Simple Life. Good Life.

“Well, let me talk to Kaci about it,” J says as he snaps his phone shut, exasperated.

Damn it, that didn’t go well, I think to myself as J looks up at me from his spot on the grass.

We are nestled in the shade of a Banyan tree behind Suisan’s Market in Hilo.  The calming breeze from the bay in front of us deposits soothing moisture on my skin.  I inhale the warm sea air to the pit of my stomach, visualizing the air entering the stagnant, stubborn plateau of anxiety that has formed there.

We need to buy a van and we need to do it soon.  Today is Friday, January 13^th.  Monday is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, a holiday for banks and government offices (like the DMV).  We have secured an apartment and truck until the morning of Wed., Jan. 18^th.  If and when we decide to buy a van we will need time to do some or all of the following:  clean it, get it safety checked, withdraw money from the bank, make curtains, ditch the back seats, etc., before we can move in.  The clock is ticking.

We began looking at vans on craigslist a month ago.  We have physically looked at five since we arrived on the Big Island on Wednesday afternoon.  We’d rent a van, but I want to be here for three months and renting is a little bit out of my price range ($3900 for 3 months/2=$1950 for my half).  Back in Colorado, we saw plenty of vans on craigslist for $2500 or less so I am betting on securing a van for three months for $1250 (for my half) less whatever we sell the van for before we leave.  Quite the gamble, I know, but where would the adventure be without these small leaps of faith?

What is it about selling a car that makes otherwise nice enough people become manipulators and liars?  If one can manage not to take it personally or jump onto a moral band wagon, these eccentricities of character are interesting to observe.

Despite obvious evidence to the contrary, one girl told us she was selling her “problem free” van at such a good price because she was moving to the mainland the next day (Friday) at 9 a.m.  At 2 p.m. on Friday, I saw her driving around town.  Another guy dropped the price of his van by $300 when we asked him to bring his van to a mechanic’s shop to be inspected (at our expense) because he “didn’t want to deal with taking it anywhere.”  This guy went from asking $3500 to $1700 over the course of 24 hours.  He also said he was moving to the mainland, though I suspect am just as likely to see him next month, still on the island.  As much as we try to remain detached, J and I are getting our fill between the inquiries we have made and the five vehicles we have looked at.

Though two of the vehicles may work, we are tired of dealing with the owners’ personalities and the thought of having contact with either one of them again is no longer appealing.  Later in the evening in our apartment in Volcano, we scour our notes and craigslist for anything we might have missed.  A listing for a Pontiac Montana catches my eye.  J calls the owner, Roger, who drops the price from $2400 to $1900 over the phone.  We looked at the listing while still in Estes Park  and the same van was listed for $2700.  Roger tells J he has moved to Oahu and that his distance from the Big Island is the reason for dropping the price.

Pronouncing and spelling Hawaiian words is not my forte so when Roger attempts to give us directions to his friend’s house, his instructions fall on deaf ears.  Roger does have the address of the Good Year in Hilo where the van is scheduled for an oil change the next day, Saturday, at noon.  J writes down the address and tells Roger we will go there to check it out.

We are hopeful, as we have to be.  We came here with a little money and a lot of faith.

The next day at noon, we check out the interior of the Montana.  It looks good enough.  The tires are on the new side.  The gas mileage will be great.  We look underneath the car.  A puddle of oil the size of a salad plate has collected in the 10 minutes the van has been parked in the lot.  Still hopeful, we decide to wait around to see what the tech changing the oil thinks.  Roger mentioned on the phone that he was getting the oil changed because he thinks the gasket on the oil filter is bad.  The tech, Alex, a fit, caramel skinned Hawaiian of mixed ancestry, briskly walks up to the van.  He pops the hood as we make introductions and tell him our story.

“You guys don’t wanna buy dis van,” he says 20 seconds after looking under the hood..  He makes clucking noises with his tongue and shakes his head as he scrutinizes the bowels of the engine.

“Really?” I ask.  Eyes wide.  Heart sinking.  Plateau of anxiety building….

“No, don’t buy dis van.  Dis da only car you gonna have?”

“Yeah, we need to get into something quick,” J said.

“Well, lemme think on dis.  I’ll get it up on da lift and give you da safety glasses.  We’ll have a look together,” Alex replies to J.

