A FORWARD ON ROAMING COMMUNITIES

There is a common line of questioning among the backpacker community. Spend at least ten minutes with a fellow traveler that you have met in a hostel, bar or tour and you will exchange these three questions in this order: “Where are you from? How long have you been traveling? Where have you been?” Most backpackers will extract this information before even learning each other’s names.

Until I went traveling on my own in Latin America, I hadn’t realized that there was even a backpacker community. I am from the generation that used to go on Europe trips after high school or college. Although I never had a desire to cross the pond, I knew people who had “bummed around Europe” for a couple months. In my pre-traveling naïveté, I just figured Americans went to Europe and Europeans traveled around their own continent and that was as far as backpacker routes extended. As an “ignorant American”, I was oblivious to the significantly worn trails young travelers have blazed all around the world.

Somehow, I was inspired to go and travel one of these well-worn paths for what started out as three months. Needless to say, I love meeting people from around the world and talking politics, culture or music. I have spent hours or days with random Australians, Dutchies, Germans, Israelis, Colombians, you name it, and I have asked that set of three questions a zillion times. After four years of traveling, mainly in Mexico, those three questions have become harder for me to answer without becoming long-winded.

Obviously, the question about where I am from is easy enough to answer, but being an American abroad gets mixed reactions. The politics of our government on a global scale are not so popular among Europeans and members of the third world. But, being from the States has sparked some great and heated discussions that make for truly great cultural exchange. In fact, I am proud to be an American abroad because with the reputation our government has given us, it’s important to set a good example.

The hardest question for me to answer in the backpacker interview is about how long I have been traveling. Speaking strictly in terms of time, I guess it has been on and off for four years, but it’s more complicated than that. This is where I tend to get long-winded explaining that I have not only traveled, but I have lived abroad, which leads to questions like, “Why?” and “What do you do when you live abroad?”

It’s hard to explain what I “do” when I travel around Mexico because it’s the experiences themselves that is the activity. Quenching the thirst of the “why” I travel is also part of the answer. I have fallen head-over-heels in love with Mexico and like with any smitten relationship, all I want to do is spend time with my lover. In this case, my lover is an entire country, culture and its energy. I am in love, addicted and absolutely thrilled by everything about traveling and especially in Mexico.

The answer to this question gets so complicated that I usually end up giving a generic, vague, partially true answer like, “I’m visiting friends.” But, I want to give the full answer and explain why I have been here for so long and why I keep coming back. So, I decided to write this book to reflect on how traveling has changed my life and how I fell in love with Mexico. I decided to write this book to try to inspire American women to go out and explore the world solo-style and to show you how much stronger you will become. In fewer words, this book is the answer to the question “How long have you been traveling?” and, by default, it answers the third question “Where have you been?”

SWEATING IN TAGANGA, COLOMBIA

I thought I knew what it meant to sweat when I went to Indonesia 7 years ago. I did a jungle trek in Bukit Lewang, Sumatra, Indonesia, to see the orangutans. I trekked through tropical rain forest, up and down hills and in all the pictures my skin gleams with perspiration. I could have sworn to you that I was sweating to the point where it ceased to be salty and all that dripped off my body was purified water. I never thought I would sweat that much again. I never thought I would experience heat like that, but then again, I never really thought I would go to Colombia.

Needless to say, it was hot in Taganga, Colombia. It wasn’t so much an oppressive, humid heat as a constant, perpetual characteristic of the place. One would sweat just sitting still, swatting flies away from one's food or waiting for a cooling breeze. It feels good in a way, sweating profusely like that, like a ritual cleansing. A heat like that is only bearable at the beach with the ocean a few meters away.

I went to Colombia for only two reasons. One reason was to go to the supposed virginal Colombian Caribbean coast and the other was to dance. Aside from their undeserved reputation for violence and cocaine, Colombia is also known as the cradle of Cumbia, as masters of Salsa, as a nation that dances. Colombia is a wonderful, peaceful, undiscovered jewel in South America. The people are friendly, warm, but toward the end of my two-week trip, I was homesick for Mexico. Compared to the spicy food and biting wit of Mexico, calm, bland Colombia was boring me. I headed to the beach as planned. I hoped that in a small coastal town like Taganga, I would find a quaint salsa bar and a nice Colombian boy to dance with.

When I first arrived, I went on the hunt. I was looking for Colombians my age to shoot the shit with, to show me around and to take me out. Immediately, en la calle, in the street, I found the artisans. Artisans are easy people to meet and reside in most backpacker-friendly towns around Latin America. They are usually hippies who like to hang out, meet new people and have a good time. Taganga was small with one main pedestrian street that extended about eight blocks along the beach. My first night in Taganga, my first dinner in a street-side café, I found the artisans selling jewelry on the sidewalk. As I had suspected, conversations were easy and talk of going out was immediate.

I met Yury, a Jesus-look-a-like hippy from Bogotá, Diego a quirky young kid from Medellìn, Andres from Bogotá and his Canadian girlfriend Krista. Krista was volunteering there for five months and was my guide to the locals. She said everyone was really nice and going out dancing would not be a problem. I had asked Yury earlier if he knew how to dance, which he of course said he did, but that didn't say much because no self-respecting Colombian man would answer "no". Krista confirmed though that Yury did like to dance and we made plans to go out the next night.

