December, 2015 - Brazil is big. Like, HUGE… And I don’t just mean geographically. I spent more than a solid 24-hours on a bus to cross a mere segment of a portion of a piece of the bottom section of this massive nation. But, as mentioned before, it’s not just distance that measures "grande." Big personalities, gigantic parties, epic landscapes, deliciously rich eats, an enormous array of diverse wildlife, vibrant history, and buzzing cities simply steeping in colorful culture within some of the world’s largest urban metropolis: this is Brazil.

​I was curious to see how Brazil would differ from its South American neighbors. Being the only province in the Western hemisphere that claims Portuguese ancestry (where the rest of Central and South America is majorly Spanish-based), and taking up nearly half the continent’s land mass, Brazil became a bit of an intrigue for me. It turns out, the intrigue was well deserved.

I wound up spending more than a month in this awesome place, but the expansive scale and cornucopia of culture than composes this country can keep you busy for years on end. I feel so grateful for the parts that I have seen, but admittedly still feel rather thirsty for more (and I intend to quench that thirst in the eventual future!).

My last post contains anecdotes about my experiences in epic Iguazu, so we can pick up where I left off there…

The bus from the Argentine/Paraguayan/Brazilian border to Rio was a loooooooong 28 hours. The road felt ever-reaching, and my mood was emotionally dark, but thankfully my iPod musically generous.

Daniel and I had recently had disagreements about priorities for upcoming travel, and our conversations (in addition to my over-sensitivity and easily-threatened insecurities) left me in a long-term gloom that would last until our eventual, temporary parting-of-the-ways in Buenos Aires, Argentina. In the meantime, the shuffling songs on my headphones and verdant, openly-laid Brazilian hillscape (ripe with fruitful farms and seemingly never-ending rolling, green mounds slashed with well-kept, black roadways curving like smooth molasses dripped from a slowly swinging spoon) would occupy my mind when I was able to distract it from my mental burdens.  

It was a sometimes effective distraction, as I have always, for as long as I can remember, loved watching the world fly past me while I travel… The rapid, colorful flashes from nearby trees, signposts, fences, and livestock that move so fast they blur and smear across my vision creates a juxtaposition against the languid, slow motion of distant fields, mountains, and the clouds above them. It can mesmerize me almost unceasingly.

I love seeing the land slowly morph, starting with small changes here then there that all eventually adding up to a new place as the intervening distances are crossed. For this reason, I really don’t mind a marathon bus trip. I have my music, some snacks, and a gorgeous world to capture my attention. It’s usually easy for me to enjoy. Night buses, however, are another story… 

​It was in Brazil, I believe, that I lost my liking for night buses. Where I used to sleep rather readily and only wake for short moments, I now began to fight for every minute of rest, only to quickly lose it again and fail to regain it. With nothing to see in the sunless situation and nothing to do, the excruciating hours drag me onwards and I can become rather disgruntled and peevish. With my mood already as dark as the night, the tedium of being contained in an enclosed space did nothing to improve my state. Thankfully, every bus trip has its end, and I found myself arriving and disembarking on the coastal, cosmopolitan culture storm of Rio de Janeiro. 

We pulled in late late late. FAR later than a foreigner would want to be seen mingling around a bus station with a bad standing. Rio’s reputation for danger is NOT understated. It has been earned repeatedly and ruthlessly. For such a fascinating, beautiful place, it’s important to not become too lost in the paradisiacal moments and forget your wits, especially in dodgier neighborhoods, like, say, the bus terminal next to the old ship yards, for example.

Fortunately, Daniel’s friend (soft-spoken and remarkable kind and quiet Alessandro) was looking forward to our visit, but the commute from the not-so-central station to his apartment in the Tijuca barrio was no small distance across this sprawling mega-city (where districts are not divided by only boulevards and blocks, but mountains, jungles, waterways, lagoons, national parks, and the giant bay of Rio itself).

