A Thousand Little Things (that makes 12)

Here I am.

Back in Bolivia.  One last time.

At least, one last time returning back to my house, my bedroom — all of which I built up from bareness. The cozy homeyness and basic furnishings that I’ve slowly acquired over two and a half years time.

"Critical Mass" is a global biking initiative (bikes traverse the city every
last Friday monthly).  Cochabamba's crew is small but enthusiastic!

My current return to Bolivia is about preparing to leave. Savoring the thousands little things that make life here so dear:  buying red bananas in the street from the slow-coasting truck, “Plaaaataaano!  maaaandarriiinas! paaapaya!” all morning long from a muffled loudspeaker.  I don’t even have to get off my bike to purchase my dozen bananas and 25 oranges.  “Papaya no hay,” says the driver-seller, “only if there’s an excess of papaya are we carrying them on the truck.”  Floods in the Beni have driven up the price and scarcity of typically ubiquitous papayas.

Alpacas and Mount Sajama

The fruit trucks (or sometimes cars with the back hatch open) drive a few miles an hour announcing their produce to the barrio (cover your mouth with your fist, then shout “Papaya, Mandarina, Platano…” and you’ll get the idea).  They’re some of the cheapest fruit you’ll find since it’s so direct from the growers.  For all I know, the truck just got off the highway with this morning’s harvest, three hours (and a mountain pass) down the road.  The fruit-truck seller in my barrio knows me. When I moved two years ago, the seller in my former neighborhood asked where I’d gone.  Buying off the trucks is one of the daily simple things that makes me love this place.  

Passing thousand year old tombs on our trek in Parque Sajama.

What are the small patterns that you cling to and love in your life?  The walk home from work, the woman on the bench at the park you pass who never fails to give you a smile, though you don’t know her name.  The man from whom you buy your flowers, who always throws in “a little extra” though you hardly spend enough to justify it.  Hearing the school band play from your window—the music’s rarely good but you hear their growth and feel their camaraderie.  What are those small golden things?  And what happens when they’re taken away?

Hanging off the Chilean border at 5000m

Urinate on Chile (comically supporting the anti-Chile sentiment of Bolivians)

As I think about the people I leave behind, and the challenges of maintaining friendships at such distance, I’m tremendously sad.  I’m leaving a life and a community here.  But for now—perhaps because I’m “transitioning back” simultaneously while preparing to leave, my mind is caught on those thousand little golden things that trigger my smile. 

[Those thousand little things of everyday trigger my smile, but not always the camera.  Posted photos (mostly) are of more notable not-so-every-day events.]

Biking through the beautiful "campo" en Tarija

A true vacation.  Thomas & I toast in Tarija wine-country.

Eating small crustaceans in Tarija

I got on the 106 Trufi this morning after my usual run to Tiquipaya, the farming community just west of Cochabamba.  I ran slower than usual, feeling the change in altitude between Minnesota and the 8500ft Cochabamba valley. I stretched my calves and quadriceps at my routine corner where the country meets the city, waiting to flag down a less packed trufi so I could secretly stretch in the back seat during the 15 minute ride back to the city (Cochambambinos are Minnesotan in that way— far too shy to look back in direct curiosity, What IS that sweaty gringa doing back there?).

  

A bit of the everyday (sort of): making cookies with Raymundo
(his first time ever, to celebrate his first oven/stove!)

Not so everyday.  I was convinced into doing the craziest of marathons:
26.2 miles (42km) in La Paz (12,500ft / 3600m), climbing up to 4095m.
I was not quite as energetic 26 miles later.

The trufi I climb into is a sort of large hatch-back, like a Subaru Forrester. Its size doesn’t deter Bolivians from happily cramming nine people into the three narrow rows of seats, double what we’d call full capacity in the US.  With children included, I’ve seen these small vehicles hold twelve, without ever a complaint.  The other reason I like the back seat is to watch the passengers climb in and out (a pretty awkwardly amusing process considering how tightly we’re packed in).  It makes little sense to me, but most people will cram three in the front seat (shared with the driver) or middle seat (where only half a butt cheek of passenger number 3 will fit) before they choose to be the second passenger in the back.  Which means there’s always plenty to watch.  

In true Bolivian style, including his (large) bag of coca leaves to
"pijchar" along the 42km route.

The only time I’ve witnessed three full sets of hips successfully jammed into the back seat was aided by significant force.  One evening months ago I flagged down a trufi and scouted out the only empty space: spot #3 in the back.  Typically passenger #3 in the back sits forward on the back seat since three pairs of hips (particularly female hips) will never condense into that supposed three-person bench.  That evening instead of scooting over as usual, the two persons in back moved to either side, passively demanding I occupy the middle space. Inconveniently I crawled over passengers and floor objects, a process cumbersome as it is timely.  “La puerta, por favor” I say, begging that someone close the side door, since with my ass in the air, my head on the ceiling and my hand still grasping my grocery bag, there’s no way I’ll reach the door.  Impatient and satisfied with my degree of settling in, the driver jerked forward into traffic, thrusting me into my seat, but more impressively: wedging me between the two pairs of hips on either side.  We three sat stunned and awed: something we hadn’t before thought possible—it’s a miracle! Securely wedged as we were, we could be the example for generations of the capacity for Bolivian squish, since no attempt to pry us free would have success until our bodies began to atrophy and decay.

