Transitioning of Seasons: Reflections on 2012

I set my work lap top down, lean back in my creaky wooden chair, and take a deep breath. My San Francisco flat feels extra cozy today. I peer out the window at our makeshift "garden" that I've convinced myself I've played a crucial role in grooming, and realize I haven't taken a rake or hoe to it since the day the Giants won the World Series. But even so, I notice that the grass appears a few shades greener and livelier than it did on that magical Sunday nearly three months ago. As I zone out, watching the long blades of grass dance in the breeze, I start to wonder how much credit I really deserve on maintaining that garden and making it grow... or whether it simply takes care of itself as part of nature that it is- that although its essence stays the same as blades of grass, it will continue, as it always has, to change with the seasons- its shape, its form, its color, as well as its age, regardless of how much effort I do or do not exert. Maybe it is meant to stay wild and un-tamed. And I also think that maybe it is more beautiful this way.

It is almost noon and I am done with work for the day. In 12 hours I will be bringing in the new year in a little red dress, a glass of champagne- (who am I kidding, it will probably be Makers Mark), and a toast to the beginning of a fresh year. True to form, I tend to reflect in moments like this. As the moments close in on a transformation into a new year, I can't help but reflect on my own transformation.

I have always been a bit of a firecracker. Since I was a little girl, I've seen the world as my oyster and the possibilities endless. I've never accepted the idea that life simply "happens" to us; I understand that we are all dealt a different hand in life and are all de-railed by a host of situations and circumstances. I understand the inevitability of sacrifice. This is a part of life. However, I've always refused to settle on the belief that I have do something simply because I'm told, or because that is the "norm" in our society. In other words, I think life is far too short and precious for us to be doing anything other than what we truly desire in our hearts.

I have experienced a lot of happiness and my fair share of pain. I have accomplishments I am proud of, and I have also made mistakes. I have been a lot of places and there are still so many places I want to go. I have seen people with endless amounts of money and sad souls. I have seen people with barely enough money to make it through the day, yet there is a bright light radiating from behind those unyielding eyes. I have seen so much beauty in this world that it is overwhelming. Sometimes, I feel so much gratitude I can't possibly wrap my arms around it tight enough.

I think back to where I was last year at this time, and I can't help but smile at how much has changed, how much I've grown, and how much has remained relatively the same. In no particular order...

I've held down my first "real job" for over a year now. I work at an awesome company that just got acquired by the big dog in the industry. It's been an amazing experience and I've learned a lot that I'm excited to take with me. I've had more fun at this "real job" than I ever thought was possible in a work environment. I have also discovered what I do not want to become.

I've become a Yellow Chord in Capoeira. When I first saw Capoeira being played on the streets of Ecuador, I fell in love with it.. the music, the beauty and subtlety in the movements, the hard work, the patience, the endurance, the Brazilian culture. I loved it and wanted to be a part of it. And that I did.

I moved to San Francisco in a great house near Golden Gate park. I have two awesome roommates and two bastard cats named Julius and Caesar who show up in our yard now and again.

I read several books by Paulo Coehlo- his words are food for my soul and inspire me every time.

I took control of cutting toxicity out of my life, whether this in the form of "stuff" or people. I've embraced the idea that just because somebody wants me in their life, by no means do I need to be. I want good people in my life with good intentions who care about me. And I want to be the same to them. If somebody is not meeting these requirements, I will not keep them around.

I became financially stable. (hooray!)

My heart was broken.. or so I thought. And then I woke up one day and realized nothing was broken at all, simply released. Through this came a lot of lessons. For this one, I truly couldn't be more grateful.

I've recognized the nature of impermanence, and the beauty and blessing beheld.

I met about 25 Vickerys in Bend, Oregon- 2nd all the way to 5th cousins. And they are fabulous!

I spent several days in Red River, New Mexico with the girls who I consider to be the loves of my life as far as friendship goes (TLFL). I watched my good friend get married to the love of her life and I felt so happy for her.

I had my highschool reunion which confirmed my beliefs that our essence doesn't ever really change, just the seasons.

Cutting toxicity out of my life has allowed for more room. I've made some great new friends.