​Alessandro was adamant that we take a taxi (but only from a specific company at a specific location, to avoid being ferried under false pretenses and find ourselves robbed or worse). Being the stinge that I am, miserly as almost always, I emphasized to Daniel that there was strength in numbers (even though 2 is an awfully small number) and insisted that we could make our way on foot to metro station and pay the lessor fare for a subway ticket. 

I am both miserly and foolish, it would seem. 

We were lucky.

​I employed the tricks my father used to mention that can help to sidestep a mugging (avoid being ostentatious or boisterous, walk fast, keep away from alley entranceways and doorways, stick to well-lit streets, clench fists and jaw (makes you look tougher and less approachable), don’t make eye contact, and, if possible, use only well-populated paths (with women and children, if you can)). Turns out, it worked! (Thanks, Dad!!) A slightly scary and surely sketchy hour walk away from the docks and into the city found us buying our metro stubs and taking the subway (a FABULOUSLY air-conditioned train to beat the humid, midsummer heat) and setting out into Tijunca to meet Alessandro. 

He was shocked that we braved the perilous journey sans taxi, and probably decided that we could no longer be trusted to keep ourselves out of harm’s way. 

We fed our growling stomachs with traditional (and sensational) savory food stuffs paired with a variety of chilly, fruity suco smoothie goodness, a trademark of Rio’s beachside cuisine. We talked as we dined, and I quickly learned that not only is Alessandro a good person, he is a unique one. It sometimes felt like he generates an atmosphere of calm of quiet around him. The way his face moves when he smiles as you thank him, and the “Oh, it was nothing” attitude he had towards his own admirable generosity was something that I do not think I will forget. I was immediately grateful to him, just for him being who he is.

Continually and reliably throughout our two weeks with him, he was kind, polite, funny, curious, calming, patient, and generous with his schedule and his knowledge. Our shared adventures included an exploration of the Tijuca tropical forest in the center of the city, regular visits to the fabulous Ipanema and Copacabana beaches, trying tasty treats (“air cookies” on the Pacific sands with refreshing local liquids poured from hawker-toted steel barrels), farofa served with EVERYTHING, bathing in stream-fed waterfalls in the Rio jungles surrounding the city, looking upon from afar and learning the history of the hill-hugging, fascinating favelas, talking about Lapa history and walking the winding, lopsided lanes of the terrace-leveled town of Santa Teresa, spotting stellar street art that was slathered on almost every surface, fact gathering with the bright and beautiful Roberta (and meeting her adorable, bear-sized puppy!), family visitations outside the city in the industrial Volta Redonda (along with lessons on it’s interesting past with the US), museum hopping and in the remarkable and gorgeously worn historic district complete with flea markets stands, colonial architecture tucked right next to modern business towers, broad boulevards intersecting classic alleyways, a monastery-turned-private school overlooking the bay crowned with the brand-new and terribly popular winged Museum of Tomorrow. 

The most memorable moments, however, were shared during the traditional holidays, most notably a family Christmas in Volta Redonda and the downtown mega-party of New Year’s night at Rio’s Reveillon: The biggest New Year’s Eve bash in the world (Google it…).

New Year’s in Rio is unlike anywhere else in the world. On some occasions, Copacabana beach is flocked with over four million enthusiasts, many dressed in white to represent the peace they hope to bring in with New Year’s (and some with colored accents which represent their resolutions (red for love/passion, yellow for gold/money, etc). Enormous, sand-strewn dance parties, circles of friends swapping stories and laughs, families finishing dinner, and full-scale concerts pack the beach while a seemingly endless lines of marchers pour from the downtown streets and continue to fill the few empty spaces while still more follow after, somehow finding room where there seemed to be none. Sailboats, yachts, cruise ships, barges, and other boats are visible on the black ocean only by their glittering lights that shimmer and sparkle off the inky water’s surface.

At midnight, the handful of barges that float amongst the water vessels unleash their inferno, blasting a world-class barrage of fireworks into the sky that rivals any performance on earth. The gigantic fire blossoms boom and illuminate and bedazzle the sky, making flashes that for a split second reveal the armada of boats and the infinite throng of faces all turned towards the fiery heavens. For up to 20 minutes the spectacle continues, until the ceremony finds closure with a human flood racing into the sea, each person leaping over seven individual waves to seal their fortunes as they enter into the New Year. Champagne flows and music pounds on into the night. The entire affair can cost the city almost $7 million. 

