If you're looking for fascinating history, the Holy Land isn't a bad place to start. It's a part of the world that's been constantly settled for thousands of years (here's looking at you, Jericho). It's a part of the world that's been ruled by empires of all sorts. It's a part of the world that's seen religious revelations and played host to atrocities. It's a part of the world that displays the best and worst of humanity.
I expected my time in Palestine and Israel to have a profound effect on me. I'd say it did. However, the parts that mattered most weren't the ones I planned on. I fully intended to be awestruck at the Church of the Nativity and Capernaum and in Jerusalem. Those spots certainly meant a lot to me, but true wonder really struck me at the Dead Sea. I spent most of my time in Palestine in the Bethlehem suburb of Beit Sahour and volunteering at the Palestine Museum of Natural History. One Sunday, with a couple of the other volunteers, I took a day trip. To get to the Dead Sea, one passes from Palestine authority to an area administered by Israel. That meant we took a Palestinian bus, got off at a nondescript highway junction near Jericho, and hitchhiked to a quiet beach. On the way, though, there was a moment where we fell silent. The two Israeli dudes giving us a ride and the four of us volunteers crammed in the back realized where we were. The Dead Sea is far below sea level and the drive there is otherworldly. It was beautiful but desolate, how I picture the Moon. I was awestruck before we even got to the water. The hits just kept on coming. In the Dead Sea, the salt concentration is so high, you can see it swirling around you. If you scoop up the famous mud, you can pick out cubes of salt. You can look across the water, through the haze of heat, to the country of Jordan. You can get out and feel a thin coating of salt on your skin as the water evaporates. We spent all day there and the sense of wonder didn't dissipate. As I headed home, I couldn't help but wish for more time there. If you're looking for a place the epitomizes the true sense of the word "awesome," I know where I'd suggest.
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Y'all, I've done it again. I've neglected this site. I wish I hadn't. Allow me to make amends.
As I write this, I've just arrived on the island of Bohol in central Philippines. I've spent the last week in the nearby city of Cebu. Two days ago, I went to confession at Basilica Minore de Santo Niño, the most culturally significant church in the area. I won't go into too much detail on what the priest and I talked about, but his advice struck a chord. Basically, this priest was dropping knowledge left and right. One thing we discussed was routine and how even traveling the world can lose some of its luster when you've been doing it for a while. He advised that I look for "opportunities for awe." Taking his advice, I'll be posting quite a bit for the next two-ish weeks about times I've been awestruck. Not all of these will be deep, amazing stories because that's not how life works, you know? Sometimes, it's the little things that make an impact (or set the stage for something incredible). Like someone saying hello. I showed up in the Tanzanian town of Moshi with no real plan. I got off the bus and started strolling down the main street. It was a beautiful day and I figured I'd come across a decent place to stay soon enough. As I ambled, a guy about my age approached me, asking if I was lost. We got to talking and he recommended a place to stay. He pointed me in the right direction and that was that. Until two days later, when we literally bumped into each other on a side street. I asked him for a restaurant recommendation and that turned into lunch together. I asked him for a recommendation on a good view of Kilimanjaro and that turned into an adventure. We walked all through Moshi to get to the old train station. When we arrived, he pointed in the direction of a cloud-covered mountain. And I swear the wind picked up just a bit. As we watched, the clouds cleared and we got a beautiful view of the main peak. It was absolutely an opportunity for awe. A quick conversation led to a chance meeting in the street which led me to the largest mountain in Africa. I had spent days in Moshi attempting (and failing) to see Kilimanjaro. As Jamali and I took in the view, let me tell you, it was worth the wait. I wish I had an excuse for a month without posting, but I don't. Let me make it up to you though, Read on for one of my favorite experiences in Palestine. It was about 7:30pm and I was getting antsy. I’d woken up at about 7 that morning, eager for a day of volunteering at the museum. I did my normal morning routine—get dressed, brush teeth, walk to the main apartment. This time, however, I very deliberately skipped breakfast. Today, I was joining the other volunteers and some staff in observing the fast for Ramadan.