I found somebody who I completely adore. I also love his dog.

This is just a taste. But all in all, I can say this year has been a great one, and I look forward to the next. As for what I hope to accomplish in 2013, I'll save for another time, or maybe just for myself. But I can say this: I am so thankful for everyone who has helped shape me into who I am today. I know that I have so much to learn and many changes to make. I still have many un-quenched thirsts... But today, in this moment, I feel fulfilled.

I plan to continue to challenge myself and to live life deeply, never on the surface. To follow my heart and embrace the change that comes with the seasons. In many ways, I relate to those wild blades of grass dancing in the breeze outside my window...

Lighting Dark Corners in Uyuni, Bolivia

If I've learned anything about traveling during my time on the road, it is that it is a true art form. Sometimes simple, sometimes explosive, but always full of beauty and contrast. Letting the road unwind itself as it may, either by choice or force, has led to some of my most fulfilling experiences.

One of the greatest challenges for U.S. citizens traveling through South America, Bolivia in particular, is that as a rule of thumb nothing goes as expected. Buses don't come on time or sometimes even at all, tourists get ripped off, strikes break out on a regular basis, internet doesn't work, civil unrest is common, and corruption is prevalent at every level... Call it experience, call it being jaded, but eventually these types of hardships stopped bothering me. I found that my choice was to either fight the wave or learn to surf it; and trust me, it's a choice. We've all had moments where we feel nothing is going as we had expected and frustration creeps its ugly head in. But as I've discovered, with a simple (but not always easy) change in perspective, there's beauty to be found in the seemingly most dire of circumstances.

Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't always this tough and awesome. The limits of my patience were tested years ago when I lived in the bustling and contradictory city of Bangkok. After originally struggling to make their lifestyle fit with my former lifestyle, I realized I was punching air and gave in. And suddenly a weight was lifted off my shoulders and I was free to grow and change. There's a profound sense of peace to be discovered when you wholeheartedly make the decision to let go of your ideals and let things unfold as they may.

From then on, I made an effort to cultivate this sort of acceptance, and before long I welcomed unplanned events. Through the years, I've discovered that the unplanned situations I find myself in, situations that are potentially frustrating, where nothing goes as expected, turn out to be the most memorable.

Case in point: Being snowed in in Uyuni, Bolivia on the 4th of July. Cold, wet, trapped, alone, and steered away from the reason I went there, to see the Salt Flats, turned out to be one of the most memorable parts of my journey. And yes, I'd be happy to tell you the story...

I make my way to Uyuni from Rurrenabaque, the rugged jungle of Northern Bolivia, with my sweet Tunisian friend Zico who I had met while survival trekking in the wilderness. We arrive in Uyuni on July 3rd at the convenient hour of 3:30 a.m., after a daunting combination of stuffy buses and icy trains.

It is COLD. Snowing and COLD. We climb off the train, bleary-eyed and teeth-chattering, and emerge into the lost city of Uyuni, a town that has seen better days. As we slush our way down the sidewalk, our nostrils numbing with each breath, the deafening silence hangs heavily between us, and I can't help but feel a pang of sorrow for this forgotten city. The thick ominous air tells the tale of a city once bursting with charm and vigor, but long ago passed its prime and slowly transitioned into a ghost town, a town that "once was". It's now nearly abandoned, consisting of one long desolate road, a few crumbling statues, and several faded motel signs. Travelers pass through for one reason only: to come see the salt flats, and then disappear into the night on a midnight train, just as stealth and unannounced as they arrived.

We find an old beaten up motel and bang on the door. A tired old man with a cane and lonely eyes opens the door, beckons us inside, and points toward a vacant room for us to stay. The room has no heat. The showerhead is covered with icicles, and the bed is damn cold. I wrap myself up in every article of clothing I own, including four pairs of socks, two warm hats, and two mittens on each hand, and climb into bed. I try to wiggle my toes but can't feel them. As I shake and shiver my way to some form of unconsciousness, I vow to go see these damn salt flats tomorrow and get the hell out of town.