And so it goes.  The van is so bad off Alex’s boss tells him to stop the oil change because any further work on the Montana is too much of a liability to continue.  We are thankful to find out the van is a lemon before putting any money down, but hints of anxiety begin to surface on our faces as we ask Alex if he will inspect any other vehicle we are thinking about buying.

“No worries.  Just bring it in for da oil change when I am working,” Alex replies.  “I am here for a couple more hours den off til Tuesday.  I will give you my cell phone number and you call, leave me your number.  I will call around, see if I can find a van.  It has to be a van?”

“Gotta have a place to sleep, brother,” J says, with a sheepish smile.  “I have property over in Pahoa.  We’re here seeing if we want to develop it.  I’m a carpenter, well, general contractor, really, and this is the most affordable way for us to see the island.”

“Oh, I know dis.  I been dere.  I tell you what.  I don’t know how things work,” Alex says.  “I don’t know how your life been before dis and my life been before dis to make it us here and now, but my grandma has a house here in Hilo.  I am in charge of da property, but it needs work.  You can stay at dis place if you need, for the whole tree months you are here, no matter.  Maybe you can give me some advice on how to fix her up.  No money.  No problems.  I believe in da Karma, what goes around, comes around.”

My jaw drops.  Until this point, my interactions with people on the island have been pretty unfriendly-primarily dealing with people trying to sell their cars.  We write down Alex’s cell number and turn to leave.

“My faith in humanity has been restored just a smidge,” I say to J with a smile.

“For sure,” J replies.

We have chased down every used van on craigslist and in the newspaper.  Out of sheer desperation, we decide we must go to a place we had hoped to avoid-the used car dealership.  We pull into the first lot we see.  I am getting anxious and feel as though I might make a decision based more on depravity than logic.  I express this fear to J and we agree it is better if he screens the vans from here on out.

As J steps onto the lot of the fourth dealership, I wish him luck.

After 45 minutes, he returns with a smile on his face.

“I think I found something.  Steve, the salesman, and I are going to take it for a ride.”

“Where is it?”  I ask, looking around.

“Steve has to jump it first,” J says.

“Oh,” I say.

A few minutes later, I hear the growl of a large engine approaching, followed by the metronome of reverse as a Hawaii Telecom Dodge Ram 3500 pulls into the space next to me.

“Oh,” I say again, trying to relax my face into a neutral expression.

Steve lets out an amused, light laugh as he steps his black Converse All Stars from the van onto the pavement.  He is 40ish with salt and pepper hair and a kind smile.  He gives my hand a solid shake and gets into the passenger side of the van.

“I’ll be back in a few,” J says.  “Keep your phone close in case we break down.”

After a successful test drive, J and Steve return to the lot, both of them smiling.

“Steve worked a little magic and the van is $880 out the door.  The original price on this thing was $2999.  The safety sticker expires at the end of the month and we’ll need to put a new battery in it.  We have to manually pull the brake pedal back to turn the brake lights off.  Other than that, I think she is a strong vehicle,” J says.

“Are we buying this thing?”  I ask, a slow smile spreading across my face.

“Well, here’s my plan.  Alex is willing to meet us here on Monday morning and look at it.  He used to work here, so he’s familiar.  He’s bringing his tools.  If we do buy the van, we can drive straight to the auto parts store and change out the battery.  Alex will go with us to get the safety sticker and then we’ll go up to his grandma’s house so I can give him some construction advice. What do you think?”

“Awesome,” I reply.

Monday morning goes as planned, except that Steve somehow lowers the purchase price from $880 to $833.12.  Steve spends a lot of time with us, though he can’t be making much of a commission.  He is a laid back guy and seems pretty amused by our program.  We buy the van and get a 12 month safety sticker.  Alex has his hands full with his grandma’s house.  We plan to leave the van with him when we are done with it so he can use it as a work truck.

One of the reasons I like to travel in the hairpin style I do is to be forced into situations which require leaps of faith, trust in others and faith in my guts.  What better way to observe the universality of my “plateau of anxiety” than to move it to different places and different situations?  What better way to observe that it’s all gonna be alright than to do the same?  While I want to let it all go-to believe it’s all good, it seems only natural to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Will J and I’s relationship with Alex become convoluted?  Will the van keep running?  Will J and I meltdown living in such close quarters?

As I reverse out of Alex’s driveway, the methodical beep of the van’s reverse pulls me away from the fear in my belly and back to the present moment.

