Little pearls of wisdom

I met a guy on the playground the other day. Amongst all the other parents he stood out with his long blond hair and 2 most adorable little kids (after mine, that is).

‘How do you manage?’ – I asked watching him effortlessly juggle both toddlers. ‘I can hardly manage with one!’ – I added.

He smiled.

‘I’m not usually on my own here’, – he responded, ‘but once in a while I like to give my wife a break’.

Was that an exception from the norm or was it the norm? I don’t even know anymore. At that very moment to me he seemed one of a kind. Where are those men that do half of the house chores? Where are those dads that are as much involved in their child care as the moms are? Where are those men that go on a date with a girl online and end up marrying her? Where are those men that love their woman so much that they accept her children as their own?

Not in my universe.

There is this elderly lady that I’ve known for quite some time now, a few years. We used to live next door to each other. She’s seen me single, she’s seen me pregnant and she’s seen me broken down. I got her message the other day, like I do once in a while, just checking in.

‘Vilma, how are you? How’s your little girl?’ – she started as usual. ‘You know, nothing would make me happier than to know that you have found somebody and are no longer on your own’.

That made me smile, but it was a sad smile.

That makes two of us, my dear, I thought to myself.

‘Hello, neighbor’, I said in a fake cheerful voice. ‘Of course I’m on my own’, – I told her matter of factly. ‘Nobody wants a woman with a child’.

This, of course, is based on me raising my daughter alone and receiving zero interest from any man alive. Having a child is the most beautiful thing in the world. Raising one is the most difficult one. It’s a blessing to share the good and the bad with another person. But the men I’ve come across run away as soon as they hear me mention my daughter. The only male constant in my life at the moment is the man delivering my groceries once a week, and it’s not even the same man every time.

‘No, Vilma, don’t say that. Good men exist. You just wait’, – my ex-neighbor continued. ‘I was with the man who cared for me and my children like they were his own’. Lucky you, I though, where did you find a man like that? The don’t seem to exist in my universe.

And so it makes me wonder. I spend so much time every day thinking about where those men are and why I haven’t crossed paths with them in the recent years. I keep dreaming, obsessing, hoping, crying, guessing, searching, complaining, giving up and starting again. I use so much time thinking about men and hoping that one will just magically step into my life (well it happens to others, so why not me?) and never leave, that I now realize it’s a complete and utter waste of my precious time and energy.

I read this really interesting article recently.

What struck me the most the part about self education:

‘The truth is that anyone who is part of the 1% not only values education, but is also a lifelong learner. Being a lifelong learner helps them understand the world they live in, provides them with more and better opportunities, and improves the quality of their life. It is a deliberate and voluntary choice, not a chore. 

Most people are unable to enter the niche because they undervalue the power of self-education. They think that getting some degree will be sufficient to be successful. But it’s not like that. Self-initiated education focuses on personal development and offers many long-term benefits, including improved self-confidence, renewed self-motivation and the building of new skills’.

So instead of staring at my phone, or texting the wrong guy, or feeling self pity, I should be doing something. Learning something. ‘Debes ocuparte, no procuparte’, – I was told more than once lately.

Every time I think about moving back to Europe I automatically dismiss countries that require me to speak the language I don’t know. Had I done something about this 2 years ago, I would have mastered at least two new languages by now.

I also have to remind myself that things happen to us only when we are ready for them. Not earlier, not later. It’s one of the four Shaman laws, which I came to love and seek out when times get hard.

The first law says that the person that is in our life is just the right person. Nobody is here by accident, everybody we surround ourselves with is here for a reason.

The second law says what happens is the only thing that could have happened. Whatever happens couldn’t have happened in any other way whatsoever, not even by the tiniest detail. It happens exactly that way so we learn and move forward. All the situations in our life are perfect, even though our mind and our ego resists that and doesn’t want to accept it at times.

The third law says that when something happens, it happens at the right moment. Everything starts when it should, not before, not after. When we are ready for something to happen in our lives, that’s when it happens.

The fourth one says that when something ends, it ends. Just like that. If something ends in our life, it’s for our evolution, and it’s best to leave it. To move forward and take this experience with us.

And so I must not be ready for a new and good man in my life, although that doesn’t stop me from saying a little prayer every night hoping that day comes soon.

Live and love

Raise your hand if you are a little bit in love with Bruno Mars. I know, so am I! Great talent and a killer smile.

Not long after the start of our trip I heard his newest single at that time – Gorilla. I kept listening to that over and over again. Just like in the past months I had been listening to Usher’s Tell Me. I wonder why we do that – keep listening to the song over and over again till we eventually get tired of it and move on to the next one? Bruno Mars had accompanied me on my trip almost from the start, and we were in a good place, I was not even close to getting tired of his music.

You can imagine then how I felt, when Bruno Mars agreed to host me and my Peruvian in his house in Brazil. ‘For real?’ – you ask. Ok, he wasn’t the REAL Bruno Mars, but tell me they didn’t look like two pees in a pod!

Falling in love with this guy was unavoidable. I think I melted as soon as I stepped into the house and saw our host. He was extremely sweet, made damn good savory crepes and mean margaritas. Plus, he sang and played the guitar just like the star.

While I showered I dreamt of him walking in on me. While passing his kitten from my arms into his I dreamt of being the kitten. I dreamt of kissing the guy.

