I’ve spent a lot of time and space chronicling the amusing oddities of life in Peru on this blog. Recently feeling reflective, I skimmed over some previous blog entries, and it was both horrifying and enlightening to see how my writing (which I suppose is an extension of me…hey, cool, I’m “evolved”…) has evolved over the last two years. Reading early entries I'm struck at my own naiveté, my confusion, my awe. I thought everything was so strange, so funny. About a year or so in, I started to become a little more analytical; no longer confounded by drinking circle etiquette I focused more on the differences between here and there, between us and them, and realized that maybe things weren’t so different after all. And then all the things that had delighted and confused me in those early months started to annoy me in their repetitiveness and predictability. I was desperate for escape and set my sights further afield.
And now?
In my own banal predictability, I’ve come full circle and am again charmed by this place, by these people. The little things that became invisible in their familiarity are now blindingly apparent. Like the smell of the adobe stove that clings to your clothes after lunch, the spicy-acidic taste of fresh ceviche, the gurgling sounds the faucet makes every morning around 11 when the water turns on, the thwacks of the soccer ball outside my open window. I am trying desperately to commit to memory these images, smells, tastes, and sounds. Trying to linger a little bit longer in my daily routines absorbing what makes them so familiar and, at the same time, soon-to-be so foreign.
I know I’ll never forget this experience, but I also know that these comforting sensations will someday soon be relegated to far reaches of my memory. I’ve started carrying my camera with me everywhere, taking random pictures of dirt paths and doorways because I know one day I’ll forget the way the sun reflects off the tempered glass of my neighbor’s window every afternoon. Even my daily runs through swaying sugarcane fields seem profound from this perspective of almost-hindsight. Will something that has been such a part of my daily existence be easily forgotten?
And the people. Argh. The people. How do you say goodbye, most likely forever, to the people who have been the one constant in your rollercoaster emotions? Their laughter and conversation sustained me on days when there was little else keeping me here. How do you thank someone for literally keeping you sane? I can only hope to carry a little of my host mom’s sly wit and boundless capacity for mothering with me, to sear the sound of Bryan’s high-pitched giggle to my heart, to hold onto the optimism and generosity that so many people have shown me over countless lunches and lazy afternoons. Sitting beneath my open window on a typical afternoon, I can look up from my book and identify the neighborhood kids by the tones of their shrieks, the chords of their laughter. Will the new soundtrack of my life ever hold this much innocence, this much promise? I doubt it.
It’s becoming all too real, friends. Goodbyes suck.
