Have you spent the first half of the summer watching a lot of TV? If you nodded yes, slap yourself.

Yes, it’s already mid-June, but it’s not too late. You can change your ways. Start a List.

List making is admittedly not new, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth your time. Until you actually plan out your summer, it’s going to remain a shapeless, ambitionless blob. Like you. So take out a sheet of paper, take a leap of faith in yourself, and decide what the next few months are going to be.

There aren’t any guidelines for making this list. Just do it. You’ll know it’s right if when you finish, a great “Dang right I will!” escapes you lips. I know it did mine.

Here are my top five:

1) Buy a road bike – Financial constraints have led to me to approach commuting the old-fashioned way. In addition to that, there is something about riding downhill on a bike, peddling furiously, wind blowing my hair back, that helps recapture some of my lost youth. Doesn’t hurt the body image either.

2) Find my go-to sno cone shop – A must for any summer, a good sno cone shop can really set the tone. Here’s a helpful hint: coconut flavor won’t stain your shirt.

3) Kiss a girl – This has been on my summer list since I was 13. Summer lovin’, although cliché, is hard to beat. Luckily, I am entering the summer months already attached to a lovely lady, so this one should be a go.

4) Barbeque every weekend – Despite the financial commitment that this entails, I’m dedicated to sizzling steaks and blowing smoke into my neighbor’s yard. There are friends that I neglected in favor of my studies during the bitter winter. What better way to catch up than around a grill?

5) Read the classics – Oliver Twist, Middlemarch, and Ender’s Game top my list, among others. Charles Dickens and George Eliot may be old school and behind on fashion, but they’re excellent company on a picnic.

There you have it. Although some of them may appear silly, I’m taking them very seriously. I won’t be satisfied until I squeeze every last drop out of this summer. Neither should you.

I remember when I realized the world had changed. It was after watching a movie at my house, and I asked my cousin who she had been texting the entire time. The answer, “My boyfriend,” blew my mind because he had been sitting on an adjacent couch at the time.

“We were fighting,” she explained, then changed the subject, as if this were no major announcement. I brought her back. “Wait, what? You were fighting, through texts, while in the same room together?” She understood my question, but not the incredulity. “Yeah. So?”

It’s only three years later, but the onward march of technology has completely trampled my apparently archaic view of relationships. Call friends to catch up? Nah. Just look up their latest pictures on Facebook. Forget to set up a date with what’s-her-face for tonight? No worries bro. Just text her during physics class. Or better yet, post “Hey, let’s hang out!” on her Wall and wait for a response.

Shut-ins rejoice! We don’t need face to face communication anymore, just P2P. Right?

I once dated a girl who refused to share her feelings to my face, even when I tried to force it. “I feel uncomfortable,” she would grumble. Then as soon as I left her house, my phone would buzz with a text. “i had fun tonite thanks for dinner. sorry i cant talk about my feelings but i’m glad you tried” Yeah, that relationship went real deep, let me tell ya.

That’s the word that’s missing: depth. We have faster, farther reaching communication than ever before, but it’s all on the surface of our computer and phone screens. Although everything is moving forward in the world of technology, our relationships have taken a step back.

That’s right girlfriend. That guy you met, looked up on facebook, and have had regular technological contact with for the past few weeks? Sorry sister, but that’s going nowhere.

If we keep this up, the things that really matter in this world, our relationships, are going nowhere too.

Time is not a chain of events, each connected only to the previous and following link. I’ve come to think of time as more of a liquid – each drop only adds to the constantly moving, mixing mass of memories and current experience. No single moment can be completely isolated from the rest, for what would an A grade in school be without a previous F? or a baby’s first step without the first hundred falls? or love without the stinging memory (or fear) of rejection?

What would my today be without my yesterday in Bolivia?

Reflection is a good teacher.

I just got back from a three-day camping trip. The possibility of camping with Bolivians interested me. Would it be very different? And would any of the boys die, considering that I had been placed as a leader, alongside fellow adult-aged, child-minded friends Samuel and Matthew?