Finally with the finish line in site: turns out I'm gonna make it afterall

After this morning’s run, I’m passenger number 2 in the back row seat (passing up rows 1 and 2 for their less superior hamstring-stretching potential), next to a cholita with seriously broad “cheeks.”  She gets off after a few minutes; I hop out to allow her exit and hand her the brooms which had been at our feet.  She extends an effusive “gracias” and I’m delighted by our brief but tender encounter.  And now I can really get to my hamstrings. 

An aguayo strangely in a kewiña tree, on a hike above Cochabamba

The 106 Trufi always carries an eclectic mix of cholitas, young professionals and working class. A healthy cross-section of modern Bolivia.  You’re as apt to hear Quechua spoken as Spanish, since Tiquipaya (where the 106 runs) was traditionally an indigenous farming community (though quickly, lamentably changing).  In the 106 we share intimate space but our ways of living are distinct; beginning a friendship would be more difficult than squeezing the other half of your bum onto the seat. Compressed as tightly as we are, one might think we had more in common.  Hips together, worlds apart.  I say thanks for this moment—this is not “my” Bolivia, but this moment I count as mine.  I breathe in and love where I am, and the privilege of squish.  The fresh morning air from the open windows coaxes me to transition from my meditative run among farms and cows to the work day ahead in the busy city.  Another passenger flags the car and jumps in up front, scooting the passenger seat occupant onto the makeshift bridge-seat between driver and shotgun.  I smile and count: that makes 12.  

Overlooking Cochabamba on a run/hike in the northern cordillera foothills.

9 months later: Gringa on the Granja

I’ve had trouble writing since I left Bolivia in September 2013 and returned 3 months later. 

So much transition that processing it all has struggled to keep up.  What’s more, reflection at the time tended to happened communally: over coffee and dinner with friends and family during my intensely packed, wonderful three months at home, and in reuniting with friends back in Bolivia. 

Home for the month of May 2014 (photo taken May 5th. Happy Spring.)

It was hard to know what to write after returning to Bolivia. I felt my encounter with Bolivia stagnate, the sharp learning curve plateauing. Additionally, I found myself in a fog—overwhelmed by personal, locational, spiritual, vocational, financial, cultural challenges—life was reduced to feeding and bathing myself, the basics.  Aware of how all the “noise” inhibited necessary reflection about “next steps” (to leave or stay: in Bolivia, in my romantic relationship, in the church, in my profession), I made the decision to return to Minnesota a few months after leaving, anticipating work on a farm “up north” near the Lake Superior shore.

Happy May schlepping up the hill to Round River Farm

In April I boarded American Airlines flight 922, Santa Cruz, Boliva - Miami for the second time.  I boarded without tears this time, nor the bombardment of emotions that flooded me in September 2013 after twenty months outside the United States.  After less than five months away, this take off was nearly casual.

My first trip home taught me well: prepare yourself for Miami.  It’s a violent city for re-entry, and a decent dinner at the airport cost two full days of Bolivian salary (a lesson learned the hard way).  This time, I packed dinner.  Comforted by andean quinoa and habas, I awaited my final leg. “Flight 1621 to Minneapolis is now boarding.”  I relived my first re-entry, like replaying a first kiss:  touch down in the midwest, walk through the same doors, wait at the same luggage claim, drive home with same dear friend.  I’m getting good at this.

Canoeing on the still half-frozen lake at Round River Farm, mid-May.
Two weeks later, we were swimming in it.

The highways stand out.  They’re the first thing you see outside an airport. The big green signs clearly mark where to go in ½ mile.  Instead of the simplest two-lane highways (all there in Bolivia, despite the prolific traffic) upon exiting an American airport one encounters two, three, even five lanes all going the same direction.  Uninhibited by potholes, semis loaded with oranges, a train of two-story buses, nor the oncoming opposite lane traffic, the american freeways travel at incredible speed, all fluid and easy.

I arrive home to a warm house full of friends, hugs, hot soup, and please—give me some kind of non-Bolivian cheese!  We laugh and chat until my eyelids surrender to gravity.  Hello northern hemisphere bed. 

Thomas & I drill-gun warring as we rebuild greenhouses, in full armor:
2 pairs pants & 5 layers on top. Don't be fooled by that blue sky.

This trip back is different.  Instead of unpacking for a three month stay, it’s a quick week of visits in Minneapolis before heading further north—north, where spring hasn’t yet received the memo.  And this trip is different.  A week into my stay I return to MSP to pick up another recent Bolivian arrival:  Thomas McDonagh steps onto American soil for the first time.  “The Minnesotans on the plane sure were friendly” he offers casually, unaware of their Minnesota Nice reputation. “They let me borrow their cellphone, chatted me up with all sorts of questions, and were very amused I’d never heard of Target.”

