A Paraguayan Wedding: Celebrating Karen and Joel

On August 7th, my sister Karen married her partner Joel in the rural outskirts of La Colmena, Paraguay, a small community located 2.5 hours southeast of Asuncion, the capital city.  Karen and Joel met in Paraguay several years ago while serving as volunteers in the Peace Corps.  After a year of readjusting to life in the United States, they returned to the setting of their relationship’s nascence to confirm their commitment to one another.

La Colmena was founded during WWII by a group of Japanese immigrants.  The community today is inhabited by both Japanese and Guarani people, whose cultures remain distinct and visible.  During his time in the Peace Corps, Joel lived and served on the outskirts of La Colmena, promoting sustainable agriculture by planting demonstration crops, starting a community garden, and hosting a local radio show.  He primarily worked with the community’s Guarani inhabitants, who tend to have lower income levels and fewer resources than do the Japanese, who remain well-supported by the Japanese government and relatives overseas.

The cast of characters who attended the wedding ceremony were as diverse as our surroundings.  Joel’s parents traveled from Humboldt county, California; Matt and I came from the Bay Area.  Our two sets of parents and my little brother hailed from rural Illinois.  Karen’s Peace Corps host family traveled six hours by bus and foot to attend the wedding.  Joel’s Peace Corps host family also hosted the wedding: they prepared hundreds of empanadas, butchered and roasted a pig and a cow, made dozens of pans of Sopa (delicious cornbread prepared with lard), and readied the grounds for the celebration.  Several current and former Peace Corps volunteers attended, including Bo, a friend of Joel and Karen who traveled from Florida for the festivities.  In addition, approximately 80 community members joined the celebration, drawn by the promise of a good party.  Add to this mix a polka band, a mischievous goat, and sweet, grapey wine mixed with Coca Cola, and you have a proper Paraguayan wedding.

At their wedding, Joel and Karen brought together a tremendous diversity of individuals; they relied on the hospitality of Joel’s host family and strong relationships built during their time in-country.  They prepared for the wedding remotely and during two weeks in Paraguay leading up to the event.  Despite the challenges inherent in this feat, they managed an occasion that was joyful, inclusive, and unique — a fitting culmination of their service in Paraguay and representation of their wedding vows.

In the days leading up to the wedding, I watched Karen and Joel sip terere (cold yerba mate tea) with their host families, joke with community members, and — in free moments — coordinate the details of the event.  As Peace Corps volunteers, Joel and Karen completed their missions by adapting to their environments, embracing new experiences, and building relationships that spanned gaps in experience, language, and culture.  These same gifts enabled them to host a Paraguayan wedding with grace and love.

As family members, we were given passes into this community based on the time and effort that Karen and Joel had contributed over the course of years.  We enjoyed pre-dinner tastes of roasting meat, embarked on galloping polka dances, and were treated with warmth and respect.  Joel and Karen’s desire to unite two distinctive portions of their lives enabled their families to share a life experience that otherwise would be inaccessible to us.  Their generosity and inclusiveness are only several of the reasons why we love them, and they each other.  These shared qualities undoubtedly form the basis of a relationship that will be both enduring and adaptive over time.

Thank you, Karen and Joel!

Down the Rio Mamore: Welcome to the Jungle

With scores of rivers and lagoons, the Amazon watershed is best experienced by boat.  Matt and I booked four days aboard the Reina de Enin, a slow-floating houseboat that navigates the Rio Mamore.  Although we traveled only a small section of river near Trinidad, Bolivia, one can follow Mamore’s waters into Brazil, the Amazon River, and finally, the Atlantic Ocean.

The river that we rode was a shifting, changing beast: during the rainy season, sandy banks erode and new serpentine routes are cut.  The river regularly uproots both the surrounding landscape and bank-side communities, propelling a cycle of migration and rebirth.  Mature trees are a rarity in the jungle that surrounds the river, which more frequently supports undergrowth and small trees that have yet to fall in the river’s path.

Wildlife within Mamore and the surrounding jungle is just as lively and abundant.  Communities rebuild on the river’s banks because food is so plentiful: a net pulled behind a boat gathers fish for three days; crocodiles and turtles are harvested for their meat; and mango, banana, and coconut trees produce copiously.  During our time on the boat and in the jungle, Matt and I gawked at river dolphins, piranhas, caimans, turtles, monkeys, eagles, countless water birds, an anaconda, and capybaras (the world’s largest rodent!).

