that one time i got kicked out of a country

Once upon a time there was a girl named Morghan. She was a fly by the seat of her pants, the " I'll figure it out when I get there," kinda gal.

So the story goes:

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I arrived home from Australia, a year and a half later, totting two suitcases that encompassed the entirety of my being. Confused, and tired, suffering that reverse culture shock thing you read about in High School Psychology class-shits real-, happening all at once. I dumped my belongings haphazardly around my bedroom, as I made a half-assed attempt to re-pack for my next ensuing adventure-a one way to South America, a mere ten days later. Based on my remarkable planning abilities, as seen throughout history, I  tactically allotted myself a whopping seven days, prior to "forever departure from Wisconsin," part dos, to catch up with everyone I cared about. "The everyone" I hadn't seen in over a year and a half. As I sat thinking this through, gazing at the walls in my childhood bedroom, fully furnished with the twin sized bed, the one whose sheets I grew up wetting, I laid on the floor, trying to wrap my head around all that was happening in life, and HOW THE FUCK I actually got back to America- for real though. It all did my head in. In a solid attempt to meditate, a fresh new skill I picked up from a trusty Aussie mate, I laid on my bedroom floor, and fell asleep. Good thing timing has a keen sense of humor.

Life looked bleak.

Let's fast forward to the goods...over the course of the next five days, Mom tries her damnedest to talk me out of going to South America. Aside from the obvious reasons- being sold into sex slavery, drug trafficking, kidnapping and inevitable murder and rape during, after, or before any of the aforementioned scenarios panned out, the icing on the cake came when she said, "you could always come to Germany with me?!"

Really.

She continues "and I'll cover your flight losses." That was one dirty deal to lay on the table, and if it weren't for my jet legged vulnerability laden skepticism, I may have said OK. Outside of that, there was an inner pull, drawing me to South America, one that was stronger than all the bribes and potential life ending outcomes. I had no choice but to continue my hustle.
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I arrive at the airport scared shitless as to what I've actually signed myself up for and how the hell I'm going to make it with the seven hundred dollars I currently have to my name. Alas, I'll figure it out when I get there. While standing in line, I overhear one of the airline associates asking the woman behind me to show proof of her onward journey. The fuck is an onward journey? Whomever says street smarts are over rated, they're lying. Channeling my inner thug, I put two and two together and began story crafting as I never knew this was a thing. She asks if a bus pass out of Costa Rica will do. The man gives her wave and she passes on. I'm next. "Ma'ma, onward journey?"

"Funny story, sir. I don't have one." The man sternly replied "you won't be flying today." Panic drowns my existence. Conveniently still using my Australian phone service, I have no choice but to access the shoddy free internet, the connect-free-for-one-thousand-dollars-and-we-will-give-you-two-minutes-free-after-this-quick-two-minute-online-survey-you'll-need-to-complete-prior-to-access. That kind of wifi. There was no way time was going to allow for this degree of dicking around, so I got up and ran for help.

There was no sugary coating dripping off my tongue as I approached the stern man pleading for help. The man reiterated his earlier statement. After laying the vulnerability on thick,that I only had seven hundred dollars to make this happen and my dire need to get on this plane, something changed in his demeanor. "Follow me," he said. We snaked around to the back office as he pulled up a chair for me to sit. We scoured the internet to find the most affordable flights or bus tickets providing the most uncomplicated country entrance.

As the mouse hovered over a bus ticket for a fifty-two hour bus trip from Lima, Peru to Santiago, Chile, I give him the green light to click purchase. Jesus. Needless to say, I'll figure it out when I get there. Finally, I board the flight, onward journey in tow.

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Arid, hot and bustling, the Peruvian night greets me.  I'm overdressed and ready to take on this taxi ride, feeling quite confident in my Spanish speaking skills. Things are looking up.

As the taxi man shuts the door behind me, what I think is Spanish comes gushing out of his mouth. All the years of Spanish failing me in two seconds. I dig deep, suck up all my pride, and let it rip. Sounding something like a five year old, all proper grammar thrown out the window into the fresh night's breeze, I weave my way through a diverse conversation, complete with facts of the dangerous areas, the ones where I will certainly be sold into sex slavery or taken. Have you seen the movie?

Hostel found, cats everywhere, culture shock ensues. Here we go.
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Travels, mountains hiked, Macchu Pichu scaled, Quechua overheard, international mates met, peculiar foods consumed- I'm finally alive!

