Just some creativity

In El Bolson, Argentina located in the Lake District and everything is inspiring! After a 24-hour bus ride from Patagonia, we are so thankful to be here and soak up God’s nature. Our hostel is an absolutely divine, enchanting little cabin in the middle of the forest; we keep seeing gnomes and fairies flit here and there…Sitting outside on the lawn, after a fabulous day relaxing in the sun on the lake shore, I felt the need to write. So, if you like, you can read, but its really nothing that has anything to do with our trip. Love you all!

…I am sitting here, on a grassy lawn where the evening wings start to flutter, arousing from their sun-warmed naps. The air has just started to cool from midday’s intense heat and now soothes all of the tension away from previous trespasses. My whispy hair tickles my temples as it is now free to fly about in the breeze, not confined under a hat nor slightly wetted from the brow’s sweat. Such simple pleasure can be found in the warm air. Its as if the wind knows that with one slight blow, all worries float away and the present reigns. If this is true, then I beg thee wind, for the good of all, never stop this sweet breeze that thou art supplying us right now. In the art of giving thanks, the earth must be worshiped for it has provided me with juicy seeded watermelon and encoupled cherries. The joy of traveling in the southern hemisphere, summer when the other half suffers from winter’s monotomous days. Spontanaety thrives in summer, the freedom to go where one pleases, sit outside and sip bubbly water, all without the daring thought of the weather. How I would love to live in summer all my life, but then would summer still reamain as it does without winter? Would the days be so pleasant if one did not know that they could turn so dark and dreary? I guess not. Thanks are in order to winter for making summer so magnificent.

There sits a bench ten feet from where I am. Its made out of weathered wood. Rustic from loyaly sitting outside throughout the years. Even though it is forgotten in the winter, it never denies comfort to those who seek it;  whether it supplies a simple spot to sit or a place to escape to, the bench asks nothing in return. My imagination wants to create a little girl to be its friend. She sits on the bench, staring into the thickening woods that  she is not allowed to venture off to without her mom. Golden curls youthfully spring from her curious crown. Her mother fears of her first haircut, knowing that these precious curls will be gone forever. Her first loss of innocence. Picking grass and splitting it between her dainty yet clumsy fingers, she spots a green earthworm inching beneath the soil, retiring for the day. Picking it up in want of a friend, her inability to judge her strength squishes it until yellow juice seeps under her bitten fingernails. Upset for a moment, Bouy, the ragamuffin dog trots by and with a lick of the face, she is happy once again.

This place holds a magical space that draws creativity from my fingertips, a fierce energy that hugs the soul and encourages tranquility to grow until everything seems at peace…

And the Adventure Continues..

Long gone are the days when we used to sit back on the beach, suntanning and eating fresh pineapple till our tongues grew small sores from the acidity of the sweet fruit. They flashed passed us as though they never were truly formed, only existing as moving palm shadows, or caressing refreshing Caribbean breezes. Here are the days now of long exhausting, strenuous hiking. No, not hiking. Trekking. Patagonia. With one word everything can change so fast. The weather, scenery, body aches, nourishment, shelter, comfort.

Stepping off the plane in Cancun, Mexico over six months ago seems like a faded photograph, one that you look at and memorize because it holds such great importance. With no direct route, but some slight direction, we set out on our traveling adventure with only one real goal in mind. Make it to Patagonia. Well, here we are, we have made it.

Once our feet hit the compact chilled ground in El Calafate, we haven’t stopped walking. Its amazing how two small things, such as feet, can take you places that not even the most well-designed Japanese or German car can begin to take you. Never have I ever really sat and thought about what blessings feet are. We pamper them with pedicures with pumas stones and pink polish, we abuse them with ill-equipped shoes, blistering them in unimaginable places. Yet, no matter what their condition, they always remain loyal and take us to wherever we want to go. These days for us, ours wear the marks of many traversed trails and the tenderness of too many boulders and tree roots.