I awake a couple hours later the same way I went down: shivering. I peer out the window and see that the sidewalks and roofs are covered in fresh blankets of silky snow. It looks more promising in the daylight and I get excited. I'm like a child when I see snow. True to my sun-kissed California roots, snow to me has always represented something more foreign, a fairytale land.

With new found hope, I leap out of bed and gear up for the day. I grab my partner in crime, Zico, and we rush to the jeep tour office, only to find... traffic in Uyuni has come to a stand still. There are no jeeps headed to the Salt Flats due to heavy snow and poor visibility. And there are no buses or taxis allowed on the road. Indefinitely. Fabulous. We are then informed that the only way out of town is by train, which leaves twice a week. And tonight at 1:30 a.m. is a train.

I consult with my travel partner Zico and we decide, both of us having very little time left in South America, to forego the salt flats and leave town by train that night. As we purchase our advance tickets, we run into three Brazilian guys we recognize from our train ride in and introduce ourselves. The five of us, all being stuck together in Uyuni for the day, agree to become friends and make the best of it. I love how easy it is to make friends on the road: a wink, a nod, and an unspoken agreement that the friendship has begun.

We are cold, standing around in the snow chatting, so we make it our mission to find a toasty bar with a fireplace to warm ourselves over mulled wine and cocoa leaves.

As anyone who knows me well could probably guess, this plan quickly evolves into a downward spiral of debaucherous bliss. The five of us play around all day, ordering bottles of wine and chewing cocoa leaves like it's our last day on Earth. I reason with myself by deciding, hey, it very well could be.

Our group of stranded wanderers steadily grows as the day lingers on, as the sun polks through the gray skies and casts a glimmer of light on the town. Before long there are seven or eight Brazilians, a couple German trekkers, a few Spaniards, one Tunisian, and me, sitting around an array of tables in a cozy pizza restaurant. They toast me, somewhat mockingly, to it being my country's independence day. And I think to myself, how ironic.. what better way to celebrate my own independence than with a group of strangers from different corners of the globe, in a small town that I can't pronounce, in one of the least tourist countries in South America?

The day unfolds itself nicely. We tease each other, laugh hysterically at what we can only assume is lost in translation, order endless bottles of cheap shiraz, throw snowballs at each other, snap photos, smoke massive cigars, and attempt to mingle with local guardsmen who aren't half as amused as we are. We eat surprisingly delicious pizza drenched in spicy aji sauce as we all fight to warm our toes around the only space heater at the only bar. Zico tries to teach our new friends how to speak in Tunisian, and they stare back at him blankly. I teach our new friends the correct way to chew cocao leaves to obtain the best taste and the optimal high, an art I gracefully mastered during my time in the jungle. I share my big bag of cocoa leaves with them. Between my English, the Brazilians' Portuguese, and our collective poor Spanish, we struggle to find middle ground.

Night falls and we dance the night away at a hidden bar we find called Extreme Fun Bar. How better can I describe it than by saying it was extremely fun?! "California Girls" by Katie Perry comes on and I confidently make my way to the dance floor and bust out. And no, I'm not proud of it.

I check the time and it is 1:00 a.m. I call for Zico, who has somehow managed to lose his shirt and is behind the bar pouring shots and yelling that it's the best night of his life. I grab him and our backpacks and do some sort of a stumble-run to the train station, while the Brazilians trudge along behind us to send us off. We snap some final pictures to remember our day in Uyuni, say our goodbyes, and then huddle in the corner of the train station eagerly waiting for the train.

We wait for the train. And we wait for the train. That train never came. What happens there at the train station that bitter cold snowy night is something almost indescribable. I'll keep it for another time, if any. Simple words won't do it justice. But I will say tears were shed, babies were crying, and people slowly lost their minds and faded from consciousness. It was very cold. I became delirious. Zico became frantic. We waited for hours and hours. He insisted I take all the clothes he had in his bag, including the jacket off his back, so I would stay warm, while he stood and shivered uncontrollably. At that exact moment we crossed a new threshold of travel friendship. Tears stung my eyes as I watched him, the one who was always so calm, collect, and Tunisian, lose it. And his only concern was that I stay warm, and the children stay warm; there, on that snowy night in the Uyuni train station, I watched him become my protector and take care of me as if he had known me for years rather than days. It was bittersweet, painful, and dug deep into my soul.