Setting up camp

It started out normal. We hurriedly packed the night before, stuffing too much clothing and not enough bug repellent into duffle bags and backpacks. I slept the entire drive to the campsite, apparently missing beautiful scenery and several near-death experiences. Unloading was the same as always – the eleven boys each carried one small bag the entire 100 yards from the car to the site, then started playing around with a large rock, which they insisted they must move to make room for the tent. Meanwhile, the adults (I flatter myself with that title) made five or six trips, carrying the gear that would eventually be put to use by the boys. I was upset at this for several minutes, but then remembered the time that I pretended to get lost to avoid setting up the fifteen-man teepee that my Scoutmaster had brought. I appeared suddenly in the camp just in time to say, “Hey, it looks great! Sorry I got lost,” before I was pelted with pine cones by my peers. In honor of “What Goes Around Comes Around,” I let the boys’ offense slide.

Men's camp

The camp looked terrible. We had branches strewn everywhere, hauled to the site by independent groups of boys intent on preparing for the fire of the decade. The tents had no tarps beneath them, and threatening clouds promised to make us pay. The bishop (blue words found on “Brief Explanations” page) started to make a table of tree limbs lashed together with twine, but couldn’t maintain the interest of the boys, so abandoned that idea. I could tell this half table was destined to remain incomplete the duration of the trip. In setting up their tents, most of them required help, in the form of my taking over completely. In short, these kids were excellent Boy Scouts, exhibiting all the qualities that I developed in my days as a scout.

A castle, complete with flying buttresses and a gate.

After getting our camp set up – mostly – I went to check out the campsite of the girls. I was impressed to the point of hysterical laughter. The tents were symmetrically placed. Some were garnished with tree boughs. Each ward marked their turf with rope fences, sometimes decorated with balloons and tree branches. They even made signs designating their ward. They took these boundaries fairly seriously – I overheard one woman chastise a girl for crossing into her campsite without permission. I also heard a leader explain to her group that “we have doors for a reason, and you can’t just step over the fence.” It was intense.

A heart-balloon decorated, fully-operational portcullis. At a campsite. Women.

Cooking was an adventure, as it always is with a group of boys. We had trouble controlling the level of gas in the camp stove, so either there wasn’t enough to light the match, or the flame was so big that it burned off some of Samuel’s hair. Eventually we decided that it was a danger to have such an unpredictable fire, so we decided to cook on the stove that the sisters had. Which meant that after they looked over our shoulders for a few minutes and corrected every move we made, they eventually took over and did all the cooking for the next three days. I saw boys in other camps trying to sabotage their stoves to get the same result, but unsuccessfully.

The women cook for us. Samuel supervises.

Latins make better lovers, even while camping. At midnight, six or seven of the boys snuck off with a guitar, crossed the forbidden bridge between the boys’ and girls’ camps, and serenaded the young ladies with a few choice ballads. Twenty minutes later, after warming up their voices and their courage, the girls returned the favor to our camp. This time, because of their large numbers, the girls didn’t dare cross The Bridge, instead singing across the river. For the next hour, the two groups of starry-eyed romantics traded songs, the boys clapping when the girls sang, the girl screaming for the boys like they were the Beatles. Samuel, Matthew, and I

The dance hall.

languished in our tent, alternating between shouting insults at the boys and begging them to go to bed. Again, I was angry, but like before, I remembered what it was like to be young. I looked down the long hallway of my distinguished 26 years and remembered several late night serenades through open windows, followed by fathers telling me to “Get the hell outta here!” I decided to again forgive their youthful enthusiasm.

Bolivians never dance in groups, always in pairs. They tend to form lines facing each other.