A week before the fireworks, however, I was blessed with the chance to share another holiday, but this one was more private and simply familial. 

There is a town not far from Rio, an industrial community centered around a steel factory that was built by the USA in repayment for Brazil’s support during the war. Alessandro’s parents live here, and his siblings and their respective broods had a planned Christmas party to which I was fortunate to be invited. 

They are openly kind and good-natured people. It is warmingly evident where Alessandro inherited his generosity. His father is softly smiling and reliably quiet, but quite proud to show off his collection of butterflies pinned to display board (but he lets their beauty speak for itself). Alessandro’s mother, on the other hand, is a woman who cooks industriously, chats along while she does, and will repeatedly and gently check in on her guests with sincere care in spite of language barriers or age gaps. Both parents dutifully perform their functions as grandparents with heartfelt dedication. They dote on and lovingly embrace their children’s children all for the joy of seeing those little ones smile. 

​A gift exchange ensues with well-practiced precision, beginning with the first participant standing up in front of the rest and holding their well-wrapped package to give away. Before handing off, however, the gift-giver starts to describe the personality and character of the recipient, dropping hints and clues while a spectating audience of family member attempt to guess the identity of the soon-to-be revealed new owner of materialized Christmas cheer. One by one, aunts and mothers and brothers and nephews and grandparents and children ceremoniously pass on their gifts to the appropriate recipients. 

At one point, while witnessing the tender and jovial exchange, the entire affair unearthed feelings of my own past family gatherings that I fondly recall. I remembered the sense of inclusion, significance, and comfort in my yesteryears where special occasions calls back family members from afar and brought them home again, if only for a day or two. At this stage in life, I never, ever feel unwelcome obligation to be with my family. It is a pleasure, indeed, a privilege and a delight, to have even brief moments with them. My parents and my siblings truly can be considered my favorite bunch in the entire, wide world. My cousins and aunts and uncles and nana all give me so much reason to be happy, when I have the opportunity to be among them for holidays or even casual occasions.

I reminisced on my relatives in a bittersweet stupor as the family in front of me carried on their traditional give-away, wondering while I watched what feelings might come as someone lists your apparent virtues and composes extemporaneous accolades to your character prior to offering a material manifestation of their appreciate and affection in the form of a carefully wrapped package containing a thoughtful gift.

When it seemed to me they were concluding the event, gentle Alessandro stood up one more time and began to speak with two bundles in his hands, and began to describe someone to whom he would give them. He spoke in Portuguese, of course, but even without recognizing the exact words I could discern for whom these final presents were destined. I felt hot, prickly tears sting my eyes and my throat tighten and clog as the tender emotions suddenly seized me. I fought to compose myself as his siblings, in-laws, niece, and nephew called Daniel and I out and I received the gift. I was nearly overwhelmed, and in my happy haze did not even care what might be within. 

From what I could see, in the end, everyone enjoyed, each person prospered, and as goodbyes were offered and accepted and cheeks kissed it was clear to me that all the efforts (the cooking, planning, shopping, financial expense, time off work, and the cleaning-up afterwards) were happily executed and richly rewarded. I feel so lucky to have been a beneficiary of their kindness. They were as gracious in our parting as they were when I arrived. These people are genuinely amazing.

Following our stay in Rio, we traveled south to Brazil’s biggest megalopolis: São Paulo.

​Daniel’s actor and playwright friend, Roberto, guided us through the enormous maze of skyscrapers and towering buildings, navigating us to museums and historic landmarks, all the while endowing us with snippets of trivia and personal anecdotes gathered from a life lived amongst the gigantic city sprawl. 

With Roberto by our side, we walked the wide avenue of iconic Paulista, and visited the public gardens and free-entry exhibits (while keeping a lookout for cheap ice cream to cool off on in the hot sun (even found a deal for $.12 cones while in downtown! (yes, I had four))). 