At 5:00 a.m., after four hours waiting in the snow, we give in. Our bodies are numb, our minds are numb, and somehow the train has gotten lost on the tracks. Without a word, we struggle to make our way back toward the town. A combination of cold, exhaustion, and a headache from the cheap wine has overtaken us and we find it difficult to walk. We knock on motel door after door but nobody will help us. They're either full or aren't in the mood to bother with stragglers. We finally find a generous enough woman who we plead with to give us a room. She sees defeat written all over our faces and lets us in. Okay, she says, and overcharges us three times the price and sticks us in a filthy room on the fifth floor. I no longer have the capacity to care. Again, a cold room. I watch my breath as I lay on the bed in a comatose state. Another night of attempting to shiver myself to unconcsciousness.. But I can't sleep. My brain feels frozen and my muscles are shriveled. I try to distract myself by daydreaming about what I have waiting for me back home, but it's too painful. Home feels a million miles away, in every sense of the word.

Somehow, the final hour of darkness subsides and I open my eyes to a shred of sunlight rudely reminding me the train never came and I'm still stuck in Uyuni. More exhausted and worn than I've ever felt, I manage to peel myself out of bed. Zico is lying in his bed and refuses to budge. I tell him the sun is shining and God has blessed us with another day in Uyuni. He laughs at my attempt to make light of the situation. We grab our backpacks, check out, and saunter back toward the jeep tour office. I don't mention a word about last night; I sense he is still feeling heaviness in his heart and doesn't want to talk about it.

The jeep driver tells us visibility is good and we can now go see the Salt Flats. Hooray. So, we cram in a jeep with two bright-eyed cheery couples who had just gotten to town, and take that damn tour to see the salt flats. And yes, let me tell you, they are spectacular. And worth it.

But to be honest, it almost didn't matter anymore. Our plan was to travel into Uyuni for the day, use it as a jumping point to visit the salt flats, and leave town. But Bolivia had a different plan for us. And rather than fight it or sulk, we let it happen. We surrounded ourselves by other travelers, learned about each other, drank copious amounts of cheap shiraz, played in the snow, danced at the only bar in town, and took pictures atop crumbling statues. We felt the joy and sorrow of Uyuni. We laughed, cried, huddled and nearly froze while we waited for the train that never came. We nearly collapsed with exhaustion.

And in the end, Zico and I parted ways with an understanding of each other that that can only be obtained through facing new experiences and hardships together. He had looked out for me when it counted most. He had comforted me and I had comforted him. We didn't plan on spending three days in Uyuni, but we did. None of this was expected. And now it was time to say goodbye.

I found a group of Colombians on the street corner who told me they had bribed an off duty bus driver to take them back to La Paz late that night, and agreed to join them. I decided I couldn't die a happy woman until I had been involved in a monetary bribe with Colombians. Zico was off to Potosi. Our roads were diverging. We wished each other well and I boarded a bus with twenty Colombians. As I curled myself into a small seat crammed against the window, Zico yelled out from below for me to keep in touch. I told him I would. I knew it was a lie. Deep down I knew our time had come to an end and our roads would probably never cross again.

No matter how different our lives become, all of us we'll always remember the joy and sorrow of our passing spot of time we all shared in the forgotten town of Uyuni.

"For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” – Robert Louis Stevenson

Drifting Between Two Worlds...

How does one go...

From waking up each morning on a hay stack bed, gazing up at the half-torn tarp roof clinging to its last fibers, piercing shrieks of hungry roosters in the distance, sixteen worn and scruffy people flung beside you, all crammed in one shanty bedroom.

To waking up in a king-sized bed, arms outstretched, drowning in a sea of floral scented comforters. Alone in a bedroom far too big, fan on full blast, the sun gently casting its rays through plantation shutters, the smell of fresh coffee roasting in the kitchen.

How does one go...

From working manual labor all day beneath the harsh sun.. shovels, wheel barrows, bruised knees and elbows, sun-scorched shoulders, sore backs.

To heel clicking through the financial district in the city of San Francisco.. crisp business suit, quick pace, corporate rat race.

