Hay que...

Friends,

I’ve recounted how my experience has been overwhelming, bone-breaking (those of you that did a little research on Denguito recognize the entendre) and challenging in that crazy –this is Rachel thriving- way. I’ve forgotten to relay the awes, smiles, laughs and jokes that allow me to experience myself and my world in ways different than my previously known expression. Basically I think about leaving this job because it’s crazy and unfair. But when I realize leaving this job would mean leaving so many people and places and interactions I now know and love, I stop with such thinking.

This could just be the roller coaster speaking but ya gotta know that I love this place. I love every crazy thing that happens and how my mind has become so crazed and so accustomed to every roll that comes. At this moment in time I understand Bolivian logic (or logical American working in Bolivia) better than I understand Obama’s race and USofA’s recession.

I almost got deported on Friday night. No joke. The streets were processing Jesus’s crucifixion. There was this roof, there were Mike and I exploring the wrong place at the wrong time, unidentified and apparently in the end on my part, undocumented as a working citizen. After hours and hoops and bureaucracy and lots of Bolivians coming to my rescue, the police were still pretty set on me being “irregular.” You never ever think in a crazy country like this that a meeting with the police could ever lead to anything more than a sweet little cash-money exchange. I was joking with the Interpol police that deal with foreigners about computer solitaire, Mike wanted to order our new friends a round of pizza, I was whistling… anywhooo the deal is that I won’t write too many more details here. Something happened, or rather didn’t happen, with my visa. I’m not really sure my stance yet but Monday morn at 9 am I’ll be chilling with these police again. Hopefully I’ll be staying in this country and continuing with my work and continuing to not flinch at well ANYTHING (that is until I have time to process and then just flinch uncontrollably at inappropriate times…but will whistle when it’s all over, so it’s ok).

Well back to my good news: I’m basically here in an audition to be Ms. Indiana Jones. Not Indiana Jones’ Mrs. because that would be incredibly unsatisfying and genderingly limited. I want to be (and based on my adventures thus far I might already be) living the tales of Indiana Jonesina. i just have to figure out how to wear white in dusty situations and not get dirty. Thus far I’m a big failure at this.

Why do I love Bolivia and why to the American Docs that meet me here think that I have gone crazy (ie. “gone Bolivian")?

Exhibit A: The other day I was in a taxi with three volunteers. We were stopped in traffic when suddenly something forceful and loud collided into the back end of the car. From my position I couldn’t see anything but a helmet peaking over the trunk of the vehicle. The doctor volunteer in the front seat put her hands to her head and shouted fearfully “OH Shit!” The loud noise seemed to be getting louder and louder and a forceful contact with the car became constant. The taxi driver didn’t seem affected and the two other volunteers to my right side didn’t seem to know what was going on. Processing all of this information my mind immediately jumped to the following conclusion: A helmeted man with a chainsaw is currently stealing our bumper. We are stopped in traffic. I am in Bolivia. This is an unguarded vulnerable bumper moment. The taxi driver must just know this happens and must also know that you don’t mess with helmeted chainsaw men; One should probably just let them do their thing. I figured I should probably follow the taxistas lead and stay calm and stay put. Then the chain saw noise got louder and louder and my mind jumped to “uh oh I think something from the backside of our taxi is going to blow up… I am getting out of the taxi NOW! I exited the taxi to learn that a helmeted man on a Moto had crashed his motorcycle under our car, he was still on the moto with the motor running. Essentially helmeted man was being rammed further and further underneath the car. In the end: The moto man was ok. He was wearing a helmet which is really really amazing because usually the riders of motos are 12 day old babies, Cholitas (indigenous women in skirts) barely holding on, and a young teenage boy driver, all of whom are unhelmeted. Anyways we helped Moto man out from under the car, turned off his motor, asked him if he was ok and stood back while he gathered himself, turned back on his Moto and sped off through traffic.

Exhibit B: Most things in Bolivia take a really really really long time to do. Akin to me unexplainably almost getting deported on Friday, Bolivia is really wound in bureaucracy hierarchy authoritarianism and corruption. Anywhoo it usually a little bit annoys me when I have to go pay a bill at a hospital and it ends up taking 4 hours because I have to visit 10 offices, sometimes the same office two or three times, to receive signatures, stamps, photocopies, seals.. etc etc.. to get the authorization to get the confirmation that I paid a freakin bill. Oh yeah and throughout all of this you have to have connections and make friends, or your stamps and line waiting and time will be worth NOTHING.