I did feel bad afterwards as I believe my feelings and my thoughts were clearly written on my forehead. After we had left, my Peruvian asked me if I had been flirting with Bruno. ‘Not that I care’, – he added. I told him no, as I was doing so much more than flirting.

That was the only time when I got head over heels over a guy I’d met during my 3.5 year long trip. I guess by then I was sure there could be nothing more between me and my Peruvian than the friendship and companionship while the trip lasted.

Moreover, the trip could have ended at any moment. Just like life in general can end in the blink of an eye and without a warning.

Today, my memory of Paraguay is a blur. I don’t remember the names, I don’t remember the places, I don’t remember the faces. But I know I almost died there.

Late at night we arrived to a town where we had a couch surfing host waiting for us. The ride over was uneventful, but I do remember munching on chipa while relaxing next to the truck driver. Food in Paraguay was not impressive, but the chipa I liked!

We were walking along the road in the rain, trying to reach the house of our new host. That was all I remembered until I woke up in the hospital 3 days later with the bandage on my head, not being able to stand on my own two feet, and tubes poking out of more places than I care to remember. I did have random flashes of me being taken to the x-ray room or seeing the face of our host (I later found out that was him) by my hospital bed.

I got hit by a bus. I spent 2 weeks in a private hospital and a week later at a hotel, all expenses paid. We didn’t have travel insurance (I believe very few, if any, backpackers do) and we didn’t have home in Paraguay to go back to and rest. We had been on the move for years and suddenly I couldn’t move. It took a lot of effort for my Peruvian to fight for me, and with the help of a couple of influential friends I received a pretty good care.

Just remembering chipa made me nauseous for the longest time as it was the last I had eaten. Slowly, my head wound started to heal (today the big scar is hidden by my hair) and my swollen legs started to recover.

However, being able to walk unsupported was not the same as carrying a 15 kg backpack on my back and a 6 kg backpack on my front. Even after 3 weeks of rest I was not ready for that. But the insurance was no longer covering our stay and, honestly, we wanted to get the hell out of the country. So we started moving again, my Peruvian dragging 2 fully loaded backpacks while I just about managed the small ones. I don’t know how he did it. But he did. He saved me.

The lows

The story of us crossing the Darien Gap simple deserves to be told.

Our boat had no motor, so we spent 7 days on the water, when the trip usually takes 3-5days. However, the crew was tight and we had lots of fun.

We were about to reach the San Blas islands, Panama. We had taken boxes of mangoes from Colombia with us and had been munching on them along the way. After a few days, however, the mangoes started to rot and it was impossible to escape the bad smell on the tiny boat. Remember, there were eleven of us and a dog. Before stepping on the boat, we had been eating the fruit for 3 days straight: mangoes for breakfast, mangoes for lunch and mangoes for dinner (the result of us running out of cash and not finding ATM machines in the small town of Capurgana, Colombia).

Mangoes gave me a rash and I couldn’t even look at the big beautiful fruit for 2 years after this trip, but trust me, the worst was yet to come.

I was going strong. Despite the never ending mangoes, despite the rash they gave me and despite the motion sickness that I had felt since the first night I spent on the boat. As I child, I suffered from that a lot (my mom would always have an extra bag with her whenever we went on a bus or stepped into a car). I couldn’t sleep inside the boat, that made me even more nauseous. I preferred to sleep outside breathing in the salty air, feeling the fresh wind, and looking at amazing night sky before closing my eyes. But then along came tuna.

Our captain, bless him, was as gorgeous as he liked to drink. He did take care of us: gave us food (the mangoes!) and water (sat inside plastic containers for days and looked questionable for sure). The captain did try, I have to say. One day he pulled out two beautiful tuna fish and made us all a huge bowl of ceviche right there and right then. It was awesome.

The second tuna was left on the side of the boat for a couple of days. We cooked it on the fire as we reached the first San Blas island. Yummy! We were finally on the ground after a few days at sea and we managed to put together a proper meal. The tuna with potatoes was just what we needed.

Back then I wasn’t keen on potatoes. Please, I had eaten them in every shape and form know to the human kind. In my country you eat potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner (so a bit like you do mangoes before you go on a sailing boat from Colombia to Panama) and for a snack in between. So it was just fish for me at that time in San Blas…

I was lying on the sand after a delicious meal, feet in the water, smiling to myself, when my Peruvian pointed out I had a big rash on my belly. I suddenly started to feel my cheeks burning and had to run to the bathroom (not an easy task when there were no real bathrooms on the small island). Then I needed to run again and again. Lord help me. My Peruvian reported that a few others were not feeling well either. The only girl who didn’t get food poisoning was the one who didn’t eat fish. She only had the potatoes. The first one to get sick was the one who skipped them.

Now let me remind you that we are talking about the same tiny boat with eleven of us and a dog. We had to get moving and could not stay on the island any longer. I don’t think you need much imagination to see us sharing the tiny claustrophobic bathroom amongst us. It was a disaster. It needed a lot of cleaning after.

And who cleaned after me? My Peruvian did.

My Peruvian was a hard core travel companion, and he didn’t think twice for the sake of everyone’s wellbeing. And for that am I grateful. We had each other, even at the worst of times.