From cold showers, pet cockroaches, filthy tap water, constant stomach problems, an inconceivable level of poverty.

To alarm clocks, $5 morning starbucks, four wheel drive, health standards, safe and civil roads.

How does one drift between two worlds and make sense of the vast discrepancy between the two?

How does one go...

From witnessing infinite amounts of gratitude illuminating through the smiles of families who have finally been granted a concrete floor they had been hoping for? And then spending days pouring and leveling that concrete floor for them, while they use the very little money they have to prepare you rice and lentils for lunch to show their appreciation.

To witnessing envy, greed, high stress levels, and the overall feeling by most of just not being good enough, never being quite enough. All the while they're making five or six digit salaries, watching football on their 55-inch TV screens, and ordering extra large pizzas for delivery so they don't have to uproot themselves from their lazy boy couches.

The discrepancies are outrageous. And to shift between these two worlds is anything but effortless.. it is hard, sad, contradictory, enlightening, and frustrating.

We are by no means static. What we subject ourselves to changes us, molds us, hurts us, strengthens us, and gives us hope. Our thoughts, peers, what we hear and what we see. What we watch and what we read. Whether we choose to realize it or not, we take a little bit of it all and carry it with us.

I am a product of both worlds. My heart has grown to accommodate all the experiences in my life that I've chosen to keep. Both have molded me and shaped me in a multitude of ways. And which world do I prefer? I prefer the values of the first world. I prefer gratitude over greed, happiness over wealth, liveliness over staleness. I prefer to wake up rugged and hungry for life. I prefer the simplicity, the realness, the raw feeling of energy at the tips of my fingers and toes. I prefer inspiration, spirituality, things that matter. I prefer real people, real hardships, real choices, and real smiles to a life fueled by money and skewed perceptions of who we are and what is important in life.

And sometimes it angers me. I wonder where we went wrong and how we became so selfish. I wonder why people waste their minds and voices on such inane topics, and why we care so much about things that we inevitably have to let go of. I wonder why we self destruct, and why so many people knowingly walk around rich and unhappy. I wonder why it has to be one or the other. And why we can't see what is right before us, how we are so blinded to the fate we have created for ourselves. I wonder why we run in endless circles and can't see that if we just stop and look around, it all becomes clear. All we need to know unveils itself in silence. And I wonder how I, despite feeling and understanding this, can integrate myself right back in with society, like a puzzle piece that went missing but never actually changed its form.

And then, it comes. Like a cool breeze drifting through a cracked window, cutting through the stale air, it settles over me. A quiet, private aura of gratitude and happiness. And I feel relief. I put down the frustrations that I carry, and let go of the misunderstandings and incongruities I've witnessed. And I replace it with gratitude for my perspective. I feel blessed that I have the drive and willpower to have led myself down these off-beaten paths that have ultimately changed me. And I feel happy to know that these experiences are mine for the taking. I will always have them, and nothing will ever change that. My heart has expanded to make room for the people and places that have snuck their way in. And I feel strong. With effort, patience, and lots of compassion, I am learning how to drift between two worlds.

A Blessing and a Curse: Life as a PSF Volunteer

There aren't sufficient words to describe my feelings toward a place like Pisco Sin Fronteras. To be a part of it is both a blessing and a curse. It's a place where you walk in the rusty gate a stranger, and leave a changed person with far more attachments than intended.

That's how it was for me anyway. I spent the better part of my time in Peru at this shanty but lovely hut contraption, six days a week, working beneath the blazing sun performing manual labor. Three weeks prior, I had barely up a hammer, let alone spent day in and day out building houses, pouring concrete, and constructing fences. It was challenging and more rewarding than anything I've ever done.

Pisco Sin Fronteras is a volunteer organization that was founded after the earthquake of 2007 which destroyed over 80% of the city. The organization focuses mainly on rebuilding the town, houses, schools, and teaching English to children and along with other types of community development work. And the best part of all? They don't charge you an arm and a leg to participate. For under $5 a day, you're provided with two meals a day and a bed. And the meals are amazing. The bed is not.. it's essentially a stack of hay which can be rather pokey and uncomfortable to sleep on. But we all have to make sacrifices, right?