A few nights later we had a dance. I suppose it’s my limited experience, but I don’t think I’m alone in imagining that a Latin dance is never dull, everyone participates with vigor and skill, and somewhere in there there’s a mariachi band. To the contrary, these youngsters provided a scene that resembled every high school dance I ever attended. 20 danced at a time, while the other hundred sat in a circle and complained about how bored they were. The adults parked a few cars near the dance floor, a small pit lined with cement, opened the doors, put together a risky wiring job, and soon had the place bumping with Shakira, Jay-Z, and Lady Gaga. It was a great cauldron of youthful hormonal exhibition. Apparently word had spread about my amazing dancing skills, because I had to turn down several offers from pretty young girls who didn’t know how old I was (my turning down pretty girls was one of the only new thing I saw that night).

The three days ended long after I was ready to go home. Again, I played the dutiful, responsible adult leader, packing and hauling and cleaning up, while the kids enjoyed a game of soccer. Nobody died (although Samuel lost a few eyebrows and eyelashes), I held my patience, and the kids had a lot of fun. Camping with Bolivians wasn’t so different after all.

Teodora and I wait for everyone else to show up. She's dressed in cholita clothing, and I look like a tourist. Two worlds collide.

It all starts at about 3:30 in the morning. Three men dressed in red robes and warm hats blow instruments made of animal horns and a conch shell. Copacabana slowly ripples with energy, live bodies silently making their way from their beds to the hill. The residents of Copacabana gather on a nearby hilltop to remember the unchangeable past and to prepare to change the future.

Clockwise from top middle (it's easiest to start with the white person): Rachel Potter, Jovy (named after a Baywatch character), a young neighbor boy, Teodora, and Elvis.

It was only a few hours before dawn on June 21, 2010, the Aymara New Year when I became a part of this ancient tradition. I was lucky to be a Fringe Bolivian this morning. (For an explanation of this and other terms, see my Brief Explanations page, located below the title on my front page.) I’d become good friends with the owners of the hostel where I stayed, thanks mostly to Rachel Potter, my Copacabana insider, and they took me under their collective wing this cold morning. For Rachel’s pictures of this event, click here.

Presents of candy, trinkets, pictures, and similar items are burned as gifts to Pachamama, Aymara goddess of the earth

One the hike up mountain, one hand was full with a bag of gifts for earth goddess Pachamama, the other with a pot of hot chocolate (the traditional coffee being replaced by the family in deference to my religious abstinence), so the group of men gathered at the foot of the hill didn’t even think I was a tourist, saving me a good ten pesos. They tried to charge Rachel, but were reprimanded by her adopted family, who said, “She is one of us.” Latin hospitality is like a soft blanket.

Teodora placed her offering to Pachamama upon the burning pyre, asking blessings on her family and the family’s business. I offered hot chocolate and bread to my stomach, begging it to stop growling. My stomach was appeased; we’re still waiting on Pachamama.

Copacabana residents await the first rays of light.

A distinct strength of Latin culture is community – commune + unity. The whole town climbed the hill, even the Catholic priest, who maybe didn’t approve of the constant perpetuation of pagan traditions, but who attended because he’s a member of the community. In my wanderings in Copacabana, I mostly just saw tourists and shopkeepers, but hundreds of people came for this annual event.

There were clouds in the sky, so the sun was fashionably late to his own party. As the moment neared, we all stretched our palms toward the horizon, thinking about the past year and everything that was bad and good. The sun’s rays peeked at us through a small opening between distant mountains and the clouds, the sunlight hitting our open palms. I asked myself, “What great things will you do this year? What new light will you bring to yourself and the world?” The main worries that constantly circulate my brain always center around three things: Do I love God enough? Will I find someone that I can love for the rest of my life and beyond? Will I be able to provide for that someone and the children we will raise?

Although the ceremony was cut short by the pesky clouds, the community stayed on the hilltop to talk, eat, burn things, and instill traditions in their children. I was one of the first to leave, in a hurry to catch my bus back to Cochabamba. Maybe it was the centuries old stone steps that I walked on the way down. Or maybe it was the kindness of the hot chocolate that stirred in my belly. Who know, it could even have been the sunlight on my palms. But I was contemplative during the hike down. I had thought about my unchangeable past, and worried about the future. Will this little hilltop change me?

