La Quiaca, Argentina to Tupiza, Bolivia

(This post is dedicated to Katie. Because sometimes we just need to know someone is paying attention. Thank you, Katie.  Xoxo, Kelsey)

It’s been hard to write anything. I could say, just for the last couple days or the past week or two, but really it’s been the entire trip. At home, I have box after box filled with journals with hardly any blank spaces.  Words, words, words.  But this trip?  I don’t know where the words are, but they aren’t in me. Not with any consistency anyway. Not in anyway I’m used to.  

What am I supposed to say?

What do I want to say?

I went horseback riding today. First time in eight years.  And whether we (Pequeña, the horse, and I) were walking or trotting, cantering or galloping, my body remembered something.  Something of my six, seven year old self, riding a different grey horse (well, a pony). Silverbell. Learning to groom, learning to follow the left or right shoulder with my posting trot. Learning how my body swayed with hers. Learning more than that.  Learning about wordless trust. 

This morning, on that grey horse, exploring red canyons and dry creek beds — that is the most relaxed I have felt on this entire journey.  I’m not even exaggerating. 

Ease. And oh yeah,

Remember those Tucson canyons?  Freshman year of college and galloping down those washes on Arabians with Erin — those rare moments with her when we felt like sisters, a team, doing something together. Not battling. 

Remember Maine and the pink and purple sunset skies and when Dr. Bunis died and I went and rode Patrick, my favourite horse that summer, old and skinny and I didn’t need a saddle or a bridle, just a halter with a rope because he listened. He listened to my slightest nudge, my smallest guide. 

Remember mucking all those stalls?  Remember riding with Kat in England? Remember taking people out on rides through the New Zealand countryside?  Remember being a total barn rat?  Phoenix, Arizona and jumping over fences with and without a horse, always counting the number of steps between jumps. My posture never looks so good as when I’m sitting on a horse — thanks to that tanned and creviced face of Sue — riding instructor for 3, 4, 5 years. Until I left the stable life for high school sports — badminton, track and field...

Remember that goat and Connemara pony farm in Colorado?  Oh, that bay pony and exploring those empty forest roads alone. Jumping over fallen logs and galloping home so fast I could barely breathe, the excitement and thrill was so big. 

Remember, Kels?

Eight years since my last ride. What happened?  Where’d that barn rat go?

I guess we are forgetting parts of ourselves all the time. Remembering some pieces when we are ready, others just gone. 

We are three days into Bolivia. Maybe it’s just a honeymoon phase, but I love these last three days. I loved crossing the border and seeing the colours brighten and the cars change. Stalls of food and knock off brand names of shoes, toothpastes, clothes. People pushing carts and carrying heavy loads in bright pink or orange blankets upon their backs. 

It’s only been three days. 

Canyons and still pokey plants and Spanish that IS easier to understand. Just an impression.  Just my impression.  But my interactions with the landscape and the people in these three days?

Humble.   

Generous. 

Attentive. 

Relaxing. 

And this busy, little city of Tupiza?  It’s the first place I’ve been on this trip where I’ve had even the teensiest thought of, “oh, I’m not quite ready to leave.”

 

 

(The best map of Bolivia we have been able to find. At least we have one!)