Anywhooo… every once in a while things in Bolivia work out just perfectly and I couldn’t be more delighted. Like day when my horn on the SUV broke and I was bummed because driving without a horn here is pretty much impossible. Anywhoo I was told to find an electrista so Mike did that but they told him it was cost $60 American dollars and we’d have to come back after lunch. I don’t have too many hours in city before I take off for campo life again so I decided to look for a different electrista. I went driving down the car repair street looking for the appropriate store. A dude caught my eye and looked excited to help me so I pulled over. I told him about the horn, I popped the engine, he fiddled with some things, ran off to get a fuse, did some stuff with copper wire, replaced a part, Honk HONk and five Bolivianos later and I was on my way. This same day I needed to get a key copied and also not knowing where to do this started wandering a random block for a key copying place. I walked past this tiny greasy man working next to a tiny greasy wooden tool box. I noticed underneath some more grease a “I Copy Keys" sign.” This time 4 Bolivianos and 2 minutes later I had my new copied key. He copied it by hand so I was skeptical but still pretty stoked.

Moral of the story: The key worked fabulously. So don’t be skeptical by a greasy man a hand made sign and a moment when u give the man the original key and he starts to search through a box of a million unlabeled already cut other keys and u think he’s gonna lose it or just sell u some random other key and very possibly have mixed up your original key with the others.

The horn sounded fabulous at first but in the end didn’t work out so splendidly. On my two hour drive to the Campo the horn honked like a dream. I was delighted and certainly honking it up. A few days later there was a small fire underneath the trunk where the motor and fuse box live and after some confusion and non-functioning horns, lights and other things… we discovered that all the cables connected to the fuse box had been burnt threw and threw. We were out in the middle of nowhere as always but luckily two nice clinic patients did some burnt wire cutting and not burnt wire taping and with this temp job we made it back to the city safe and sound. The bill at the car dealership to fix this mess was $70. Soooo street electristas are cute but they are all about sketchy recreated bad fuses with copper wire. I still think 5 Bs was a sweet deal though.

Exhibit C: could be the 22 hour bus ride I just took to nowhere (well to somewhere) to wait all night in a huge line of semis and double decker buses to realize at the break of dawn there was a gigantic irreparable gaping hole in the road that because we were in the middle of no where would not be repaired any time soon. My first thought (cuz I still am American) was to turn around (admit defeat and go the 8 hrs back to the city). Not a Bolivian in the 3 miles of cars blocked up on either side shared this idea. Instead a bunch of men went to work with machetes to cut down the forest that surrounded the hole on each side to create a new road. This new pathway worked for about three gigantic semis packed with a herd of 20 cows each.. and then the new road looked about the same as the gigantic hole we began with. But again, stress, frustration, fear, no need. These situations are my favorite where I can hop out of my car or my double decker bus to survey the situation, chat with the people, stand and be with my hands on my hips (just like my Dad always did in any obstacle situation). Phew…..

I could go on and on. Do I have flawed logic? The Americans (you inlcuded) think so. I survive here and learn and enjoy through it. I stress only in the actual non stressful situations. Like when I get annoyed with American doctors or think I work too much or work all day (which sometimes includes sitting with caskets of patients that didn’t make it through surgery) and then come home to questions like “What are we gonna do for dinner?” It’s a strange life. But it’s an ok one. When they tell me they are gonna deport me… I don’t believe them.. or at the very least I feel like in some screwy way there will be some line-waiting, wire taping, smile because u learn to love the absurdity, way to keep the adventures coming.

CentroGrande

On the phone the other day my mom said to me “Rae, you describe your last three months like they were your last three years.” I don’t think I had a very good response. All I could think of was… hmmm, is this good or bad? This week out at the jungle I realized one added detail, I’ve been here FOUR months… and who knows if I remember the last three (in whatever time measurement they be).

I’ve talked about in this blob before how my experience with jungle city medical SUV commercial has been: Do, Complete, Conceptualize, Sleep a lil and Do it all again. Last time I was in the Bolivia I learned my silly sensitive soul got the best of me and is the most of me. I felt as I lived in the States I got used to my select surroundings of picket fences and non-dreaded non- street dogs. When I left on Thanksgiving day last year I was really stoked about road trip hats, wooden boats, Madonna dance parties, the reality of my life cutely paired with my state postliberal arts graduation.