El Calafate at 10:30pm

Patagonia was God’s creative outlet when designing Argentina. Its as if He sanded out the whole country with flat Pampas and grasslands and got the most southern tip, changed His mind and took the earth and pinched it between His massive fingers. Nothing more than a simple finger pinch and there was Patagonia, with its enormous mountain ranges and peaks that poke out from the horizon. After creating the projecting rocks, He sprinkled everything with a  generous layer of heavenly sweet powder sugary snow. Millions of years later, these mountains still remain, as well as the snow which is continuously transforming and creating glaciers. Prickly blue ice tricks the human eye to think that its more than just ice hiding in those deep crevasses. Mixing with air, the common white conception of ice changes shades as the light reflects off of the crystalline prisms and projects sunny day-blue.

    

Attempt at jumping over Perito Moreno

Perito Moreno

Perito Moreno is the biggest glacier in Glacier National Park and thus draws the most people to goggle at its immensity. We took a boat ride towards the intimidating thick mantel of ice to get a closer look at the many hidden surfaces. As though the mountain cannot stop producing ice, sheaths of  ice continuously peel off from the glaciers body, as unwanted layers of skin. The exposed ice blocks cling on to the rest of the glacier for as long as they can, not wanting to jump into the freezing lake that lies below. Frozen with fear, they hang on until the mountain decides its time to let go and with one continental push, the ice plunges into the water. Not going unnoticed, the falling chunks of ice rumble through the crisp air and alert everyone near to watch it make its Olympic dive into the milky turquoise depths below. We stood and watched the ice fall continuously for hours, taking so many pictures that our finger pads were sore from clicking. This is exactly what I pictured Patagonia being. Huge house-sized pieces of ice falling into a glacier-runoff lake, bombing noises as the ice hits the water, echoing and bouncing off of the surrounding mountain’s faces. Its a pleasure to meet you Patagonia.

Snapshots from Bolivia

Home away from home

To begin, I would find it very inappropriate to begin any other way other than by wishing everyone a very merry Christmas.  No matter where you are in the world or life, I hope that everyone could enjoy Christ’s love through good times with family and friends. Christmas is not about eggnog, cranberry and popcorn chains, twinkling lights strung from corner to corner or even the crispy skin on the savory turkey fresh out of the oven. Its about the people you spend it with and the memories that you create.

This year, being the very first year spending Christmas away from my family, was one full of new experiences and traditions. Being smack dab in the  middle of summer, snowmen, Christmas trees and steamy eggnog all seem a little out of place when people are strolling the boardwalk in cut-off jeans and sandals. Beach chairs and sunglasses outnumber ornaments and decorations 7 to 1. Despite the 85 degree perfect cloudless days, mate never leaves locals hands unless to be shared with friends. To me, nothing shouts Montevideo like sharing a mate with friends while strolling the gorgeous boardwalk, soaking up the South American summer sun. Something so foreign to most travelers, but so comforting to me, bringing me back to my self-created Uruguayan roots.

Two years ago, I left Montevideo on a bus toward Buenos Aires with tears streaming down my face. Tears continued until I was on the plane headed home, where puffy-eye syndrome kicked in. A tidal wave of emotions overcame me and muddled my  heart, enabling me from being able to understand what I was feeling. My time spent here two years ago was without a doubt the hardest time that I have had to go through in my life. Moving across the world, away from all comforts, was challenging but also the best thing for me. I learned how to spend time alone without feeling lonely. Leaving the city, I was leaving behind a huge part of my heart, not knowing when I would make it down there again.

But, alas! Here I am again. This week has flown by without a bad moment. Spending our week between two homes, one of a friend and the other of a family, Tolan and I have both felt love without reigns. We spent Christmas among family members who, once again, opened their hearts to me as they did two years ago. Never feeling out of place or an outsider, we participated in all the holiday traditions.

