…If I could go back…
Bolivia was a very special place for me. Not only because of it’s beautiful landscape and its’ way too delicious food, but because of its’ people. Some of the people I met there have forever printed a part of their soul in my heart and taught me so much about myself, about who I am, who I’m not and most of all – about who I want to be.
To see their struggles and share their joy, to be treated with more generosity than they can afford, to be welcomed into their home as one of their own,to be invited into their every day life, to get an insight into their culture, listen to their dreams and almost feel their fears… and maybe most of all to see how infinite and enduring their faith is… that has bewildered me.
After three months I had both laughed and cried more together with them than I had done in a long time together with somebody back home. It turned out to be an unexpectedly insightful and intense journey because of everything those people taught me just by letting me step into their world. I will forever cherish that and remember the last day when we all cried together in the dining room probably already then knowing, but denying, that we would never laugh together again.
If I could see them again I would tell them about the immense gratitude I feel towards them for everything they have come to mean to me. I would tell O. that I remember the time we bathed in Río Mateo in the mystical rainforests of Chapare while the rain was pouring down on us and everything about our trip to Lake Titicaca; how we looked for the hostel that she knew “was here somewhere”, “at least last time I was here” she kept saying, which was many, many years ago; about the cold nights and the time we drank Api and ate empanadas con asucar early in the mornings while the air was still chilly and the sun just about to awaken the town of Copacabana; how we enjoyed the magical sunsets over the calm lake that the Incas believed was the place where the Sun and mankind was born; how we stubbornly climbed “Las 14 estaciones” and lit candles for the others at the top of El Calvario and how she, a strictly professional, worn out, seemingly cold and distant lady, turned into this youthful, smiling, easygoing and warm woman with a contagious laughter and a sparkle in her eyes that none around her got to see any longer. At the same time as I hated life for having robbed her of that sparkle I remember feeling privileged to have seen that beautiful side of her during those days at the lake.
If I could I would tell E. how much I miss her cooking and that I tried but never succeeded in making her delicious empanadas con queso back home. I would tell her that I miss the spontaneous salteña - lunches we used to have and the sight of her with the apron on, all busy in her beloved kitchen. I would let her know that her enormous, warm, devoted heart and unselfish way of living has taught me the meaning of the word self-sacrifice. I would take them to yet another colourful carnival and watch the dancers lose themselves in the happy traditional melodies of the area.
I would make sure we do the planned trip to Oruro, Potosi and el Salar de Uyuni that we never got the opportunity to do because of that guide that took off with all the money we had been saving up. I would try to convince the lady selling the best salteñas in Cochabamba, just in front of the University of Medicine, to move to Sweden and become my private salteñas-maker, because that’s how good they are! I would stop and drink freshly squeezed jugo de naranja at every street corner and get more of those “llevanta-culo-jeans” (meaning ass-lifters, and they live nicely up to their name!), I would go and get another yummy Milanesa (Bolivian type of burgers) and go back to the tranquility of the rain forest. I would go to another concert and listen to the combination of all the different sounds and instruments and I would make sure to pass by the street corner next to DHL already the first day of the trip (instead of my last) and buy all the empanadas that one old lady used to sell there. I would join G’s family in Santa Cruz during another karaoke night and get goose bumps while listening to his family singing, I would spend more time playing with little D and cuddling with his baby brother C. I would hop on one of the small, crowded city busses and just sit and look out the window as it’s moving through Cochabamba, and I would have another enormous barbecue with all of them in D and A’s garden. I would have more long conversations with O, even the tearful kind, and I would give them all more hugs than I did. I would gaze towards the mountains surrounding Cochabamba more often and zip glide over the rivers once again. But most of all, if I could, I would want them to know the deep impact they had on me and how I still very often think of them and hope that they finally manged to find what they were searching for.
© 2011 M. Gutic