Well folks on day 1 of Marzo 2008 the intensity of profound perceptive “I DO care” hit me again. Maybe its because I live in Bolivia. Maybe its because this time it was someone I really knew. Maybe it’s because I’m not a doctor and nobody is just a patient to me. Maybe it’s because I don’t know medicine but I know pained eyes and tubes and nodules connected to every part of the body. Maybe it’s because I have no idea how to resuscitate but at the end of the day I’m responsible for making sure a really crazy number of hearts are still beating.

I just realized four months have passed. I realized day one the work would never stop. I realized month four I get the same level annoyed with babysitting doctors as I get dealing with bone and body hurting patients and those that ask for a lot a lot a lot of help but then don’t comply when it’s offered.

Zoilo (the father of two of the girls from Palacios that I live with in SCruz mansion) fell off his horse yesterday morning in the campo. He rushed himself to the clinic where it appeared on first look that my favorite man of Palacios had simply broken his nose. He was bleeding like no other but a lil gauze and pressure and fall clean-up and the docs told me he’d be a-ok. I like to trust The Docs but again without medical knowledge, only buddy knowledge, I insisted we take extra care. I had a lil chat with Zoilo while he was all gauzed up and he seemed to be doing well. He was preoccupied about his horse and a lil worried about an intense pain in his chest but other than that still really good people as we say.

Less that 20 minutes later I was rushing him to the hospital. “Rushing” down a rain destroyed mud road a good half hour from the highway which is another half hour away from the nearest hospital. “Rushing” was the blood from his nose and mouth that god damnit why was it in such a hurry? “Rushing” were all the thoughts in my head—acquired medical, non-medical, emotional, physical, you name it. One doesn’t die from a broken nose, right?

I can’t place you in my world. You probably don’t want to be placed in it. Zoilo didn’t die. Even if I transfer him to a Santa Cruz hospital today, the likely hood of him dieing is slim. It hit me this day that all these people, 2 hours from the city, 1 hour from the closest barely functioning hospital, die in emergent situations. There is no other choice. Even if you make it to the hospital you bleed out on the Emergency Room floor by the time you wait for the doctor to 1. pay attention to you 2. write the prescription for the drugs you need which you have to LEAVE the hospital to go and buy 3. get the life or death xray you need (to determine whether you need to go into IMMEDIATE surgery) for which on Saturday you have to wait for Me (or whoever else would normally be me in this situation) to drive down random streets of Portachuello to encounter the house of the WITHOUT A TELEPHONE man that you personally ask to take and hopefully read the xray.

It’s a lot. I’m 22 years old. Four months have passed and I’m still 22. When I focus on the job I think I’m gonna go crazy because that’s what it is. But when I focus on the patients, who have names, and families, and worries and realities connected to their world, their resources, their knowledge, I revert to being emotionally raw (just like the first time I developed in this “developing” world.) It makes me like the job more and be more thankful for what I’m doing. It makes the job that much harder and that much more constant. Doctors get callous. One Doc told me to appropriate medical separation. They see patients. They see medicine. They see life, and death when their skills can’t save it. Another Doc told me that when I start seeing the same, it’s my time to leave.

It’s been 4 months. My self-proclaimed “I NEED a one week vacation” starts as soon as I post this Blob and go and buy my ticket to Cochabamba.

yyy la vuelta

Heeyyyy. We’ve been over my Dengue, my revolutions and revelations. I know.. BOOORING! Fret not. I’m going to steer this Blob back to where we started.

Feeling well blood-plateletted, I returned to the jungle grind this week. As all Wednesday mornings go, I rallied the troops at 7 am to start the next –from city to campo (countryside)- medical adventure. In one SUV enter 8 people and their overnight bags, tons of meds, groceries, hartos litros of potable water and my VIP guitar. The important task of careful cd or Ipod playlist choosing transposes and… we’re off! Driving here is a trip. My favorite is the constant back seat commentary from the newbie Americans. “Heyyy Raquel…digamos (do we say) that here in the Bolivs the red lights do not apply?. Just like everything else, I learn as I go and YEP I’d get in a lot of accidents if I didn’t learn quickly which red lights do and do not apply.