We spent Christmas Eve at a family member’s house with aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins and tiny little Santa-believers. We all huddled around a table for a very rushed dinner starting at 11:45pm, and being cut short at 12:00am for the beginning of Christmas. The very second the day changed to the 25th, the world erupted. Fireworks from every driveway began to go off as kisses were passed from cheek to cheek until everyone had wished everyone a merry Christmas. The celebrations lasted until 3am when everyone went sleepy-eyed back home to sleep. The actual Christmas day was nothing special. We had another family gathering because it was a cousin’s birthday in the afternoon at the same house. Later that night, we had lunch ravioli left-overs and went to bed.

Coming into the scene with a different idea of Christmas, I was surprised by the little acknowledgement of the actual holiday. I felt as though I was the only one really trying to remember that it was Christmas and that we were celebrating Christ’s birth, which didn’t come into presence other than the 15 second prayer at dinner. No carols, almost no decorations, and no chilly weather made it hard to remember that it was actually Christmas and not just a family get together. Even though Christmas was nothing like what it usually is for us, it was special all the same. Seeing the little kids run inside after fireworks to see that Santa really had come, convinced that they saw him on the roof, was wonderful. Being a part of family was priceless. We did not have our typical Christmas but rather their’s, which is something that I probably will not have again. Knowing that next year and the years to come I would be home having my typical holiday celebration, allowed me to be totally content with not singing songs, not having a feast and not being home. My family will always be there, but Uruguayan Christmas’ only come few and far between.

Today, I find myself in the same position as I was two years ago, leaving Montevideo without knowing when I will be back. This time, no tears will be shed, no puffy-eye syndrome. This time, I know with all my heart that I am not leaving for good, but rather continuing on, keeping Uruguay closer to my heart than last time. I have lived here and left, then the come back again and left. Me physically being here only reinforces my love for the people here and the city, something that will not fade as I travel further and further away. My friendships with the people and city grow stronger with the more memories I make with them. Spending Christmas here was the best place for us during our travels and will remain as a highlight because of who we spent it with.

Now, we’re off the Buenos Aires to spend a very blessed two weeks with the Shaws, visiting Iguazu Falls and Mendoza. Leaving one family to be with another. I could not be happier. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Journal Entries

As many of you have probably noticed, there had been no new posts from the time we left Colombia until now here in Argentina.Well, a substantially large country called Bolivia is landlocked between these two countries.  I don’t know why,  if the fact that they are landlocked has anything to do with it or not, but the relatively modern phenomenon called “internet” has not reached Bolivia. Because it was extremely hard to find good internet, it was impossible to blog, but my fingers had to keep moving. So, I bought a journal, one with neon pink, green blue and red stripes across the cover and cheap thin paper on the inside. (Trying to capture the essence of Bolivia through the essence of a journal.) I find myself wanting to journal in cooler climates, in ones where I can cuddle a cup of hot coffee and spill my observations and thoughts. And that’s just what I did. Rather than dully explaining what each day consisted of, I’ll copy certain exerts that I think show some of the shinning jems of Bolivian  life and land.

Saturday November 12, 2011- La Paz

“The people here are amazingly unique in appearance. I have nver seen such a combinations of races and ethnicities in one face. Men and women alike, are captivating. Their skin is the color of a smoking pot of mole, a liquid made of rich dark chocolate and Mexican chiles. As if each face was a grandmother’s recipe, they give hints of their life secret ingredients through their cautious eyes. Frozen, chilled, chapped, burnt and warmed by the sun’s intense rays, their skin wears its memories as wrinkles adorned on foreheads, cheeks, chins and necks. I am sure that there are many more visual memories but are invisible to the public eye, hidden beneath layers upon layers of cloth.

The women to me are the most interesting to observe, as I’m sure I am to them as well, tall, blonde and such pale skin. Bolivia is the poorest country in South America and coincidingly, it has the largest indegenous population. As an outsider, its impossible for me to understand centuries of tradition and culture without becoming Bolivian myself-and that is not about to happen. Years of ancestrial cutlure has been passed down through mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. I am sure despite the modern world and its technology, certain aspects of tradition have been unpenetratable.