We gave a try to traditional rodizio (where a single entry fee earns you a buffet and stop-and-go light system for summoning seared meats on sabers to your table until you literally cannot eat anymore). He took us to his local Jewish community club, complete with athletic gyms, day programs, playgrounds, cafes, theaters, art schools, and even a pond with decorative box turtles tumbling about and sun basking, their permanently grinning faces only adding to the sun-shiny, carefree attitude about the place.

​I had my own opportunity to bask a little afterwards, being invited to leave behind the concrete jungle of São Paulo and journeying to the fabulously idyllic, palmed and perfect paradise island jungle of the aptly named Ilhabela (translated to “beautiful island”) off the appropriately famous Brazilian coast. 

A long-time haven for Brazilians hoping to escape the more complicated life on shore, Ilhabela holds true to a simpler way of life. Tiny shops, cozy cafes, and local businesses only briefly line the single main street around the islet, where smaller lanes vein off towards the island’s center before trickling on and giving way to the lush forests that cover the land. After the main road leaves behind the quaint town square, it quickly converts to an ambling dirt road. It weaves its way adjacent to the water, and frequently spouts thin offshoots to the sea that function as narrow walkways over mossy, exposed boulders and cold, mountain streams for pedestrians to find their way through the jungle to the ocean’s waves that crash frothily against soft, sandy stretches amongst the craggy rock bays. 

But as with most paradises, the dreamy scene, while picturesque, has a mar on its apparent perfection (although nothing that spoils its awesome beauty). 

Almost invisible due to their minuscule size, biting flies plague the beach. Their stinging nips are painful straightaway, but it’s the tiny, itching welt you gain afterwards that is the real curse. These sores last for WEEKS, pocking your exposed skin with red, scabby circles that have a most unfortunate stamina. And every single time you scratch, you release more of their toxin into your body and only increase the burning itch. It is AWFUL.

But braving the biters was well worth it. Our fabulous hosts (who I quickly decided I wanted for lifelong friends) were reason enough to endure untold swarms of flies. 

Daniel met Gusti and Rafael through his photography, and after a time writing back and forth met the two of them when they were passing through the Seattle area. I sadly missed that delight, and I wasn’t sure what to expect of them, now that I, too, would have the chance to know them for myself.

I can claim with confidence that I have never met anyone else who travels more than Daniel and I, but these guys travel incessantly and gracefully, and have for years on end. More importantly than that, they are vivacious, funny, smart, talented, handsome, inspiring, warm, and good humored. Seriously, they are the total package, and enough to make any sane person at least a little envious of their combined combo of character traits. Beyond that, they are native Brazilian to boot (which just make then awesome and attractive to an unfair degree).

Their hosting was made possible through Gusti’s gorgeous and generous aunt, who’s powerful and touching life story made her presence in Ilhabela even more admirable. Her beautiful home, only a hundred meters from the beach, and a quick walk into the main town’s square, features family photos and meaningful mementos spread amongst a homey beach décor rich with blues, greens, and earthy off-whites. Rain, shine, or storm, the living room’s French doors to the outside were always widely welcoming to the open-sky courtyard that housed an external dining area and kitchen, where Rafael would expertly craft his culinary masterpieces (including my favorite of his creations: pasta with fresh squid in cream sauce). Their preciously adorable pups (a rascally retriever and a sweet’n’somber long-haired Dachshund) would lounge on the rugs and couches until dinner, when they were surround the table outside along with the humble hostess and her happy tenants. 

This pair of pleasant Brazilian boys and their family really made this place for me. Yes, the beaches are gorgeous, the atmosphere wholesome, the community safe, and the forested mountain staggeringly beautiful, but nothing was more welcoming or warming that their friendship. Both individually and together, Rafael and Gusti are keepers for sure, and I am thrilled to say that the future would favor me lavishly with their companionship on numerous occasions to come. 