Breathe in.  Breath out, Kaci.  One moment at a time.

Before we can full on “Live in a Van Down by the River,” J and I have a little remodeling to do.  I am illustrating most of the revisions visually, but here is a list:

• Change battery
• Wipe down entire interior
• Cut out unnecessary shelves*
• Build and fasten metal supports to remaining shelves*
• Caulk around roof rack, antenna, brake light , and rain gutter on roof*
• Rip out cage*
• Scrub exterior (Paint is oxidizing and rubs off when touched.)
• Put Rain-X on windshield (Wiper motor seems taxed.)
• WD 40 just about everything
• Build sleeping platform and bench (We used 1 sheet of plywood to create 6 x 4 sleeping area with a connected bench of 4 x 2 with supports made from repurposed wood.)*
• Cover sleeping platform and sides of van with cardboard to protect air mattress
• Cover metal shelving with repurposed carpet and cardboard
• Tint windows (J patched together a tint kit and is tinting for the first time in his life in the Hilo Library parking lot as I write this).
• Make curtains (cut up shower curtain which attaches to windows with Velcro)
• Install interior lights

*J rented a saws-all and a drill.  He purchased caulk, utility knife, tint, WD 40, Rain X, 1 sheet plywood, opaque shower curtain, screws and sandpaper.  He borrowed a socket set, caulk gun and hammer.

We also purchased a few things for day to day living:

• Air mattress and pump
• Foam for the top of air mattress (The air mattress can get really cold at night in higher elevations.)
• Cooking gas
• Pots & pans
• Dishes
• Dish pan and sponge
• Tap-on battery operated lights
• Sticky back Velcro
• Dust pan and broom

Everything else we need for day to day living, we either borrowed from Alex or brought with us.

If the van keeps running as good as she has and we can find free places to park, the total cost of the van including insurance and an oil change is $1166.40 or $13.27 total per day of living in her for the next 83 days.  Simple life.  Good life J.

Seems like a lot of folks believe Hawaii is a terribly expensive place to visit.  While I am here, I would like to demonstrate to all that care to read that Hawaii can be affordable for the conscious budget traveler.  Here are the current costs of some common items:

• Gas:  $4.17 per Gallon
• Poke Salad (2 kinds of fish and sticky rice, easily feeds 2) at Suisan Fish Market: $6
• Celery:  $1.59 per pound
• 2 lb. Bag of Carrots:  $3.99
• Adams Natural Peanut Butter 1 lb. Jar:  $3.99
• Sweet Pineapple (Local):  $0.89 per pound
• Garlic:  $2.50 per pound
• White Onion:  $0.99 per pound
• 12 oz.  Tofu:  $1.79
• Lemon:  $0.50
• 2 lb. Bag of Organic Brown Rice:  $5.99
• Bag of Tostitos:  $3.00
• Jar of Tostitos Salsa:  $3.19

Seems to be about even with the mainland.

Red Backpacker #2 and I spent a lot of time today looking at vans.  We have a couple of promising leads and are hoping to purchase a van which will serve our gypsy needs soon.   Here is a pic of the rental house and truck we have now as well as some pictures of the “beach” in Hilo off of Banyan Drive and the Japanese Garden located there.

Have you ever noticed how much trash traveling generates? There are water bottles, plastic silverware, tiny packages of toiletries, travel sized food packets and endless napkins.

On my 6 hour and 14 minute Hawaiian Air flight passengers were offered:

• a plastic beverage cup 6 times
• a plastic and foil package of pretzels containing approximately 7 mini pretzels
• a breakfast burrito wrapped in its own plastic container accompanied by a muffin wrapped in its own plastic and a set of plastic silverware (including a spoon?) with a napkin which was wrapped in its own plastic. All of these items were encased in a cardboard box akin to a Happy Meal.
• approximately 20 napkins

What can we do to stop so much trash from generating?

• Bring your own water bottle to the airport and fill it before getting on the plane.
• If you accept a complimentary beverage, save your cup for refills.
• Do not accept food that you will not eat.  (Really wishing I would have followed this one at breakfast time because the “meal” was awful as plane food mostly is).
• Bring fruit like oranges and bananas which grow their own packaging for snacks.

Any other ideas?