I had my doubts about Yury from the beginning. He was one of those super hippies. All he could talk about was spiritual, new-agey crap. He was the type that couldn’t joke around, so all my attempts at fun, flirty banter fell flat. For example, he asked me how old I was and when I told him I was practically a grandma with my 28-year-old-almost-30 ass, he of course came back with, "Age doesn't really matter because time doesn't exist. We are just big balls of light, blah, blah, blah." Don't get me wrong. I am just as spiritual as the next closet hippy, but he wasn't saying anything I didn't know already. It was the same crap about indigenous people and hallucinogens, the Mayan calendar, minimalism and Carlos Castaneda. I only mention all this because Yury had sort of attached himself to me and was destined to be me dance partner. The more he bored me with his lack of humor and his philosophical mumblings, the more I began to give up hope of having a night uninhibited movement and rhythm.

The night we went out, Yury, Andres, Krista and I went to the beach to smoke a little weed and to drink a little before going out. Krista and Andres were busy being all cute and cuddly and I was stuck listening to Yury's wisdom. During the course of his sermon, he dropped this information, "Oh by the way, I love to dance, but I am not an expert or anything. I mean, I know the salsa steps, but turns and stuff are not really my thing. I just like to move to the music." My heart dropped. I had heard this before. It was a blanketed way of saying, "I don't know how to salsa dance." All I wanted to do was dance and I was paired up with someone who liked the music, but didn’t know the moves. I was ready to go home, disappointed and defeated.

Just as I was about to say my Ciaos, however, quirky, crazy Diego showed up wondering where we all were. He was ready to dance he said. I told them that I was going to go home, that I didn't feel like going out. Yury, of course, gave some crap like, "Life is for enjoying the moment, the present."

Diego just looked me straight in the eye and said, "If you come out, I promise you the first dance."

I looked the kid up and down and gave him a look like, "Is that a threat or an honor?" He just met my eyes again and said, "I'm from Medellìn," like it was supposed to mean something.
Intrigued by Diego’s confidence, I went out with them to a bar called El Garaje which was actually an old, small parking lot transformed into a cool little bar. The dance floor was under the thatched roof of a palapa and there were trees to sit under. As we walked up to the bar one song was ending as another one began. It was a classic, popular salsa number. Diego turned to me and offered me his hand, dragging me onto the dance floor.

The heat under the thatch-roofed hut was intense in a steamy, communal sense of the word. There weren't many people dancing, so Diego and I had plenty of room to move. Sometimes it's hard to find your rhythm with a new dance partner. Everyone has his or her own style and not everybody can synchronize. Diego and I, however, fit perfectly together. All I wanted to do in Colombia was dance until my feet hurt, dance until the sun came up, and dance like it was my last day on Earth and dance we did.

Within minutes we were drenched in sweat. It was almost difficult to get through the turns because our hands would slip, but we connected nonetheless, missing turns, but never missing a step. It was hot in every sense of the word. Salsa dancing is so provocative. The woman always has to be ready to be led through the turns. The man guides her with soft touches on the shoulder, the arm, and the small of her back. When the man turns, the woman's hands always have to be ready to be held again, to be taken. I only noticed how wet we both were when he would turn and I would let my hand slide along his bare back as he came full circle. Salsa songs are also so long that just when you think you have had enough, when the song slows to almost a whisper, the horns start up again into yet another crescendo. It was intense, intoxicating all that energy of all those bodies on the dance floor, in Colombia no less, where everyone knew how to dance.

I felt like a super-star, like a Latina, like I passed the test. Diego would only dance with me. At one point some other guy asked me to dance, but Diego immediately cut in and whispered that none of the other girls danced as well as me. At one point, a traditional Afro-Colombian Cumbia song came on, drums beating with typical call and response lyrics. Everyone started clapping and singing and swinging his or her hips. Dancing is an unbelievable therapy. It is a drug unto itself. By the end of the night I was soaked. I could not stop sweating. My skirt was practically falling off of me because of the weight of its wetness. Diego was the same and we would just keep giving each other slithery, slidy hugs.

I felt bad for Yury, but only a little. He couldn’t dance, which was obvious when danced with Krista for one song. He had also tried to entice me during a random Reggae-song break. I had to say no. I had to rest up, drink water and be ready for when the salsa tunes started up again. When it did, Diego would give me a cute little bow and offer me his hand. Diego gave me what I had come to Colombia for. It may be bitchy, but I couldn’t waste one drop of that energy, of the intensity on bopping around to a reggae song.

That night was unbelievable, physically, energetically and spiritually. It was one of those nights where sensuality was intrinsic in every moment. That night was a testament to how Latin America, its men, its culture, its way of being makes me feel like a woman. It almost doesn’t matter what a woman looks like. It’s femininity, feminine prowess and our innate sensuality that is valued, respected. In Latin America, I feel beautiful and not just because I am a white girl in a brown land, but because I am curvaceous, clever and confident. I love Latin America and I love its men, so much so, that I don’t know if I could ever go back to white boys again.