It’s always fun to get back to the clinic. Life is way more than tranquilo out in the jungle. Wait I fantasize. On the way to the clinic and deep inside the jungle… life is prob pretty tranquil. But in the spot that they cleared out for clinic, docs, impatient patients, emergencies, trauma and drama, alter the ambient just a bit. Have I explained yet about my dual existence? Jungle (Wed morn thru Sat afternoon) - tranquil surroundings, people who have never seen doctors in their life, silly bursting at the seams clinic. City (Sun thru Tues) – carbon-copy contrast to jungle life. Santa Cruz is the plastic-surgery fancy car shiny mall new money Miami of Bolivia. In the private city clinic (the pride of my Bolivian doc and boss—and where I meet campo patients every Mon and Tues for further care) my joke is that when I finish with this job my bono bonus will be the same as everybody else’s… new breasts, new nose and why not? sure, throw in a new tummy. My joke in the Campo is ha ha, uhhhhhhhh you have cancer and need chemotherapy and we would have to close our clinic to pay for it. Uhhh your gonna die kinda soon. Luckily you don’t know what cancer is and you think there was a strong wind, a stronger rain, and that your bones hurt as a result. The doc gave you some aspirina and now we’re all smiling as a result. ~? Not all patients’ interactions are like that. Cancer and chemo of course are worst case scenario. We also help save people in a moments notice… without them ever knowing what would have happened had in that moment we hadn’t been there.

Each week clinic arrival is kinda just like the movies. Up pulls the white man in the modern SUV to save the day. No kidding, it’s only half like that. The travel is as follows: 1 hr of traffic and road construction autonomia, 40 min of amazing scenery, 20 min of Palacios’ bumpy/muddy/often flooded road. Getting there is always a happy moment. 1. I can breath a sigh of relief that we arrived safely. 2. It’s the jungle for goodness sake. It’s cool to roll up and see the awaiting Micros, taxis, a horse or two (the mixed transport by which the patients come). And the welcome back greetings with our clinic buddies are always warm and loving. My post-dengue return made it all that much sweeter.

Ok readers here’s the agenda for next Blob.

n Character profile of “clinica buddies.” Character profile of life actors in general

n Realization of how my life is akin to a taxi driver. But not at all in the chauffer or even transport sense.

n Realization of what my deal is about context. In language, jokes and how I live my life

n How I am getting really excited about the movie I’m gonna make one day. How when I walk down the street all I can think about are fascinating slow contextually without context movie scenes. And how I feel that I might be living inside the movie right now.

n This weeks’ story about how the clinic’s horse has disappeared/was stolen (we had two), the casero clinic caretaker/security/fix it man announced his resignation, how Dona Maria is a nut job and her words can’t be trusted for anything, how the Nuns did an unexplained emergency appendix operation on one of our patients (and did 4 more that night on not our patients), how the lab tech we have just “doesn’t show up” for three days, how the Portacheulo doctors we work with are also problematic no shows, how the Founders just announced construction plans to build a $110,000 new dormitory to “accommodate the gringos”, how I don’t get how a non-profit in financial and personal crisis can be SOOOO disconnected from the real-world……..how little Jefa Boss Rach has lots of important conversation about work, ethics, life, feelings, passion, shame, respect.

And I love you all.

ps.

scripted post: when my grandmother was in the hospital with breast cancer, laying in her hospital bed hooked to an IV, the first thing she told my visiting mother was "lucy, i've been trying to tell them, they just don't listen. my arm is not hungry anymore! "

moral of the story: it's in my blood.

"Raquelita, despierta!!!

What is a wakeup to me, you probably already know. No one wants to hear “Dengue has been good for me.” It’s trite for me to say my fall helped me to feel the ground. Nonetheless, I want to let everybody I do know what could, could have and is happening to me. I know how it feels when I write to you. I also know how it feels to live my life (especially now after being knocked over the head long enough to be forced to process). I still don’t know, although I’ve got a few good incites, on how it might feel to receive my scattered, stoic, flippant smatterings of updates.

I’m sorry to have worried you. (Not about the worry that was in-order but more the build up worry my stories create). I’m sorry to convey really important things flip and on the flip side. I’m sorry that something about me comes across as dangerous and too accommodating to unacceptable life measures. I feel the love and the reality-check. However I have to say that what I write is not crrrrazy different from how I am living. I am as aware enough about my situations to deal with them as they come, and YES to tell the details LATER. Don’t worry, I l haven’t changed. I will always be hyper-aware. Yes I take worry and risk and envelop it in adventure, jokes, uniqueness and possibly a semi-sick fascination with the struggle of survival. I am only as disconnected to make it through to the next day, knowing all the way through exactly how much my connections are worth.