Traditional pancake breakfast after putting up the plastic on the greenhouses
Lise and David Abazs (and me).

Thanks to two fresh feet of snow at Round River Farm in Finland, Minnesota, Thomas and I linger a few extra days in the city.  His flight purchase was last minute — I near expected to spend the month at the farm alone, simultaneously avoiding the anxiety of introducing this man who has become so integral in my daily life.  Navigating the shock of presenting “my partner” I slowly grew comfortable in my new northern couple identity.  I was beginning to like it.

It was time to load up the station wagon. We made one final stop at Fleet Farm, picking out our new wellies—knee-high rubber boots that rarely left our feet that month.  We’d need them in the first minutes of our arrival: to cross the ice-cold, flooded river toward Round River Farm.  

David and Lise Abazs walk the ½ mile up the road to their home and farm seasonally: November through April—this year till May 17th.  Lise left snow shoes for Thomas and I across the river at the bottom of the hill.  Schlepping our month’s belongings—clothes, bedding, a guitar and few pots and pans—we waddled up the hill in our racket feet, pausing to admire the sunset, and with each fall in deep snow.

Hours of digging later (with a few clumps of still-frozen soil),
we're nearly ready to rake beds and plant seedlings.

Before going away for a retreat, it’s easy to have grandiose expectations of the enlightenment that awaits.  I felt this temptation last in April:  I’m about to go home and retreat to a remote farm for a month. Surely this will illuminate all my life’s quandaries.  I will undoubtedly return with clarity, wisdom, perhaps even shinier hair and whiter teeth.  I quickly caught myself:  Lower your expectations, Julie. You may well return as uncertain as you are now.

And sometimes a respite outdoes your expectations.  The hours at Round River Farm spent building, drilling, digging, raking, planting, watering…chopping, lighting, stoking…roasting, washing, sautéing…resting, watching thunderstorms, pouring another pot of tea, bundling up for another cold night and throwing another log on the fire…became a meditation.  My back ached and my hands were calloused—but my heart and mind got the better end of the deal.  The ritual labor of each day nurtured my relationship with Thomas, and the many life decisions pending.  In concrete terms, here is some of what came to the surface during my time in Minnesota:

Successfully precipitating Spring, Thomas waters lettuce in greenhouse 2.

▪️It’s time to come home.  Bolivia is not my home. I never came to Bolivia to stay.  I came to return different.  After two and half years, it’s time to come home.

▪️ I’m going to visit Thomas and his family in Ireland.  His trip to the States was incredibly illuminating for us.  It changed the ballgame. What’s more it convinced me of the importance of visiting his home culture, as he did mine.

Weapons of Mass Production: Thomas beating swords into plowshares.
Spring finally greening up on the Abazs homestead.

▪️ It’s time to go back to school.  After a decade of life experience, I’m hungry for concrete skills and knowledge to deepen my impact and engagement with the world.  My student hat goes back on in the coming year.

These may seem simple, but for me they’re grand shifts and a relieving clarity of decisions made.  I’m excited and nervous to become an in-house American again.  Thank you for sharing the unexpected elongation of these many months with me.  Thanks for giving me so many reasons to come home.

I leave you with a meditation from Round River Farm: a poem Thomas wrote for my birthday, the day we said goodbye to the Abazs and Round River.

A Different Kind Of Tired

Shuffling up that hill in rubber boots and snow shoes—crunching, sloshing and slipping.  Winter had yet to loosen her grip here. 

“Come to RoundRiver farm for the spring” you had told me. 

“I think we might be in the wrong place.” 

So, first things first “what do you guys fight about?” and “can you cut logs for firewood?” Nice to meet you too David. 

Remember now, the gas at the cabin ain’t righty-tighty, it’s a lefty. 

And the fir trees, they’re the flat and friendly ones, unlike their spruced up cousins. 

The weeks went by and the greenhouses were built in such record time that we were now three weeks behind and one day ahead.  

Julie was becoming a dab hand at the bed raking, while Thomas’ coffee making skills flourished. 

But the trees remained bare, almost desolate. 

And then it began. The chirping, the tweeting, the buzzing, the croaking and the hopping. 

As the temperature crept upward, the forest–heavily pregnant with new life—began to unleash the energy she had stored over the long winter. In two short weeks the sparse smattering of dark evergreen were joined by the lighter, brighter greens of the new season.  

Winter seemed to leapfrog straight over spring into summer.  

At David’s side we learned that it’s not rocket science, it’s a thousand small things done well.  When I remember Lise, one word will predominate: ‘nurture.’ 

Together they taught us that you can dream as big as you want once you have your feet on the ground and your hands in the soil.  

But the main reason we love the Abazs so much is because they remember to lie on the ground together to watch the clouds go by. 

Thomas falls captive to Wendell Berry (thanks John Strand
and Katie Sherman for the introduction to Berry and to the Abazs!)

By Thomas, for Julie.

May 2014

We only suffer one day of black flies at the farm (lucky timing),
but we're awfully grateful for our face-nets which helped us plant
over 20 apple trees without losing our minds and our blood.