And so the day comes, the one I deleted from my memory. I pack my bags- food made and all (health freak plus bus food don't click) - and wait patiently to board my bus. As we file onto the double-decker, I feel a new adventure coming to a head. I scan my fellow passengers, studying my compadres, whom will inexorably be family after this exodus. I'm clearly the adopted Gringa.

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ONE DAY LATER

I can't feel my ass. I have watched more Spanish films than I know what to do with. Everyone either thinks I'm lost, confused, or famous on this bus- because why else would a young white girl be on a bus like this? I've moved no further than two inches in every direction, and have woken up to the chiquitita next to me, staring, at least four times now. She seals the deal at the end of the night and hands me a homemade bracelet that says "I LOVE YOU." At least I've got an admirer.


TWO DAYS LATER

I still can't feel my ass. It's probably flat. I may have forgotten how to walk. Is that a real thing? I smell like bus, sweaty humans and chica. I'm not sure when I showered last. Brushed my teeth? This is gross.

We arrive at some Mama and Papa owned restaurant. We're given an hour to stretch the legs, get some real food and....shower? As I follow the cue of ladies into the loo, I can't help but notice the normalcy of showering in the sink. Literally submersing all available parts of one's body into the sink for the scrubbin. Brilliant. My gaze settles upon a massive barrel of water, sitting at the entrance with a pale in it. "This should be interesting...," I think to myself. Lo and behold, self flushing methodology parte uno. Good thing I'm closer to the back of the line. I can take the token Gringa card, but a dumb Gringa? No thank you. I take note....

Grab pale.
Fill with water.
Walk to sussed out toilet.
Pour water contents of pale into toilet of choice.
Walk back to massive barrel.
Refill with water.
Place pale of water on ground.
Do your thing.
Pull up pants.
Grab pale.
Empty water contents into toilet.
Flush while pouring water into toilet.

Fool proof. I got this.


After I kill the toilet situation, I'm feelin pretty capable and slightly badass. I decide it's time for an adventure. This restaurant "bus stop" is set up like a compound, concrete walls enveloping; bizarre. I push the button for the doors to open, figuring, there's gotta be a button on the other end to open to let me back in. We've still got a good thirty minutes of recess. I'm not worried.

I stroll down the sidewalk, knowing I'm somewhere between Wisconsin and Chile, and not much more. The air is fresh as my strides resemble something like a newly birthed doe, as the muscle memory in my legs attempts to wake up. Good news, I can feel my ass again. We are onto something good here. Daydreaming and soaking in the early morning rays of sunshine as I take in the foreign surroundings, thirty minutes unknowingly passes. I scramble back to the compound, trying to root myself in phlegmatic state after this shocking realization.

 I get back to the door.

No button.

Fuck.

I begin to feel like Michael Scofield in Prision Break, trying to think fast at how I'm going to either scale this wall, or...scale this wall. Option b: sit outside this wall and wait for the bus to leave. Option b looks promising if I don't get run over in the process. I think I'll climb.

Ten fraught minutes pass, surely the bus should have tried to leave by now. Then I remember I'm in South America time now. As I began staking out the best spot to spiderman this wall, all of a sudden, the gate opens. I shit my pants. I'm saved. Thank you Jesus.

 Homie opens the door like he never noticed the white girl went missing.

He lets me on the bus.

 I play it cool, and blend right in.

DAY TWO POINT FIVE

Actually kill me.

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Chile.

Somewhere between the five check points of proving I'm not a drug dealer or pack mule (or am I), I'm handed a rectangular piece of translucent paper, smaller than a post-it. I'm told nothing about it. My gum is looking like it's going to have a nice home momentarily. New bestie from the
Tour-De-South-America hands offers me a fresh piece of gum. I ablige. Old gum, new home. Weird paper safe.

Frankly, what they don't tell you is that this paper is your life line, needed for everything. Hostel stay? Needed paper. Take money out of ATM? Need paper. It was au fond, my visa to be in the Country. Small print anyone?


NEXT BRILLIANT IDEA

Go to Brazil. 

 As irony would have it, I met the Barista Trainer of my old boss in Australia, as I scoured Santiago for specialty coffee shops. One coffee nerding out session later, all the jobs are handed to me on a silver platter.

Then not a single one of them come through.

Surely, Brazil was the next Country calling my soul into its open arms.

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NEW PLAN

Wait ten days for Clara to arrive from Argentina to Chile- where I'm currently residing at her sister's place, and Carnival, reunion with Brazilian-Aussie mates, and all the Bahias have got our names written all over em!