One of these visual clues are hats. Something so simple can carry on a living characteristic of a people’s culture. Women, not men, wear tall, round, and felted bowler hats. Barely situated securely atop the woman’s head, it looks as though the hat itself is struggling to stay on. Hugging just the crown of her head, the hat stays loyal to its owner and never lets her leave home without it. Its small curled-up brim provides a minimal amount of shade for the woman’s face but just enough to block the sun from her eyes. The bowler hat has become a necessity to these women because of their environment’s high altitudes and vulnerability to damaging sun exposure. To me, the bowler hat is a perfect example of how I do not understand Bolivian culture. The hat barely stays on, provides minimal shade, and is quite funny looking. Yet, not a single indigenous lady leaves her house without one. It was born into their culture many years ago and still manages to “hold-on” no matter how hard foreign influences storm the country.”

 

Tuesday November 15, 2011-Copacabana

“What is amazing about the countryside does not actually reside in the land, but in the relationship that it has with the sky. Every horizon harshly clashes, pinching the space where land and air kiss. The sky is such a pure, unpolluted rich color that deceives you into thinking that its touchable and tangible. Every time you reach for it empty handed you remain to sit and stare at its purity. When the lake is in view, it mimics the sky, but produces a much deeper and darker blue. Its the kind of blue that first your eyes get lost in, and then your soul falls in. Before you know it, an hour has been stolen from you and all you are left with is a longing whose origins and destinations are a mystery. It must be the diamond shatters sprinkled over the lake’s surface that lure you in and then the sapphire depths hold you there, utterly captured.

Scattered around the lapping waved shore, small and humble villages worship the lake. The lake is the heartbeat of its entire territory; it gives life and laughter in so many tangible forms. Where the people understand or acknowledge it, the lake is their ever-supporting god who provides them with everything they need. More obvious beneficiaries of the lake’s powers are the fisherman, who daily draw life from the water and give it to their village. Vendors and restaurant owners sell to those who are drawn to the lake with cameras strapped to their necks and hands. Even the beggers who tie rags around their wastes and legs gather pity from the wealthy tourists who ignorantly leave half-eaten meals for the trash. Everyone feels the lake running through their veins.”

Friday November 25, 2011-Sucre

“Happy Black Friday!” Its so strange to be in a [lace where absolutely no one celebrates or even recognizes one of the most popular holidays in the States. I didn’t even see another American besides Tolan to wish a Happy Thanksgiving yesterday. Tolan and I tried our best to make it special by going out to a nicer dinner. It was actually the first time that we didn’t cook dinner since arriving in Sucre last Sunday. It was a nice evening but I still felt weird eating chili and peanut satay instead of all the turkey and fixings…

On Wednesday night we had a pretty bad scare. Tolan started feeling sick around late afternoon and within an hour he got the chills, high fever and vomiting. He was shaking and sweating violently and feeling worse by the second. I packed a backpack with the medicine that Tolan had taken, toilet paper, water, and an energy bar. I didnt really know what we were in for, going to the hospital, so I was trying to think of everything. I got Tolan dressed and we walked down the street to the emergency clinic. He was pale white, breathing unevenly and heavily, scaring every bit of security out of me.

The doorman at the clinic made us pay the US$2 fee before we could enter the building but then showed us a bench to sit on. We sat down and I held him with as much love and assurance that I  could muster at the moment… An hour, a shot, $5 and a prescription later, we were walking back, arm in arm, to our hostel…The whole experience was horrible and extremely frightening. God was so faithful and never let go of our hands. What are the chances that a 24-hour emergency clinic was 50 meters from our hostel?”