The attachments I formed were strong and unforgettable. I met the families of the homes I worked on, who would hover around, fixated and beaming. They would provide us with a home-cooked meal for lunch, typically consisting of dodgy chicken, lentils, rice, and a whole heap of spicy aji, my absolute favorite. The final week I worked on a woman's house who hand-made some of the tastiest and spiciest aji sauce I'd ever tried. I made such a rave about how amazing it was that the bowl of aji got bigger and bigger everyday: she hand-made extra for me simply because I enjoyed it. How can you not get attached to that? The families are adorable and incredibly grateful for the work we do.

Nobody takes the motto "Work hard, Play hard" more to heart than the volunteers of PSF. Everybody pours their heart and soul into the work they do.. and then don't hesitate to crack open a couple Bramas around the fire in the evening after a hard day's work. This is where some of my best moments at PSF were. As soon as the Pisco sun set (many of which I would climb up on the roof to watch), the night would grow chilly. We would fight the chill by bundling up and having a bonfire in the middle of our courtyard while nursing beers and chatting. Usually it stayed at this mellow level, but every now and again our innocent intentions would turn into long nights out at the local discotecas, which was always a blast. What wasn't a blast was peeling ourselves out of bed at 7:30 the next morning to begin a long day of work with a hangover. Lesson learned? I think not.. Lessons for me don't usually stick until the third or fourth time. Don't judge.

Pisco is not a conventionally "nice" city. The place is broken down, and the dirt roads are piled high with trash. But it's hard not to admire the people of Pisco. They have been through so much, yet radiate resilience and hope. It's inspiring.

We, the volunteers of PSF, live in incredibly close quarters with each other. In my room there were 16 of us, and we all sleep on hard beds made of hay and wash ourselves in cold showers. I grew to like this. We are bonded because each of us are in this together. Nobody is living in luxury, and for the the most part, nobody is getting special treatment. We all live close to the ground, just as we all work close to the ground. There are no contradictions in the life of a PSF volunteer.

So how is it a curse? It's a curse because the work is never finished; there is always another family around the corner living in dire circumstances. It's a curse because I formed attachments to both people and the community, and to part is painful. It's a curse because ever since I left, I have missed it and the work we do. I miss the simplicity of the lifestyle, and I miss the people.

But most of all, I miss the passing spot of time that we all shared between ourselves and with the city of Pisco... a moment that isn't easily explained, but has ingrained itself into my heart, and there is where I know it will remain forever.

The Joy of Border Crossings

Border crossings in South America are not for the weak-hearted. The combination of confusion, paranoia and a fuzzy head from an uncomfortable 14 hour bus ride left me standing somewhere near the Ecuador-Peruvian border in a daze. The sequence of events that led me to this point made it a memorable adventure. And at the end of the day, that's what it boils down to...Another adventure.

There's only so much you can do to prepare for border crossings between underdeveloped countries. Doing it alone as a blonde female, with very little Spanish, adds another level of fun to the mix. There's no chance of blending in with the sea of Ecuadorians and Peruvians.

I left Montanita at the peak party hour of 4:30 a.m. (although I didn't partake in the fiesta, I got my rest so I'd be ready to handle the day of buses changes that would hopefully land me in Mancora, Peru).

So I hop on a bus to Guayaquil, a city I have zero interest in visiting for more than a couple hours. I arrive at the bus station by late morning. It resembles an airport. The place is massive, four stories high, packed with food courts and shops. After searching around and being shouted at and propositioned by loads of bus companies to come to Quito (I wanted to scream "Hell No"), I finally find the bus that will take me to Tumbes, which is the first town in Peru after crossing the border from Ecuador. There are a couple other border crossings, but this is the one I was told was the most straight forward and safe. I buy my ticket for 8 dollars and search for the platform.

I find the international platform, located on the fourth floor, step outside and am hit with a wave of exhaustion. The weight of the humidity along with my backpack immediately makes me break into a sweat. But I sigh in relief, because the bus is in front of me and I'm headed to Peru.

