#wordmadeflesh

I left for Bolivia on October 9 and returned to Oregon on Halloween. I’ve been home in Portland for three months now, quietly processing the experience as I continue building a life here in a new city. The holidays presented a fresh crop of opportunities to bring people into my experience in Bolivia - it reminded me that I do not have the pleasure of getting to do that with all of you. Let me do this now. Forgive me, friends, for taking so long.

I write to you on a pale “the sun forgot how to act sun-like” kind of day. I can hear my roommate’s dog snoring on the couch and the faint thrum of percussion from my neighbor’s speakers. I’m glancing every now and again at a notebook containing papers I collected over three weeks in Bolivia: slips of traveler medication instructions, a Word Made Flesh Bolivia orientation manual, layout drafts of the annual report sketched in thin blue ink, and Spanish conjugation practice sheets. This notebook was originally an impulse buy right before I left the States - I intended to use it for my Spanish classes. Once I arrived in Bolivia, it became my journal as well when I realized I had forgotten my leather Etsy journal beside my bed in Oregon. For me, the prospect of no journal is like having my hands cut off. I need to write in order to process, to take notice, to remember. 

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I remember there were many “firsts” about this trip. I experienced my first solo traveling trip abroad, living with my first ever host family, figuring out how to navigate public transportation in new cities, and my first pang of homesickness.

I nearly missed one of my connecting flights. The classic movie scene of running full-speed through the airport, carry-ons jostling against my body became a reality for me and five other unlucky travelers. As I ran after the person in front of me, silently cursing the airline for its long hallways and that my gate was at the farthest corner, I briefly entertained the thought of What Would Happen If I Missed My Flight. It was grim, but not without charms. Then I heard them announce final boarding for my flight. I shook my head and tried to pump my flight-leaden legs harder, spurred on by the approaching pants and footfalls of other desperate passengers. I made it to my flight and unceremoniously dumped my bags and body into my assigned seat. The Bolivian woman next to me was lovely and we chatted about Bolivia and her experiences in the States. She warned me not to go to El Alto because of the criminal activity there; I didn’t have the heart to tell her that that was exactly where I would be working. After a long flight, I arrived in Bolivia and was greeted by Ali Fraze, the Volunteer Coordinator for WMF Bolivia.

This is Ali, aka Mama Bear. In her first act of taking care of me, Ali introduced me to my host family, acted as a liaison as I communicated with my host mother, and firmly instructed me to hydrate and rest. Altitude sickness is a real concern - the cities I stayed in are at twice the elevation as Denver, Colorado. For the next two weeks, I would climb a set of stairs and have to rest as my head pounded and lungs heaved. This struck me as mildly hilarious considering I had recently completed a difficult half-marathon. Ah, fitness goals; you forsook me!

I settled into my bed, feeling my head pulsing, blithely acknowledging the two water bottles sitting on my bedside table at the ready. I nodded off to the sounds of Ali’s crackling laugh and Mama Elena’s murmurs in Spanish.

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I’ll be writing more about this and other experiences at wildreverence.wordpress.com from here on out.

Thanks friends,