Here it is, my last day of yoga teacher training at Corepower Yoga in Boulder, CO.  After nine weeks of classes, in a few short hours I will be an official 200 hour RYT (Registered Yoga Teacher).  The time has gone by quickly and also at a snail’s pace.

The studios where I train are 45 minutes to an hour from my home in Estes Park, not too bad, but I drive 4000 feet down in elevation on curvy mountain roads to get there.  The drive is sometimes a stolen moment to see the bounty of God’s beauty and sometimes a harrowing descent/ascent on icy, snowy roads.

As I relax into one of the last downward facing dogs I will practice as a non-RYT, I recognize the extra room my practice has created in my body.  There is more space to be me beneath my skin.  I had a lot of expectations when I started yoga teacher training.  I expected to graduate a more outgoing, socially confident person.  Although I am sure that I will still get nervous or feel shy before teaching some of my classes and in large social gatherings, I accept the gifts and challenges of my introversion with an open heart, secure in the knowledge that I am exactly where I should be and my style of teaching will fit like a key into the lock of some of my students’ hearts.  I have spent time examining my faults with non-attachment (vairagya) and without fear (abhaya).  I do not always succeed in being detached and fearless, but I work to accept myself with truthfulness (satya), loving kindness (metta) and compassion (karuna).  I understand when I examine an aspect of myself I find uncomfortable, this area is what I must unearth, chase and break apart in order to evolve.  Just as the body will gain flexibility by practicing the yoga poses that create the most discomfort, the spirit will flourish when challenged.  The body follows the mind.  The mind follows the body.

Boulder can be an intimidating place to live if you are not a professional athlete or a supermodel (and maybe then too).  Until recent years, I have not been a very physical person.  I grew up in the Midwest, in a place where if you walk 30 minutes a day, you are moderately active.  Boulder is a different breed.  On the first day of class, I met IronWoman, the beautiful and strong Kelly, who recently completed 7 Iron Man Competitions.  Ultra AJ, another lovely (by lovely I mean gorgeous and ripped) lady, who recently ran the Leadville 100, a 100 mile ultra marathon at high altitudes.  Tinker Bell, the light and petite Anita, whose almost constant giggle accentuates her ethereal yoga practice.  I could go on and on, but I think you get my drift.  In the beginning, I felt intimidated.  I endlessly compared myself to others, always coming up short.

As I began to move my wandering eyes inward, a voice unique only to me began to bubble up.  My movements became more authentic and calm.  I realized how allowing my introversion to hoard this spirit inside of me is not in following with my beliefs as a yogini (aparigraha). So with each exhale, I work to let go of my inner critic and with each inhale, I breathe new energy into the space I have and am creating inside of myself.

Here I sit, nine weeks later, excited.  I am excited at the prospect of half a dozen trainers and coaches watching me teach a class.  I am excited to receive their constructive feedback, knowing I will do so silently and with equanimity-holding compassion for myself in my heart.  I am excited to watch my fellow classmates own their authentic voices, as I know that this world is abundant enough for us all to find our place as teachers.

I hope to embody the spirit of my trainers and coaches who have so eloquently and openly passed their wisdom to me.

Above all, I am excited to present my unique and ever-evolving key out to the world and place it in near the locks of my students’ hearts.

“True teachers use themselves as bridges over which they invite their students to cross; then, having facilitate their crossing, joyfully collapse, encouraging them to create bridges of their own.”

-Nikos Kazantazakis

Namaste.

As Jay and I trudge towards Hallett’s Couloir, I keep my eye out for any sign of the sun breaking through the clouds.  I focus on my snowshoe-strapped feet and picking my way through the pine trees.  I recently returned to Colorado and I have not adjusted to the altitude.  I am walking at 11,000 feet and my breath is labored.  My body is working hard from months of living at sea level and underuse.  I strip off layers until I am in a T-shirt.  Jay is 13 years older than me and I am having trouble keeping his pace.

My tired body begins to feel a familiar anger.  This time, I am angry at my body for being so out of shape and causing me pain on this experience.

The white fog in my mind thickens.  I put one snowshoe too close to the other and fall sideways into the cold, wet snow.  Jay does not hear me fall and continues on.  I sit in the snow for a moment.  I breathe and recognize that my anger is taking me far away from the present moment, so far away that I can’t even walk straight.  I should congratulate myself that I caught and stopped this train of thought, but instead I feel disappointed that I thought it in the first place.  Wherever I go, there I am.