The Dengue allowed me, made me and everything around me STOP. Instead of 1 besito (little kiss goodbye, I got 8 from one person.. por si caso just to make sure. All of a sudden a really fast, really stressed, really productive world went quiet. Planted in my bed my accomplishments went from trying to micromanage a non-profit poor people’s HMO to trying really hard to animate the stricken eyes and pulse of my number one patient.

Dengue or not, we all are existing in drastically different worlds. I try to convey where and how I inhabit foreign spaces and places while recognizing the gravity of existences and at the same time sharing the not-so-different (roll with, bounce back, entertain the ride) Rachel approach. Dengue wasn’t a joke but you better believe I was joking the whole way through. Yeah there were times to worry. I worried, I cried, twice I think. But yeah I feel proud for the most part that I was the one making sure my doctors (and frightened onlookers) didn’t get too stressed out and learned and felt the experience (on many levels) as much as I did. I was told “Man you’re Dengue sucks… but jeez are you entertaining and enjoyable through it.”

So this is the deal.. I’m not some crazed egotistic comedian/tale teller who ignores reality and feeds off the hilarious disconnection. As I struggle through the Dengue, or get harassed by cops, or understand realities I would wish didn’t exist to understand, my jokes, my suppressed worry, fright and meta-commentary ARE my experience. They aren’t to dupe, divert, dismay. I told jokes in my Dengue cama bed to keep me (and later us) going. I’m never existing in this world alone, so the reverberated smiles and energy of those around me got me to the re energized smiling and energetic state I’m in now.

I’m all better, platelets are up, the Dengue got the beat down. Dengue can strike again (there are 4 types), and worse on the repeat, this I know. Thank you for your support, and how u give when I don’t know I need it. Thanks that this life is kickin… and yes I taunt it, and yes I think I have it all under control, and yes I’ll keep telling you to try not to worry. Understand me as much as I don’t understand myself. Disconnected from you or myself I am not. I am gonna try to think more and have quiet without the Dengue and have balance and circular strength unity cuz that’s what it’s all about.

Ps. I really like memoirs.. i always have. So, I'm practicing. It's ok that I'm as fascinated by the writing as fascinated/mystified as you all are by the result.

A lil song to the tune of the Dengue

hello dearly beloved,
here's a little song i rewrote. based on the diddy "both hands" by Ani Difranco.

my version "Dos Medicos" tells of my last lil adventure (Sat night to the ongoing recovery of today) no worries about the details. i was sick. pretty sick. we were worried. yep a lil worried. but now i am on the blissful and carefully monitored road to recovery. in post-acute stable condition Dengue Fever i am: 1. amazed at the security of my medical care (with the bolivian connections and the american volunteers i am as taken care of as i will ever be) 2. incredibly educated on one more lovely detail of life 3. wiser beyond my years once once again 4.humbled and rooted by the reality of it all 5. thankful to be alive

Dos Medicos

I am walking
out in the jungle
and I am visited by the aedes aegypto
mosquito again
and I am getting the Dengue fever
and it can't let it go
but I will get through...
a tourniquet test behind the dark curtains
and the open door
on the second floor
he’s looking for many petechiae
to see how long our coordinator can last
and dos medicos
I need dos medicos
oh, I can't open my eyes

I am counting
platelets in your body
I am reading about Dengue
And how few have died
How few have died

I am watching your pulse rise and fall
like the cells of my life,
and the pain of it all .
and your bones have been my breakpoint
and your flesh has been my fall
I am waiting for DEET
to offer up my keep
ohh dos medicos
*I need dos medicos
oh I can't open my eyes

but in eachother's hearts we grew less and less small
and eventually the laboratorio couldn't explain it all
and I'm recording our history now on the clinica wall
and eventually Dr. Douglas will come
and solucionar it all

I am walking
out in the jungle
and I am visited by the aedes aegypto
mosquito again
and I am NOT getting the Dengue fever
and I can't let it know
that I will get through...
So now use dos medicos
please use dos medicos
so you can open your eyes
I am counting
platelets in your body
I am singing about Dengue
and how we survived
I am singing about Dengue and how we survived

paso a paso

heyyyyahh,
here's to letting you all know that all is a-ok. sorry for the lil' lapse. i haven't been in town, had enough time, nor felt grounded enough to write a real blog. my current "grounded" state shifts between planted and floating at all times. my equilibrium hasn't balanced quite yet.

everything is going well but i've been feeling stressed lately with the incredible weight of it all. my shoulders are creeping dangerously above ear level, so yes, i'm a little tense at best. the job is amazing and at the end of the day if i can focus on the small successes, that warm cozy feeling should envelope me inside. unfortunately i don't work like that. when you present me with a task, i see the task in 3-D plus an unlimited montage of invisible sides (first simplicity then history, social context, future, bureaucracy, heir achy, challenge). this makes for a long day (a given) and my mind and go-getterness makes it even longer.