Ramadan, briefly, is the holiest month on the Muslim calendar. Islam has five pillars and Ramadan is one of them. It’s a time of joyful sacrifice for observant Muslims. Literally, all my Muslim friends look to this time with great anticipation. And not just the celebrations marking the end of Ramadan, but even the days full of hunger. Ramadan is observed for a lunar month, approximately 4 weeks growing closer to God and more compassionate to others. Palestine, and Bethlehem in particular, has a large Christian population, but most folks are Muslim. Ramadan changes everything. The city looks differently—most houses are decorated with colorful lights, similar to our Christmas lights. The city works differently—many businesses change their schedules or individual workers make arrangements with their superiors for a more manageable schedule. One man I met works at a restaurant which changes its hours completely. Since most customers aren’t eating during the day, they switch to very late-night hours during Ramadan, when customers are permitted to eat. And speaking of eating… Like I said, I had woken up around 7 in the morning. About 5 hours into my day of fasting, I was getting hangry. With the heat of the day and the early start to my morning, noon was not a good time for me. Not everyone was participating in the fast, so I was tortured by the sight of some tempting Palestinian food. I stayed strong though. Maybe the catnap I took when I was trying to read my book helped the time pass more quickly. I said earlier that my Muslim friends look forward to the days of fasting and it might be because of iftar. Iftar, or the meal at sunset, marks when the fast is broken. At this point in the evening, families gather together and feast, making up for all that eating they didn’t do during the day. And it’s fun. And delicious. And on this day, we were hosting iftar at the museum. We’d invited staff, volunteers, and their families to join us. That meant preparing a bunch of food with a very empty stomach. I’m not the most confident of chefs, so it was a bit nerve-wracking to prepare food for over a dozen people and not be able to sample the fare. While the other volunteers and I prepped food, we tried to our best to smell the dishes to be sure they were seasoned well, but everything just smelled delicious. I was nervous about the dishes I was responsible for, until I remembered that most of the people I was feeding hadn’t eaten all day. We finished up the food prep and we all ready to break our fast, but we still had about 10 minutes until the call to prayer. Iftar doesn’t begin until you hear the words over the mosque’s speakers. Those ten minutes, with a table full of food in front of us, were the longest part of the day. When it was finally time to eat, we tore through all the food we prepared. I discovered that I had put too much garlic in the yogurt dip, but that didn’t stop it from being devoured. Another volunteer put too much mint with the watermelon, but that was all eaten too. It was a beautiful night and it was some serious feasting. Most importantly, like all good iftars, it was more than a nice dinner. It was physically nourishing, but it was spiritually fulfilling as well. It was the marking of a sacrifice well-observed. It was a celebration of being together. It was a bridge between multiple different cultures. It was more than dinner—it was an experience I’ll treasure for years to come. Before I started this adventure, I was living in Austin, Texas. And I had it good there. I had a cute apartment with my younger sister, more family nearby, some truly amazing friends, and a job I loved. When I decided to take this trip, I knew I'd be leaving a lot behind. Still, it was the right choice, I've faced momentous decisions before. This was simultaneously the easiest and toughest decision I've made. As I sit here, approximately 7,168 miles from where I started, I'm satisfied with my choice. When you travel, there's a fairly standard set of questions you're asked when meeting someone new. I've been traveling solo for about 4 months now (!), so you better believe I have my answers down. Once I've explained where I'm from, where I've been, and my future plans, I often get a follow-up question, asking what I used to do for work. I tell people that, as part of a larger organization (AIDS Services of Austin), I used to run a food bank for people living with HIV. I managed inventory, kept an eye on the budget, coordinated volunteers and served an amazing group of clients. It was kind of like running a small grocery store. More than anything, though, it was a job that checked all my boxes. It was challenging, enjoyable, and it was focused on those in poverty. When I first saw the job description, I felt a pang of longing for the position. It sounded perfect. I had a pretty good feeling that I wasn't going to get it, but I decided to try for it. I prepared my application, said a prayer, put it in the mail, and forgot about it. I spent just over 2 years as Food Bank Coordinator at ASA and I loved it. It was a job I was excited to go to almost every day. And when I was traveling, especially early in the trip, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Finally, about a month into the trip, I managed to go a full day without thinking about it. I remember it clearly. March 31st was my last full day in Buenos Aires and I decided I needed a dose of culture before I left. I made a quick decision to check out MALBA (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires), wanting to check out a Frida Kahlo portrait they had. I saw the portrait, but it was a temporary