Jay and I reach Emerald Lake, a stunning glacial lake at the base of the cirque of mountains including Hallet’s Peak.  We meander off trail, picking our way through the snow-covered boulder field leading up to the couilour.

We begin the long, hard trudge up the couilor.  My lungs are screaming and my body is crying.  I focus only on putting one foot in front of the other.  If I can push my body through this climb, I will acclimate and expand my fitness level much faster than if I try to acclimate in stages.

The sun begins to break through the clouds.  My snowshoes are starting to slip due to the steep grade of the climb.  I should have stopped earlier to strap on my cramp-ons, but I didn’t.  Now that I need them, the grade is too steep for me to sit down and put them on.  Jay and I are walking perpendicular to the couloir, making our way up as much as we can before moving completely into the exposed river of snow.  On my left, I eye the base of a 40 foot rock wall.  On my right is a steep slope leading down to Emerald Lake.  Large snowballs occasionally launch off of the cliff face, so I keep my eyes to the left to avoid losing the snowball fight Hallett Mountain is attempting to play with us.

As I move forward, the tips of my snowshoes are within five inches of my shin.  I dig in my trekking poles, using my arms to pull myself up to the next step.  At times, the grade is so steep that the snow in front of me is as high as my thighs.

Twenty feet from the gulley, I am stuck.  I have tried to step forward in every way I can think of but cannot move up.  My efforts have created a half moon of stomped down snow all around me.  Every time I step up and weight my foot in a new place, I slide back down.  I don’t know what else to try.  In frustration, I yell to Jay.

“What’s the matter?”  Jay asks, his voice matching the same frustrated tone of mine.

“I can’t get up.  I’m stuck.”

“Well, what do you think?”  he asks.

“I don’t want to go down, but I don’t know what else to do,” I reply.

“I guess we’ll have to go down then,” he sighs in disappointment.  He is standing where the cliff face ends and the gulley begins.  I am 10 feet below him.

I don’t want to give up, but I am at a loss.  The best thing I can think of is to descend to a lower grade where I can put on my crampons and come back up.

Suddenly, the snow in the gulley calves.  A wave of snow eight feet high rushes towards Jay.  He is still facing me.

“Snow!!!”  I scream.

Instinctively, I turn around and bend my knees, waiting for the wave of snow to take me.  A wave of terror hits me first.  A strong will to live emanates from my solar plexus.  When the snow hits, I am lifted off of my feet and fall onto my back.

And then.

I am falling.

And it is beautiful.

My arms and legs flow through the snow, moving up and down as the avalanche asks.  My top and bottom are enveloped in a unique mass of snowflakes, none of which are just like the other.  My vision is covered in white.

My mind is silent.

I am free.

I am present.

I am peace.

I am everything.

The moment lasts for less than a minute.  My mind kicks in again.  I consider fighting the snow in an attempt to arrest my fall.  I flip over to my stomach and dig in the trekking pole that is still hooked to my right wrist.  My body stops but the snow does not.  Snow rushes violently at my face, into my nose and mouth.  Immediately, I loosen my grip on the pole and flip over to my back.  I continue falling, but the moment is lost.

I am alone.

I am fear.

Three hundred feet from where I stood at the beginning of the avalanche, I stop.  My first thoughts are of Jay.  Is he safe?  Is he buried?

I unearth myself from the snow, stand up and scream his name.

“I’m okay”  Jay yells from somewhere above me.

I can’t see him.  I take off my sunglasses and wipe the snow out of my eyes.  I look up.  The avalanche dropped him off 250 feet above me.

We scurry down the slope to Emerald Lake.  We look at the way the snow came off of the couloir to determine whether we caused the avalanche or not.  Once we determine that the snow calved from too far up the couloir to be man made, we stop talking about the avalanche and walk back to the car in silence.

I am no longer angry at my body or anything else.

“I don’t do supposed to,”  Dionne says, as she opens the gate leading to the family housing.  I smile as I wipe my eyes and nose, hoping that Dionne hasn’t noticed that she just interrupted the pity party I was having for myself in my room.  I instantly like this girl.

