At the DRC Border

We were stopped by the DRC border patrol officer today for taking a picture at the border. "It is strictly forbidden to take pictures here. What if I go to your country and do the same?" he scorned us while holding my camera trying to delete the pictures. A few minutes later, after being released, we were laughing. "Come on Brenda, you should know better by now," Will said in his usual sarcastic tone. I'm sure I'll tell an exaggerated version of this episode one day, even when the real version already sounds scary. We've been working all day, so we haven't seen much of Rusizi yet. We walked along the river that divides the two countries and let the night fall as we stood outside Hotel Du Lac getting French and Kinyarwanda lessons from the training participants.  It might be that this is a border town, or that Rwanda is the most densely populated country in Africa, but there is always people in the streets. They all seem to be going somewhere and most of them carry loads of things, from eggs to wood. To my surprise, we don't get a lot of attention here, as compared to other countries in Africa. Only a few children yelled "Musungus!" at us with excitement, and that was kind of cute.

Rusizi

"If you look to your right you'll be able to see baby volcanoes," Will says as we are driving along a buffer zone of the Nyungwe National Park in Rwanda.  We arrived last night to Kigali and today we drove seven hours to Rusizi in the border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo. We are here to train local NGOs and radio producers on how to produce a radio drama and a communication strategy that will promote the protection of chimpanzees in this part of the world. This was a beautiful ride as the landscape changed from rice to tea plantations, misty mountains and villages built in adobe; people walked all along the highway carrying all sorts of things on top of their heads.  I'm now sitting on my bed covered by a net and trying to prepare for tomorrow's first training session. I've done this all over the world, but I still get a little nervous the night before it starts. A block away militaries guard the border between Rwanda and the DRC.  "Do you think we can cross to the DRC without a visa?" Katie asked - to my surprise - sincerely excited.  I rather not. "We are staying at a hotel run by nuns, so there won't be any beer," I exclaimed a little worried. "By day two we must have figured out where to get it," Will replied reassuringly.

La Paz

It's raining heavily in La Paz, the noise of thunder blends with Cerati's Te Para Tres on the radio. Sylvia is still asleep and Johnny has already set the breakfast on the table. It's 1:00 pm and Radio Deseo plays a concert by Fito Paez and Luis Alberto Spinetta.  Argentina has been the main provider to Latin America with an alternative soundtrack and identity to that coming from Hollywood.  In comparison to Mexico, South America feels so independent of the United States and mostly relaying on what the region produces.  A few days ago I met Mamerto Betanzos who was the producer of "Teatro de los Andes" for 19 years. "I travelled around the world preparing the ground for our theatre troupe to perform," Mamerto said, "so I lived a few months in Padua, Prague or New York setting the stage, promoting the show and selling all the tickets in advance." Now, back in Sucre, he assured me that there is nothing like Latin America, "we believe in community and our lives aren't centered in our jobs, but in enjoying time with our families." After a few seconds he confessed, "I chose work over family, I've dedicated all my life to theatre, and the troupe was my family." As I write, Johnny appears from his bedroom. "How did you guys sleep?" he asks, reminding me that as Mamerto, for the past years my life has centered around my job, and my colleagues and friends around the world have become my family. You learn to feel at home almost everywhere and love the people you spend time with; you give yourself openly in a need to establish meaningful connections. "It's a good life, you learn and grow enormously, but you need to know when to stop and settle," Mamerto said before saying goodbye.  I think I could settle in Latin America. I've been daydreaming for quite some time of moving to a place like Uruguay for a year and just let life happen, without looking for it. Sylvia is awake now and Johnny invites us to the table to have breakfast: coffee and bread with cheese. Radio Deseo starts playing Mariposa Technicolor, giving me the perfect lyrics to finish this post.  Todo al fin se sucedió, sólo que el tiempo no los esperó, la melancolía de morir en este mundo y de vivir sin una estupida razón.

...come to terms...

I’m freezing. The landlord hasn’t been turning on the heat lately. My guess is that Polina is watching Russian films in her room; she got back a few days ago and is still carrying with her the nostalgia of the other place. I’m about to sleep but for a moment stare at the stack of half-read books on my desk. The sight is daunting. When I was a little girl I tried really hard to start the new school cycle with an organized backpack and neat notebooks. To my eternal disappointment at the end of each school year my backpack was a mess, stained with ink and pencil, and the notebooks, missing a few pages, had notes in blue, black and sometimes even green ink.  I tried really hard to be someone that I wasn’t and failed year after year. So, in that spirit and considering that today is the Chinese New Year, I have made up my New Year’s resolution: stop worrying about all the half-read, half-done, half-thought, half-everything.  “Be kind to yourself”, I pronounce loudly as I type, “and come to terms with the fact that it might be fine to leave the bed unmade sometimes.”