PLUNGES

About half-way into my second trip to Mexico, I realized that my fascination with the country was turning into something more. My original goal of wanting to learn Spanish to work with Latino communities in the States was somewhat complete. After three months in Guatemala and another three in Mexico, I was definitely well on my way to fluency, but I wasn't satisfied. Just learning Spanish wasn't enough for me. Ever since my trip to Asia, years before, with the boy who broke my heart, I had dreamed about living in another country. I had entertained the idea of joining the Peace Corps, teaching English in Japan or Korea, but before going to Latin America, living in a foreign land always seemed like just a fantasy.

Choosing to live in another country is no easy decision. It's hard to imagine leaving behind all the comforts of home. There are questions of living arrangements, language barriers and generally feeling like a stranger in a strange land. I have to admit, the fear of loneliness was what kept me from seriously considering moving abroad. Instead, I chose to go to Guatemala for three months, with a mission to learn Spanish. I thought three months would be enough time to indulge my foreign fantasies, but I left the Mayan land wanting more. I wasn't sure if it was the amount of time or the country itself that left me wanting, so I went to Mexico for another three months to continue my Spanish studies.

Mexico was definitely an entirely different place from Guatemala. I was immediately enchanted. The restlessness that had become a chronic condition through my college and post-college years was quelled by everything Mexican. The richness of the history, the poetry of the language, the diversity of the culture was thrilling and new. What really hooked me though was the heat of the climate, the warmth of the people, the passion. After three months of being charmed by adventure, travel and fresh experiences, I really didn't know what I was going home to.

"Home" for six years had been Seattle and I was going back to a life I had left behind in flux. My friends had all moved to their parents' houses or were married or starting their careers. All that I had that was tangible was my car packed with what was left of my stuff and the reminder of a broken heart I had hoped to heal by leaving in the first place. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I knew what I didn't want to do with my life. Once on US soil, my restlessness took over. Monotony and bills and desk jobs and the same old drama all seemed like an immediate death sentence. Traveling had changed me and with it came an oppressive sense of loneliness. Seattle was cold, rainy and everything reminded me of the boy I had loved deeply, who never loved me back. Suddenly, my worst fear confronted me. I was utterly alone.

Within a week of returning to Seattle, I had decided to take the plunge and move to Mexico. During my recent trip, I had met some cool people in the equally cool city of Oaxaca. It was a hip, semi-touristy colonial town with Spanish schools and volunteer opportunities. I wanted to take advantage of my youth and live my dreams in the moments that I conceived them. I was twenty-five and I didn't want to wait until I was old or retired to take advantage of life. I wanted the rush of discovery and the thrill of passion. I wanted art, music, dancing, and love.

So, I spent a week saying good-bye to the Pacific Northwest, tying up loose ends and I drove half-way across the country to my original "home", Chicago. People always ask how I do it, how I can afford to travel like I do. The answer is simple. I give up a social life while I'm in the States and I live at my mom's house. I went to Chicago to work, live rent-free and save money to move to Oaxaca for six months. That was the plan for my second trip to Mexico, move to Oaxaca, perfect my Spanish and volunteer. There is a funny thing about plans though, humans make them while the universe laughs. I had been praying to the gods over and over to bring me life, love and excitement in Mexico. As usual, nothing ever happens the way you expect it and you should always be careful for what you wish.

OAXACA DURING RAINY SEASON

Oaxaca during rainy season is a sight to see. For about eight months out of the year, Oaxaca's climate is as unchanging as any other high-altitude desert. Days are hot. Nights are cool. Every day is dry. Many people think deserts are boring. The brown landscape seems to be dead and dessicated under the unmerciful sun. I lived in Oaxaca two years ago during the driest part of the year which is April and May. Water was scarce and the water company was saying the wells were dry. Everyone was waiting for the rains to come, but I didn't. I left to moist, cool San Cristobal. This year, though, I am here for rainy season and I am glad. Many travelers hear "rain" or "rainy season" and head the other direction. Oh, but to see nature rejoice in what it waits all year for is quite the event.

The mornings are fresh, chilly, yet steaming as the sun dries up the puddles on cobblestone streets. Afternoons heat up, dry and deserty, like the Oaxaca of other months, set below a white and blue calico sky. As the sun goes down, thunder cracks imitating the inaudible sound of breaking heat. First, faintly across the valley, the rumble rolls in ahead of grey-black clouds louder and louder as the day darkens. Amazing lightening shows can be enjoyed from any rooftop. This is life lived in a valley. It's like a natural stadium where the sky is the stage.

As the storm blows closer, thunder builds with momentum. The heat gives way to gusting winds bringing in raindrop refugees before the stampede. Drop by drop, tip-tapping the metal corrugated roofs, this is only the beginning. A small moment passes, minutes where the evening is shrouded in shadow and half-basking sunlight. Then, as if on cue, a soft shuffle explodes into a BOOM! so strong one's chest reverberates with the thunder's echo. BOOM! FLASH! As if waiting to be formally announced, the sky opens up to baptize everything with furiously happy rage. The rain is the main attraction.