I arrived at the Eco Yoga Park  in General Rodriguez three hours earlier.  I still speak very little Spanish and the metro ride, followed by the bus ride, followed by the taxi ride which dropped me at the end of the long dirt driveway leading to the Eco Yoga Park in the middle of the country was overwhelming for me.  Typically, I fit right in with the locals in Argentina, but carrying a 40 pound backpack strips away the benefits of my dark hair, eyes and complexion.  My backpack combined with the necessity to ask for help and directions in rudimentary Spanish quickly announce my tourist status.  Thankfully, every person I encountered on the journey was honest and helpful.

As I stumble around the grounds, a staff member welcomes me, takes my pack and leads me to the stupa.  The afternoon yoga session has just started.  I take off my hiking boots and wipe my sweaty feet on the grass in an attempt to get the stink off.  I enter the stupa where a Hare Krishna nun, dressed in white, leads the 60 minute class.

At the end of the class, I am shown to my room.  The volunteer dorms are overbooked and I have been upgraded to the Eco House in the center of the garden.  I take off my clothes, take a quick shower and lay down on my bed with tears streaming down my face.

I decided to travel alone for awhile and this is the first time I have done so in a foreign country.  Although everyone I encountered on the journey here was friendly and kind, my perceived level of vulnerability was sustained and exhausting.  The yoga session and tears help me to relieve the stress.

Dionne knocks on my door to let me know that dinner is ready, but really she came by because she wants to check out my pad.  Other than the indoor pit toilet, it is much nicer than the volunteer dorms.

After she trespasses onto the family housing area, we head through the organic garden to the theater where dinner is served.   The food here is amazing-all vegetarian, mostly vegan and almost entirely grown onsite.  Dinner is delicious.  We eat communly, sitting on pillows and resting our plates on coffee tables.

Afterwards, The Buddha is projected onto a large screen.  The staff turns out the lights so we can see the movie better.  I lay back on my pillows and rest.  About an hour into the movie, I feel something wriggling in the back of my pants.  I reach in and pull out a three inch cockroach.   I quickly leave the theater and forgo future movie screenings.

At 4 a.m., I wake up to some rustling in my room.  The straw roof seems to be moving.  As I reach for my glasses to get a closer look, a bird emerges from the straw and dive bombs me!   I scream and run from the room.  Now I am in a quandary.  I have promised to do no harm while I am here.  Ethically, I cannot leave the bird locked in the room to die, but an attack by a blue jay at age six has left me with a crippling fear of birds.

I stand outside of the room, weighing my options….Fear or Karma, Fear or Karma.  Dammit, Karma wins.  I open the door, run to the window and open it.  I stand in the room and wait for the next attack.  The bird is gone.  I later learn that the bird comes and goes out of the straw ceiling as she pleases.  The cantakerous creature makes a game of terrifying me.  At some point, my fear exhausts me.  We call a truce and become friends.  The terms of our friendship are that the bird gets to do whatever she wants and I try not to scream.

I attend morning meditation.  Hare Krishnas meditation style is fantastic!  It is like a big party.  People sing, dance and play instruments.  Since I am illiterate in Sanskrit, Spanish and musical instruments, I sit quietly and observe.  These people are jamming for Krishna at 4:30 in the morning!  It is awesome to watch.

At 6:00 a.m., I head to the garden to meet Maria, the volunteer coordinator.  She is a spunky, petite Bolivian.  She hands me a hose.

“Agua aqui, and aqui, and aqui,” she directs while pointing to rows of squash, cabbage and beets.

I grab the hose and start my 4.5 hour volunteer shift.  The weather is hot and humid.  By 10 a.m., I have sweat through my shorts and tank top.

Maria comes by to check out my work, though I later learn that she has eyes in the back of her head.  If she comes around, it is because she is curious about something.  Today, she is curious about my name.

“Mucho agua, Quesi, mucho agua,” she instructs to open the conversation.  ”Su nombre es Quesi?”

“Si, mi nombre es Kaci,” I reply.

“What, yes,” she giggles.  ”Su nombre es Whatyes?”

“Um, si.”

We both erupt in laughter.

“Maria!  Maria!”  Dionne yells in her English accent.

Maria turns, covers her eyes with her hands and looks down the long rows of vegetables to where Dionne stands.

“There is a cow!”  Dionne yells.  Half running, half walking and half trying to hang onto her hose as she moves away from the calf that has just jumped the fence into the garden.  The calf munches greedily on cabbage greens.

“Es O.K.,” Maria calls.  She makes her way to the calf and guides him back through the fence.