Leaving the island was a time of both gratitude and sadness. I fell in love with Rafael for his easy smile, his boyish attitude, and his restaurant-quality cooking skills, and I fell in love with Gusti for his selfless giving, his insightful mind, and his wholesome character. It wasn’t easy to watch them disappear in the car’s rearview window, but the thought of seeing them again encouraged and comforted me, and I looked forward to that future more than I longed for the past. ​

We hitched a ride with Gusti’s loveable relative, the sweet and simple Guillerme, who lives in São Paolo and works in a hospital there. His child-like personality and ever-positive spirit were easy to respect and appreciate, and he proceeded to give us even more reason to love Brazil as we commuted back to town and had a merry little sleep over before finding our bus to Uruguay early the next morning, which would begin our longest continuous commute to date: a 46 hour journey by bus and foot across southern Brazil to Montevideo.

December, 2015 ​- ​Goodness, gracious, what a long time it has been!!! And here I assumed when we reached Europe back in March we would have more Wifi access than we could shake a cyber stick at.

Turns out, I never managed a chance to find out! Our Schengen visa was so disallowing of extra time that we raced through at a pace that granted almost no free time to work (and left my parents uncontacted for FAR longer than is appropriate). So I fell (even more) behind on the photoblog.

​Oh, well… Better late than ne-… Anyway, let’s talk about Argentina!

It’s safe to say (and I’m guessing also presumed) that we would come to certain places that were simply “–er” (bigger, broader, tastier, nicer, cheaper, beautiful-er) and that when we arrived we would rightly find just cause to invest more time in the area. As an example, Mexico quickly granted us sufficient incentive to stay. Due to its richness of culture, diversity of ecology, and the strength of the US dollar that permitted gut-busting amounts of deliciously dirt-cheap grub, we broke our country-a-week rule and remained there for nearly a month without regret and without satiating our hunger for more…

​More tacos, that is.

Upon leaving Bolivia, we once more we found ourselves compelled to make more room on our calendar, but this time for the self-proclaimed "Europe of South America," the land of tango and beef: Argentina. Yes, the southern giant of South America caught our attention, and it’s still one of the only countries we have traveled to twice since leaving the U.S. last year. The first entry led our expedition across the Bolivian border and through the deserts of Northeast Argentina.

Before I left Bolivia, I was honestly expecting a much more drastic change from one country to the next. It had been described to me by one source that such a notable and blatant contrast was awaiting me. Interestingly enough, however, I found that with the exception of Buenos Aires and some parts of the Central and Southern East, Argentina shared much more with the rest of South America than I had been led to believe, and some care to admit.

Our first stop on Argentine soil (after a seven-hour, on foot border crossing, where we spent the night on a dividing bridge and STILL somehow found ourselves in the wrong line for immigration) was the small, soon to be up-and-coming yet still authentically quaint-and-charming desert town of Humahuaca, placed amongst the roots of the Hornocal mountain range.

Sometimes, it felt like magical things would (and did) happen there. Like a butterfly spawning that ended the species' twenty-year incubation period, sending clouds made of millions of small, flapping bodies bouncing through the mountain air like infant angels still discovering their pale wings.

​Sometimes it just felt like a town untouched, on the precipice of discovery from an unholy outside world. I’m grateful that I was able to see it prior to a more expansive exposure that feels quite inevitable. 

Difficult goodbyes ensued when we made leave, but our promises to see each other again buffered the bitterness.

Keeping with the Northern parts, we rode East towards Brasil. The landscape evolved from barren, dusty oranges and sandy yellows to the verdant greens of thick leafery and the terra cotta red of fine-ground earth as we entered the jungles who create the intersection between Argentina, Brasil, and Paraguay. 

*Side note: It was here that I had my first taste of Argentine steak... Maybe I'm not a connoisseur, but I liked my mother's better (thanks, Mom!). That said, my post on Buenos Aires will shed more light on the real​ story of Argentine beef that I learned during our interview.

 These thick, tropical woodlands ring the awesome display of Iguazu, one of the greatest wonders of the world. A stellar series of thundering falls surging over wildly wooded cliffs.

As a matter of additional (albeit unrequested insight) let it be known that I am actively working on and making progress in the area of avoiding disappointments created by unfounded expectations.