Not quite. Within seconds I'm approached by two policemen.. and then two more, and then two more. They circle around me and ask to see my passport, so I dig through my bag and hand it to them. They look more entertained than anything, flipping thoroughly through each page, scouring each stamp and visa, pointing and smiling and showing the others as if it were a comic strip. They clearly find it very amusing.

When they finish humouring themselves with my potentially suspicious visas, they move on to my bus ticket, and immediately decide they have a problem with it. In quick Spanish that I can't comprehend, the six of them chime in trying to explain to me that there is something wrong with my ticket. But what? I understand them tell me I needed to change it. But why? Not a clue. Something about it is apparently amiss and between their poor English and my poor Spanish and mild nervousness, it was lost in translation.

The bus is scheduled to leave in ten minutes, and I have to get on it if I want to make it to the border before dark.. which is far more preferrable. So, somehow these six Ecuadorian policemen and I need to come to a resolution, and fast. I ask them what I should do. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my forehead and did what I always do in situations like this.. pep-talk myself in my head to remain calm and confident. They asked me where I got my ticket. Let's try the bus station? I told them downstairs at a ticket office. Finally one police officer, with my bus ticket and passport in hand, asks me to follow him. I grab my passport back first, and then agree. I let him take me on a wild goose chase to the ticket company I bought it from on the bottom floor. He cuts the line and proceeds to chew out the ticket guy for a reason I cannot explain. Then, like it was nothing, he simply handed me back my unchanged ticket and said "Esta bien" (It's all good). Really?

As he walks me back to the platform, he casually engages me in conversation.. how I am enjoying my time in Ecuador, how long I am traveling for, why I am alone, the usual banter. The bus leaves in two minutes. I answer his questions in the best Spanish I could, trying to pick up our walking pace.

Finally, back at the platform. I ask the bus driver if the bus is for Tumbes, and he says yes. I put my backpack underneath the bus and climb on. Something feels off. The bus is tiny and scruffy and looks like an inner city bus, which isn't typical for a 9 hour journey. I've learned it's always good to double and possibly triple-check with important things like this, so I decide to ask the girl next to me if this bus goes to Tumbes. She looks shocked by my question. This can't be good. She engages in some commotion with other passengers and then turns to me and simply says "no". The bus driver turns on the engine. Before I can stand up, a man working at the bus station runs on the bus and grabs me and tells me to get off. I comply and follow him off the bus. He asks me where I'm going and I say Tumbes, and he says no buses leave to Tumbes. He asks to look at my ticket. While he's studying my Guayaquil-Tumbes ticket, I glance up and notice all the locals on the bus have rolled down their windows and are sticking their heads out... to watch the story unfold with the confused gringa.

The bus starts to pull away. He tells me to get back on the bus because wherever this bus is headed I can catch another bus to the border. I ask him if he is sure. He says yes, of which I am skeptical. But I have to go somewhere, so I promise myself to be as strong and safe as possible in whatever unknown city I end up in. I get back on the bus, all curious eyes on me, and take a seat in an empty row.

A Peruvian guy a couple rows over tries to get my attention and motions for me to come sit with him. He has aviators on and thick black hair slicked back with what appears to be a gallon of sticky gel. He is wearing a skin-tight nylon v-neck, with army pants and boots. No gracias. He insists. I watch as he kicks out the guy in the seat next to him and asks me to sit wth him. Still, no gracias. But since his English seems decent, I ask the name of the city the bus is headed to. Then I check on a map. Not so bad, looks close enough to the border to figure it out from there. Rico Suave doesn't give up. Since I won't sit with him, he moves up a row so he is closer to me. Then he hands me a binder.


Out of curiosity, I take it from him and flip through it. Not sure how to react.. It's a picture album packed with photographs depicting him and young white girls. They all look like a cross between horrible karaoke shows and mild pedophelia. In every picture there's a row of very young white females, scantily dressed, standing in front of a white wall. They were all the same. And in every photo, he was in the middle with a microphone, looking like a cheap rock star. Before I could figure out my reaction, he was shoving his business card in my face, telling me he is looking for more back-up singers and dancers and would love for me to join his twisted sex-trafficking ring. Again, Rico Suave, no gracias. I give him his binder back, wondering if this really ever actually works on girls... but not until he writes down every contact number on the back off his card and insists I call him. It will "change my life". I bet it will.

