drewd The Adventures of Carlos d'Avis

I arrived in Santa Cruz de la Sierra late late on February 5th, or perhaps early early on February 6th. By three in the morning, I had completed a visa application, paid $135 US, collected my luggage and gained entry into Bolivia. My dear cousins Sergio (Ovando d'Avis) and Yovana (Ovando Eterovic) were waiting patiently for me and drove me through the night city to my home for the next two weeks—their lovely house, in fact.

That is not their house. That is a cathedral.

Santa Cruz de la Sierra is a modern city of 1.5 million, in south central Bolivia. The economy and population have grown rapidly in the last few decades and the city has expanded outward in concentric rings. This expansion and the focus on commerce have not resulted in the most beautiful city, I will admit, but the center plaza has its charms. Also, I enjoyed a wide range of delicious food, at family's tables and at restaurants, in cuisine local and international. And there was one case of both at mi prima Claudia's restaurant, where I ate excellent salteñas and pique macho.

The Ovando family originally lived in Cochabamba—as did the d'Avis family—but relocated some years ago to Santa Cruz. (Gabriela Ovando and her husband, Jorge Barrero, live in Florida.) I was so pleased to reconnect with Sergio, Yovana, Jaime y su familia, Claudia y su familia, and of course the family matriarch, Doña Florencia. I had not been in Bolivia or seen any of them for twenty years! Their kindness and hospitality were overflowing and I am so thankful.

Jaime, pictured above, took me four-wheeling near Porongo one Saturday afternoon. We may have almost gotten stuck in the mud, but I had a brilliant time with him and his friends. Zooming along dried-up river beds was particularly great, as was the sunset from such a locale. The countryside surrounding Santa Cruz is lush and verdant and just gorgeous.

Yovana and Sergio likewise took me out into the country on the Monday of Carnaval. We drove up into the mountains and jungle to reach the town of Samaipata, at an elevation of 1600 meters. After feijoada for lunch at El Pueblito restaurant and resort, I photographed the surrounding hillsides and my hosts had a bit of a lark.

Regretting our lunch beers a bit, we hauled our full bellies up a few hundred more meters to visit El Fuerte de Samaipata. The main local attraction are these Incan ruins, marking the furthest east extension of the Incan empire. We tried to see the carvings worn away in the stone, imagined the layout of the community, and were unimpressed by the depth of the prisoner hole.

Overwhelming, the countryside was just gorgeous and completely different than I expected from Bolivia.

I suppose that is all I have for now? I was able to work quite a bit in Santa Cruz; I was not particularly busy socially and that was actually good. I am keeping some record, as I am able, of food and wine in my written journal and I will try to put together a summary soon. Family, friends, more food and drink, and more work here in Cochabamba are occupying me presently. Sometimes there is too much life to recount. Sometimes there are horses to stand in, yo.

Signing off, for now, this is Carlos Andrés d'Avis, Rey de Caballos Oscuros.

* I cannot presently offer the photographs from my single night out in Santa Cruz during Carnaval—they do not yet reside on the Flickr. In summary, I drank beer, saw a parade and got shaving cream on my head.

I am, of course, no longer in Costa Rica. I have, in fact, been gone from its fair shores for over two weeks. I would like, all the same, to attempt some consideration of my time there, my January.

I write this first and with certainty: I was home in Tamarindo. My apartment with Sarah in Seattle no longer existed, at least as our home, and my stuff—the greater weight of my life—resided in storage. A piece of my heart always remains in Hamilton but I have not lived there for nearly tens year now. So, how long did it take for me to settle in a new life, with less than 100 pounds of possessions? Less than a month, apparently—I would guess at two weeks or so. Sure, I was sleeping in a twin bed with shark sheets and sometimes found a scorpion in my laundry pile, but I did not at all doubt my stay in Tamarindo. Home, truly, if only for a month!

I was at peace—I dare say I was happy. I had a rhythm of life that was manageable and understandable and good. I had friends at hand, good friends indeed in the same house. I surfed; I ran, but not much. I worked as much as I wanted. I ate simple food that nonetheless pleased and satisfied. And there was sunshine and there was the ocean and did I mention that I surfed every day? Do you know how good life is when you have surf and avocado and fried plantains every friggin' day? Also, ceviche and sunsets.