Saturday November 26, 2011-Sucre

“After a little while, the man (Pedro) who had previously played music outside, came into the cafe where we sat playing chess. We talked with him for a good long hour. He was curious about the States and was especially curious about the number of “Washingtons.” It turns out that he is a widowed father of six and is struggling to keep his children in school.  He expressed his parental concerns about his older daughters, shared his religious views of the Pachamama and complained about doctor bills. He was proud of his dark skin and for being an Indian but explained that we are all the same because all of our blood runs red. He was very proud to be a Bolivian and angry that so many nations had exploited his country into poverty. Although never stepping foot outside of his country, he knows that it is the prettiest and the best. Talking with him was a blessing and an amazing opportunity. We exchanged emails, numbers and addresses. He got our parents home phone number so he could call and say hello. He was adorable and so innocently naive and wise all at the same time.”

Within the blink of an eye…

Wow.  Before I can even realize, more than an entire month has past. I blink and Colombia has come and gone, leaving bittersweet memories in my mind. Bittersweet as in 70% cacao dark chocolate, the kind that if you hold too long, melts on your fingertips and begs to be licked off. To summarize embarrassingly brief, Colombia was spectacularly phenomenal.

It started off with the most refreshing and amazing visit from my parents in Cartagena. Streets lined with crayola colored colonial buildings, who each cast shade onto the blistering sidewalk by individual vine embraced balconies, create a pleasant maze to meander through. Getting nostalgically lost in within the inner-walled city consumed our afternoons, only to be interrupted by a refreshingly chilled bubbly beverage. As five days sped through our lives as if we couldn’t slow them down even if we tried, Cartagena and my parents where left behind as memories as we traveled to Medellin.

Medellin, with its Pablo Escobarian scarred history, is one of the safest and cleanest metropolitan cities that I have ever been too. Progressive and public-oriented, the city is speckled with lush parks and artistic plazas. Tolan’s sister, Alina, lived in Medellin for a year, giving us the chance to meet up with some of her friends and coworkers. We were blessed enough to be welcomed as Colombian children into one of Alina’s friend’s home. Gilma, a 52 year old wonderwoman, not only gave us her own bedroom, keys to her apartment and insider tips to the city, but treated us to one of the best weeks of our trip. Taking time off of work to guide us around the city and its exteriors, we saw Colombia through the eyes of a local. This gift alone would have been enough, but she continued to treat us to dinners, paragliding and even our bus tickets to Bogota. From 10 days with my parents, then onto another 10 days with a Colombian mother, we were spoiled like pampered pink poodles at a puppy spa!

Our next stop was Bogota, which marked the end of the first leg of our journey. Now long gone was Central America and here was South America. Because you can’t really call being treated by parents as independent travel, it was in Bogota where we began our second leg. Leaving all comfort behind, we flew from Colombia to La Paz, Bolivia. Having bought a round trip ticket back to Bogota, we were not too upset about saying goodbye; we would be back in February.

Bolivia. Wow. The land of the small but mighty. Reading pages in our Lonely Planet of warnings of the scam and crime practiced throughout the country, we were tentative to say the least about our new adventure. Located at 3,900 meters,  La Paz sits on the ridges of the Andes Mountains. This extreme altitude is not only paired with frosty weather and bitter cold that seeps into your bones as if they were made of paper mache, but als0 plagues not acclimated tourists with nausea and headaches. Or at least this is what we had read. Flying over Ecuador and Peru only because we had already been there, our traveling feet where tingly with excitement, anticipation but burdened down with Bolivia’s notoriously abrasive reputation. Arriving at 2:30am, we had to wait until the next day to begin another adventure.

To be continued…

The Vahalla’s Storm Panama City

Since my last post (sorry its been so long that wrinkles are now forming and gray hairs are sprouting up in unwanted areas) soo much has happened. To begin with, my lovely parents came to visit in Panama City. It was like Christmas came early, or the new fashions went on major sale; I was so excited I couldn’t focus on anything until they got there. Giddy with anticipation of what our time would be like, I thought up as many situations that could possibly happen while they were visiting. Was it going to be an eternal nine days with my dorky parents waddling along after Tolan and I? Or was the weather going to be as predicted and thunderstorm the entire time they were supposed to be with us? Well, praise the heavens, neither! From the second they walked into our cute boutique hotel in Panama City, to the winky teary eyed goodbye in Cartagena, Colombia, nothing could have gone better. Never would I have thought that seeing my dad’s balding head (and yes, for those who have been worrying, the bald spot is still there, smiling up to the heavens) would be so great. My mom, cute as always, couldn’t ignore her motherly instincts and was constantly hugging and kissing both of us, making our whole family look Italian with amount of dramatic physical affection we were portraying. But every squeeze was equally loved and comforting.