I don't mean to do it, truly. Yet when something is presented to me (even just the idea of something, like a trip, a meal, a person, a place, a film, etc) I start to think about it in my future. What could it be like? What might it be like? Then, without warning or realization, these thoughts transform into daydreams, which in turn morph into fantasies, where they eventually mature into those most unwelcome expectations that sneak up on me.

I will continue to pursue liberty from this repetitious process, but until then, Iguazu's off color felt like a let down.

I was disappointed. I admit it. And rather than attempt to appreciate the rarity of the occasion (floods like this hadn't happened in recent memory, according to locals, making it a markedly rare event), I told myself I could fix it in Photoshop later. As you can see, I did not. Yet it was nothing a little black and white rendering couldn’t mask, and I must say I did take a liking to the dramatic results of the monochromatic final products. 

​And even if I didn't, it was a blessing just to be there and see it, no matter the color scheme.

Those who have also trekked here can attest that as one travels from ledge to ledge of the enormous jungle, striving to find a better, wetter outlook, it’s quickly apparent that the trees are already occupied. ​

Plush-crested jays and long-schnozed coatis (a kind of cute lovechild from a monkey-anteater-raccoon romance) inhabit the branches and boughs, entirely unafraid of the two-legged travelers who walk the paths through their forest.

​Clearly, however, there have been…. altercations, in the past. Signs are commonly seen dissuading humans from feeding these pointy-toothed, sharp-clawed cuties (some postings even feature a grotesque photograph of a coati bite in the torn remains of soft, pink man-flesh… Ew).

Butterflies flit about everywhere, also undeterred by the invading, camera-wielding crowds.

Some silly people run away from them (afraid of what? I haven’t the faintest idea…) while others aggressively try to catch them (some wings, sadly, did not survive the clumsy, crushing grips of less-than-careful children and insensitive adults) and others still take the peaceful road, permitting the graceful bug-birds a chance to flutter about and land where they will, frequently on a head or hand where they would probe pollen-less skin before deciding there was no nectar to be found and fly on.

While on the subject of fauna, I also decided to toss into this post a mogwai-looking marmoset I found closer to Rio de Janeiro (see more in my post to follow this one!) just because they are so darned precious!

Those little devils really seemed to me like a pretty solid closer for this post... A wittle, bitty, ultra-cute incentive for YOU to get out there and make your own difference!

Although we did not manage to find a family to interview until Buenos Aires, we still have people to thank!

​First among them is our host and dear friend Paulita. A gem and a human inspiration, this angel spoke softly and powerfully, and I could feel changes happening within me in response.

Muchisimas gracias, amiga querida. Please, por favor, come to see us when we return home! I truly want to pay your kindness in due time.

Also, to Daniel’s friend and anonymous donor, you merit ENORMOUS gratitude and true blessings. We could not (seriously, could NOT) finish this without you. 

​I also want to thank my family. Yes, I have in the past, and I will again. Each of them deserve it. Daniel for his patience, Brandon for his example, Laura for her light, Briana for her strength, Sal for his passion, Gavin for his spirit, Tyner for her resilience, Madeline for her soul, Lily for her grace, Nana for her legacy, Nancy for her loyalty, Keith for his courage, Vicki for her joy, Juli for her acceptance, and especially my parents for their applaudable support and generosity (they never did ask that I reimburse my childhood debt accrued since birth), my papa for his well-earned wisdom, his misfiring charm, and his remarkable progress as a human being, and to my dearly beloved mother, for her virtuous choices, her humbling sacrifices, and her undying and life-changing love. There is more, there always will be, but this is for now, not forever.

As mentioned, we did eventually meet a family to interview for Argentina, although it wound up waiting until Buenos Aires!

​This current section of Argentina served more as a glimpse into the dusty, delicate rural life that still lives in the Northwestern corner of the country, and the fertile, forested majesty of natural wonders that fills the North East. Even still, that was only a fraction of the country. We still had to see the capital, and the wild Patagonian frontier. But first, we took a trip through South America’s Portuguese-speaking big-boy, host of the 2016 World Olympics, and the sole subject of my next post: Brasil. 