Our Hostel's Sweet Deck

My Copacabana travel guide, Rachel Potter, and I arrived on the island a little after three o’clock in the afternoon. After choosing amongst the several accosting yet accommodating hostel peddlers, we were led to a nice looking building with a sweet deck. We left everything there, except our cameras, and continued to hike to the top of the speed-bump shaped island.

We met an English couple while trying to find a restaurant that Rachel had heard about, Las Velas (The Candles). Bryan (which I understood first as Blyan – he mixes up his r’s and l’s) greeted us as we tramped through the small grove of trees around where this

Burros graze on a shelf cut into the mountain by the Inca to facilitate farming

restaurant reportedly was: “Hello, have you seen my wife?” We had not. “You’ve missed the restaurant, I’m afraid,” he added. “You’ve missed it by quite a lot, actually. It’s a good thing I found you.” We walked back a hundred yards, then ascended up the hill to a little house we had mistaken for Red Riding Hood’s cottage. His wife Mary was there waiting. “Where have you been? You had me a bit worried,” he said. “I wanted to say the same to you,” she replied lightly.

Bryan and Mary were in the middle of a nine-month hike through South America. They met because Mary was dating Bryan’s friend Mark (“A nice bloke,” said Bryan), and when Mary broke up with Mark, Bryan and Mary “fell in together.” After dating for “just a short time really,” two years, they were married.

Rachel, Mary, and Blyan enjoying drinks in front of Las Velas

We watched the sun set over the western side of the island. They sipped beer and satisfied their curiosity about the US, we sipped non-alcoholic, non-anything green tea and satisfied our fascination with Europe. Funny that we were with Europeans and we were the ones drinking tea. Bryan loved to talk and listen about anything at all. We covered several topics in our two hours together: the World Cup and England’s probable failure; England’s war with Argentina over the small, useless Islas Malvinas; Eastern Bolivia as a haven for Eastern European refugees; the political independence of Wales, Scotland, and Ireland from their former master, England; Arizona’s new immigration law; and how he can afford nine months without work because his lifestyle is cheaper than his occupation really requires. It seems easier to accept a person’s opinion on a matter if they are charming and have a British accent.

Rachel holds a candle in the room we shared. She made me promise I wouldn't tell anyone we shared a room, even though we slept in separate beds. That's what you get for trusting a blogger.

When darkness came, we entered the restaurant to eat our gourmet, brick oven, completely organic pizzas. The name Las Velas comes from the owner’s refusal to use electricity. I was grateful that Bryan and Mary were there to diffuse any potential awkwardness; sunsets and candlelit dinners are best shared between lovers, not two people with no romantic interest in each other. Dinner over, they were kind enough to walk us home, their headlamps being the only help in the utter darkness.

Clockwise from bottom left: Rachel, ready to puke her guts out to the rhythm of the rocking boat; Mary, tranquil as always; two English people we didn't know; Bryan peeking at the camer; the boat operators, playing Uno.

The next morning Rachel woke nauseous and threw up, so we scrapped our plan to hike to the northern end of the island. I rushed to the southern tip, only 15 minutes away, hoping for a snapshot of the virgin sanctuary. I played the part of clueless tourist by walking right past the ruins without seeing them. My boat was waiting, so I took a few pictures while backtracking toward the pier. There were neither virgins nor Congressmen inside; it was just some old rocks. Though my view of the ruins was much shorter than I had hoped, I didn’t mind that much – I enjoyed the people on this island more than the rocks anyway.

La Via Dolorosa, or The Way of Suffering

The trail to the top is made of roughly-hewn rock, cobbled together without cement. The uneven stones trip me and force me to watch my every step. Although I’m in good physical condition, my lungs labor against the 12,000 ft altitude. It was cold when I left the hostel, but so hot now that my sweater has begun to truly live up to its name. My lips are dry, my stomach empty. All this pain, yet I’ve no cross upon my shoulders.