As a little girl, whenever I missed my mommy or daddy or I was feeling a little blue, my “love-cup” would be running low. The only way to refill a “love-cup” was through love, hugs, and kisses. Forever rechargable, it was the battery pack of love that kept me running throughout the day. With a scrapped knee or a bonked head, the love-cup would leak a little, only to be refilled and overfilled with a multitude of parenting compassion and love. As I’ve grown older, my love-cup still exists at the center of my heart. Although I have grown less dependent on it, it will forever be the truest source of happiness in my life. Seeing my parents standing in the hotel foyer, safari hat perched on Dad’s head and tears in Mom’s eyes, my love-cup began to refill and recharge.

We spent nine perfect days together, divided up by a short plane flight to Cartagena, Colombia. Panama City is unlike all other Central American capital cities in that it is clean, safe and gorgeous. With a Miami-like appearance, modern skyscrapers line the coast and create a skyline to be reckoned with. Taxis bizz and buzz in every which direction, charging minimal fees to take tourists and locals alike across town through differentiating neighborhoods. Businessmen come in a variety of options: coconut water vendors with dozens of ripe and young coconuts gathered in a cart;  ice cream peddlers with styrofoam coolers filled with popcicles and bars;  suit-clad briefcase-bearing speedwalkers all in a rush towards over-sized banking buildings. Being a buffet bar and catering to everyone’s needs, Panama City is diverse in people, architecture, geography, culture and history.

Our first full day together was spent strolling around the old center of the city called Casco Viejo, where decrepit buildings are crumbling like forgotten stale bread while newer revamped gorgeous ones have been reconstructed right next door. In all the other colonial cities that I have been to, there are always certain areas where  forgotten structures cluster, away from where the new and improved buildings are segregated. Casco Viejo is different in its mixing of old and new buildings. Its as if the city put together a makeover beauty project, reconstructing buildings while keeping some ancient ones next to the new ones to emphasize the before-and-after results. For example, the President’s home sits proudly on the outer coastline edge of the neighborhood. Glorious and gorgeous as it is, it borders an unoccupied lot where a building once stood, but now has crumbled to the ground, sitting in a bunch of broken pieces.

Our second day was the best day of our whole time spent together. Being the historical powerhouse that it was and is still, the Panama Canal draws tourists from all across the globe to see its mysterious operating methods and routines. Not only did we visit the canal but we sailed down it, raising and lowering in the man-made lock system! It was one of those, “wow, I need to take in every moment” kind of days, being so special that you don’t want yourself forget anything. Sailing along side ships made for Goliath, we all felt so tiny as if we were miniature plastic Polly-Pockets, getting lost in the magic of it all.

The city, although being a very metropolitan area, has various hundred-acre national parks with enjoyable hikes to outstanding lookout points. Our third day was pleasantly spent walking through a national park, picnicking at the bottom of the hill. Swinging back around to Casco Viejo, we found the most divine ice cream parlor on the planet. Sitting at an antique table with old-school ice cream scoopers lining the wall, we savored scoops of heavenly delight, one lick at a time. Chocolate-orange, cinnamon, After-eight mint chip, java bean coffee and midnight chocolate where the names of the game. With every cool embrace, the sweet creamy treat tangoed with my taste buds, seducing them with every fluid move.

Departing from Panama City, we not only said goodbye to another enchanting country, but to an entire section of the world: Central America. Acting as a bridge from North America to South America, it brought my parents over to meet us, filling our love-cups to and beyond their brims.