Note to self: Get over the fact that this is who you are.

Which way to go?

Today is Christmas. We are driving through foggy-mountain highways crossing La Sierra Madre towards Xalapa.  We drive quietly listening to some country music. Enrique, my Mom’s partner, stops to buy a bag of pig-shaped sugar cookies that people sell on the side of the road in this part of the country.  “Do you remember the time we went to Veracruz for the holidays?” Pepe asks as I nod trying to remember a trip that happened more than 20 years ago.  It’s hard to imagine how we pictured ourselves as grown-ups back then. “What is it next for you?” I ask as we take pictures of the cookies against the foggy backdrop.  “I’m not sure.” He shrugs his shoulders. For the past two years he has been teaching at the School of Architecture in Mexico City, after living in Venice, Barcelona and New York.  He has a love for knowledge that is only proportional to his lack of interest for a relationship. “I’m still interested in urban planning,” he says, and I know he hasn’t found his place int he world yet.  Two days ago I was interrogated by some other members of our family, the usual questions intended to make you feel you’ve been driving in the wrong direction for the past 33 years.  “It is terrible that cities are built around cars and not human interaction,”Pepe asks interrupting my thoughts and making me feel relieved that I have a cousin that even when he doesn’t know where he is going, he knows what he stands for. At 35 he doesn’t know nor is interested in learning how to drive.

Fruit flies

After doing the last Christmas shopping I sat at Sofia’s tounwind; bags were already packed and there was nothing else to do but relaxbefore flying early the next morning. Leo, the bartender, gave me a glass oftheir best champagne and while chilling at the bar I simmered into a millionthoughts.  These last few days havebeen one of the few moments in which I’ve spent time with myself; a very much-neededsilence between trips and with just a handful of friends in New York.  It was when Leo refilled my glass that everythingwas clear to me: I’m a New Yorker; my life is here; not somewhere else. I’vebeen living for so long with a longing for the other place, for the ones I leftbehind without acknowledging what I have built for me here.   For a moment I thought about the fruitflies that appeared in our office a couple of months ago. They stand on our coffee mugs and annoyingly circulate infront of our monitors. “It feels that we’re working in Ecuador or India”,Lindsey would say trying to kill one. My theory is that we brought them from one of our trips and for a reasonthey are thriving in their new environment. What is needed to survive and grow?For the flies it seems that sugar and a cozy environment suffices. This is ofcourse considering that the metric is to survive and reproduce extensively andnot to be happy, fulfilled, loved, empowered, and so many other complexdefinitions of success.  New Yorkis challenging, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as lonely anywhere else and theconcept of anxiety took a new dimension. At the same time it has given theopportunity to try my strength, friends have become family and it has seldom beingboring.  To challenge oneself mightbe a good way of thriving.  Althoughsome of us feel in the paradox of wanting to anchor and keep sailing, there isnot necessarily a dichotomy as we might find people to sail with. Probably, aswith the fruit flies, the wind of inspiration or a tourist will take me to anew port.

I <3 Laos

I miss Laos. I missed it since I landed in Bangkok, and I've been missing it ever since. "It is hard to pinpoint what it is precisely," I tell my mother over the phone, "but there is something about Laos that makes it a beautiful and special place. I want to go back."  It is possibly a combination of the gentle nature of its people and the accidental landscape. It is the frugality combined with a clear sense for beauty. It may be the communist - buddhist way of living. Or the sight of people riding motorbikes as they hold colorful umbrellas; or the intense green of the rice fields; or the incense burning at every temple as monks dressed in orange clothes take care of the shrines dutifully; or the spicy meals combined with tam-tam-"ing" with Beer Lao and Lao-Lao. It is probably that during this trip and work sessions I laughed more than I have laughed in months, and that our partners took great care of us during our stay. Since my return to the US I have asked everyone the same question: "Can you believe I let a stranger take my passport from Xieng Khouang to Vientiane to process my Thai visa?" I guess in Laos I learned that you can actually let go and trust that things will be alright;  my passport was there a week later waiting at the Xien Khouang airport right before our flight. How can you bring some of what you have learned into your life? Do you think that the actual experience is enough to internalize and absorb the new perspectives? "Do not underestimate how much you actually learn or grow after each trip, even when you are not able to articulate it,"I repeat to myself.  One insight after this trip - that I can't yet dare to mutter - revolves around the idea that probably living the simple/frugal life is the way to embrace complexity. As I struggle to write this coherently I remember how Khamdee, Sinthone and Mr. Maus taught us how to dance to Lao music.  Actually, who cares about complexity when you can dance and bump your hips once in a while.