We discussed a bit on our trip why Costa Rica is the happiest country in the world (supposedly). I returned, again and again, to the matter of simplicity, at least in my life there. My life in Seattle was busy. I am not at all saying that life was bad—I did love it—but it was full and I am one to be overwhelmed, if you were not aware. In Tamarindo, there was simply not the same quantity of choices and of people about whom I cared. What could overwhelm me? What could disturb this idyllic life?

Well, we all know the matter is not actually so cut and dry, especially so close to ocean—you get hit by waves all the time. But seriously, I do not necessarily assume that I would find a life in Tamarindo, or anywhere in Costa Rica, fully challenging and satisfying. I wonder, more so, how to carry wherever I go a bit of that peace and simplicity and joy. How do I settle in a home?

In truth, I did not leave Tamarindo in peace. How could I leave home in peace—neither did I so leave Seattle. The final week was different and hard but indeed still great. Eric and I had two days by ourselves, between the departure of Theo and Tina and the arrival of Natalie. We enjoyed those two days of relative solitude (and discussed possible enforced "quiet time" next year). We worked hard; we did not dine adventurously.

And then Natalie came and I spent five joyful days with her, walking the beach one day and the next climbing a volcano, against the rangers' orders, in the strongest winds I have ever experienced. We saw countless coati in the jungle and I did not photograph a single one successfully. Natalie started paddling into and catching waves and standing up—glory! We did crosswords in the pool, and we ate and drank and talked and laughed as we always had. These were good times.

The three of us had one final dinner at Carolina's, Friday, before Eric's departure and after the day of the volcano adventure. I was exhausted; I barely had the energy to savor the meal or make conversation. Life! So much life! Eric left for home in Seattle, and Saturday passed peacefully at home and happily in the surf. We cooked dinner and listened to Ben Kweller. Natalie and I awoke Sunday morning and she packed her few possessions. I made raisin bread French toast, with kind thanks to the famous German baker of Guanacaste, and we listened to Rilo Kiley.

Natalie and I said goodbye.

And then I was alone in this big house, and I was alone. Why did you all leave? Jerks. Why did I have to leave, and why did I have to be alone? Departure was so difficult to accept, despite the absence of any remaining friends—I was finally stepping out into the unknown. My trip was entering the new phase of doubt and mystery and solitude.

So... so, I bought a bracelet my last morning in Tamarindo. I bargained the woman down from 4000 colones to 3500 but neither of us had any change so I just paid her 4000 anyway. I felt silly, but the bracelet was comforting around my wrist (and still is). I ate one final lunch of casado from "Green Chairs." I rented a car (which I later nearly lost in a ditch five kilometers lost down a glorified horse path) and I left home.

I drove to Nosara to spend two days with Kristi, Angela and Ella, friends of the Ganzells in Maryland. I surfed a new, better break at Playa Guiones on a new, better board. I caught a glimpse of a different Costa Rica and I was blessed to share the briefest moments with their beautiful family—my many thanks. I rode the bus to San Jose, I spent a single night staying in a "Roman Holiday"-themed hotel room, and then I flew to Bolivia.

Now, I am here. What is life but a series of these realizations, that now I am here? And, of course, in so realizing, I state that I am not there and that you likely are there. Or, well, you're not in Tamarindo but you are somewhere. Neither am I in Tamarindo, nor am I in Seattle. I am not home. I am here—I am somewhere—and I will, someday in some place, be home once again. I hope there are avocados there.

Packed away in some box in the basement of my childhood home is a well-worn copy of The Paper Crane by Molly Bang. I loved this book as a child and could rightly claim that I still do. The story was classic and darling and, perhaps more importantly, I have always loved art in cut and torn paper.

And so, I have been delighted lately to encounter contemporary bands employing this style in their music videos. I would like to share a few I have enjoyed of late, and I would love to receive any recommendations for other music videos or art in this style.

First, I offer the recent song "Oslo Novelist" by Grand Archives, depicting the adventure of a mustachioed spaceman slash novelist. What a job description! Did I mention he drinks red wine in a rocket? Winner.

Next, I present, as I have likely presented before, "Furr" by Blitzen Trapper. The video depicts the song's tale with original art, found illustrations and photographs. Be still my heart! As an aside, their album "Furr" has a handful of simply brilliant tracks and, despite lacking consistent quality, is absolutely worth a listen or two.

