This journey has been one of translation, an occupation I´ve found to be lacking in linearity, one without the trappings and predictable achievements of other occupations. My translations do not consistently or inevitably improve; my skills are not becoming finely honed. At times I´m comfortable in the discomfiting task, speaking so often–nearly always, actually–in Spanish or in English with non-native speakers. And then I´m suddenly back to stumbling through every pinched and contorted phrase. Perhaps it´s because the plane on which translations occur is never an even one. In fact, it´s never even the same plane from one translation to the next.
All of which is to say that I can hardly speak English these days. But at least I understand German. Or so thought Annika, Cornelia and Samantha on our trek to Machu Picchu. When they spoke to each other I read their body language and tone so well that I often knew what they were saying and about whom, so at first they were convinced I´d studied some German. And now I need to study English. I find myself producing constructions I never would have made in the past, like ¨I took the water on my face,¨ or, ¨My heart is broken for Lebanon,¨ or, ¨I go downstairs and shave.¨ I can´t complain, but I also can´t help but wonder what my students will think this fall when I attempt to masquerade as a teacher of English Composition.
But for now I have no students. I have a little under two months, a little more of Bolivia, a little bit of money, and the vast expanses of Argentina. I have the regret that I can´t afford a plane ticket to Ecuador, Venezuela and Colombia. I have vivid and even precise memories of some of the earliest days of my trip. I have a few more pounds than I had when I left the states. I have a traveling partner, for the time being. I have less than ten days to make it all the way to Buenos Aires.
But more of Peru: in the jungle we walked for days with our guide, Abraham, speaking to him in Spanish and working to speak to each other in English–with me typically translating the English of the other two Americans on our trip to the Swiss and German women who found me easier to understand. We picked avacodos and half a dozen kinds of fruit directly off the trees. We crossed rivers on cable lines above the water. And then Machu Picchu. And then back to Cuzco, to the hostel where Jose-Mar, probably 13, seemed to always wait for me only so he could yell, ¨YED, YED, BAILE, BAILE!,¨ to get me to dance a little bit . And then La Paz.
