New Year’s Resolution

Before I get around to proclaiming my new year’s resolution, I should tell you about my favorite corner of earth. I find myself returning to this part of the world time and time again. The first country I visited was Costa Rica, then Argentina and a short stint in Chile; after that, Brazil, and the last one was Colombia.

I’ve often wondered why I love this continent so much. Perhaps it embodies the hope for humanity’s future, in my hopeless romantic sort of way. It doesn’t carry the baggage of a thousand years hating on your neighbors, pigeonholed into a certain being, and stuck in a rut. It’s kind of hard to hate on your neighbors when just like them, you’re a mutt who speaks the same language as they do.

I am comfortable being myself when I am here. It’s not that they don’t know I am a foreigner. Even a local mutt recognizes a visiting mutt. But I’ve never experienced the sort of contempt felt at times in the old world, either because I looked like someone to be disdained in the past or because I was passed off as another unwanted immigrant. I can’t put my finger on it, but there is a zeal for living not seen in my old world where existential crisis lurks beneath, waiting for the chance to pounce upon the soul.

It’s not that they haven’t seen turbulences. On the contrary, it is embarrassing to visit as an American, knowing the history of US-backed coups d’état aimed at replacing the sitting government with military juntas or other authoritarian regimes: the 1976 Argentine coup d’état, the 1973 Chilean coup d’état, the 1964 Brazilian coup d’état, and the list just goes on and on. Yet despite persistent political and economic turmoils, even the numbers prove that Latin Americans are unexpectedly and consistently happier than most.

If train rides are the most romantic way to see the old world, bus rides are the most practical way to travel Latin America. On the bus, I’ve traveled across Colombia, from Bogota to its northern coast, Cabo de la Vela, then southward to its UNESCO heritage town of Popayan. I’ve spent many hours along the Andes, from the glaciers of El Perito Moreno to the hill of seven colors of Purmamarca. And for so many hours alone, I learned to enjoy my own company.

Across Patagonia on route 40 was the loneliest. Unlike being on a train, I am not able to read on a bus, and 36 hours feel like an eternity when there is nothing to distract the eyes or the ears. I could see that my perception of time depended on my unique experience at the moment. It made me wonder whether humans discovered or invented time in order to keep track of changes around us. Would other living beings perceive time as well? If we didn’t exist, would time exist? These questions piqued my interest in randomness anew.

The five day trek through the jungle to the Lost City was the toughest. Between rivers and muddy hills, I was always wet and chafing, worn-out and unattractive. My long pants and long sleeves clung to my sweats and cleavage, soaked with rain and smeared in filth. My trekking guide asked me why I wasn’t wearing shorts and tanks like the others. I wanted to tell him because I didn’t want to get eaten by bugs, bloodied by sticks and stones, and was just too exhausted to give a damn. Instead, I said nothing and smiled.

It has become customary that I bring back with me a food item from the country I visit. From Argentina, it was the alfajor, a biscuit sandwich filled with dulce de leche, from Colombia – fried plantains, and from Brazil – pao de queijo, a cheese bread made from tapioca flour. But I hadn’t yet come to explore Latin American culinary prowess. Their unfamiliar flavor profile intimidates me. Their spirits are made from agave, their gravy of chiles and chocolate, their vegetables – cacti, and their herbs – avocado leaves. The culinary capitals of Latin America are Mexico and Peru.

Perhaps I’m saving the best for last, but in the mean time, my new year’s resolution shall be to learn about Mexican cuisine – to make a feisty salsa, a tasty taco, a rich mole, and all great things to come.