All evidence of urban breath, smog, even urban noise cowers away in the face of the season's daily exercise. People run for cover, stay inside, give thanks as the rain falls hard. From under certain roofs the sound of a million raindrops falling on corrugated metal can drown out even wall-shaking thunder claps. Conversation is muted, TVs are silenced and the only thing to do is watch and listen with marvel. Life pauses during one of these storms. The pouring, drenching rain only lasts about fifteen minutes, climaxes and only a cuddling drizzle wets Oaxaca. Sweet dreams are had falling asleep to the sound of rain only to wake up to a sunny fresh and chilly morning in which the ritualistic ceremony will repeat itself once again.

Everything about the rain is truly magnificent. The smells it carries from the mountains on its winds, the immensity of its cacophony and release it abates. Oaxacans love rainy season. Rainy season is when a desert comes of age and presents its beauty, its charms and fertility. Dry river beds fill with muddy torrents. Dormant cacti lazily bloom into fleeting flowers. June bugs come out of hiding. And the hills cupping beautiful colonial Oaxaca appear to have been painted, reupholstered, every ridge, nook, cranny, and ravine is blanketed in the soft green fuzz of life.

Rainy season may not be the ideal tourist season nor may it be all that spectacular to someone who is not intimate with deserts' nuances. However, to those who live here or to those who know desert locations, rainy season can feel like the unveiling of one of nature's most delicate masterpieces.

FLYING TIME

Oaxaca (Wa-ha-ka) is a vibrant, picturesque city that is well-traveled by the backpacker crowd. Armed with their guidebooks, Oaxaca is usually the first stop for young travelers on the route through southern Mexico. Most start in Mexico City, head to Oaxaca, then Chiapas, and onto the Caribbean where they either continue south through Central America or head home. Still new to solo traveling, I was scared of Mexico City. I was scared of its immensity and its reputation. I hadn't yet learned that reputations are hardly ever realities nor that size really doesn't matter. So, like a spoiled, frightened American, I flew directly to Oaxaca.

Through word of mouth and my guidebook-of-choice, the Lonely Planet, I found a welcoming hostel owned by two Mexican brothers. Hostels were a new discovery for me. When I went to Asia there weren't hostels in the European sense and not in Guatemala either. I have since found out that hostels are all over Mexico and South America and make traveling alone so much easier. Good hostels are often social hot-spots with friendly staff, comfortable communal areas and a steady stream of world travelers. A great hostel is all of the above and is so great that it entices some backpackers to stay long term.

Luz de la Luna, the hostel I had picked, was a great hostel. The young owners, Lalo and Juan Carlos lived there as did their friend and employee, Judith. Although I have since stayed at other fantastic hostels, Luz de la Luna was unique. The hostel had a climbing wall, weekly salsa classes and art classes. I mean, the hostel was basically, Lalo, Juan Carlos and Judith's home, so there was always something going on. At any given time there were no more than fifteen guests, mostly Spanish students, Oaxaca-lovers and the occasional passer-through. Any fear of loneliness I had associated with living abroad disappeared in the atmosphere of Luz de la Luna, and with it disappeared any preconceived notions I had of what my Oaxacan life, my plans, were going to be like.

I had originally imagined living in an old colonial house with roommates I would have picked up in Spanish school. Luz de la Luna was an old colonial house and came equipped with about ten consistent roommates. Working on my Spanish fluency also came included in the package. I had started out going to Spanish school, advanced classes, but everything that happened in the hostel basically happened in Spanish, so official lessons became redundant. As far as the third part of my Oaxacan mission, the volunteering, well, what can I say? Aside from a few roadblocks that the universe put up, everyone knows what happens to time when fun is involved.

* * *

I really did want to volunteer in Oaxaca. I liked the idea of beefing up my resume with international experience and actually "doing" something with my time. That was the problem, though, there was always something to do. Oaxaca, the city, is a happening place with art galleries, museums, markets and live music. As a hostel, we would salsa dance by night and relish in the city by day. Apart from the city, Oaxaca the state is full of jewels to uncover. In my first month, I went to the unparalleled Oaxacan coast on two separate occasions where I learned how to properly hamakear, hang out in a hammock and contemplate the state of the world to the sound of Pacific waves crashing onto shore. I also went on an unforgettable trip to an indigenous healing center in the mountains.

Lalo took a group of us to his favorite spot in the Sierra Madre Mountains where we spent the night and were attended to by indigenous healers. We were whipped with herbs and then rubbed down by an intact egg that was then cracked into a glass of water. The healer read our yolks to find her diagnosis. We all went through the process privately and my diagnosis couldn't have been more right on. The healer told me I was suffering on the inside. She said I had a wound near my heart that made me very sad. I was good at hiding it, but the sadness wouldn't hide for long. It made me cold, anxious and unsure of myself. Tears started rolling down my cheeks, losing nothing of what she was saying to translation. She told me not to worry. I had gone to the right place and was with the right people.

"More people are waiting for you," she said, "Not yet, but soon, you will leave and find exactly what you have been asking for."

