part of it. Anytime someone kills an animal in the community, others purchase portions for their families so nothing goes bad, either. Local gossip includes who has the meat today, and whether we’re buying portions to cook or plates of ready-made lunch.

There is always more demand than supply. Prices are relatively stagnant and those who cannot pay are occasionally invited, for example, we have a lady who comes once a week to do dishes and laundry and clean. She has lunch with us.

Regardless, I can’t bring myself to even take a bite of goat face. And much later, when I find Leona in her newly purchased dog bed nestled in with what remains of the skull, I’m thoroughly mortified. That same afternoon Doña Vicky saunters in with two live, squawking chickens by the legs, one in each hand. I raise my eyebrows. She shakes her head and smiles. Guess we’re having chicken tomorrow.

I picked up a book on dog training from the Peace Corps library. I read it often for amusement, mostly, and occasionally to keep from killing my dog when she craps on the floor. I’m happy to say this is not happening quite so often anymore, so at least one thing has proven successful. The book says: “if you catch a pup making a mistake, make a startling sound by clapping your hands. This will often stop him midpee. Then scoop him up, take him to the right spot and praise him when he finishes what he started.”

That was really fun the first 15 times we did it. Never did she stop in the middle even though I swear I always caught her right in the middle; I think I probably scared the rest out of her in a hurry. Soon the delightful clapping turned into a snarly, growling LEONA!!! NO!!! and then finally a solid swat on the nose, which the dog bible positively condemns. But guess what? She hasn’t had an accident in three days at least.

There is a whole chapter on ‘puppy-proofing’ your home. I could not stop laughing, as it is obviously written for the comforts of a Midwestern suburb. There are no ‘common household dangers’ in Bolivia, but plenty of uncommon ones. “Any bone your dog can crunch should be kept away from your pet. Use sterilized bones from the pet store …”

We don’t have pet stores. The rest of the dogs in town subsist on bones, thus it’s a virtual bone yard in my backyard and in the street, too. In the beginning, I was pulling gross things out of her mouth left and right including the skin of that goat she keeps finding in the garage, dead possum like creatures on the street (which, thankfully, she does not roll in like Emily’s dog), the trash that my host family refuses to put up out of the way and the chicken bones the other dogs leave lying around. Now I just don’t bother or we’d be arguing all the time. I bought more de-wormer and I just pray she doesn’t eat something that’ll kill her.

I feed her puppy chow three times a day, per The Book’s instructions, but she’s always hungry. My host family leaves out alternately pots of the bloody water they used to rinse meat, a corn-based soup with a week’s worth of bones in it or suero, the sour remnants of the cheese making process that gives her diarrhea every time. Leona, of course, is first in line for these specialties. I am slowly training myself to refuse dog kisses.

There are a few tips that are spot on. For example, FRAP, Frenetic Random Activity Periods, a behavior I had already labeled “puppy spaz.” It happens when she’s walking along just fine and suddenly starts leaping in the air, spinning in circles, rolling and running. At least once on our daily constitutional she goes nuts and it’s truly hilarious. I am sad to read that she’ll outgrow it, as well as her propensity to lie with her back legs straight out in the “flying frog” position. If you catch her in the right minute, she’ll even crawl over to you on her belly. It’s not in the book, but we call it “stealth mode.”

She was getting really good at table manners and not jumping, but I’m sort of stuck in that my little host brothers are forever encouraging her to beg and jump and roughhouse. I often ask them to stop or scoop her away for a while, but I always catch them again later when they think I’m not looking. I wonder how their parents would feel if I gave them each a solid swat on the nose.