Reflections

Words define our experiences in a place where most of us know very few. They toy with us, misshaping our mouths and under-expressing our feelings. Sometimes we are seen as ignorant, other times, overly intense, however most frequently, we are the tourists, the short-timers, the “gringitos”. Even the translation of our most common label starts the relationship with this foreign world on uneven footing. Our stays are filled with knitted alpaca sweaters, church photos, harrowing bus rides, and moments of connection to the world behind the translators. We cannot see these places for long enough to know them, long enough to find the words, so we jot cryptic mental notes to decipher at a later date. Later will come dripping on the back of time, slowly, incomplete. After spending weeks in and around a world unlike ours in all respects, the only things we can hold onto are the glimpses. A glimpse of poverty, sideways glances of smiles and firm handshakes, crying babies and scared old ladies; these are the images we unravel. The challenges are not slight. The tears are real. Forgetting the act of survival is to forget the act itself, but forget it we do at the sight of joy in everyday things. Joy of reunion, of progress, of introduction. Acts that need no translation, no lengthy explanation. We know without the hurtful sounds of words. We did not come to gain knickknacks, to experience pictures, to meet memories, but rather to remember that we are all alike.

At the moment of great discovery,

all things are like a flash of lightening,

a drop of dew.

– Unknown