I collapse in laughter.  The look of fear and disgust on Dionne’s face is priceless.

After the work in the garden is done, lunch is served in the theater.  Pagodas, green salad, mashed beets and fresh squeezed plum juice are on the menu for today.  It is delicious.

I write this blog post to describe a typical day at the Eco Yoga Park, but really, there was never a typical day there.  One day there is a cow in the garden, the next day we sneak into town for giant ice cream cones and the next I am scooping up toads in my bedroom.  One day there are five volunteers and the next day 20.  I met many interesting, lovable, and goodhearted people here.  I spent Christmas and New Year’s with them.  I also reacquainted myself with many of these lovely folks in Buenos Aires after leaving the Eco Yoga Park.  Dionne and I had many misadventures and heart to heart conversations at the Eco Yoga Park, General Rodriguez and Buenos Aires.

Traveling on my own was at times scary, and also exhilarating and fullfilling to my badgering little ego.  Most people went out of their way to help me, even though I speak minimal Spanish.  For example, an older man exiting the metro at the same time as me in Buenos Aires noticed that I appeared lost in the underground, unable to find the exit.  He approached me and asked me what I was looking for.  He did not chastise me for my lack of Spanish, but led me to the exit and gave me exact directions to my hostel.  This man did not speak English, but through gestures and crude drawings he was able to help me.  Would you do the same for a foreigner visiting your country?

It is noon on December 5, 2010.  I balance precariously in Warrior II on a thin ridge of glacial ice.  I dig the teeth of my right crampon into the ice, lean over onto my right thigh, and take direction from Becca Caldwell as she snaps photos.  Cerro Torre looms a monstrous 3128 m (10,262 ft) in the background.

“Look serene,” Becca cries.

I can’t stop squinting. My eyes burn from the sunlight reflecting across the endless glacier.

To arrive at this point, Red Backpacker #2 (Jay Parry), Susan Taylor, the Caldwells (Tommy and Becca), and I hiked 10 miles into Los Glaciares National Park from our rental house in El Chalten. An hour earlier, Tommy and Jay left the girls to play on the ice and headed to Nipo Nino, the camp at the base of Cerro Torre, to check on a gear stash Tommy left behind on his visit two years ago. It is our first morning in El Chalten and a bluebird day, a rare gift in this area of temperamental weather.

A trekking tour walks along the next ridge of ice. The tourists openly stare at me, obviously confused. I appreciate their bewilderment. Their guide has just briefed them on the dangers of glacial ice. They wear helmets, harnesses, gloves and crampons. They use trekking poles to move cautiously across the glacier field. By their cautious movements and the grace of God, they have managed to walk several hundred yards into the navel of the ice only to find a woman in a single long-sleeved t-shirt practicing yoga while two others frolic and encourage her. I imagine they think I am either a dead woman yoga’ing or they feel slightly upsold on the dangers of the Glacier Grande Trek.

El Chalten is one of the most unique places I have visited. The village is a true frontier town, created in 1985 to solidify the border between Chile and Argentina. According to a couple of locals, the government provided large incentives for Argentines to move to the area, including lifetime municipal employment with large pensions and free land. Tourism has become the primary form of income for the area and these incentives are no longer offered or needed. There are an estimated 500 full time residents.

The visitors to the area are as international and diverse as the dogs roaming the streets-St. Bernards, pedigree Visalias, German Shepherds and many indistinguishable terrier mixes. From dirt bag climbers to spa seeking bourgeoisie, tourists take lodging in campgrounds, hostels, hotels and private apartments.

The infrastructure is fascinating. There is no cell reception, intermittent internet access and mostly dirt roads. A pedestrian is equally likely to be passed on the street by a bicycle, horse, AWD vehicle or tour bus. At varying hours and intervals, the town has every amenity one could desire: supermercado, panaderia, cerveceria, chocolateria, night clubs, spas and a rumored burdel (brothel). The folks overseeing the development of the town have done an amazing job. Free recycling bins line the streets and all of the curbs on the sidewalk are handicapped/bicycle accessible.

Hikers can choose from a handful of pristinely marked and groomed trails. One can choose from a short, easy walk to a multi-day strenous trek.

For alpine climbers, El Chlaten is a mecca. Some of the hardest alpine climbing routes in the world are located here. In the past few years, sport climbing routes have been added around town and bouldering areas have been developed.