Khamdee

- Where are you from?- Khamdee asked me to inform the waiter.- I'm from Mexico- I replied. - Is that in America?- the waiter asked; - is it part of the United States of America? - No- I replied. - It is the country right below the US . - Oh! I understand -he said before continuing with his duties.

Laos

I'm watching Cartoon Network in Thai even when I should be sound asleep by now. It took us 24 hours to get to Vientiane and now we are 12 hours ahead of our circadian cycle. "It is interesting when traveling this far feels so natural," I told Sean as we boarded the plane from Bangkok to Laos. Just a few moments earlier we bumped into Will at the airport on his way to Laos from Indonesia. A few months ago we also bumped into Will in Amsterdam when we were traveling together to Nigeria. "Laos will be a very unique place, a bit untouched by modernization" I recall reading a week earlier. "We are going to get noticed, in a good way," Sean says as we find our sits on the plane. "Do you think I might pass by Laotian?" I asked knowing the answer.  "We also eat spicy food in Mexico,"I told Khamdee - our host - as we ate sticky rice and spicy sauce for dinner, but the concept of a Mexican or Hispanic identity means almost nothing in this context.

How do you choose the right words? It has been so long since my last post that I feel responsible to write something worth of such a long silence. It is not that for the past month nothing worth sharing happened. On the contrary;  it is that sometimes you just need a time off. Summer isn't over yet so I'm sweating as I write, which is a little unnerving.  I have new roommates at home and I met new friends, so as always life and who you share it with keeps changing. My Mom came to visit and for ten days we talked endlessly. "We should stop analyzing everything," she concluded after one of our lengthy conversations. "Can we just relax and let life do its part?" Immediately after we spent another hour analyzing why we were so analytical.  Truth is we sometimes force ourselves to have total clarity on what to do, where to go and how to do it. Total clarity is a myth. Is it? As I'm struggling with words here, Polina has brought her notes to the dinning table and is now working on one of her projects.  She sings without knowing that I'm writing about her singing; without knowing that for a moment her humming becomes the piece of inspiration.  Am I being too hard on myself by trying to write even when I don't feel like it? Or is it necessary to keep the writing going as an exercise of persistence and discipline. See? I'm already analyzing something that is not even worth discussing, not when I'm so tired and my only real inspiration is to go to bed.

"No one owns an umbrella in Lima," I recall Javier saying long time ago. It is true. In Lima there is no rain, they have never experienced a thunderstorm, and they don't know what it means to hear the windows rumble to the vibration of thunder. "That is why no one cares to clean their rooftops," Johnny exclaimed as we stood by the window at Javier's apartment overlooking Callao. Humidity turns into garua, a permanent drizzle that penetrates your bones during winter time. Lima's grey sky lasts from March and until November when the horizon starts turning blue. "We say our sky looks like a donkey's belly; a solid grey," Javier says without any concern or apology to the sun-lovers. There is of course a romantic melancholy to this monochromatic state. As we drove from Callao to Miraflores we could see the islands that spread along the coast almost fade in the backdrop as the surfers along the beach were getting ready to ride the waves. In Miraflores all the high-rise buildings were covered by an intense fog and I couldn't stop singing that famous waltz inside my head. Déjame que te cuente limeño, ahora que aún perfuma el recuerdo, ahora que aún se mece en un sueño, el viejo puente, el rio y la alameda. For a moment I wished I had a story with a scent, a dream and an old bridge slowly covered by this fading fog.