exhibit that really got to me. In the late '60s, a group of Canadian artists banded together to form General Idea. MALBA had a retrospective of their work spanning decades and all sorts of subject matter. I made my way through many galleries in MALBA rather quickly, but this stopped me in my tracks. I turned a corner and was figuratively smacked in the face by a reminder of my former work. General Idea did some really incredible work regarding AIDS and I wasn't planning on seeing it. I was floored. Great art (Here if you have 10 seconds, here if you have a minute) evokes emotion and this definitely got to me. I thought about the clients I served, the volunteers and coworkers I worked alongside, my encouraging supervisors, and the passion I had for the work. I considered the lives lost, the victories and setbacks in the fight against HIV, and the road ahead. I had a lot of emotions coursing through me, but the deepest was gratitude. I was blessed to be able to do the work I did, blessed to serve such a resilient population. I guess I was incorrect when I said I managed to make it a whole day without thinking about my former work. I almost made it a whole day. Quito, Ecuador was a quick stop for me. I had a lot of funny experiences there: getting harangued by the hostel owner for trying to skip breakfast, seeing someone eat a roasted guinea pig, and getting treated to a coffee since it was raining too hard to go outside. Most of my favorite experiences in Quito, besides nerding out at the Equator, were food-related.
There was the hostel, where the employees prepared simple, hearty, delicious breakfasts one-by-one while the owner tried to remember everyone's name and home country. There was the restaurant around the corner with the amazing empanadas. And the nearby coffee shop with good lattes and wi-fi strong enough for FaceTime. All these pale in comparison, however, to a meal I had in the center of Quito, when I ducked into a restaurant to escape the rain. One thing about Quito was it was easy to tell time. At about 3 pm every day, it began to rain. No matter how the morning began, cloudy or sunny, you could expect rain at 3 pm. I was living life on the edge at this time...by refusing to purchase an umbrella. Most of the time, I'd arrange my days to be indoors, or at least sheltered, when the rain began. Sometimes, this meant touring a museum. One memorable time, I stood under the eaves of a church as the clouds really opened up. But we're not talking about rain. We're talking about food. As I was making my way through Quito's downtown, I worked my way to a few tourist spots, through some open-air markets, and eventually found my stomach rumbling. With the confidence of a woman who could spot a good restaurant when she saw it, I navigated side streets to find where locals were eating. As I was searching for the right spot, I got myself a bit lost and it was about 3 pm. I felt the first drops when I turned onto a street that looked familiar. Relief at my locale turned into concern about my exposure to the rain and I moved quickly down the street. Then I stopped. The most intoxicating smell was emanating from a sketchy-looking storefront. With trepidation, I made the decision to go inside. I have my suspicions that this restaurant's facade was designed to scare away the faint of heart. When I saw their menu del dia (a multi-course meal with fixed options for each course) and the joy on the faces of all the people in there, any lingering hesitation disappeared. This was the spot. Not only were the people satisfied, the servings generous, the silverware clean, and the owners friendly, the restaurant was dry. I was served a steaming bowl of locro de queso con aguacate (I still dream of this creamy potato and cheese soup, generally served with avocado) and put in my order for my main course. Or tried to put in my order. None of the main course options were vegetarian, so I tried to make my life simpler by just ordering rice. The waitress explained that I get to choose a meat option. I tried to explain that rice would be sufficient. She thought I was touched in the head because I didn't want meat, so she grabbed the owner. After a long conversation in which I explained the concept of vegetarianism, they questioned my decision to pursue it, I recounted my mother's initial reaction to it, they questioned my nutrient intake, I insisted I was healthy, and they insisted that rice would not be enough lunch for me, I got a giant omelette with tomatoes, a huge pile of rice, and a free side of plantains. It was a long process to get my lunch ordered and eaten, but it was worth it. And with Quito delivering some truly impressive precipitation, I was in no rush. As I waited for the rain to ease, I pulled out a collection of poetry to pass the time. The owner, noticing that I was reading, pulled up a chair and we chatted about books. I admitted that I only brought the one book with me on my trip, he recommended that I read Julio Cortazar, I told him about my love for Kurt Vonnegut, and then the rain stopped. I don't know what the restaurant is called, what street it is on, nor the owner's name and I doubt I'll end up back in that same place. I do know there's a special place in my heart for the Ecuadorian restaurateur, I'll always have a fondness for locro de queso, and that I'll be reading a book by Cortazar one of these days. On April 17, I found myself at the Port of Barcelona, impatiently waiting to board a ferry. As soon as I could get on the boat, I wouldn't touch land for at least 30 hours. Once I did, I wouldn't just be in another country. I'd be on another continent.
