My last trip into site I stopped at the internet cafe to follow-up on a job interview back in the States. Minutes later, I was seated in a dugout canoe with a live chicken two feet away and baby chicks scrambling around at my feet. This is completely normal.
Hours later I found myself in an indigenous community with kids running and calling out my name. A group of adults came over to my thatch-roofed hut to discuss my departure. One of the women stayed on porch to tell me, among other things, that if she were younger and didn't have a family, she would have courted me. This is all completely normal.
A day later I found myself on top of a hill just outside Calante eating fermented pifa with an old grandfather figure in the community. Little piglets decided to cozy up next to my feet while we talked. Again, perfectly normal.
Even with how routine the strangeness of my life has become, my last stretch in site still felt like a dream. I found myself pausing throughout each day as if to galvanize all the moments that had made up my two years here. Everything has taken on new importance. The final conversations and goodbyes. The time playing with the kids. Sunsets. Bathing in the river. There's a tacit weight hanging in the air. Everyone, myself included, finally understands that my time here is up and soon I'll be home-bound.
Even with the excitement of starting a new chapter elsewhere, I know I will truly miss this place. It's been hard to put to words. I'd love to wrap a bow around my thoughts, around this time in my life, around my growth, the happiness and sorrow, around this place, the juxtaposition of majestic beauty and arresting gall of its people. It may be something I never fully understand. Maybe the arc of understanding extends years into my life back in the US. Either way, my time has been profound if not abstruse and I'm truly thankful for the time I was able to spend in Calante.
