living in the present

I was just months away from a legitimate hiatus from my formal education and my disposition hesitated in disbelief. I approached the visible end of a twenty-year old string of hallways, lectures, and loose-leaf paper. The string was full of knots and braids. It frayed in sections. At the other end, it remained securely tethered to a post my parents had meticulously anchored. I began to gather the cord, rubbing my hands over its texture in rumination. I then cast it to the sky, allowing the wind to carry my circumstance to an alternate possibility. Half a year later I held my savings, a vaccination certificate, and a one-way departure ticket to Cochabamba, Bolivia.

I had made the decision to volunteer in a community in South America. With the anxiety of a stranger entering a foreign land, I packed my emotions beneath my thermals and mosquito repellant and made landfall in time for La Carnaval celebration. The sun stirred the air from its stupor, coercing the local energy to song and dance. Standing at the corner of the bus terminal with a year’s worth of gear and fervor, I began to maneuver the crowded streets toward my hostel. Anticipating a modest rest after twenty hours of travel, I instead had fallen prey to a pick pocketing and later a reservation scam. I had lost various valuables and my online payment and would have to forfeit an inflated price for another accommodation. Electing a dark room of three straw mattresses and a tiny padlock, I removed the weight from my shoulders, sighed, and returned to the parade route.

La Carnaval celebrates a mixture of custom between the indigenous tradition and the colonial influence. Days of parading and carousing persuade ornery behavior, such as the swindling and badgering of unsuspecting people. The merriment has extended to water and shaving cream fights that essentially are permissible forms of physical assault. Without a reserved seat or company for protection, a bystander must seek refuge beneath the bleachers, as a voyeur peering through legs for glimpses of the parading feathers, coins, and sequins. Attempting strategic passage from one set of bleachers to the next, I was unable to hide from the ‘festival ammunition’ and instead found myself trembling in the shadows, soaked with dirty water, beer, and shaving cream. I decided to wipe the stench from my eyes and ears and articulate any frustration in the quietness of my room.

Every doubt came racing forward. I could not help but become disheartened of my ‘greeting’ to this foreign circumstance. Eventually, I began to redress, re-establishing my perception of the opportunity before me. I was still surrounded by an Andean/European amalgamation, rich with tradition and solidarity. There were indigenous women in full skirts and elaborate shawls, scrambling beneath the bleachers for dropped aluminum cans to be exchanged at a modest rate. There were vendors selling water balloons beside coca leaves and dried animal amulets. If I resigned to fear, I would never have the opportunity for insight in such a unique setting.

My Bolivian experience not only offered distinct sights, smells, tongues and textures, but also an available stillness to perceive them. There was a recuperation to live in the present and allow the sensuous “now” to inform my existence. I determined that I would regard the stinging shaving cream just as well as the warm bath that cleansed it from my face. I became mindful of each opportunity, actively engaging in the moment, whether it is arduous or tranquil. Therefore, it is less about seizing the day than living present within that day. My assumption is that one’s coherent presence actually yields a more fruitful past and future.