Scenario: 1 lil jungle clinic. cute. friendly. open. lots of poor jungle people. cute. friendly. open. a service that asks for nothing and gives everything. a clientel that asks for everything and gives nothing. lots of docs...smart. little to no staff, social work, accounting, standards, policies... really stupid.

Centro Medico Humberto Parra is a cool place, and an even cooler idea. As far as I observed, we give the shirts off our backs. We're they're for the people in moments of need--- the gravity of need scale is completely open. We do this and it makes some people feel good about themselves. It makes some sick people actually better. We also do this and it makes some people, who need to replace the shirts, re-energize the backs, and make sure this process happens over and over again, feel really proud but really exhausted. It makes some strong, visionary people say to themselves pretty much everyday "Op. I do think I've gone cross-eyed." Oh yeah, the some people is Staff Member Me.

So that's about where I'm at. It's hard to explain. There be--- 100 patients half in great need status, half in "I take advantage of anything given for free" status. 4 American docs who know a lot and complete immediate tasks. 1 Bolivian doc who knows a little but attends to a lot. 1 nurse who is non-licensed but passionate, giving, and culturally knowledgeable. and then there is me.. for, no joke, EVERYTHING else. Meds, resources, logistics, patient follow up, patient politics, patient need, emergencies, hospitalization, exam transfer... (list length undetermined).

last week I chatted with Don Julio (president of all the Centro Med health groups serves). he told me two interesting things. 1. when researching how to socially classify the people we help he offered this standard: Bueno. Normal. Malo. Good, Normal, Bad.. those three words soon will determine who can pay, who can help, and who needs us the foundation to cover it all. 2. Don Julio ( an amazing wordsmith by my standards) also told me: "You people are like cows. You share a really giant organ." Cows have big hearts. According to Don Julio (despite the struggle and the confusion I feel everyday) apparently I do too.

The Americans are cute. They call me La Jefa (the boss lady) or La Jefa Spice (the boss lady Sporty Spice) and support me in a lot that I do. They can't really help most of the time but they seem to respect their time is but a glimpse into this reality. The Bolivians are also cool. They do their part and do it well. The exhaustion is that no one else but me is there to experience it all. I feel like I'm always working. I basically always am. The good news is that I've had some distraction (half Boliv half American), I really like Regaeeton, I've been playing a lot of guitar and sharing my voice and finger pickings with others. I'm working on balancing Gringo and more permanent life here. Cambas (Santa Cruz people) are funny.

Carnival is coming. It starts tomorrow. American Founders One (and hopefully Two..Dr. Molitch was not let on the plane from Miami because his yellow fever card was not written in Spanish) arrive in a half hour. 5 more Gringos arrive tomorrow (there are already 5 here). Again this all sounds fine but the more people, the more questions and planning and 24/7 WORK for me. Ps. we don't have enough beds, enough work spaces, enough car seats for this many people. The founders will be here. I haven't done much to solucionize (word in Spanish) cuz I want them to face the facts.

I wrote a really serious agenda to discuss with Founders (Number 1, Number 2 and Bolivian). It covers everything from "this is great to this is totally unsustainable to I am willing to work and give to you but your gotta make some changes to make my work and giving supportable." I plan to call a meeting for an organization that in 7 years has never paused the helping to make efficient and and standardize the help that we give.

I'll let you know if I'm successfully in getting them to pause to discuss such things. They tell me step by step and cool it Gringita Coordinator girl. I agree. But if my legacy here can be to make 1 or two tiny changes that makes the next person's job (and the Bolivians I work closest with) a little less head-splitting at the end of the day, I'm gonna try.

Ok I'm gonna go relax. And play guitar. Or get a call and have to go pick up the founder. But either way music (my own or de Reggaeton) will lead the way. Well one way travel... until the Founder (really prestigious American Med Head) is sitting next to me.

Love biggg hugs.