I was happy she said I was in the right place to heal my depression and quiet my restlessness, but I didn't like the part of having to leave. It wasn’t the first time I had heard that little tidbit of information. Acupuncturists had told me I was cold and unsettled. A Guatemalan Mayan priest told me I was restless by nature and that love and happiness would only be found in the unexpected. Even an astrologer told me that I was on the right path, but the destination of that path was not where I planned it to be. Even though, four different people told me the same thing on four separate occasions, I didn’t want to hear it. I liked Oaxaca and I was finally feeling like I belonged somewhere. She may have been right about everything else, but I decided in my head that they all had to be wrong about leaving.

The next step in the healing was a temescal or the Prehispanic version of a sweat lodge, of a sauna. If what the mind-reading healer had said didn't send me reeling enough, the temescal certainly did. Lalo had told us we weren't allowed to eat before going into the sauna, but time had escaped us between the drive out and the individual diagnosis. It had gotten late and we couldn't do the temescal until the morning. No food in our bellies and wowed by the healer, we stayed up all night playing cards and dying of laughter.

By morning, we were delirious from bonding, starvation and lack of sleep. The people at the indigenous health center shuffled us, naked into the steamy concrete dome early the next morning. A temescal usually last one or two hours. Much like a sauna, the heat comes from hot coals and in the indigenous version special herbs are added for their curing properties. Six of us huddled in the dark womb-like enclosure, two Mexicans, two Germans and two Americans. We were silent for about fifteen minutes before I started feeling dizzy. I breathed deeply trying to control my spinning head. A few seconds later, Lalo started to move and said, "I think we've had enough. It's time to get out."

We all must have been feeling the same way because like good little soldiers we started crawling out of the sweaty dome. Crossing from the dark heat into the cool light my surroundings suddenly blurred. Outside the entrance, people from the center were waiting with blankets, but we really needed them to catch us. One by one we fainted, into a pile of bare bodies, falling from hands and knees into the blankets. Next thing, I know, I was tucked tightly into a small double bed with Lalo and one of the German girls. We were bundled up like babies in a papoose. Big bottles of water and glasses of juice were on the nightstands. I turned to look at Lalo and gave him a face like, "What the hell just happened?"

He smiled wide, put his arms around me and the German girl. He called over to Roberto and the other two girls in the other bed who responded meekly, "Si, guey?"

"We are warriors," Lalo said, "We have confronted our demons and returned from battle. To think we drove two hours up here to only have to do battle for fifteen minutes. Most people sit hours in a temescal and don't even confront their demons."

Five grunts peeped out from underneath covers. I don't even know how long we all slept there, cuddled together, naked recovering from what Lalo thought was a battle. What I do know is that we didn't even feel like eating until we got back to Oaxaca later that night. We walked into the hostel and Judith asked where we had been. She told us we looked like crap. Lalo gave her the customary kiss hello and just said, "We were busy killing demons. Good night Judith."

* * *

That was how I spent my time in Oaxaca, my first time living abroad. When I wasn't out on day trips or taking short getaways, I spent my time cultivating my first female Mexican friendship. Surrounded by boys most of the time, it didn't take long for Judith and I to hit it off. One of the things I love about traveling is marveling at the uniqueness of people across borders. What I love most about traveling though, is finding comfort in how similar humans are. Judith and I may have seen similar things differently, but we were still both women. We would gossip, shop, organize outings, and we would even cook from time to time.

Judith was a liberated Mexican as were the boys. Meals were usually communal and everyone would take turns cooking. When Judith felt like cooking, she would enlist me to go with her to the market and impart to me her authentic Mexican recipes. Judith introduced me to the myriad of chiles for sale in piles at the market, chile de arbol, chile pasilla, chile pequin, chipotle, the list could go on and on. I learned how to make a variety of sauces like salsa verde, tinga, adobo. Hanging out with Judith was like a crash-course in Mexican cuisine. Little did I know that not so far into the future, those recipes would be intrinsic to the development of my Mexican life.

Oaxaca is known for its culinary creativity. One Oaxacan dish that is not found in too many places outside of the state is the tlayuda. The tlayuda is basically Oaxaca's version of the pizza. In the market you can by enormous tortillas, which are warmed on a grill and topped with beans, meat, tomatoes, avocado and salsa. Tlayudas can be found on most restaurant menus, but they are more commonly eaten late at night before going out to the bars or on the way home. During one trip to the market, Judith contemplated preparing tlayudas for our meal, but instead we devised a business plan.

For about a month straight, Judith and I would prepare and sell tlayudas every Friday and Saturday night for the guests at the hostel. We sold them at the going rate for tlayudas on the street, which didn't make our business that lucrative, but we at least made back our cost. It wasn't about making money anyway, it was about being together, about building the community. Judith was good at using her petite, morena frame and feminine wiles to enlist the help of male guests to grill the meat or warm the tortillas. Judith and I were the vendors, the front women. we would dish out the goods and everyone would sit around, eating talking, drinking beers. Parties are frequent in Mexican life. In a country where family and community are so important, gatherings are essential to keeping bonds strong.