Our boat was managed by Barbara, a multi-lingual Portuguese native who moved to Bolivia after marrying a Bolivian.  Despite coordinating all food and activities for the boat – which on average generates $1000 USD in revenue per day – conducting all recruiting, and managing a staff of up to 25, Barbara earns what to our standards is a trifling sum – $600 USD per month.  I found myself reflecting on how capital begets capital (the boat’s owners purchased it 25 years ago and likely have enjoyed very healthy returns), whereas work typically begets only more work, with very little opportunity to save.

Barbara shortly would be traveling to recruit staff for the boat, and she complained to us of the difficultly she faces in recruiting local staff who demonstrate the work ethic that she wishes to see.  In Barbara’s words, “Most Bolivians live in the present, not in the future.”  Barbara believes that as a result of this orientation towards the present, many Bolivians are not economically ambitious regarding their futures: they do not attempt to get ahead in the same way that Westerners might.

Given the likelihood that Barbara’s staff earn under a third of what she makes – and perhaps do not earn a living wage – I might argue that local people’s lack of economic ambition derives from the absence of a path by which to increase their living standards.  I find Barbara’s comment about present and future orientation ironic, given that stressed out Americans frantically practice yoga in an effort to live more “in the present.”  Surely, there is an equilibrium to be found between these two worlds.

Tiwanaku and Isla del Sol: Remains of Civilizations

In past travels, I often have made a point of visiting the ruins of ancient civilizations, including Angkor Wat (Khmer – Cambodia), Machu Picchu (Inca – Peru), Teotihuacan (Maya – Mexico), Tikal (Maya – Guatemala), and my personal favorite, Monte Alban (Zapoteca – Mexico). In Bolivia, we again sought to learn of civilizations that thrived in earlier times by visiting Tiwanaku, a pre-Incan site near La Paz, and Isla del Sol, an island in Lake Titicaca scattered with Incan ruins.

Constructed around AD 700, Tiwanaku is thought to have been a ceremonial, religious, and political center for the Tiwanaku people, who dominated western Bolivia prior to the rise of the Incan empire.  Due to financial constraints, only 10% of the vast ruins have been excavated, despite their cultural and historical importance.  The Incan ruins on Isla del Sol are notably less impressive than is Tiwanaku, though their setting against deep blue Lake Titicaca and the Cordillera Real mountain range is incomparable.

As Matt and I explored the ruins at Tiwanaku, we found ourselves drawn to half-buried pillars and mysterious carvings: the most fascinating aspect of the site was its unknown quality.  The seductiveness of ruins derives from the questions that arise from viewing fragments of the past: what happened to these people and to the lives they had constructed?  Why did their world disappear?  And then, there comes the corollary to these questions: how does what I am seeing apply to my own world?  Our curiosity originates from witnessing the remains of a failed civilization and acknowledging that in their time, they too believed their world to be the one true existence.

In part out of a spirit of self-preservation, we are compelled to understand what remains of a people once they are gone.  The Tiwanaku people built their ceremonial center with an eye towards permanence and workmanship: great slabs of up to 25 tons each were hauled over 60 miles and then intricately carved.  The center was developed over the course of lifetimes, drawing on the labor of thousands of people.  As a result of their toil, the site remains, honoring their gods long after they have ceased to exist.

Today, we rarely build with an eye towards longevity.  We seek speed and mobility in our communications and our lifestyles.  I wonder what traces would remain of our civilization in thousands of years, if we were to cease to exist.  For me, literature and art are appealing for the permanence that they suggest – the act of recording and documenting leaves a small footprint of our existence in the great transient history of the world.

La Paz, Bolivia: A Wealth of Potential

La Paz is striking for its contrasts and its colors: set in a stunning but challenging landscape, it is a city surrounded by rich natural resources, but inhabited by a largely impoverished populace.

Mirrored in the glassy facades of well-to-do downtown buildings are ramshackle adobe brick homes that cling to surrounding canyon walls.  La Paz is set in a deep basin ringed by the Cordillera Real mountain range: at over 13,000 feet in elevation, it is one of the highest altitude cities in the world.  La Paz´s correspondingly harsh climate leads wealthier inhabitants to claim the canyon´s basin as their home, while less prosperous homes scale the hillsides.  Sprawling outward from the top of the bowl, El Alto – La Paz´s ugly stepsister – teems with traffic, markets, mud brick homes, and garbage.  

A majority of the city appears to be engaged in informal commercial activity.  Markets bustle, selling everything from local phone calls, to freshly squeezed orange juice, black market electronics, and (more exotic) llama fetuses, which have religious and ceremonial purposes.  At any point in time, we were within smelling distance of street food, and we awoke each morning to the aroma of beef and chicken frying in vendors´vats below.  Young boys shine shoes to earn cash; they wear ski masks while doing so, presumably to keep their identities concealed.  These costumes pale in comparison to those of Cholas, however; these women of Aymara and Quechua descent wear traditional costumes of full, brightly-colored skirts and bowler hats. 