Paula and I met at a gallery in Chelsea last week. Her work was selected as part of an art exhibition in which all pieces were produced in ceramic. “The curator owns a ceramic factory in Mexico, he called artists to submit ideas that could be produced in that medium,” she said while strolling around the gallery holding a glass full with tequila. After the opening we had diner at the classic New York City dinner on 9th avenue. It’s been quite a few years since we last met; and even longer since we had a proper and inspiring conversation. Our most recent encounters had been mere coincidences, bumping into each other at art galleries and coffee shops in Mexico. Paula was my production and project-planning teacher in college, and since then our lives have been intertwined in all sorts of ways. She produced a documentary about Javier -my ex-boyfriend- and me as an example of a creative couple; the quasi-ideal love-work relationship, that broadcasted nationally in Mexico. “Am I crazy or I saw you on television?” Fidela asked every time I visited her at my grandmother’s house. Paula moved to New York in 2003 for six months to support my television project. In 2006 we stopped talking after she got into a relationship with Javier short after we had split up. It was by chance that in 2008, while in transit returning from London, we met at a waiting line at the Kennedy airport and were forced to face each other. No apologies were needed; at the end we both understand life as a complex network of lives and stories. I’ve always admired Paula’s devotion – almost obsessive – towards art and beauty. “These days I’ve been fully dedicated to Le Porc Shop,” she said before getting a piece of meatloaf into her mouth. A few years ago she created a furniture brand in an attempt to save the family business; her father had owned a furniture factory for years but cheaper imports from China consumed his market share. As Paula goes deeper into her mashed potatoes I think this is a kind of poetic redemption; all the unsold pieces at the factory are now being transformed by Paula and guest artists. “We are recycling all the unsold furniture and creating new designs,” she says in her melancholic voice. “It is my duty, to keep the family factory running and reinvent it.” After dinner we headed to the after party for the show at Wooly’s in Tribeca where LCD Soundsystem was supposed to be playing. “All the current great Mexican artists are here,” Paula said not counting herself in, “some of these people don’t even talk to me when we met at exhibitions in Mexico.” From my standpoint Paula is a much greater artist, and I believe in a few years someone will say the same about her, without the pretentious part. “Look, that is the guy from LCD Soundsystem,” she said. “Really! We were accidentally rubbing elbows for a few minutes!” I exclaimed in a clearly starstruck moment.

Sylvia and I left the airport before sunrise towards downtown Santiago knowing we had to be back at the airport at 11:00 am. Our flight to Bolivia was cancelled at the last minute, so we had to fly to Chile and catch a plane to La Paz. Four hours don't seem enough to get a sense of a city, but we were eager to get as much of it as possible. The airport bus left us at Estacion Central, were we took the subway towards downtown, getting off just by City Hall. "Do you think Michelle Bachelet is already there?" I asked completely forgetting that Sebastian Piñera has been in office for more than a year. "She is probably sleeping," Sylvia answered. We walked by the Cathedral and the main city buildings while early commuters were rushing to and from the subway stations and as local coffee shops were setting their tables at the Plaza. "What are a Mexican and a Colombian doing in Chile?" a police officer asked flirting; we just smiled. We had a hot cappuccino to fuel us and kept our freezing discovery walk through Bellas Artes, Brasil Avenue and Concha y Toro in the Republica neighborhood. "Look!" I exclaimed, almost speechless. The winter sunlight had discovered the Andes framing the buildings in the background. Sylvia and I shared our curiosity for graffiti, as in a way it helped us unearth or decode some of the spirit or the untold stories of the city. As we rode the subway and waited for the bus that would take us back to the airport I asked Sylvia if she considered this as a real visit. "We read the newspaper and talked to the locals, I guess that counts," she answered as two fat stray dogs approached us. Just in case, we bought a box of Chilean alfajores and a Condorito comic book at the airport before boarding the plane that would fly us through the Andes into Bolivia.

I'm melting in my living room, ready to pack for Bolivia, drinking coffee and eating half a bagel. The pre-summer sweat has started but we know the real humidity is yet to come; are we going to survive it? I turned 33 and celebrated for the first time in Mexico in 8 years. My Mom baked a chocolate cake and Victor organized me a party at his house by the lake. It's hard to come back to New York after being so pampered. In New York, as it has always been, things change by the season. Spring has brought me a new group of friends with whom I feel at home, and Oscar is moving out of the apartment to live with Troy, his boyfriend. Life as always is complex, hectic and beautiful. In the midst of the craziness of on-going travel and getting new roommates, we had the luxury to spend all day yesterday drinking mimosas and having brunch at the boathouse in Central Park. We talked about quantum physics, fetichism and dating - all with equal depth. "What a beautiful Sunday!", we all expressed at different moments with a sigh. "Where are we going for dinner?" Alex questioned as the sun started to sank behind the trees in Central Park. I love to be with friends that want to stay together from breakfast until dinner. "Anyone wants to ride the Vespa with me?" Pepe asked and I volunteered without hesitation or minding my high heels. I've seen New York from all sorts of angles, but riding down 5th Avenue and uptown on Park during a sweet Spring Sunday afternoon has been so far one of the most beautiful sights of the city.