This time, I  make sure to cross all my T's and dot all my I's. Starting with all the embassies: US, Brazilian, Ethiopian, Chinese, and so forth, I am diligent about gathering all the facts - onward journeys, visas, and so forth. I come to find no visa is necessary to enter Brazil.

Fantastic.

Clara arrives to Chile.

Clara departs for Brazil. I wish her bon voyage as I'll be seeing her in a few shy hours.

THE NEXT DAY

I arrive to the airport, early, stoked. When I finally get to the front of the line, I'm asked to see my visa. You've got to be fucking kidding me. I inform her- in my sternest Spanish - that I was told no visa was required, and to let me board already. With sense of urgency exploding from her being, she goes and has a chat with some work mates, goes and takes a phone call a few desks down, gets a compliment on her nails, eventually making her way back to me, only to sit down and carry on another chat with new work mates. About ten minutes and four phone calls later, her newly done nails pop my travel bubble and again, the words "you will not be traveling today," hit me like a semi, because this time, I needed a visa. I sprinted like a cheetah from one side of the airport to the other in search of a computer. Again, Australian cell phone service serving no purpose.

I find a 1914 Dell Computer, the size of France, and google travel visas for Brazil. I buy the first 'visa' that pops up. Four hundred dollars later, uncertain what I've just purchased, I'm sprinting back to miss thang with some arbitrary file printed off- essentially the next steps I needed to complete acquire a proper visa. Looks like it was time to pull out the dumb Gringa card, because after all, I had already earned it, from the beginning.

"You missed your flight," she whistles. Naturally. I listen as she directs me to two gents that will be able to drum up solutions for my current situation. "Repurchase your connecting flights, it's that easy," they sing. Since I'm already on a spending spree, I concur. But first, I coerce them to review my Visa to ensure, this time, I'll be able to board my flight. They assure me I've got it right this time, and they send me on my way.

I hail a cab only to be returning eight hours later. Stress oozes out of me, the thought of punching someone in the face, tickling my prefrontal cortex. Luckily, I don't. En-route back to my mate's house, all I can do is pray that the keys I attempted to jimmy under the door, are still there. Alelujah! They greet me with shiny silver smiles. Note to self, you should never become a robber. Cue overindulging in the stress related consumption of chocolate, dulce de leche by the spoon full and a substantial amount of wine into the body. That should do the trick.

EIGHT HOURS LATER

It's three am. I'm sick as a dog, hungover on chocolate, wine and dulce from the previous bad decision of hours apassed. Not to mention, I've slept two hours, and that's rounding up. I  hail a cab. I want to die. Old mate taxi is sketchy. For the first time, I think I may actually die, as my new found familiarity with the house to airport route rings no recognition. I bid farewell to my life.

Looks like it's not my time to knock off just yet. I arrive at the airport and pass my first check point sans hassle. All excitement contained, as I still have a ways to go.


I plop down, heavy and sleepy at my gate, anxiously waiting to board my flight to Sao Paulo. I watch as a flight attendant makes her rounds, as a ticket pre-check. My eyes follow her, transfixed, and she determinedly winds through the rows of consecutive passengers, approaching each for said document. She stands before me. "Visa?" she requests. I carefully dig out my veiled Visa and present it to her. Her gruff tone, heavy with skepticism, as she questions the legitimacy of my document. I gave her the footnotes of yesterdays interaction with the gents of the airline, assuring her everything was OK. Clearly it was just as much "too early," as it was for me, as it was for her, as she turned on her heel, grumbling under her breath. I board the plane. My translucent paper extracted from my possession.

FOUR HOURS LATER

I'm feelin fancy, as we roll up onto the tarmac in Sao Paulo. I've got THE water bottle and everything. All the hustle thoroughly worth it in this moment of triumph.

Portuguese floats through the air as the organized chaos of customs attempts to assemble us into single file lines. Breast puffed, cocky as a peacock in heat, I cue up. The customs homem  (man) greets me, extending his hand for collection of my documents. I audaciously hand them over. His brow furrows as he stares a bit too long at my "visa." "Wait here," he says, "I don't speak much English." Outwardly keeping my cool, I a wave of dismay cloaks my body.

A few moments later, the man returns, directing me to wait outside what looks like a holding room. I hold my breath as two police men approach me from inside the holding room. They have my documents. They ask no questions. A third man walks up. He motions for me to follow him. The panic that had a strong hold on my earlier, slowly trickled away, as I was escorted through the Airport. For a moment, I thought to myself, that perhaps, this is how things rolled in Brazil, escorting you to connecting flights? My escortee's shout pulled me out of my daydream. I couldn't sift through the Portuguese quick enough to understand what he was saying. Clearly, this was no escort service.