I'm getting ahead of myself. First, I had to cross the Mediterranean. Most everyone on the ferry boards with their vehicle, evidenced by the long queues leading to the parking decks. When it was my time to board the ferry, I strolled right onto the boat...then had to walk up seven flights of stairs with all my stuff before I was in the right place. This was not just any ferry; it was essentially a mini-cruise ship. Before I found my seating area, I walked past a restaurant, a shop, an information desk, an entertainment room, and a casino area. Because foot passengers board after car passengers, I also wandered past families who'd set up camp in various nooks and crannies of the ship. And I do mean camp. Some had comforters, sleeping bags, ice chests, and board games. There were sleeping cabins available too, for those less interested in camping and willing to pay a bit more. For the plebeians and those of us traveling more lightly, there were rows of seats. Similar to airplane chairs, there was enough room for everyone to get two or three seats to themselves. I found a row of seats next to the window and set up my spot. I came prepared--I had a blanket, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of jelly, a fully charged laptop, and a bunch of videos from my farming friends in Argentina. 30 hours is a long time to be on a boat, but the time passed quickly. Partly, the motion of the boat made sleeping quite easy. Between watching movies about agriculture and making myself peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I took many small naps. I was a little sleep-deprived after my time in Barcelona, so this was definitely welcome. Another aspect that made it enjoyable? The guy sitting in the row next to me. Every time I looked over, he was eating chicken. I'm not exaggerating. Every single time I scanned my surroundings, there he was, enjoying some chicken. As far as I saw, he never changed his eating pace nor ate any side dishes. Slowly but steadily, he ate an entire chicken as we journeyed together. It was impressive. And a little gross. But mostly impressive. Besides napping, documentaries, and watching my chicken-eating neighbor, I loved walking around the deck. The Mediterranean waters offered a array of blues and greens, the Spanish coast in the distance looked dreamlike, the sunset was stunning. Before I knew it, we were arriving at the port of Tangier. I was two months into this adventure and was arriving at the first continent that was completely new to me. I'd go on to spend about a month in Africa in two very different countries. As I disembarked, I felt a rush of adrenaline. It was a surreal feeling, realizing I was on the continent of Africa. Up until that point, I'd been in places where I could speak the language, where I could blend in with the local population, where the culture was similar to my own. When I first stepped foot on its shores, I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. When I first stepped foot on its shores, I had no way of knowing how meaningful my time in Africa would be. The next couple of posts will be dedicated to places and experiences from earlier in the trip. I can't wait to tell y'all about my time in the Holy Land, but you'll have to wait for those reflections! If I was thinking more critically, I would not have found myself in Geneva, Switzerland on April 10. I wouldn't have gone to Switzerland at all. It's not exactly a budget travel destination. With the refrain "I'm doing me" echoing in my head, I booked flights to Switzerland anyway.
