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What I Carry With Me
We drove back to La Paz, flanked by distant mountains on both sides for nearly two hours of the ride. Our last day of work was done. The nearby slopes wore a quilt-like pattern -- the result of farmers, desperate for new soil to till, carving terraces into their steep, rocky pitches. Mount Illimani looked closer and closer with every mile. Trucks packed with produce and people went our way too. Women with babies tucked on their laps, layered in petticoats, squinted at the sun.
Our team had accomplished much during the trip. Between them, Suzy and Fred had shot 60 rolls of film. I had more than 80 pages of handwritten notes begging to be transcribed and edited. By the beginning of the second week, I had begun thinking in simple Spanish.
As we passed through El Alto, once again we came upon the vista that had greeted us that first morning. The next morning, at 5 a.m., we would make our way up this curvy highway a last time to board a plane for home. And by now, I was ready. It had been an intense, action-packed, adventuresome trip. For the past 11 days, our team had been operating on sensory overload and overdrive. Home sounded good. Really good.
But at the same time, I felt uncomfortable with leaving. I felt in some way that I was betraying the beauty of the country, the strength of its people and the level of poverty that I'd been given such intimate exposure to. Why should I go home to comfort and convenience when Nancy, the 20-year-old woman in Yungas, working long days alone in a ramshackle plank home, could not? When Carlos, the agricultural extensionist, sacrificing his family life and time with his wife and children, could not? Why should I have the privilege of going home while Mateo Melendrez, the poor banana farmer who swung a machete all day, could not? These were neither easy questions, nor were there easy answers.
I couldn't quite decide whether it was a burden or a blessing to have the responsibility of communicating what I'd seen and experienced. Either way, my mandate was clear -- to share it all in a way that would speak truthfully about often desperate circumstances, but also to shine light on a hopeful, hardworking people. And though I knew that those I'd met and what I'd  seen would both haunt and help me in my life and in my work, I didn't know when or if time, circumstance, money or work would ever bring me back.
My comfort and my hope was and is with CARE Bolivia -- its mission, its staff, its commitment. CARE Bolivia has such a rich history, essentially making a pact with a people and a country. Since the trip, I have thought back on those who willingly allowed us a snapshot of Bolivia and its culture, landscape and people. Snapshots in the form of a crying baby, born healthy thanks to maternal health care in El Alto. Or snapshots of a coffee harvester with busy hands that brings home a little bit more income because of environmentally friendly farming techniques. Snapshots of a community at work to build a road as a team so that their families might be the first in their generation to have running water. Or snapshots of a woman who learns she can play an active role in the financial well-being of her family. These images are what I carry with me, and what, since the trip, carry me.
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