At this time of year, there is sunlight 18 hours a day. Morning, noon and night people climb, hike and play. The weather changes quickly here and much time is spent discussing what the next hour/afternoon/evening will be like. On bad weather days, community potlucks, card games and yoga sessions satiate the restlessness in the village.

“Hola, chica!  Como estas?”  I envelope Becca in a bear hug at the Aerolineas Argentinas ticket counter in the Newbery airport in Buenos Aires.  Susan and Tommy register surprise to see me and we exchange tight hugs.

After Jay finishes stacking our four oversized duffels in a corner, he joins in the reunion. Tommy, Becca and Susan arrived in Buenos Aires this afternoon.  Together, we will all fly to El Calafate in an hour.  Susan has one small backpack, but the rest of us are packing climbing and camping gear totaling somewhere around 250 pounds.

With friendly smiles, we ask the Aerolineas agent to weigh our bags and tally our baggage overage fees.  Between the four of us, our fees come in around $500.  We excuse ourselves from the counter, head to a quiet corner of the airport and brainstorm ideas on how to get this fee down.  In the end, we exchange sandals for hiking boots, tank tops for sweaters and stuff ropes, cams, crampons and other climbing gear into our carry-ons.

We head to security.  I pass through.  Tommy is instantly taken aside and spoken to in stern Spanish.  Becca points to Jay and says “translator” because, at this point, Jay is the only one of us who has working knowledge of Spanish.  Meanwhile, Jay is taken aside by other guards and the contents of his overstuffed bag are splayed onto the conveyor belt and floor of the security area.  I quietly stand back, confused, and try to interpret the body language, intonations and cadence of the scene into a language I can understand.

In the end, the security guards are upset about the climbing gear in Jay’s and Tommy’s packs.  Apparently, they are uninterested in the climbing gear in my pack, which mirrors theirs.  They are sent back through the gate and join us 15 minutes later.

We rushed to get to our flight and then learn that it is delayed one hour, maybe two.  Eventually, we arrive in El Calafate.  Jay makes a hearty pasta dinner for us all.  Later in the evening, Susan discovers she left her ATM card in a machine in Buenos Aires.  Becca tells us how her purse was stolen off of the back of her chair in a cafe in the city while she was sitting in it.  I relate how I left my empty backpack in a restaurant one evening after drinking a glass of beer, only to have it returned when I went back to the restaurant the next day.  We laugh about the expressions on Jay’s and Tommy’s faces when they were detained by security.

Visita de la escalada en roca?  (Do you visit for rock climbing?)  Si, and mucho, mucho more…

Today is Wednesday, November 1st, and our last full day in Buenos Aires.  Tomorrow, we will meet up with our friends, Susan Taylor and Becca and Tommy Caldwell, at the airport.  Together, we will fly to El Calafate for the evening and bus to El Chalten the next day.  Our reunion with friends is bittersweet. Our friend and 6th compradre from home, Kelly Cordes, is back in Colorado preparing go under the knife (again).  A slip of the feet and twist of the shoulder while climbing in Yosemite left Kelly with a badly torn rotator cuff.  His friendship and humor will be missed.  Kaci and I’s time in Argentina`s capital city has been an opportunity to relax with one another after a stressful departure from the U.S.  The typical manic packing was topped off with last minute, unwelcomed changes in cashflow.  Broken commitments with a roommate and a house left vacant for the winter put Kaci and me back on the mean, lean budget.  Left in the hands of trusted friends, we remain hopeful of future transfusions to the old bank account.

While here in BA, we toured the Pink House (Casa Rosada) similar to our own White House, visited the waterfront to see old-time sailing ships, learned the subway system ($0.25 each way) and climbed at one of the best climbing gyms in town, Boulder.  We are living within site of their obelisk, a city center landmark right downtown.  Once again on the cheap, our hostel is costing us a whopping $13 per night each.  A small breakfast is included.  True to our cheap bastard spirits, Kaci and I have managed to stretch an extra banana and roll here and there into lunch as well.  Somehow we have been lucky enough to have our 4 bedroom dorm room to ourselves the past 3 nights.  We have been cooking our own dinners and mostly keeping our wallets in our pockets.  As most of our friends know, we live by the mantra ¨Have Less.  Live More.¨

Argentina’s economy will never even know we were here!