A few weeks after booking those flights, I found myself almost hyperventilating with excitement. Geneva is casually home to momentous organizations--many United Nations humanitarian institutions, Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), and more. And on April 10, I'd be visiting the two that held the greatest personal significance--the Palais des Nations and CERN. I'll tell you about the Palais des Nations soon. Let's talk science first. So, I was almost hyperventilating with excitement. I was on Geneva's public transport system, counting stops until we made it to CERN. It's only about 20 minutes from the center of Geneva to CERN, but it felt like a lifetime. When I was younger, I read about Superconducting Super Collider, an abandoned supercollider in the Texas desert. From then, the idea of nanoparticles flying at high speeds intrigued me. When the chance to visit CERN presented itself, I was all in. CERN is a site of international cooperation for the advancement of physics. Momentous events in science have occurred here. The most significant is the discovery of the theorized Higgs boson (among other things, this particle's existence helps explain why other particles have mass). I recall joking with my older sister, asking if they had that on display. I didn't get to see the Higgs boson (like many nanoparticles, it lasts about long enough to measured before it decays into another particle), but I got to check out some exhibits. CERN's got thousands of scientists doing thousands of experiments, but it's also got two free exhibits for the general public. The first I visited, "Universe of Particles," covers the scale of the universe and the particles we find therein. Naturally, I had to dodge schoolkids and other tourists to get my hands on the interactive displays, but it was worth it. My favorite part was the small display related to the creation of the Internet, holding a written proposal for information management with a written comment: "Vague but exciting...". "Microcosm," the other exhibit, covers the work of CERN from its inception to current work. There are videos providing insights into life at CERN, pictures of the components of the Large Hadron Collider and other accelerators, and more. There's also a small outdoor area with retired machinery. The most captivating component, for me, was a beautiful sculpture located just outside the "Universe of Particles" exhibit. It's not just a shiny piece of art--it's covered in scientific discoveries. Cut into the steel, you'll find everything from sky maps to Einstein's famous equation to a brief notation of about the Higgs boson. I spent quite a bit of time squinting in the sunshine, examining this beautiful display of science's greatest insights. As I stated, if I was thinking more realistically, I wouldn't have gone to Switzerland at all. As I made my way home from my visit to the CERN campus, I didn't regret my choice in the least. A few months ago, I read an article purporting that, eventually, English would become the world’s lingua franca. The author hypothesized that the widespread common use, plus its use in business and diplomacy, indicates that English will one day be the dominant common language (If you want to know more, search “language death,” “linguistic imperialism,” or just “English lingua franca.” Lots of information). A few weeks after that, I was in Morocco. Multilingualism is common worldwide, but was made especially clear to me in my time in North Africa. In Morocco, multilingualism is common, particularly in the cities. You can tell by the street signs, with their French and Arabic, that this country that accepts its diversity gracefully. It’s been amazing to hear shopkeepers haggle in French one moment, in Arabic the next, switch into Spanish, then hustle some English-speaking customers for good measure. For the most merchants, multilingualism came out of a desire to make money. While not the most noble motivation, I envy their ability to communicate with, essentially, the whole world. I never expected to be deeply inspired by Moroccan shopkeepers, but here I am. Personally, I speak English and have a very strong handle on Spanish (which has gotten much better through these travels). While estimates vary widely, with these two languages, I can communicate verbally with approximately 2 billion people. This is thanks to many countries’ policies on teaching multiple languages, colonial history, and the dominance of English-speaking countries in recent decades. To double-back to the article’s hypothesis, the world is moving toward one language. And I’ve got complicated thoughts about it. Firstly, languages develop by incorporating words from other cultures. Spanish absorbed Arabic influences, English incorporated Spanish words, and Arabic gave us our numbers. Each language is stronger for the influences of the others. Secondly, language is such a strong identifier for cultures. Historically, to break the spirit of minority groups, whether in Catalunya or Canada, oppressors banned their language. As languages die, so do aspects of the culture. Thirdly, language strongly indicates what matters to a society. There’s the famous collection snow words of the First Nations of North America, for example. And yet, I love the idea of greater understanding between cultures and being able to communicate effectively would streamline that process. We all know of instances of people reacting poorly to those speaking other languages. And I don’t get me started on the phrase “broken English.” A single, worldwide language would be easier. In this instance, I don’t really want easy. I want to struggle with to pronounce Spanish words, I want to say “thank you” in French