December, 2015 ​- A combination of ecological brilliance and faulty computer software compels me to dedicate an additional post to Bolivia's remarkably stellar and truly unique landscape. Photographic splendor was simply plethoric, and I really don't mind paying additional homage to the otherworldly backdrop, specifically the Southwestern corner of Bolivia's wilderness: The Uyuni Salt Flats.

Explorations such as this, through Uyuni (and Machu Picchu, and Torres del Paine, and Iguaçu, and Teotihuacán, and Caye Caulker, and, and, and...) might seem like a departure from the family culture and child-life that creates the center of our project. But part of our project's objective is to find the pieces that make up a place and to learn about them. So that's what we did.

And so, if I may - filled with moonscapes, tar pits, grey waters, blue skies, white sands, flocks of flamingos and deserts that would make Salvador Dalí's mustache twitch - I'd like to publish my 50 Favorite Photographs from the Flats.

As always we offer our thanks to those helping us to realize our journey. Discretion is a frequent request from those who lend us a hand, and so we publicly (but without names) thank all donors, family interviewers, hosts, friends, relatives, and fellows from the road and back at home who give us the means to continue. Thank you!

For information that could help on our way, see our How to Help page for more!

December, 2016​ - Imagine a world were every third person you see on the street is above the poverty line, and TWO out of THREE are poverty-stricken. One out of those two would also be living in extreme poverty, "a condition characterized by severe deprivation of basic human needs, including food, safe drinking water, sanitation facilities, health, shelter, education and information."

In this world, one in five people you meet live without the enabling power of electricity. One in ten won't taste the cleansing relief of pure, fresh water. And HALF of the people you run into don't even have a sewage connection to take away their own waste...

Imagine this world. Now squish it between two nations who each have almost four times the average GOP of this world. A central deprivation betwixt two relative luxuries. 

​
​You're in Bolivia.

Even with the facts seeming grim, there is a lot in this struggling world that inspires and warms and delights. It's important to note that most metrics of "Good" and "Bad" are purely relative and subjective to one's personal judgments and experiences. Bolivians live in a startlingly gorgeous world, rife with an enormous variety of fantastic foods and organic vegetation exclusive to their territory, a rich and vibrant cultural pride which blankets the society, and sprawling, stunning landscapes that are truly unlike anything else in the world that I have seen. 

Bolivia is starkly and beautifully unique to a thrilling degree.

And while traveling, I have repeatedly found two opposing yet complimentary excitements that can take place, one when you find a place that reminds you of home, and one when discovering someplace that shares very little with it.

Bolivia is is one of those "someplaces" that is very, very ​ different from my home. 

That said, I found it to be a delight for my camera (and my stomach). 

But seriously, doesn't some of it just look like another planet? You can just picture a spaceship landing and a light-saber duel unfolding in some places...

The society in general, like Peru, felt quite closed to outsiders, and hesitant to engage, despite my sorry excuse for Spanish. We lucked out, though, in having time to spend with some friend's of Daniel for our interview.

The family we were fortunate to have interviewed lives in a more developed La Paz neighborhood that hosts the first (and only) international chain restaurant I saw in all of Bolivia (Subway, for interested parties).

Bolivia boasts a plethora of organic, fresh fruits and vegetables at local markets. The company's "Eat Fresh" slogan seemed silly and ironically out of place and as US-based fast food joint in the midst of such remarkable selections of straight-from-the-dirt food.

Although their home sports any number of modern conveniences that other sections of the country lack (rendering the house on par with today's standard of living) the shortage of educational and medical opportunities is as prevalent here as it was throughout the rest of the nation. In fact, we were told on both sides of the border that medical patients in Bolivia are regularly advised to head to Argentina for treatments, where federal healthcare permits free hospital care that is too expensive for a majority of the population on the Bolivian side. It can often cause problems for Argentina (even where foreigners aren't using services), but we were also told that "that's just the way of things right now."

I cannot recall having seen a larger sea of sad faces than in Bolivia... There are so many wonderful things about this very special land, but my strongest memory of the 2.3 million people on the street are their sorrowful expressions, and their reluctant outreach to foreigners. 