Cheap bus rides are never relaxing, but always intriguing. People continuously hop on and off the bus, selling everything from fried fish to jewelery. Every so often someone jumps on the bus and spends 30 mins giving a speech.. either a sob story about how they have no money, or a presentation that resembles an infomercial. One man jumps on in a business suit with a briefcase, and spends the better part of an hour trying to sell the passengers a cure for arthiritis. I thoroughly enjoy it.. I find it fascinating that he is trying to sell arthiritis medicine on a bus, and even more interesting that half the passengers ended up buying it from him.

Time goes by. I hug my purse and backpack to my chest and drift in and out of sleep, waking up occasionally to drunk men stumbling through the bus slurring their words begging for money. I'm shoved up against the window and the sun is scorching through. I can feel my face getting sunburned. The bus driver is cutting back and forth between lanes, overtaking other buses and trucks on narrow one way lanes. Every now and again he jerks the bus back into the lane the moment before a head-on collision. The man in front of me has his seat reclined so far back the circulation in my legs is being cut off and his head is in my lap. I promise myself next time I will opt for Cruz del Sur, the supposed "nice" bus company.

At one point, after 7 hours or so, the bus pulls over on the side of the highway. I look outside and see a small hut across the street. The bus driver rushes over to me and tells me to get off here for my exit stamp. I've read about this. For no other reason yet to complicate things, the place to get your Ecuador exit stamp is 8 km or so from the border. Apparently I'm the only one who needs it, since everyone else remains seated. I dodge across the highway and hand my passport to the man in the hut. He takes his time, flipping through all the pages and having me fill out some forms. I glance across the street and see the bus start to slowly pull back into the street. I ask the visa guy to hurry up, and he does. I rush back across the highway. The bus is already moving again. They love to do this. So I run and jump on the bus, something I've grown quite accustomed to doing this past month in South America.

A little while later, the bus pulls over and announces it's last stop. As I climb off, I have Rico Suave on my back saying I can come with him to cross the border. The bus driver hands me my bag, along with $2.50 for a reason I cannot explain. He tells me to follow Rico Suave. I pocket the money and walk the opposite direction and lose Rico Suave in the crowd. We are near the border. There are markets everywhere and taxi drivers grabbing me trying to get me into their taxi. One of the girls who was on the bus tells me I can follow her to cross the border. I take her up on it. She is with five other Ecuadorians so I decide to go with them. We walk for 15 minutes or so until we see the sign that says "Bienvenidos a Peru" and I can immediately tell we are in a border town. Everyone from young boys to old women are pulling wheelbarrows and carts strapped to their back full of wood, rocks, and all sorts of clothes and jewelery across the border. The streets are lined with men in suits sitting with open briefcases stuffed with money. I decide I'll exhange my money elsewhere.

The six Ecuadorians find a guy who says he will drive us. To where, I'm not sure, but why not, Feels like my safest bet. A little while later we pull up at immigration office. I get my Peruvian visa. He then drives us furthur into Peru, and I realize I have reached Tumbes.

There's always so much hustle and bustle exiting cars in border towns, especially when your backpack is spotted. Men surround us, trying to grab our bags and tell us they will take us where we need to go. One guy grabs my bag. I grab it back and tell him I need to go to Mancora. He tells me he has a van with people who are going to Mancora. I go across the street and buy a ticket to Mancora, then shove in a van with more locals. Again I drift in and out of sleep. We drive down a highway surrounded only by vast desert on each side. The van driver pulls over at one point and jumps out. I turn around to see where he went and notice he has only pulled over to relieve himself behind the van. Gotta love Peru.

After 14 hours and plenty of confusion and entertainment, I can proudly say that I made it. The driver drops me off in the beach town of Mancora.

I've quickly learned that bus journeys in South America are very differemt from bus journeys back home. You never simply jump on at one stop and end up in your promised location. Well, I don't anyway. It's always a real adventure trying to decode what is going on and who I should trust. But, in the end it's always worth it. I always feel very accomplished and relieved when I realize that me, my bags, and my sanity have all made it to my destination in one piece. More or less.