I was nervous about coming back. What do I eat? How do I find pay phones? How can I get around without a car? I tried to practice asking directions in my mind – the words formed in Spanish. Strange, this time around, I didn’t hit that point in the trip where I felt glad to be going home soon. Up to my final days in Huaraz, I was still wandering the streets and visiting friends and forgetting, completely, that I should be saying goodbyes. I spent a lot of time talking to people, asking questions, trying to draw some conclusions about what I’ve seen and learned. What separates Peru from the first world? I asked. What is halting the process of development? Juan, an older man I met in the Plaza de Armas in Huaraz told me that Peruvians lack knowledge, education. Max, a mountain guide, said that it’s corruption holding them back. It’s there in every layer of government, individuals working for themselves, thinking only of the short-term: national individualism instead of national unity.

Antonieta, the woman who ran the hostel where I was staying, had spent several years living in the United States. One of her sons was born in Miami; the other earned his citizenship with help from his father’s business contacts. The older boy has done two tours in Iraq. It was disorienting to see an “Operation Iraqi Freedom” blanket embroidered with the American flag folded over the back of a chair in her living room. She described the first time a car slowed down and waved her across a busy street in downtown Miami. “Here, they don’t care, they’d run you down.” She loved being greeted by cashiers in US grocery stores, or receiving a simple “hello”, or a smile of acknowledgement from people on the street. “The women in my church – people who didn’t know me, who’d barely met me! They surprised me with a baby shower. I’d been feeling so alone, so overwhelmed at the thought of having another baby in a foreign country. I didn’t know if I should have it at all.” Back in 1970, when she was 10, her parents were killed in a massive earthquake that destroyed Huaraz and surrounding towns. “I was all alone. Not a soul came to help. Not an aunt, or a friend, no one.” Peruvians, Antonieta told me, “lack humanity.”

Good things for me to hear about the States before returning. Good things to remember against my dread. And, like all good encounters, speaking with Antonieta raised more questions for me to consider. What is my role as a traveler from the US? The neutral observer who learns to blend in? Or the bringer of culture and light to the third world? Is it arrogant to imagine myself teaching through examples, such as not throwing trash on the ground, like ceding passage on sidewalks, like smiling and being open and friendly instead of sinking into the surly masses? In the Amazon I wrote that to know a culture one has to live a culture. But has my romantic traveler’s lens blinded me, awed me into imitating behaviors that would appall me in the US?

I spent several days visiting a girl my age named Emely, who worked in the open market, selling jackets imported from Bolivia. From eight to five every day, she sits in the street in front of the rack of coats, haggling with customers, crocheting afghan squares, passing the time with the abuelitas who sell dried corn and flaxseed and other grains next to her. I met Emely when I stopped to talk to the abuelitas; I was looking for someone to teach me a few words in the local Quechua dialect. Emely’s twenty-four, with a three-year-old daughter, and single. And with dreams of traveling to “La India”. “These coats are just for now,” she’d tell me. “I’m from Lima; lots of people in this town are from Lima [the coastal capital of Peru]. If I opened a restaurant, with real food from the coast – you can’t get that here, not good food, well prepared. If you did it right you’d have good business.” She told me about her ex-boyfriend, the father of her daughter. “She will never, never live with him. Even if I have to go to Spain to work and save money, I’ll leave her with my family, or I’ll bring her with me.” The strength of her determination to provide a better life for her daughter, her fears of having to leave her behind to seek better employment, her occasional struggles with depression when life overwhelms her – I heard it all as I sat with her on the cold curbing. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard this kind of story from a woman my age, but it still blew me away, each and every time.

Sofia, a Belgian NGO worker living in Huaraz, had suggested that among the women, it’s a sense of self that’s missing. A Peruvian woman of the lower class is the spouse of a, the daughter of b, the mother of x, y, z. “When I asked a group of campesinas what their dreams were, they didn’t understand the question. They thought I wanted to know about what they’d dreamed the night before.” So what about Emely? And Wilson, and the scattered others I came to know who are driven by the strength of their hopes and dreams? How are dreams sown and cultivated? How are they harvested?

I met a young man from Texas at the start of my trip who told me that he believes that those capable of traveling as I do have a responsibility to give back in some way. This idea lingered, and as my encounters became less touristy and more humbling, it returned with a large question mark: how? And is my responsibility to my fellow Americans or to the people I meet as I travel?