and “I don’t understand” in Arabic, and I want locals to know that I appreciate their culture. Back home, it was an honor to communicate with Spanish-speaking clients and to celebrate those who were working to become multilingual. Difficulties with grammar and labor with pronunciations are worth it. In casual interactions in my travels, I’ve surprised people with bits and pieces of their languages. Whether it was finding the guidebook entry about waterfalls in German, a genuine “thank you” in Arabic, or a silly joke in Spanish, there’s something magical about communicating with others, even poorly, in their native language. I’m not a polyglot by any means, but I want to be. There’s a special smile and a certain look that you receive when you make a real effort to respect the mode of communication of a locale. It’s worth sounding silly or getting your pronunciation corrected or getting teased about saying “carro” instead of “coche.” Back to Morocco, I’ve been blessed to find English-speaking shopkeepers, patient French/English speakers, and kind Arabic/English speakers. I’ve also been burdened with a deep desire to learn more languages. If I can get a lock on French and Arabic, combined with my English and Spanish, I’d be able to talk to over half the world. Yes, it’d be easier if the world moved toward one language. In this case, however, easy is not the best option. The extra work would definitely be worth it. If you’ve ever seen The Lion King, you might recognize the title of this post. It’s the opening line of “The Circle of Life,” a song that begins in the Zulu language. The lyrics are a bit on-the-nose when you translate them; “there’s a lion, father. Oh yes, it’s a lion.” On May 13, I went on a one day safari and guess what…nants ingonyama bagithi.
At about 3 am, after a fitful few hours, I woke up in a permanent tent. I stared up at the mosquito netting, willing sleep to come. No luck. I was just too excited! I had to be at breakfast at 5 am and the time, luckily, passed quickly. By the time I got up to face the day, I was tingling with anticipation. I poured myself a strong cup of coffee and got to feasting. One needs to be well-fed before a safari. We stayed in a lodge near Lake Manyara, which meant some driving before we entered Ngorongoro Conservation Area and the famous Ngorongoro Crater. We picked up some other safari-ers from a campsite in the park, piled into a 4x4, and descended into the crater. Rainy season generally wraps up in early June, so I was a bit apprehensive. We could have easily been met with heavy rains, unsafe roads, and poor visibility. Instead, we had patchy cloud cover, beautiful sunshine, and bumpy but safe roads. Most importantly, though, we had animals. The landscape alone was sublime, changing as we traveled through the crater. The vegetation was lush, evidentiary of the volcanic past of this part of the world. The animals, though. Oh, the animals. There were zebras, wildebeest, gazelles, dik-diks, and pumbas. There were flamingos, ostriches, and hippopotamuses. Though distant, we saw rhinoceroses and elephants. The most significant sightings? Lions and baboons. Dirt roads line the crater floor but vehicles move slowly and animals do whatever they want. The best example of this came around 9:30 in the morning. Our driver moved over to a group of about 4 other vehicles (a crowd of vehicles is a sign of interesting animal activity). Two lionesses looking to escape the sun were making their way along the road, using the vehicles for shade. Cue desperate picture-taking and awed faces. I’ll admit I was also very nervous to be so close to such a powerful animal. If I was so inclined, I could have reached out my hand and touched one. With their size and their power, I was definitely not so inclined. As the lionesses eventually moved away from the road, we watched as nervous gazelles, dik-diks, and buffalo cleared the area despite the thousands of feet between them. It was truly an experience to wander through this small area of the world. Other animal sightings were numerous. Elsewhere in the park, fossils of humanity’s ancestors were discovered. Maybe it’s the science nerd in me, but it was an amazing feeling to walk in the footsteps of our earliest predecessors. Let me tell you, they couldn’t have chosen a more fascinating place to live. Eventually, after about 8 hours on the crater floor, our safari was coming to an end. Because of my poor night of sleep, I found myself exhausted as we made our ascent to the crater rim. I snapped some landscape photos and settled into my seat, ready for a quiet ride back to Arusha. I assumed we’d seen all the animals the crater had to offer. We turned around a bend in the road and suddenly, there were baboons. Big ones. Small ones. Baby ones. They stared at us, rather disinterestedly, as they went on munching leaves. Inside our 4x4, we were all freaking out. Yet again, we found ourselves close enough to touch these wild animals. Yet again, I found myself in awe. Eventually the disinterested baboons became really disinterested and wandered off into the vegetation. We got moving again and wound our way out of the conservation area, back toward the busyness of Arusha. The other safari-ers and I reflected on all that we had seen over the course of the day. Now, a couple days later, I still can’t wrap my mind around the majesty that Nrogongoro Crater has to offer. I don’t know if I ever will. But I can share some pictures! A couple of months ago, I spent about 3 weeks on a farm outside of the city of Buenos Aires. I collected dry leaves, I pulled grass, I harvested walnuts, I picked up wheelbarrows full of cow shit, and I loved it. It’s amazing how much fun hard work can be.