* * *

Before I knew it, two and a half months had passed and I hadn't even begun to find a place to volunteer. Most of me didn't really care, I was too busy relishing in friendships, laughter and togetherness. After spending six years feeling like an outsider in Seattle, trying to be the newcomer in a community where everyone grew up together, the loving affection of my new Mexican and traveler friends was medicinal. For six years, I felt like no one truly understood me, but there in Oaxaca, midst language barriers and cultural variation, I felt like I belonged.

Everything changes, though. Nothing is constant and no where is that truer than along backpacker routes. After two months, routines started setting in. People left and new people came. Even Lalo and Juan Carlos left to travel in Europe for three months. They left Judith in charge, so trips to the market became less frequent. As certain changes were happening around me, I could also feel a change happening inside me. At first, it started as just queasiness in my stomach and lightness in my head, but soon became the one thing travelers fear.

I woke up one morning literally running to the bathroom. It was the same morning that I had set up a meeting at an elementary school to talk about me giving free English classes. Up until that point, I had been relatively lucky. Bouts of diarrhea are common when traveling abroad, in fact, they are unavoidable. I see diarrhea as almost an initiation into local life. Every stomach cramp, every minute spent sitting on the porcelain throne is a step closer to greater intestinal fortitude. Most diarrhea is a mild case of food poisoning and resolves itself within a couple days. I would use those couple days to rest, plan the next leg of my trip or catch up on whichever book I was lugging around. This time in Oaxaca, however was not food poisoning.

Sitting on the toilet, I ran through my menus over the previous days. It could have been the fruit salad from a street cart, the albondigas, the meatballs I ate at the market, or just plain dehydration. All, I could hope was that it was a mild case of Montezuma's revenge, so I would be able to go to my meeting at the elementary school. After my sixth or seventh trip to the loo, I began to think that maybe volunteering was going to have to be put on hold.

I am a closet hippy, an au-natural type of girl. I am not one to run to the medicine cabinet at the first sign of discomfort. I like to let my body take care of itself, build up its immunity before I bombard it with pharmaceutical shortcuts. Making sure I was never more than ten feet from a toilet, I told myself it was food-poisoning and that it would pass in a couple days. Little did I know, that this was one of the many road-blocks, or as I like to call them, practical jokes, that the universe plays on me from time to time.

After about a week of studying the bathroom walls and total exhaustion from not being able to keep any food from exiting immediately, I finally conceded that maybe I had something more than food-poisoning. I needed medicine. Lucky for me and travelers all through the world, diarrhea plagues everyone, even locals. Judith told me to go to a certain pharmacy chain found all over Mexico that offers cheap doctor consultations, including prescriptions. The doctor told me I had a bacteria, a common one and scolded me for not having come in sooner. I had lost almost ten pounds in the week I was sick and the medicine he prescribed was going to take another week to cure me.

In total, I lost eighteen pounds in two shitty weeks. It took almost an entire month for me to get my strength and appetite back. The hot desert sun of Oaxaca didn't help either. During the revenge, it was painful to even go outside into the heat. Needless to say, all plans I had concocted for volunteering fell apart. I had missed my meeting and was too weak to set up another one. Even if I had, Mexican spring break was soon approaching, so it was pointless to start anything solid until after the two week break.

On top of it all, the three month tourist visa I had been given when entering the country was about to expire. Customs officials have a choice when stamping foreign passports, they can give tourists three months to enjoy Mexico or six months. My customs official had not been so generous, although my return flight was another three months away. At the time, two German girls also had to renew their visas. Down in southern Mexico, the issue of visa renewal is easily handled. All it requires is a mundane, time-consuming trip to the immigration office or an exciting trip to Guatemala.

The German girls and I made plans to head south. We would take an overnight bus to the popular colonial town of San Cristobal, in Chiapas, Mexico. From there, it was only about six hours to the Guatemalan town of Panajachel where I had first gone to study Spanish. As we bought bus tickets and sketched a loose itinerary, I heard the words of the indigenous healer being whispered in my head. I was leaving, just like she said I would. "Not for long," I told myself, "I am coming back." I said it out loud, as if to make it true. I swear, even as the words left my mouth, I heard laughter, small little giggles, like the gods and the universe were planning another one of their practical jokes.

COUSINS

Cousins are sort of a funny thing in Mexico. Mexican families can be so extended that in small towns almost anyone can be somebody's cousin. It's not that everybody is related, it's just that families are so big that everyone can be connected somehow. Mostly the connections are found through marriage like a mother's brother-in-law's sister's kids could be considered family, relatives, or cousins even though there is no blood relation. Where in the States we say, "Oh a friend of a friend told me..." in Mexico they say, "A friend of my cousin said..." When I headed to Guatemala via San Cristobal to renew my visa, I still hadn't become aware of how prolific "familial" relations were.

My trip down to Guatemala was, unfortunately, quite uneventful. The German girls I traveled with were unadventurous, boring sticks in the mud. It was Semana Santa, Mexican and Guatemalan spring break, a time when anyone with the means to go on vacation goes somewhere. The small little lake town of Panajachel, where I first started studying Spanish, had turned into one huge party. Gallo, Guatemala's national beer was selling two liter bottles of beer as a Semana Santa promotion and the town's streets were packed with people. I wanted to go out, partake in the festivities, but the German girls were not into all the action.