I’ve been back in the US for a month now, and the adjusting continues, quicker than I thought possible. Jeni, my Machu Picchu hiking partner, returned to her native North American home several months before I did, and wrote to warn me about “how quickly [the shock] fades and you find yourself buying a coffee that is worth a chicken, a dozen eggs, a bag full of produce, and a massage in Peru.” She’s only exaggerating a little. I’m struggling with our consumer culture, all of the Stuff™ that our economy and lifestyle affords – things I haven’t seen in nine months. This is the point of progress, right? To be able to afford to buy things to make life easier. Wouldn’t Emely jump at the chance to have a washer and a dryer in her own house? Walking with Sian one day in Boston, we noticed a line of people waiting outside a tidy Newbury Street storefront with black awning and pictures of cupcakes with bones crossed underneath. These were young people, trendy, university-types, with hair cut into hard angled shapes to match the plastic jewelry and large square sunglasses covering their faces.  They sat wrapped in fleece blankets in canvas folding chairs, leather-booted feet stretched out and propped up in front of them. Others sprawled on inflatable mattresses and looked up videos on their laptops.  “What are you waiting for?” Sian asked a girl with curly black hair.
“He’s releasing a new t-shirt design,” she responded.
Oh.  Is it free?
“No, no,” she laughed.  “$75.”
How long have you been waiting?
“Since Wednesday.”

This is my culture. Seventy-five dollar t-shirts and leather couches and the $1,000 laptop I’m using to write this blog entry. Now that I’m back, comfortably settled in the belly of the beast, what do I need to do to live up to my responsibility as a traveler? How do I “give back”, as my Texan friend advocated? In the past nine months I’ve lived a different life, an intensely personal one. Traveling alone I’ve internalized everything that I’ve seen and experienced. Now I have to find a way to dig it out and put it in context for the people who ask about my trip. I have to figure out how to teach and show without bragging, to change minds and inspire selflessness without lecturing. And relearn how to live in the United States. And keep in touch with Emely, with Antonieta, Max, and Sofia, to keep the cultural interchange open in anticipation of the day when we find a way to help each other, and maybe even the rest of the world.

I will post again!

…at the end of December.  At the moment, I am at home, in between adventures.  My writing efforts are currently focused on polishing and publishing, and my mental energies are directed at networking and researching.  These next two months are a part of “Operation: Get Stuff Published”.  It’s a difficult mission, involving hours of concentrated work and all the intense frustration of writer’s block, interrupted by moments of inspired glory.

If you have suggestions, words of encouragement, possible publishing connections, want to tell me which is your favorite story from my travels (and why), or just want to say hello, send me an email:

susanmunroe@gmail.com

As always, I’d love to hear from you, and hope you’ll join me again at the end of the year, when I take on my next trip:

December 29 – SOUTH AMERICA

Stay tuned!

Until then, please enjoy this holding music:

Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where never is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day…

(I’m in Wyoming, USA – I’m living on a ranch – I’m learning to be a carpenter – I don’t have internet – The computer at this internet cafe doesn’t recognize the Word document in which I typed up a decent, long update – Sorry, folks)

(Oh, and life is good!!)

One word: weird.

Good, more than good, but jeez louise, odd as.  Arrived in Cali Monday afternoon, and spent that night, Tuesday and Wednesday nights with Beeker in San Jose.  Heat!  Cars!  People!  People! The entire freakin’ population of NZ in one city!  Can you say ‘culture shock’?  Driving back from the airport, every time we turned a corner or paused at an intersection, my brain started convulsing, telling me “Wrong side of the road, wrong side!”, making me twitch and mutter involuntarily, expecting a horrible head on crash at any moment.  Later, seeing Jay Leno on TV, I was amazed, commenting, “Wow, we don’t usually get him on TV2, do we?”  Slowly, slowly things began to fall into place, and after the first 24 hours I could accept and recognize that I was no longer in NZ.  Which drew me to the inevitable, cringing understanding that I was in America.  Each Hummer, each waving flag, each “support our troops” ribbon and Wal-Mart billboard I saw hit me like a graffitied brick wall: painful and offensive.  I think I was born to be an ex-pat.

Homecoming, true homecoming occurred several days later – in the wee hours of Friday morning, after a satisfyingly tearful family reunion and a two hour drive from the Boston airport.  Home, however, no longer exists in reality as it does in my twenty-three years of memories.  There’s a new house, for one thing, a gorgeous, stylish and comfortable palace that my parents have been pouring their hearts and souls into for the past year.  It’s beautiful, a true accomplishment, and their pleasure and happiness at finally crossing the threshold of their dreams is apparent in their glowing faces as they give me the grand tour.  For me it means another unfamiliar kitchen in which I will hunt for knives and napkins, another new bed, another bathroom sink on which to rest my toiletry bag.  “Home” suddenly seems lost, impossible and inaccessible.  Framed photographs, small knick-knacks, a rocking chair, a blanket: old friends in a sea of new faces that give me something to cling to as I ride the waters of change.  How to reconcile a need for familiarity with a thirst for travel and newness?