Outside the city, deposits of gold and tin historically have been an economic mainstay. Today, natural gas and lithium holdings speak of economic promise: Bolivia boasts the second largest natural gas reserves in South America and holds over 50% of the world´s known lithium deposits.  The country´s mountain ranges, jungles, Lake Titicaca, and Salar de Uyuni (a striking salt flat) draw tourist dollars, as well.  

Despite an abundance of natural resources and rampant captialism, a majority of Bolivia´s inhabitants are poor: average annual income is only $900 USD, relegating over 60% of the population to lives below the poverty line. 

The lack of specialization in goods produced and sold no doubt results in their commoditization, which in turn leads to their low market value.  Higher levels of specialization require a well-educated workforce.  Surely, education is a prerequisite for economic development. 

However, poverty´s causes are more complex and difficult than this formula suggests, and in the face of it, I sense injustice, without clear solutions.  These are the limits of capitalism – the reality that one´s birthplace is a greater determinant of opportunity than so many other factors, including our most cherished American ideals of hard work and an entrepreneurial spirit.

A Reflection on Journeys

I have long been fascinated by the concept of journeys.  As a child, I daydreamed of adventures in strange lands, where I would help the protagonist of the latest book I was reading to accomplish feats of integrity and bravery.  I would close my eyes to swing so high that my toes touched the maple’s leaves; by the time I returned to the arc’s nadir, I would have been transported through space and time.

Journeys are appealing because of the story they imply: one leaves, encounters adventures and challenges, and eventually arrives at a new (and superior) destination.  Throughout the journey, one’s physical travels are mirrored by internal struggle towards emotional or spiritual understanding.  A journey is quite different from a trip or a vacation, which suggest physical travel absent the emotional overtones.  Our collective yearning for journeys can be traced through the plots of important Western texts, including Homer’s Odyssey and Melville’s Moby Dick.

On my recent road trip, I sought to experience new landscapes, cities, and parks.  One of my goals was to find a location that might become a future home for Matt and me.  I also hoped to meet individuals who could tell me something about life, as they had experienced it.

Most importantly, however, I hoped that my trip could be a catalyst for the broader life journey that I have begun – a quest to more closely live my values and purpose in my daily life and to define and occupy my space in the world.  This journey requires of me intention and reflection, and I do not expect to arrive at my destination any time soon.  In fact, I believe it unlikely that I ever will truly “arrive,” for life, unlike most stories, is iterative and constantly evolving.  A neat summing-up can only be conjured in hindsight, when it may never give guidance to the one who lived it.

Rather than feeling discouraged by that insight, however, I will choose to remain optimistic.  This is the core belief that grounds wanderlust and identity – the hope that tomorrow, I can live more fully into my potential than I did today – and the belief that this choice might exist for each of us, every day of our lives.

O, Mountains! Journeys in the High Sierras

In The Mountains of California, John Muir writes of a day spent hiking in the High Sierras: “In so wild and beautiful a region was spent my first day, every sight and sound inspiring, leading one far out of himself, yet feeding and building up his individuality.” The naturalist aptly describes my own experience of the mountains, which inspire in me transcendent awe for nature, juxtaposed by a terrestrial understanding of my physicality.

On this excursion, Matt and I entered Humphreys Basin by way of 11,400-foot Piute Pass. Due to this winter’s heavy snow season, the high peaks remained robed in white, and our trail frequently became a small stream of melted run-off. The basin appeared desolate and vast, with frozen lakes dotting the shadow cast by 14,000-foot Mt. Humphreys. Signs of late-coming spring arrived in wildflowers and birdcalls; we could imagine the verdant meadow that soon would carpet the basin floor.

As on previous trips, Matt and I lamented that we have not yet brought friends or family with us to hike in the High Sierras. Our reticence to do so grows out of our awareness of the high country’s ruggedness and lack of low-elevation access points: the most spectacular scenery requires a several-thousand foot elevation gain to summit a 10,000+ foot pass, all while carrying a weighty pack.

While it is not impossible to complete a hike of this nature over the course of a weekend, a longer trip enables one’s body to acclimatize to the altitude and physical demands of the trail. When Matt and I hiked the 210-mile John Muir trail in the Sierras several years ago, we spent the first seven days of the hike in misery, nursing blisters, headaches, and spent muscles. We even briefly considered quitting the trail – it was just that hard.