Last Thursday Lily and I sat under - or immerse - into Ryoji Ikeda's monumental projection of binary codes decoded into a multimedia symphony at the Park Avenue Armory. It was indeed an absorbing experience, but after a few minutes we started feeling uneasy. "How do you think the security staff endure it all day?" Lily asked. "Do you think they are inserting information straight into our brains?" I replied. The night before I've been to a 3-hour meditation and chanting session. The teacher, a man from Cote d' Ivoire, led us through extreme (at least for me) breathing exercises that, as Ikeda's projections, completely transformed the state of mind of those in the room. After the Armory we left for Soho. A friend of Lily had curated a show with artists working in art restoration. It was a contrast to go from a one-man-at-the-Armory to a collective show of artists not fully recognized as such. Most artists were foreign-born, from Uzbekistan to Peru, and their printed bios seemed as important as their artwork shown. As the writers who edit other people's work, artists that work on restoring the art of others are required to have exceptional skills, but are demanded to limit their personal interpretation, and to certain extent, their self. Who decides how much art is worth? Who decides which art is to keep and restore? When with a group of friends we opened Local Project, a gallery in Long Island City, we decided that we would keep our doors open to all artists as long as they were involved in the production of the show. The space was/and is, very successful, although as an underground organization it runs the risk to be seen as unserious. What is interesting for me is how powerful it is to recognize someone's work; provide the opportunity to present to the world, and have the world come and see them - being at the center for a moment. As Lily and I were ready to leave for yet another cocktail party, I noticed that someone had left a price tag in the restroom. For me, it is not only about what you see on the walls or what is happening at the show, but the stories behind it that matter. For someone this show must have been really important to buy a $54.99 size 9 dress to wear, and even get changed at the restroom right before the opening.

It is already May 16th. It is already 2011. I'm almost 33. Las fechas siempre llegan, my Mom would say, regardless of your readiness. Do we all ask what have we done with our lives? Do we all ask if we had make the most out of time? A few days ago Lily and I went to the opening at MOMA of the Francis Alys exhibit. It has been the best exhibition I have been in a while, as it is - in his own words - an allegory to process, rather than a quest for synthesis. Do we need to have an objective for every single thing we do? I like how Alan Watts describes it. In music, one doesn't make make the end of the composition the point of the composition. If that was so, the best conductors will be those who play faster; and there will be composers who play only finales. We cannot miss the opportunity to listen and dance to each bit of music - but we sometimes forget to make meaningful the ordinary. An intense fog covered New York today, a white cloud filling the space between buildings, and in a strange way, pausing time.

A few weeks ago Jessica, Sylvia, Matthew and I met for an afterwork drink with the Ambassador of Seychelles; Ronny, as Jessica calls him. He is one of the few great storytellers I have ever met. After two hours of conversation about his life, we learned more about the islands than we probably know about the history of any other country. "I was born in Africa because many people from Seychelles migrated to Africa when the British were developing the east coast of the continent." A he spoke Sylvia and I quickly searched for the sites he mentioned on the iPhone, trying to picture the island formations, the coral reef and the beyond-luxury resorts that charge more than $5,000 per night. We also learn the challenges islands face. Their airport and runway will be submerged under water due to sea-level rise from climate change and placing windmills might prove more a problem than a solution. "Where are you going to put a windmill?"he says, "if you place it on top of the mountain, the hotels and tourists will complain about the sight of it; they are not pretty. So then, are you going to destroy your coral reef to place it offshore? Or, are you going to sacrifice the scarce flat land you have to put the damn thing?" he continued jokingly. "Have you ever heard the noise those things make?" As we walk to the subway station Matthew and I concurred that this is the reason why we love New York so much. The city's diversity makes you feel part of the greater world, even when in such diversity you can also feel isolated. It would be almost impossible to have a beer with someone from Seychelles, or even Africa, in Guadalajara. To be honest, most people in Mexico - or the US - have never heard about Seychelles. "My uncle migrated to Papua New Guinea, but he never came back to Seychelles. He must have been eaten; they use to eat people there." I could still hear the Ambassador's voice as I walk home under the rain.