I have changed; it is difficult to see the same change in others, people and places.  Change requires strong countenance – but how can the branches grow toward the sun if the roots too seek the sky?  I am learning: the branches and the roots spring from one heart.  Change in one must create change in the other, for the support goes both ways, big step building on bigger step, multiplying exponentially until roots and branches both can feel alive, fulfilled.  Home, it seems, is truly no further than the heart, for it is from there that love, succor, and companionship dwell.  And my heart?  It’s here, with my family, with my friends.  New house, new jobs, new lives aside, I am grateful for the opportunity to brace myself against their familiarity, to draw strength from their stalwartness and feel inspired by their own transformations.  And my heart is far away, over the seas and under a different sky, waiting quietly while I drink my fill, waiting for me to return, ready to set sail once more.  Balance, duality, adapting, learning…

August 13th is the shipping date; leaving on a jet plane from Manchester, NH at 9:00 AM.

Learning to play chess!  …and losing 2 out of 3 games.

Spending a morning with Elizabeth (close friend from high school), who drove down from Sacramento to visit.

Two words: JAMBA JUICE

Korean food!  Beeker and I got all spiffed up like a Korean gangster and his lady, and he took me out for some authentic Seoul food.  He talked in Korean – awesome.  I ate anchovies!  I ate spicy(ish) vegetables!  I made a such a huge mess trying to use chopsticks to eat the noodles that the waitress took pity on me and brought me a fork!  American restaurants give you bread while you wait; Korean restaurants give you 15 different appetizer dishes.  Yeah.  For the main course we had delicious beef bbq wrapped up in lettuce with sauce and rice, and vegetables, egg and rice in a stone bowl that kept heating the food so the bottom of the rice got crispy and brown.    I liked everything so much that Beeker demanded on the spot that I come to Korea with him.  Next year…?

Sprawling in Beeker's car, appreciating the new stereo system and listening to every Radiohead song in his car's cd collection.

Sushi…mmmm good.  My first time eating real sushi, as in actual raw fish, and not just the avocado rolls.  I didn't get too adventurous, though: California rolls with imitation raw crabmeat.  I scraped off the little orange balls of caviar that came on top, but I did try a piece of raw eel.  Taste – not bad.  Texture – oof.  But I was more successful in the chopstick department, so overall, a good outing.  I think my stomach thinks I've moved to Asia.

Ashley (close friend from Clark U)!  She picked me up last night and gave me a tour of Santa Cruz (where she grew up).  We met up with four of her friends (Chris, Ruben, Rob and Brooke) on an Arabian horse ranch up in the Felton Mountains – Redwood country.   Ruben and Rob work/live on the ranch and have a little camper set up in a mostly permanent and extremely remote campsite on the ranch.  It was a cold, cold night, especially because we were way up on a mountain.  The stars and the outlines of the redwoods and pines against them were just gorgeous.  We don't have skies like that back east.  The six of us alternately huddled together under blankets in front of the fire, looked at the Pleiades and the Orion nebula through Rob's telescope, and played with Brooke's two golden/black lab mixed puppies (8 weeks old).  SO CUTE.  Ruben was born in Santa Cruz, but his family is from Mexico and was raised to speak only Spanish in his home, so we spoke Spanish to each other and conducted the most sarcastic conversation I think I've ever had about the importance of Columbus Day.  Someone got a generator hooked up, so we set up a TV set next to the fire and watched “Mad Max,” an early Mel Gibson film and the only VHS tape lying around the camper.  We were all up talking until sunrise, and I fell asleep in my sleeping bag in front of the fire for a few hours before everybody was up and talking again.  Very chill, very mellow, very hippie-ish, and very awesome.

Tomorrow – San Francisco!  Definitely can't bring myself to believe that I'm getting on a plane to NZ tomorrow, but I suppose it's too late to back out now.  T-minus 27 hours, 45 minutes and couting…

Welcome to my sweet as account of the next year of traveling around New Zealand.  While I realize that “sweet as” actually means “well done!” or “good for you!” in NZ slang, I prefer to adopt my own meaning: “incredible,” “astounding,” “sublime.”  We'll see if I can successfully insert this usage into modern NZ culture.  That, and “wicked.”  If I'm going to be picking up their accent, then I feel that I should leave them with a little taste of New England in return.

I'm writing from California – Cupertino (near San Jose) to be exact.  I'm staying with one of my best friends from Clark, Beeker, and am trying to make all kinds of last minute preparations for my trip.  I leave Friday.  Yowza.  Excited.  This will be where you should look if you want to know what I'm up to.  Postcards and emails will be sent, and phone calls will be made occasionally, but here is where the details and stories will come out.  This is the scoop.

All mail (packages, letters, postcards, etc.) should be sent to:

Susan Elizabeth Munroe
c/o IEP – Work New Zealand
PO Box 1786
Shortland St.
Auckland
New Zealand

Can't wait to hear from all of you.  Much love.  Next entry – arrival!