WWOOF, or Worldwide Organization of Organic Farms, allows volunteers and farmers to connect. In exchange for room and board, volunteers assist with work around the host sites. I learned about it a few years ago and always hoped to do it. A couple months in advance (way earlier than necessary, but I was excited!), I reached out to the people who run Espacio La Paulita. A few days later, I was all set. A few weeks after that initial contact, I found myself on a dirt road off the main highway. I was exhausted, the trip from the city of Buenos Aires to Cañuelas taking much more time than expected. I made my way to the gate, met some of my hosts, and I took in the place I’d be calling home. There was the main house, with the kitchen, a living room, and the volunteer bedroom. Scattered around the property were domed buildings where the hosts lived. In the distance, I could see some barns and overgrown fields. As Violeta and Marcos explained how things work at La Paulita, I attempted to calm my nerves. I was very excited to be there but also anxious about only speaking Spanish, about the work that lie ahead, and about the fact that I’d be with these folks for 3 weeks. As nice as they were, it was a pretty serious commitment to make to strangers. I happened to arrive on a Friday evening, which meant I didn’t officially have any work to do until Monday. That first weekend, we got to know each other a little bit. I spent one day sightseeing in Buenos Aires and one day helping them make granola and cereal bars to sell at street markets. I was enjoying the Spanish practice, digging the atmosphere, and the hosts were so kind, but I just couldn’t get comfortable. As if the universe knew what I needed, another volunteer arrived a few days later. Aga’s from Poland and this was her third time WWOOFing. Something about her personality and my need to play translator transformed my time at La Paulita. Plus, I wasn’t doing work alone anymore. We did all sorts of work together, from preparing meals to painting to pulling grass. The best activity was definitely picking up cow poop. Maybe because it was a new task or because it was so important to the farm or because we just had a lot of fun working together, Aga and I had an awesome time scooping up cow shit. It was kind of like an Easter egg hunt. We walked over to the neighbor’s land with an empty wheelbarrow and started looking through the grass. With our gloved hands, we’d pick up the cow pies, then walk the full wheelbarrow to the compost area of our farm. It got to be so much fun, we even wrote a song about it. As the 3 weeks flew by, La Paulita really started to feel like home. The best part was the meals. Between the hosts, Aga, and I, we split the responsibility of preparing breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My specialty was oatmeal with apples, chamomile, and cinnamon. Of all the meals we shared, one stands out. I love pierogi, or Polish dumplings. I kept telling Aga that we should make them, so we did. And it took around 5 hours. As I stood by the pot of boiling water, waiting for the pierogi to float to the top, I couldn’t help but feel content. Aga and I had made dozens of these dumplings. The neighbors came over with some side dishes. As we prepared the food, they played music. Around midnight, we sat down and we feasted. A few days before I left, Aga headed out. Luckily, before she left, we planned a day trip to Uruguay. On her last day, we recorded our song about cow shit. I’ve watched it a couple times since and it always makes me laugh. One of the hosts, Marcos, put music and a few videos about farming and culture on my computer. Espacio La Paulita was my first long stop and I loved my time there. I also love that I have pieces of it that can travel with me. I also love that I can’t see cows without thinking about that little patch of land in Argentina. |
Casual CommuniquesOccasionally, you'll see a post with musings, specific, adventures, & whatever else I feel like sharing. Archives
August 2017
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