Lastly, I recently found "Camilo (The Magician)" by Said the Whale. I am reasonably certain the little boy, who is always catching on fire (1:47 is AMAZING), is rendered with computer graphics but the style is the same.

Enjoy, and please share!

I miss the sunset, and the sundowners.

I miss the surfing, and I miss two sundowners.

And I'm sorry, Ashleigh, but the mustache was brilliant, and I miss that, too.

We Grupo Did It, Grupo Do-It.

Hold me, Eric, and tell me we can always go back.

I am located presently in the city of Santa Cruz de la Sierra in the nation of Bolivia.

The following is excerpted from my real physical journal (Moleskine, naturally), written on the bus from Nosara to San José on February 4th, 2010, resisting the difficulties of dying light and asphalt vibrations:

Crossing the pass to San José at sunset.
A man watching his white rooster prance on his front porch.
A pine tree tall and proud in a front yard.

A pregnant woman, seemingly content, leaning and holding her belly at a bus station, wearing a green and white patterned shirt.

Earlier, the radio played the Cure's "Just Like Heaven"…

"show me how you do that trick…"

The smell of brushfire, the cold and darkening evening, the trees with impossible rusty orange red flowers.

I'm on a bus and I'm reading "Dune."
Tomorrow I fly to Bolivia.
This is my life.

And then the radio played "Don't Stop Believing" and everything was right with the world. That is to say, understanding that any condition is relative and temporary, I was alive in it moving beneath me.

I am still unraveling Costa Rica or, perhaps more specifically, the last two weeks of my life, which encompass "Mountains Beyond Mountains" and waves and Natalie and Carolina's and Eric's departure and Nosara and waves and a quiche in San José and the end of my time in Costa Rica and my transition to Bolivia. You know, no big deal—I'll likely just cop out and offer you a few "photo essays" instead of real writing. Look! A pretty bird!

Fine! Here: my take-aways so far are that I would like some evening to have my own bright white rooster… and that I'd trade it all for one night as Arsenio Hall in 1989.

I am pictured above on the morning of my departure from the United States, on January 4th, 2010. My mother took this photograph in our house in Hamilton, Massachusetts.

I appear to have many possessions with me—two bags-full, in fact—and such is true. I had to choose those items such as socks, shirts, books, electronics, etc. that would last and satisfy me throughout journeys somewhat indeterminate. Do you know how many awesome t-shirts I have, not to mention button-downs? It's a bunch, for serious, and it was no simple task to elect apparel companions for my southern sojourn.

In other news, and themed similarly, I made a few changes to the website here and added a little view of my time abroad, titled "Morning Carlos." Here's a hint: if you want to be happy, look for some happiness, and click on it. (It's up there at the top! It's a SMILEY FACE!) So far, I have only missed documenting myself one morning since I began the trip. I will do my best!

My celestial honor guard sways with each step and washes away on every warm wave.

I stood for long moments, minutes innumerably finite, with my feet in the nighttime rhythms of the Pacific and my head craned upward toward the stars. My gaze wheeled among the constellations and I considered my life and your life and his life and her life. I spoke our stories out loud to the stars, imagining and deciphering the truth as near as I could. They twinkled back but offered no judgment on my construction.

We surfed through the sunset today, as we so often do, and, from my board, I watched the sun slip into the ocean and wondered at the moon's shiny crescent and the lone brilliant star over the water. As waves passed, the stars rose in the east as well and those nearest the horizon seemed to sparkle white and red and green and blue, perhaps with the departing day's heat?

And then, returning to this night, when I looked down at my feet happy and traipsing randomly in the sand and water, I found impossibly reflected those brightest stars from up above me. They surrounded my position and walked with me, never quite in sync but always present. Until, until, a wave rolled across this glistening mirror and obscured my protectors—but they returned. They always glistened and reflected again, constant however indistinct across those countless (but likely counted, once) miles.

I looked between the evidence of my protection and the mystery of the cosmos. Which stars were these from above, who offered their companionship down below? I discovered no answer, identified no specific spirit: I was heartened regardless. And yet do not, please, think that I found god, but shit if life and all that isn't magic.

And then I turned slowly and surely back to the line of trees and lights up the beach: there were brownies cooling at home. Onward, always, and never quite alone.