As the trail steepens, it also begins to switch back. Even with this easier climb, I stop frequently, my shoulders and chest heaving. Each time I stop, those around me come into focus. A young woman carries a bouquet of flowers, while her husband carries their son on his shoulders. I let them pass.

A Shrine of Jesus Christ, to Which Travelers Make Petitions

An old woman comes next, dressed in classic cholita skirtand mantle, and she passes me as well. I notice that both pairs of travelers place a small pebble upon one of the crossed sepulchers that appear now and then along the trail. They cannot carry a cross, so they carry a stone in memory of Christ’s burden. Their small burdens pile at His feet.

Finally I reach the top. It has been flattened out and cobbled to form a courtyard, with a two-foot tall stone wall around the edge. The family that passed me on the trail gathers at a statue. The mother lays the bouquet of flowers at the relic’s feet while her son looks on. Other worshipers dot the courtyard, and though they are quiet, I cross the hilltop and descend the other side to be alone with God in spiritual solitude, to be alone with my own thoughts of devotion.

Only a few dozen yards down the other side, a dirt path parallels the courtyard. It is also lined by the same short wall, and I find a secluded section of wall to sit and rest. My little backpack carries my lunch; a bottle of water and two pieces of bread, in humble reminiscence of the Lord’s Last Supper. I wet my lips with the slightly bitter water and break bread.

Suddenly an old man approaches me. His face is friendly, though worn and unkempt. He speaks to me around his two front teeth, the only remains of his grin. Although his Aymara accent is heavy, I understand his questions: where are you from, and are you a Christian, and have you been to La Isla del Sol? In return for his friendliness, I exchange my bread and water, which he accepts hungrily. When he is finished, I ask for a picture to remember him. He agrees, but asks for a few pesos in return, my breadcrumbs still littering his shirt. His audacity makes me laugh, but I readily agree.

God's Guest

When he leaves, I finally have the chance to be alone, but instead I pack up and start the hike back down. I didn’t go up there to be alone after all.

Las Tobas

Las Tobas, a folk dance passed down from Amazonian natives, is representative of hunting practices in the rainforests of eastern Bolivia. The bright colors and feathers are indicative of its tropical origin. I’m not sure why they’re wearing pink felt, but maybe it’s the influence of the 80’s.

Saya Morena

Saya Morena, the “Brown Dance,” was passed down from African slaves imported to help harvest coffee beans. The all-white dress and bowler style hat are standard for the saya morena (morena, or brown, describes the skin color of the dancers, not the clothing). The dance also includes the caporal, or slave master, whose dance costume is much more elaborate, signifying higher social status. My camera died before I could get a picture of a caporal.

Tinku

In the Potosí region of Bolivia, an Incan tradition called the Tinku was used to resolve conflict. A predecessor to inner-city dance fighting between Sharks and Jets, this ritualized performance sometimes resulted in injury or even death. These two dancers below are dressed to present a tamer, less-life threatening version.

Although it wasn’t as historically important, I nonetheless turned some heads at a local church dance. Bolivian dancing seems to be tailor-fit for white boys like me. The feet move plenty while the hips maintain their natural rigid position. I’ve been doing that dance since I was five years old. After mastering the typical Bolivian style (mastering I say!), the DJ decided to play some 40′s big band and 80’s classics. My swinging and moonwalking were unparalleled in the small chapel. I am not ashamed that I have to shake it with 50 year-old Bolivians to be considered a good dancer.

Susanita and I Get Down

As Copacabana is the northernmost Bolivian post along the “Gringo Trail,” it’s main attraction is tourism. It sits on the edge of Lake Titicaca, so offers beautiful vistas of the highest navigable lake in the world. It is also only a few miles away from Peru, a backpacker’s dream destination. This means that I, being white, don’t stand out as much as I did in Cochabamba. Unfortunately, this also means that the locals view me as just another tourist, and approach me with sales pitches rather than friendly curiosity. After only a few hours, I gave up the hope that I could blend in with the native Bolivians and gave myself up completely to being a tourist.