I have to admit, Panajachel was hectic. Rich, drunk Guatemalans are almost as bad as drunken frat boys, but I went out without the girls. I saw my old friends. I bought dinner for my crew of kids who sold souvenirs en la calle. I even saw my ex-lover, my first Latin boyfriend and my only Mayan boyfriend. We ran into each other in the street, actually, in the middle of the debauchery, and he was definitely surprised to see me. Things between us had ended mutually, so we went out one night, my ex, his new girlfriend and his brother.

We stayed about four days in Guatemala and headed back to Mexico. Just like on the way down, we stopped in San Cristobal on the way back to break up the trip. The German girls were complaining about not having enough money and both had boys waiting for them back in Oaxaca. The first time around, San Cristobal had piqued my interest. Cool, wet, set high in forested mountains, San Cristobal reminded me a little of the Pacific Northwest. Kind of Oaxaca's smaller cousin, San Cristobal's colonial charm was more tangible, more whimsical.

Southbound, we had only briefly stopped in San Cris because of the quickly approaching expiration dates on our tourist visas. The girls wanted to do a similar fly-by northward, but our poor planning for Semana Santa caused a slight delay. Since everyone and their cousin travels during Semana Santa, we couldn't get bus tickets for the day we wanted to leave. If we had planned better, we would have bought all of our bus tickets before we left, but we hadn't been so smart. I didn't care. I was happy to have a reason to explore a new, apparently hip little town.

A friend of mine had done a Mexico trip of her own a couple years earlier and had raved about San Cris. Besides raving of all the cool things to do in and around the city, she had raved about a jeweler she had found selling his wares in the plaza. Something I love about San Cris is the daily outdoor market in the plaza next to the Santo Domingo church. Purely an artisan market, all the wonderful crafts of Chiapas and even Guatemala are for sale. Mostly indigenous women sell in the plaza, but one section is reserved for the hippy artisans, the young people who make their own jewelry, pipes, weed jars, dream catchers, masks, etc. So, after sorting out bus tickets and sleeping arrangements, I headed for Santo Domingo.

* * *

I can't even remember how or why I started talking to Cesar. There were actually two Cesars at the plaza. One Cesar was the amazing jeweler and the other was this very attractive boy who was talking to me. He was skinny with long hair and a goatee, just my type. Mexican hippies, if they don't have dreads, usually take on an ancient Mayan look. This Cesar, the cute Cesar, had that look. As to not get confused, cute Cesar told me to call him El Primo, the cousin.

I gave him a quizzical look and said playfully, "But, you're not my cousin."

With true flirtatious expertise, he replied with a coy little smile, "Well, we're all somebody's cousin, now aren't we? I am thankful that you and I aren't related. It keeps more options open."

He was intriguing and fun to flirt with. Considering my only other option for entertainment was to hang out in a hostel with the two boring German girls, I decided to hang out in the plaza for a little bit with El Primo. Hanging out turned into an invitation to smoke weed which turned into going to El Primo's house that turned into kissing.

Now, I don't go home with just anybody. Like a good American girl, I have been conditioned to fear the dangers of being alone with strange men. Being a hippy, however, and hanging out with other hippies, we adhere more strictly to the rules of karma. Hippies are more likely to be about peace, love and good vibes than random acts of violence. El Primo played coy with me at first to the point where I really didn't think he was that interested. We spent enough time talking in the plaza, that going to his house seemed like something innocent enough.

Needless to say, we ended up sleeping together. It had been awhile since I had had a good roll in the hay and El Primo was hot. His coyness is what got me. While we passed the joint back and forth, I kept waiting for a soft touch, an unsolicited compliment, anything to tell me he was attracted to me, but I got nothing. It made him more attractive. I'm the type of gal that likes to get what she wants and by not giving it to me, El Primo made me want him more. As I was about to step out the door, El Primo had me where he wanted me.

“So, you’re really leaving so soon?” he asked gently taking my arm.

“Uh, well, I guess,” I said, turning around and leaning against the doorframe.

“When will I see you again? I mean, I’d like to see more of you,” he stepped closer putting his leg between mine, pelvis to pelvis.

“I don’t know. I have to go back to—“ and he kissed me.

The kiss was electric and continued slowly, thoughtfully to his bedroom. El Primo had the typical small, Mexican male frame adorned by tight defined muscles. His caramel-covered skin was smooth to the touch. Running my hands over the dragon tattoo that went from his chest and wrapped around his bicep, he took my clothes off, methodically with heavy breaths. He took control with true machista mastery asserting his sexuality in a way that made me feel like I was the goddess who was making him into a man.

The sex was good, sweaty and intense. Back in the States, I was a good little girl. I had had one one-night-stand in my whole sexual career. My lack of sexual experience in the States had a lot to do with my low self-image. I'm not a skinny girl and we are told in the US over and over again that beauty and being skinny are the same. In the States, I didn't have the confidence to put myself out there. I didn't have the confidence to see the subtle little hints American boys gave me to let me know they liked me.