In time, however, we became more prepared for the physical and mental challenges of hiking the Sierras, and we came to appreciate our internal journeys, even as we reeled from the beauty that surrounded us. Matt and I now describe our hike on the JMT as one of the most transformative experiences of our lives, and we frequently recollect moments from that trip.

Given Matt’s and my love for the mountains, it is only appropriate that we began yet another journey in the Sierras this weekend. We hiked cross-country to the top of a ridge that overlooked a frozen cirque and the Lost Lakes. There, Matt asked me to marry him, and – in full knowledge of both my soaring potential and human frailty – I said yes.

Sustainability in the West

In many of the western towns I have visited, consumption and ownership of natural resources are among a locale’s most pressing issues.  The West’s natural resources are used in diverse and profit-generating ways: locals speak of mining and the clean-up of old mines, logging, ranching and agricultural production, hunting and fishing, capturing the aesthetic value of land, harnessing alternative energy resources, and addressing water scarcity.

Boise is by no means unique in its approach towards natural resources. Newly constructed homes march westward in files of yellow timber and green lawns.  The city lies along the Boise River, which is dammed in multiple locations in order to provide irrigation and drinking water in a high desert climate (a debate is on-going as to whether an additional dam should be built).  Meanwhile, business and community leaders speak hopefully of growth and of the recovering real estate market.

But as I stand on a hillside overlooking the city, I experience one sudden and overwhelming thought: This is not going to work. Boise, among so many of our cities, is not on a consumption path that can be sustained into the future.  Increasing numbers of the population cannot possibly occupy the consumption footprint of our predecessors; there’s simply not enough earth to go around.

In Collapse, professor and author Jared Diamond argues that many past human societies failed as a result of their inability to address and prevent ecological collapse.  From Norse Greenland to the Mayans, Diamond posits that contributing factors such as environmental damage, climate change, hostile neighbors, and a lack of friendly trade partners influence a civilization’s decline, but that a civilization’s response to environmental problems is the most significant factor in determining its success or failure.

I believe in humanity’s ability to innovate our way out of problems.  I do not believe that the world is going to self-destruct at some future point as a result of the environmental damage we have wrought.  However, I do believe that the way in which we use and conserve our resources now will directly influence those that we have available to us in the future.  I am awed  by the lands I have seen and by the abundance those lands provide; I hope to be a voice in ensuring their continued fecundity and wildness.

Boise, ID: Hospitality and Big City Comforts

As my final stop on this leg of my journey, Boise is an ideal location in which to conclude and from which to reflect on my trip.

I have quit the $50/night motel circuit in order to stay in the gorgeous ranch home of the parents of one of my business school friends.  Their home is nestled in the foothills that surround the city and comes complete with welcoming hosts, amazing views, and a rambunctious (and adorable) Labrador.

Dave’s entire family – including his parents, sister and her husband, and brother – left their homes in Seattle and California to stage a mass migration to Boise.  Dave’s parents moved to Boise first – for quality of life reasons – and they’ve been busy luring their children here ever since.

The entire family is unwaveringly enthusiastic in their love for the city, and it’s easy to understand why.  Boise boasts more miles of bike paths and mountain biking trails than perhaps any other city in the States.  High mountain peaks are not visible from town, but they lie within a two-hour drive of the city; in winter, the nearest ski slope is just a half hour away.

Although the city is located in a high desert climate zone, the presence of the Boise River makes for a lush and tree-filled valley; one account of how the city earned its name involves French-Canadian fur trappers delightedly exclaiming “Les Bois!” (“the woods!”) upon first beholding the city’s future site.  The river now is lined by the Greenbelt, a series of parks and paths that stretch for over 25 miles through and beyond the city.  Boise not only has invested in parks and paths, but also in its vibrant downtown area.  Real estate is abundant and affordable, as Boise continues to creep westward, northward, and southward, expanding prolifically across the valley.

Because Boise is significantly larger than nearly every town I have visited (with the exception of Spokane, which is around the same size), it serves as an important counterpoint to smaller town life.  I spent my first day in the city reveling in the many amenities here.  Coffee shops!  Parks!  Micro-breweries!  Food options that are not solely centered on beef!  The city is infinitely livable.

Job possibilities here also are more diverse than in many of the smaller towns I visited, although they still pale in comparison to those available in a larger city.  Healthcare, state government, and Boise State University provide a solid employment base; these institutions are especially helpful in a time when the real estate market has collapsed, and several larger Boise-based companies have cut their staffs significantly.

All in all, the city is both fantastic and practical.  It would be a great place in which to live.

So why am I still dreaming of Montana’s big sky?

