Talking on skype the other day I was reminded of just how incredible technology is and just how lucky I am to have it at my fingertips. I’ve talked about this before – what the life of a Peace Corps Volunteer is today versus that of one 5, 10 or 15 years ago – and so I won’t go into my “cellphones and internet are amazing” rant. But during the videocall from my bunker I was also reminded of something else: my expectations (or lack thereof) back in September 2009. Today, some 14 months later, I have a very unclear view of what they were then. Somehow I feel certain though that they didn’t include being able to skype from my kitchen while cooking a coffee cake, after taking a hot shower and then later on maybe watching a movie or writing some emails back home. Don’t misunderstand – it took me a very long while to arrive at this current level of comfort – the kitchen used to be missing a wall, the roof used to be sieve, the shower until 2 weeks ago was a warm bucket and all the ingredients of that coffee cake had to be packed in. But the “comfort” I operate in now, seems almost unfair when compared to any expectations I should’ve had.

The first three months were by far the hardest, until I came to the first three months in site, which by far surpassed them. The first, for so many reasons – the simplest and broadest being simply adjusting to living in a foreign place. Added on to that, readjusting to living under the same roof as a family again (and all that comes with it), eating strange food, being assaulted with information in class all day, wondering about where you’ll wind up in three months time, second-guessing what you’re doing here and of course, worrying that that fine line between farting and crapping your pants could be crossed at any moment. All that was traded in the following three months – the first three in site – for something more easily summed up: a complete lack of comfort.

I didn’t realize it until writing this – and maybe that’s because had I ever allowed myself to admit it than there’s no way I‘d have been able to make it through it – but complete discomfort describes that time almost perfectly. Somehow that became applicable to every daily activity. I suppose I knew what I was “getting into”, but the specifics never really crossed my mind. I was so preoccupied with leaving the States and all that came with rearranging my life to make that possible that I never really gave much thought to what I’d face on arriving. I remember a moment during packing my bags when I considered bringing with me this 12” square piece of armaflex (it’s that super-soft, black, almost neoprene-like material that pipes are insulated with) just incase there was nothing “comfortable” to sit on. It didn’t make the cut. And now I can out-sit any of you on a wooden chair. Of all the expectations I can remember, somewhere comfortable to sit was topping my concerns.

Salto Cristal outside of La Colmena, Paraguari, Paraguay

I guess I thought life would be wetter too. After those second three months were up I’d been sharing a room with one and sometimes three other people each night. There were some scorpions. My bed collapsed a few times. Showering was cold and awkward. Going to the bathroom was beyond… interesting. I’m sure at some point I considered all of these things and more, but none of it stands out after that feeling that comes over you once you’re actually walking up to someone sitting on their porch and trying to speak to them in a language you don’t even know, getting looked at – and feeling like – an alien. I don’t think there’s an expectation for that that comes close to reality.

I remember having that feeling before I left – I don’t know what the name for it is – but it’s that one that comes with looking at photos of thatched huts perched on the wall of a lush mountain valley with the mist and clouds parting just enough to see a pristine river down below with little fishermen in straw hats plucking dinner from its banks. Or of crooked docks, bleached by the sun and salt, angling out into perfectly clear turquoise waters aside an anchored drift boat that seems floating somewhere between the sky and snow-white coral sands below because you can’t tell where one meets the other. And knowing, that sometime soon – if all goes well – you’ll find yourself in a scene unlike either of them, but with the same power to move you and make the hair on your arms stand on end. Anyone who’s dreamed of traveling somewhere they’ve seen in a photo or video knows what I’m talking about. It’s that feeling. The feeling of your expectations. It doesn’t concern itself with the details of how to get to that mountain hut or if it’s box jellyfish season or not – it just romanticizes your endeavor. It’s what addicts us to traveling.

It’s the way I felt before I got here and luckily still feel it every now and again – like last week hiking into Salto Cristal. And I can’t help but get the feeling when I talk to folks back home it’s the way most of you expect I feel or feel yourselves about my being down here – and then the disappointment strikes of me saying things are, “same old same old; thinking about making some stir-fry”. I guess I have the luxury of being in the photo and forget how lucky I am for that. What it comes down to I guess, is that expectations – or whatever you want to call them – don’t really matter. Being able to have your eyes open to the situation you’re in is so much more important then envisioning one you might someday find yourself in or trying to remember how you’d imagined it would be once you’re there. I’m gonna try to keep that in mind for the next good while.

Until then,

kb
(I know this one doesn’t make much sense – I pretty much just wrote what was popping threw my head. Hope you enjoyed it anyway).