So far I have enjoyed being a tourist, but there is one major disadvantage: it is expensive. When I arrived in Copacabana, I realized that I had underestimated the cost of living, especially since I moved from cheap villager class to rich outsider class. I spent 200 of my 400 pesos on my 24-hour visit to La Isla del Sol, which I will detail once I get an internet connection fast enough to allow me to post pictures on this as of yet boring, picture-less blog. I have 200 left that has to last me until Monday (3 days!), so now I’m trying to retreat into the villager lifestyle that I should have never left. My current eating budget includes bread, yogurt, and water, and I’m trying to keep 80 pesos aside for my return trip to home base. Far from being dismayed by this, I am actually kind of happy. Ernest Hemingway wrote that “Hunger makes good discipline.” Well Ernest, disciples we are.

A unique advantage of being a tourist here is that I can watch the World Cup matches with the people to whom it matters most. I watched the Argentina game with Argentinians, the U.S. game with die-hard U.S. fans (which you have to go abroad to find, apparently), and I’ll soon join Brian and Mary, some English friends, to cheer on the mother country. With these fans I’ve lived and died on every kick, listened to swearing in multiple languages, and even done some of my own swearing. Admittedly, my “Oh my gosh” upon seeing the U.S. behind 2-1 was a bit tame compared to everything else I heard, but it was still said with all the bitterness that I could muster. In truth, I just let out another harsh phrase, “Oh shoot!” when I realized that I was late for the English game. I’d better run; Brian and Mary are waiting. Back to tourism.

I don’t like to shop with girls. I once spent three (three!) hours in Wal-mart “helping” (I “helped” mostly by standing with my hands in my pockets and thinking she was pretty) a girl pick out bed linens for her new room. Apparently it is necessary to match the colors of something you mostly use with your eyes closed. At times I have committed the error of asking girls to help me shop for a specific article of clothing, to which they always readily agree and then instead proceed to look for all the clothes they wish I would wear. We spend hours sorting through shirts, pants, shoes, socks, underwear, ties, tie pins, tie pin cases, and handkerchiefs that match the color of the inside of my new tie pin case. And that’s after the girl has already browsed every section of women’s clothing, which she justifies by saying that “I’m just finding out what the new fashions are” or “I just like to look at sales, even though I know I won’t buy anything.” This is a lie. Shopping is shopping.

Two days ago, Susana and Andrea took me shopping. It started out as a quick trip to the bank so I could take some pesos bolivianos out of my account. That done, they suggested we “walk around the central plaza a bit.” They showed me a few sights, some old buildings, and then their true purpose was revealed. Before my man senses could fully detect the attack, I was in a jewelry store telling the girls whether nor not I liked that necklace on them, and if American girls like this type of earring. I could not provide very satisfying answers to these questions. And even if I made any attempt I don’t think they would have listened anyway – I think they’ve realized in the past week how fashion unconscious I am. They joked with me about buying a ring to take home to my girlfriend, asked me what size her ring finger was, and even tried to make me enter a wedding gown boutique. I refused, telling them that the jewelry was enough to make my blood pressure rise, and I didn’t want to pass out while looking at wedding dresses.

Andrea also needed a white, button-up blouse for her school uniform. We went to La Cancha, a street market downtown. Andrea is taller than most Bolivian women, so it was hard to find a shirt long enough for her. We walked up and down for two hours, until finally she found one that fit just right. However, she didn’t like the style, so we moved on. Luckily, my prayers were answered and a nearby vendor had just the shirt for her. I admit that I didn’t notice any difference from the first. As we drove home, I went over the day in my mind and wondered how I had been tricked into two shopping trips in less than 24 hours.

Without a doubt, I enjoyed talking to the people and seeing new sights that I would not have seen elsewhere. Walking through the market is a good way to get to know a people and see the differences that exist between it and your own. But, those differences aside, I now know for a fact that there is one thing that is fundamentally equal in this culture and mine: shopping is shopping, even in Bolivia.