Southeastern Idaho: Kindred Spirits and Craters of the Moon

My day started with a glorious breakfast conversation with a woman who told me that she long had wanted to be a cowgirl, and so at the age of 50, she retired to this lifestyle, high in the mountains near Island Park, Idaho.  Carroll keeps horses at a ranch home where in winter snow piles to the first-floor window; leaving home at this time of year requires a very dedicated snow-mobile ride into town.

The spirit of independence and conscious choice that Carroll exercised in moving to Island Park is characteristic of many whom I have met on my trip.  The upper Mountain West is largely unpopulated; as a result, those who move here often make a concerted effort to do so, rather than being pulled to the area by a job or kept here by inertia.  As a child and into my college years, I recall being thrilled by historical and fictional accounts of the settling of the rugged western states.  The West, with its larger-than life vistas, history, and wide-open spaces continues to inspire pioneers today.

Island Park, like many scenically important places in the Greater Yellowstone Area, faces development pressure: Carroll recollected plans hatched several years ago to place 20 permanent RV pads on the pristine hillside leading down to the lake in front of her home.  In response, Carroll and others in the community launched IPARD (Island Park Advocates for Responsible Development) in order to curb ecologically-unfriendly development in the area.  From the look of the largely wild landscape surrounding Henry’s Lake, they’ve done well at this task – although Carroll says it’s a constant battle.

Beyond the Greater Yellowstone Area, southeastern Idaho is a largely agricultural region, producing primarily potatoes, wheat, hay, and cattle.  Many towns in southern Idaho are predominantly Mormon, and the state as a whole votes conservatively.  As I drove west, the farms faded behind me and the climate became progressively arid; much of south-central and southwest Idaho is high desert.

On my drive, I stopped to explore Craters of the Moon National Monument, a volcanic area once fueled by the same hot spot that now creates Yellowstone’s dramatic geothermal features.  Craters of the Moon is centered over the Great Rift, a fracture in the earth’s surface that extends northward for over 50 miles in southeast Idaho.  This great fissure periodically has been the site of volcanic activity, which last occurred in the area around 2000 years ago.

Dark basalt rock and twisted ropes of hardened lava define the landscape at Craters of the Moon.  Cinder cones stand starkly against the blue sky and surrounding green-brown hills.  I found myself most drawn to the fragile flowers that cling to these seemingly uninhabitable hillsides.  Life does prevail.

Jackson, WY: Playground for the Rich and Famous

Jackson should be the setting for a reality TV show, or at least a daytime soap opera.  What do the beautiful, idle rich do when tossed together in one of the most magnificent settings in the United States?

They play.

Nestled in a valley at the southern edge of the Grand Tetons, Jackson has a reputation for powder, plush amenities, and wealth.  Wyoming feels like the Wild West, with its vast unpopulated spaces, tracts of oil and gas development, and lack of state income taxes.  Jackson, however, is its own entity: multi-million dollar homes hug the buttes surrounding town, stars claim the town as their own, and residents and tourists alike seem bent on achieving maximum amounts of play.  The town’s proximity to several ski resorts, the Grand Tetons, and Yellowstone creates an ideal base for outdoor adventure.

Because a number of Jackson residents no longer must work to support themselves, play becomes the currency of conversations.  During the winter, the pertinent topic is the powder – how deep, how dry, how many runs off the technical backside of a nearby peak.  During the summer months, there’s a bit more diversity to the conversation: kayaking, hiking, climbing, and rafting are all fair game.

But doesn’t all this play get old after awhile?  As one long-time Jackson resident noted to me, “Conversations quickly can become stale when you ski during the day and then talk about skiing at night.”  What is the underlying theme that governs these lives, regardless of powder depth?

Since my youth, I have believed that my work is that which defines me and will become my legacy once I am gone.  I have been willing to dedicate a majority of my time and mind share to my job.  Frequently, in the intensity of the moment, I  let work consume other important parts of my day, like reading, running, and remaining in touch with good friends.

Over the past several years, however, I have realized that all of this “doing” on the job is just work – not identity, not legacy – unless it is connects with a deeper meaning for me.  Work is not intrinsically more noble or worthwhile than play.  It requires discipline and attention to values to either find work that connects with purpose or keep work in its place, and not allow it to bleed over into all facets of life.

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The following day, I drove west to Driggs, a small Idaho town located at the base of the quieter face of the Tetons.  The joke around town is that when the billionaires moved into Jackson, they pushed out the millionaires to neighboring Driggs and Victor, so I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Although plenty of newly constructed ranch homes dotted the landscape facing the mountains, I found the towns on this side of the mountains to be refreshingly modest.  Many of the service and hospitality personnel working in Jackson have their homes here.  For the time being, they are still close enough to the mountains to work in Jackson and enjoy the view.