I am sitting on a stool in the sand in the middle of my compound, surrounded by huts and darkness and family.  They are chatting pleasantly - about what i don't know - and shifting in unspoken anticipation of the tea my dad is brewing over coals.  The evening was full of festivities celebrating the end of the circumcision of my brothers, and after dancing and eatting and shouting and laughing, the mood has cooled with the sunset.  It is so dark now, a blackness that is friendly and consistent night after night, returning to remind me the meaning of the word evening as I sit with my family.

I love them.  It took some time for them to grow on me, but now I look forward to coming home every afternoon to them.  The language barrier can be very frustrating, but it can't hold back the kindness and love that flows between us.  When I am not around them, I often forget that I can barely communicate with them because there is so much more to our relationship than words.

I think my favorite aspect of life here is the little kids in my compound.  God they are sooo cute.  They were shy at first, as was I.  But I think that only helped by laying a foundation of respect.  They treat me like an adult, but they love to do what they can with and for me.  They say hello over and over because they know I'll understand.  They eagerly help me get well water for my water bottles.  They love to play and talk and sing.  And best of all, they love to be close.  After sunset the family gathers around the fire for warmth and one of the kids always sits on my lap.  That might be my favorite time of day.

It isn't easy living in the village though.  First, there's the mind numbing boredom-- there is nothing at all to do, especially since I can't talk to anyone.  Actually, it blows my mind the huge intellectual gap that exists between us, bigger than any I have ever experienced.  It almost begs the question, who is the luckier one?  They live this carefree life in the midst of such great hardship.  What's literature or physics or philosophy when you're starving for a third of the year?  They are so strong.  But if they would just put their minds to something meaningful they might easily improve their condition.  And yet... ignorance is bliss.  They are happy in the moment.  And they are strong.  I wish I had their strength.

Mornings unfold with the sounds of sing-song prayers blending with the tick-tock clock on the wall and the stirrings of a town awaking.  The power blinks out - a reminder to stop what you're doing and sit in silence and relax.

We gather for breakfast of eggs and toast and paratha and chai - always time for chai. We check in with each other.  Are you o.k? Thumbs up or down.

We cram ourselves into trucks and honk our way to school.  We race through the streets ducking and weaving like a boxer. We honk at EVERYTHING! We honk at rickshaws carrying 10 smartly dressed students. We honk at carts laden with bricks and sugarcane, pulled by struggling water buffalos - nostrils flaring and dripping with ropey snot.  We honk at brightly colored buses sardined with people of all ages.  We honk at pedestrians wearing eye-popping saris. We honk at dogs, pigs, chickens, horses and ducks. We honk for no reason at all.

With ears ringing we arrive at Greenfield. Like magnets, girls clasp hands, they hug, they laugh. Nothing but smiles the rest of the day.

I sit now at the kitchen table in our cozy Casa Amaru, our much loved program house in Sorata.  The huge window to my right reveals a beautiful vista: the avocado tree is nearly close enough to touch, flaunting dozens of fruits ripe for the picking if we could only get our hands on a tall enough ladder; a garden of potatoes is almost ready for harvest, the flowers well above knee height; down lower, a fire pit sits with Tibetan prayer flags billowing around it, awaiting our next ceremony; behind that, a two-person swing sways from the branches overlooking the river below; mountains, clouds, and Eucalyptus trees fill the rest of the frame, recent afternoon showers transforming dry terraces into vibrant green hillsides.  There is much more to our land than my eyes can see from my current vantage point.  I can picture the lower tiers, where some students have been tirelessly working with their blistered hands to create a traditional Andean farm, using pickaxes to till the plot and ready it for planting and where others have worked to uncover and preserve a beautiful natural spring, patiently hauling rock after heavy rock from the river below to line its sides.  A few stray cows graze.  It feels like home here.

In exactly one month, I will be on a plane back to Miami along with our thirteen students.   At first, this seems like an alarmingly short time – until I sit and think about all we’ve done and seen and how we’ve grown over our recent month-long expedition.   I have sat down countless times to compose a decent yak, one that would convey at least a fraction of the intensity and beauty of our time together here in Bolivia; each time I have failed and given up.  The truth is, it’s a nearly impossible task.  The family we have formed from sixteen strangers meeting just over two months ago is stronger and more respectful and more compassionate and more totally loveable than any of us ever dreamed.  And the experiences we have shared and continue to create each day are ones only we can truly understand and grasp the depth of.   We have made each other laugh until we cry, have helped each other over high mountain passes and across raging rivers and crawled on our bellies through dense jungle when trying to find our lost path; we’ve gotten on each other’s nerves, we’ve shared music and rain-soaked tents and life dreams and fears, we’ve endured being ravaged by relentless no-see-‘em bugs and swarms of bees and we’ve gotten to know each other’s quirks and grown to love them.  We’ve gone weeks without showering, and didn’t even notice the dirt caked on our clothing or the fact that we’d been wearing the same clothes for that whole time.  

We have seen things most people never even imagine, have slept in villages several days’ walk from any other sort of civilization.  We have walked from a snowstorm at 16,000ft down to the jungle at just over sea level.  We have pulled boats for hours upriver to reach a community not even recognized by the Bolivian governments as existing, met with a Time Magazine and ABC reporter and spoke with murderers and coke addicts in La Paz’s San Pedro Prison in the same afternoon, and just a few days ago we had the privilege to meet a true contemporary hero: Narda is a woman braver than we could ever hope to be, at once a fierce, fearless warrior who stands up for human rights every day of her life and who has faced soldiers with a gun in her own hands to protect that which she believes in, and a loving, gentle mother who gives unconditionally to any and all those in need, doing more to better the world than most would think possible for a single person.   Narda gave us a firsthand account of the violence that occurred here in Bolivia on September 11th of this year, and explained how the attempt to return indigenous lands to their original and rightful owners caused the conflict, and told us how her 24 year old niece was one of the dozens of resulting fatalities.  We were rendered speechless: captivated, inspired and changed by this single woman’s courage.

Our days are full.  Students have thrown themselves into their individually planned schedules, working on ISP projects, Spanish classes, and spending as much time as possible with their families.  They hold themselves with a confidence not present during their first Sorata time: this now feels like home; their language skills are stronger, they have seen more of Bolivia than most Bolivians, they have been empowered to take ownership of their time here.  At this moment, students are gathering together to organize and shop for our Sorata Thanksgiving celebration that will take place with all the homestay families tomorrow.  Last night they took initiative in planning for our upcoming time in Peru; a calendar of our final month is on a whiteboard to my left, and I know untold adventures await us in the upcoming weeks.  I also know they will pass quicker than we care to admit or think about.  I am so grateful to have been given the opportunity to share this time with this group of incredible individuals in this beautiful part of the world.  May we all embrace our last month together and continue to learn and grow and be transformed.  Thank you all for your support and for entrusting your loved ones into our hands.  Lives are being changed here.