So much to tell, ask me for details 'cause I can't write it all

I was in Colorado on crack. I was not on crack, the mountains were. When the wind shifted and made the grass in the field shine and reflect the sun, I caught a breath of familiarity. When the flies and birds harmonized just so with the river singing in the background, or when the sun highlighted the mountains orange at the end of the day -- just for a split second I knew where I was. Then, instead of an abrupt noise, an insistent silence broke my thoughts. I was in Belén, a pretty little ghost of a town, home to almost fifty, where a smattering of houses and a fertile valley rise steeply into dry mountains -- more drastic than I’ve ever seen. At least I think I was there. Now it feels more likely that I was living in an alternate plane that only appears in dreams.

Things that may or may not have been real:

Ë The drive to Belén. Two by two, we were dropped off in different villages hours apart for our indigenous homestay on a windy dirt road. When I wasn’t sleeping, I was thinking we were probably going to go careening over the edge.

v My hostess. At first Señora Natalia, a little old lady whose head doesn’t even reach my shoulders, seemed shy. But she did not stop talking in her cute little voice since five minutes into my stay there. History, stories, gossip -- I wish I had caught every single word she said because they were all so entertaining! She lives alone and still farms her plots of land down the road. Although this was my indigenous homestay, my hostess claims that her family is not Aymaran, they’re Spanish.

Leading me to the field

Digging for potatoes

    Ë Belén itself. 

        It’s soooo small, so quiet.

Belén in its entirety 

v The mix of old and new. Houses built out of adobe the way they have been for years and years; novellas (soap operas) on tv at night. Aymaran rituals for harvesting; Catholic church with kitschy statues of Jesus, Mary, and random saints. An old kitchen, separated from the rest of the house, with walls stained black from the woodburning stove; instant Ensure for breakfast every morning.

Ë Our bus breaking down. In the middle of nowhere. In the driest desert in the world. After four days of the homestay a couple tour buses came to pick each of us up in our little villages. In my bus we were excitedly talking about our different experiences when we stopped and the driver hopped off only to come back on announcing he was going to walk 10k to somewhere (the somewhere was unclear) to get help because the axel was broken. So there we were, seven kids alone in the scene of a horror movie. Luckily we had plenty of water and many of us were stocked with homemade goat cheese and fried bread. Two hours passed quickly as we sang Joni Mitchell at the top of our lungs, listening to the echo in the vast nothingness, nothingness, nothingness…and a cop came rolling around the corner with our bus driver. The seven of us, plus the cop and driver, plus all our luggage, squeezed into the truck, and we were driven to a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, where we waited for another bus to come and take us to Arica.

After all the adventures in the north, I am now back in Valparaiso, ready to start the next chapter of the SIT program --- the independent project. Actually, I’m ready to rest for a day or two --- and then start the project. 

Sending love!