In Mexico, men aren't subtle. If a man is attracted to woman, he tells her in one way or another. It was new to me, all that openness. Men told me was gorgeous, that they loved my body and they did it so much that I started to believe them. It was all a part of taking my power back. I enjoy sex. I enjoy the connection, the affection and the passion. Sex is always best when you are in love, which will never change for me, but acting on an unavoidable chemistry is also very entertaining.

El Primo and I had chemistry, so we took advantage of it. I had no expectations of relationships or feelings, I just wanted to get laid. I am also a hopeless romantic, however, and I wasn't accustomed to cuddling after an obvious fling. When El Primo put his arms around me just when most American dudes would show you the door, I started to melt a little. When El Primo started whispering sweet nothings into my ear, I started reevaluating my plan for the next three months. Maybe it was the sexiness of being wooed in Spanish, or it was the smell of sex, or it was the unmanageable desire I had to be loved, but there in bed with El Primo, I decided to finish my trip in San Cristobal.

THE IRONY OF FULLFILLED DESIRES

I had to go back to Oaxaca. My mom was coming to visit me, so I had to go back, but I didn't have to stay. Things had changed back in Oaxaca. People had left, routines were off-kilter and it was the dry season, so it was getting really hot. San Cris had been a chilly escape from the desiccating desert sun. El Primo had promised me nothing. He had told me he wouldn't mind seeing me again and that he would always be there for me in San Cristobal. Seeing the sights and relaxing at the beach with my mom, I weighed my options.

I had about two months left in my trip which left no real time to volunteer. I had explored most of Oaxaca state, but hadn't explored the rest of the country. I also hadn't found any lovers or love in Oaxaca that was worth writing home about. San Cristobal was a cool relief from the heat of Oaxaca and also a stepping stone to exploring Mexico's famed Yucatan Peninsula. With El Primo as the icing on the figurative cake, I decided to head back to San Cris after my mom's departure and on to where the wind took me. Judith told me she was going to miss me, but gave me her blessing.

* * *

Oh those mischievous gods and their crass sense of humor!

I arrived in San Cris two weeks after my tryst with El Primo. I went to the plaza in hopes of hanging out, innocently, going out for a beer or something, but to my dismay, he was no where to be found. In the place where El Primo's stall was, there was a different guy, cuter, darker, sweeter and not so coy.

His name was Kike. He told me El Primo had gone to Guatemala and no one knew when or if he would be back. He asked me if he could help me with anything, help me find what I was looking for. I sized him up and said, "No, I just got into town and was looking for people to hang out with, maybe smoke some weed."

"Well, I can help you with that," Kike said with no pretext, "I was actually thinking about going to this party later tonight, do you want to come with me?" He handed me a flyer, "I'll pass by your hostel at around ten, give you some herb and we can go. What do you think?"

I was bummed that El Primo wasn't around and not really paying attention to this sweet new boy I had just met. It’s not that I had gone to San Cristobal with high hopes of El Primo sullenly awaiting my return. I just had hoped to not be alone in San Cristobal. The universe was busy pissing me off again, tricking me into thinking there was hope for romance where none existed. Like the idiot I am, I was pouting about some random fling while sitting next to a good-looking guy who was inviting me out.

I said yes to Kike’s invitation without really thinking about it. Plans in Mexico can be flaky, so I wasn't really attached to him showing up or not. Upon finding out that El Primo had skipped town, I had begun cursing the universe and its practical jokes. Kike’s invitation sounded more like a group thing. Although he hadn’t said it, I had heard, “A bunch of us are going out, wanna come?”

That night while half-waiting for Kike to pick me up, I was already planning my route through the Yucatan. At ten on the dot, in a very un-Mexican fashion, the hostel's doorbell rang. Quickly, I realized that I was being picked up for a date. There was Kike, by himself, looking cuter in the light of the street lamp with a smile on his face that literally made my heart skip a beat.

Suddenly, I forgot all about El Primo, my past and my future. As I hooked my arm around Kike's offered elbow, I was living entirely in the moment. I was on a date and the butterflies were all a flutter in my tummy. I giggled nervously and Kike asked, "Que?"

"Oh nothing," I answered, "I'm just happy. I'm happy I decided to come back here, so I could go out with you.

Kike just chuckled quietly and gave me that silly grin that I would soon grow to love. “The party isn’t going to get started for about another hour. I was thinking we could dar la vuelta, walk around and I can show you some of the cool plazas. Se ponen mas chidas, they're cooler at night when no one is around.”

“Sure,” I said, tightening my arm around his and feeling his bicep flex.

“I don’t know what it is but,” he took a deep breath and I thought he sounded nervous. “You just really caught my eye. You’re guapa, I mean, obviously, you’re pretty, but there’s something about you. I just felt like I had to ask you out and I don’t usually ask gueras out.”

“Why? ‘Cuz the white girls usually ask you out first?” I asked sarcastically.

“No,” he laughed, “I just want to get to know you.”

It was a storybook perfect first date complete with an awkward, but endearing first kiss. It was a first date that ended up lasting a year because from that night on Kike and I were inseparable. It was a first date that showed me my stubbornness in letting my own fate take care of me. I surrendered myself to Kike that night and to whatever plans the gods had for me.