Finding an absence of meaning in the desert of Peru

It stung my eyes, sliding from filthy unkempt stench ridden blond curls clinging wildly to my sun burned scalp. My hand moved slowly wiping the sweat from my dry burning eyes. My shirt clung to my skin refusing to let my feel relief from the heat. The overwhelming stench of urine stung my nostrils and flooded every sense so that it became impossible to think. A second day without food was indoctrinating my mind with despair. My tongue filled my mouth swollen and cracked. It slid back causing a dry cough to echo in the dingy stained interior of the bus. I cast a hopeful glance outside of the bus, out into the desert, I hoped with every fiber of my body that I would see the familiar scenery rushing past the dust covered window. It did not rush past however, but instead stood stationary, mocking my desire to head north. I rolled onto my side, the lumpy seat stabbing my hips, my body sore, aching from my sedentary nature of the past week.  "This is how it ends" came my melodramatic inner monologue. "On a bus, in the middle of this godforsaken country, in the middle of this godforsaken desert. I have the worst fucking luck. What a rough few weeks. Is this really better than the being searched by the police? Is this really better than extending my visa? Was this really worth it?" An insane sputtering of laughter came tumbling from the back of my throat. "I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to be shown on the news, the tale of the lone 19 year old, misguided and alone, dead. Dead in the desert of Peru. Dead during the riots, caught in the middle of unrest." More laughter poured from my ever eroding mental state.

Blackness started to consume my eyes, I tried to fight it, but the afternoon heat prevailed.

I will die someday. This I know. There is no fighting the truth, but only acceptance. It is curious to me now, home, "safe", and very much alive, how much my thoughts wander to death. I once heard that you finally die when the last person who remembered you dies, or conversely when the last person you care about dies, so do you. No matter what I do with my life, I will die. It will happen. I can cross the ocean a thousand times, spend countless summers in Chile and other "far off" places, but when I die, what I have done it will no longer matter.

We all search for meaning in our lives.

I spend most of my life working for money so that I can do what I love. So that I can lead a life where I live for myself, where I become who I want to be. I want to be a writer. I can spend my entire life thinking of different ways to phrase moments, to capture a scene which left a lasting impression my life, and after years of work, maybe I will be published. Maybe a book will materialize and be enjoyed by a few bored college students, perused by a lone traveler. But when life finally casts its last glow upon an old and weary body, my work will have meant nothing. My books will disappear over time, my prose will be forgotten, and my entire life will have been without meaning. In addition, I could wake tomorrow with a deadly cancer, foreign disease, or be struck and killed as I cross the street. Whatever I worked for will once again evaporate into nothingness.

Life will always end with death, a thought that can stifle any urge of motivation, crush any thought of self improvement.

While in Peru, wallowing in despair, thinking that I would perish on a cheap bus, I noticed sight which stuck in my brain, refusing to be dislodged. A family of five, saturated in filth, sitting outside of their small crumbling hut. No larger than the size of a walk in closet, the woven matts which made up the walls were filled with holes form the constant barrage of desert wind. There they sat, crowded around a small table, as a pot of foul smelling food bubbled above a small propane stove just behind them. They watched me as I stumbled around outside of the bus. I stopped and inspected the scene. Suddenly my pain, misfortune, and all future problems died in comparison with their squalor. Their eyes were fixated on me, it was as though they were dreaming of clothes only worn for three days, a belly only without food for two days, and a mouth swollen from only a day's lack of water. I collapsed to a sitting position in the dust. We stared at each other and for an hour, each utterly confused by the other.

I can wail about how I will die, about how my life will not mean anything. I can discuss the philosophy of middle class entitlement, but I will never have to forced into their level of poverty. I will never have to wash my clothes from a bucket as brown as the inside of a rusted toilet. I live such a comfortable live as to allow for obscure worries. I am coddled enough as to worry about a life lived without meaning, rather than a life of survival.

This is life

Cold clings to my back, the hard pavement offering minimal comfort. A hand slung over my face, blocking the intense spring sunlight from tired eyes, my thoughts are no longer here. They are lost among the waves of the day, trapped in the canyon walls, abandoned on the lonely two lane road. My eyes closed, I listen. The ambient noise of the city not reaching my ears, not able to it seems. I can almost hear the waves of the lake, the sudden chatter of sloppy Spanish, the crunching of feet upon coarse dark sand. If I refused to open my eyes, because for a moment, I might believe I am back. I might believe I am once again in Chile.

"You can never return to your hometown."

Steinbeck saved me in Peru. His book kept my hope alive and my mind sane during the three day ordeal of starvation, dehydration, and blistering heat. He allowed for an escape from the survival mentality I was locked into to, he showed me a light other than the harsh and foreboding one of the desert sun. His books filled with wonderful quotes, one seemed to be highlighted on the page, my eyes fixated to the comment, re reading it with a sudden vigor. "You can never return to your hometown" it read. As I was in the long process of finding my way "home," I latched onto that comment, and waited to see if it would hold true.

Each bend in the road was filled with memories, each scent a reminder of past emotions, long forgotten thoughts. Each storefront, conversation with friends, and paddle stroke is filled with the unclear memoires of a uncomfortable youth. Upon my return, hair twisted into unwanted dreadlocks from days lacking showers, body sore and aching from travel, and a mind weak from the past week of hell, I stumbled into the shower. The warm water massaged my weary back, steam clouding my blurry vision.

 Lavender, the aroma drifted from my freshly shampooed hair.

 I could see the Iron bars of the rapidly approaching bridge, the crisp fall air, the Northern California forest slowly succumbing to an oncoming cold.  My heart once again felt the fresh sting of a long forgotten pain. It was strange back then, a new love found, and old one lost but not yet forgotten. She stuck out in my mind like a large sieve in a treacherous rapid. That night, on the first day of fall two years ago,  I knew would forever be held in the nostalgia of childhood, the perfection of a night filled with "firsts." No matter how wonderful any experience would be, it could never live up to that festival in the mountains, that time of close friends and amazing whitewater.

The shower ended, but the aroma lingered.

Being home is filled with reuniting. Friendly pats on the back, long overdue embraces, and a retelling of my adventures. Yet, I seem to find myself aloof in this city, uncomfortable with my surroundings. I do not feel as though I returned home, but instead seem to find myself waiting for the next leg of my life, the next chapter in my ever lengthening novel. I miss the rapid fluid conversations in Spanish, I miss the fierce southern sun, I miss the warm kind nature of the locals, I miss the safety of the streets, I miss the freedom I felt. It does not matter how much I miss a place, I must always wait to return, I am never allowed to stay.

For now, October calls me, and I will wait patiently.