On the bright side, we met some truly enjoyable people, had a blast making cookies with new friends (flat, silly little things that collapsed under the 12,000 ft elevation (see below)), explored new terrain, and stuffed our bellies with new favorites (namely, the famous trancapecho (literally translated to "chest clogger," a fabulous, carbivoric, high-calorie masterpiece comprised of rice, cheese, potatoes, veggies, two kinds of meat, a fried egg, all on a thick-bread sandwich... Oh... my... goodness...) and as-fresh-as-can-be strawberry sorbet (where they actually blend newly picked strawberries into shaved ice). The allergic reaction was VERY worth the indulgence... 

As with most things, there are and were exceptions to the perceived norms (including our door-opening family whom we interviewed, and our bus administrator turned buddy-in-La-Paz), but for someone who felt very sensitive to the emotional ambiance of those bloated streets, I just felt more like an outsider in La Paz than I had at any point on the road.

All things considered, I believe deeply and truly that ALL things work together for Good in the end. I don't believe everything happens for a reason, but I believe you can find a reason for everything that happens. I believe in the human heart, even when there's little evidence to support it. I believe in the Why's behind the What's. I believe that crying is as important and valuable as laughing. I believe in human love, and it's mysterious power to make change.

These people have something special that I wish I had the time to have explored deeper. With time, earning trust, I have little doubt that the spirits of these people would have warmed my own, changing both of us for the better.

In sincere and deeply appreciated gratitude, we would like to thank those donors who have decided that what Daniel and I are doing isn't entirely crazy. In the name of anonymity (nice little pun, there), they remain unspecified. But even so, their generosity in monetary contributions, enthusiastic encouragement, homey accommodations, and yummies in our tummies certainly merits mentioning. Thank you! 

For those donationally curious minds who feel compelled to also contribute (anything from foodstuffs to funds to words of affirmation), by all means visit our website and watch a video here!

We are also looking for a housing opportunity in July September outside of the Schengen Area of Europe, where we can work on interview content and photos until our visas can be renewed and we continue. Feel free to write us if you have any friends who want to be our friends!

To Daniel's dear friend and the focus of our interview, we express our appreciation to you and your family for your openness and willingness. This project needed you! And it is better because of you. Thank you!

To my family (both biological and by marriage), who puts up with us vanishing for weeks on end, who inspire me and tolerate me and love me (especially when I don't feel I deserve it) I feel so thankful. I don't need to list names to say how much your words, written and verbal, have warmed me and left me feeling like maybe (just maybe) I have something good to offer this world. 

To my patient and caring friends (both years in the making and those I made as early as last week), who may feel abandoned or misplaced while I'm gone, or who simply wait patiently for my eventual return, I'm so grateful to know that when I do go back I can super--duper-squeeze every... last... one... of you.

Thank you for waiting.

And lastly, we thank YOU, dear reader. Friend, family, or future companion. We love you for coming with us, and making our journey special.

Don't forget to visit our How to Help page to see where YOUR difference can find footing.

November, 2015 ​- It's sometimes said to be unprofessional, blaming outside forces for a lacking product. But fortunately, I'm not being paid, and therefore am withheld from status as a professional. 

I do quite lament the embarrassingly overdue nature of this post... I'm guessing there aren't too many who visit it, but I think those who do deserve an explanation.

​Daniel and I spent weeks at a time without connection to an internet signal with site-building strength. For those who are familiar with my nature, you know I'll dive into a detailed apology to justify the delinquency. But first: Let's talk about Perú, shall we?

No power-lines or pipes reach these places, and no regulated institutions break ground. ​

Feel free to chime in with your opinion or suggestion! I'd love to hear from you in any capacity! Thank you!

Another appreciative comment belongs to Daniel Bernstein, who has recently volunteered to critic and edit my frequent typos, rambling run-on's, and proper nounery. I'm glad I have someone to watch my literary back!

Don't forget to visit our How to Help page to see where YOUR difference can find footing.