We arrived to a gate. I looked up. "SANTIAGO, CHILE," read the board. He pointed at a seat. I took his instruction and sat. A gorda (pleasantly plump) middle aged woman walked up. She had a warm disposition about her and a smile in her eyes. I was beyond defeated at this point, and seeing an inviting face such as hers was a hug to my soul. I melted further into the chair, as my tenacious goal slipped further and further away, like losing something underwater, elusively close, and yet, unattainable. Finally, she spoke to me, "do you know what is going on?" "I'm catchin on quick," I thought to myself, and what came out was a giant "no." Miss Gorda was the last line of defense.  It was over. I was to be sent back to Santiago because to enter Brazil, even momentarily, a visa was required, and a visa that was completely processed, unlike mine.

I had no words.

I shed one tear, a tear of defeat, as she led me down the aisle of the airplane, seat picked out and all. I settled in, knowing in a span of ten hours, I successfully made half of  my destination, and even more successfully managed to find my way back to Chile. Then it occurred to me, I didn't have my translucent visa for Chile any longer....

Too soon. I passed out.

CHILE ROUND TWO

I wake up to the shuffling of passengers collecting their overhead luggage, as a rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes. Crazy to think it was only 11 AM and I'd already gotten kicked out of one Country, and well on my way to returning to another. I grab my backpack and lug it onto my back. Like clockwork, I take my place in the customs cue, with no energy left to ad-lib any story. "Hola. Papeles?" says the kind man behind the desk. At this point, my fluency is back, all humility gone, I tell him I've been kicked out of Brazil, and I was just in Chile this morning. They took my paper when I left. We play word hacky-sack for quite some time, as Spanish turns to Spaniglish, and language turns to laughter and whaddya know, I'm brought back to the cops outside another holding office.

Two cops exit and ask me what's going on- "que paso?" After I inform them I was kicked out Brazil and there's no choice but to let me back into Chile-because I was just here- they send me back to the chipper customs officer. He must not have caught on to the severity, or even half of what I told him just occurred, as when I came forth again to rehash the same story, his eyes bulged straight out of his head, like a deer in the headlights, followed by a deep belly laugh. Actually, I think there was a repeated offense of laughter. Yeah, that sounds more like it. I didn't even have the energy to cry, so I joined him in laughter. Why not? I guess I had a good story at this point, and I still had my water bottle, proof that I was indeed in Brazil. It had to count for something. After he shot the shit at me for a few minutes, throwing out some cheeky lines, informing me of how much that would suck (you think?), how I'm trouble, and so on, he ended up letting me back into the country.

But he never gave me the translucent slip.

I realize this two days later as I'm checking into a hostel after another fatal attempt to get to Brazil.

Oh, you want that story too?

TRAIN STATION

This itch won't go away, I've got to get to Brazil. Clara is on day number two Carnival time, keeping me well informed of all that I should be a part of: dancing in the streets with locals, bright feathers and meticulously ornate masks adorning bronzed bodies, decorated in bold costumes, flaunting bare skin.

Somehow, I arrvied at the train station. I was bound and determined to find the Brazilian Embassy and get my visa sorted. Not having a relevant mobile with wifi made things quite difficult. It was time to get creative, yet again. I drew the parallel in my mind that I should be scouting for the oldest looking human in my midst. Why? Because they would obviously be the most knowledgeable- they've been around the longest. I b line towards the most elderly candidate I can find. I ask him where the embassy is located, even providing him the name of the town. He stares blankly. I repeat my question, jumbling the order of the words this time, thinking maybe it'll hit home. Blank stares. A woman approaches me and asks what I'm looking for, as I may have just found the most elderly deaf man in the room.

I repeat. She tells me to tag along with her, we are headed in the same direction. About ten minutes into our journey, she tells me she thought I was Latin, and fluent, but now that we've had more time to converse, she hears the nuances that tell her just the opposite. Perhaps that's why old man withers didn't know a lick of what I was saying. We arrive at the Embassy, having gotten lost twice in the process, to the front desk man informing us the Embassy is closed for the public for the day. Marta, my new amiga, gives them the story, her Chileano origins giving us a big one up in this pickle. Finally.

They let us through. The next lady in charge listens intently as we explain what happened, and what we need. She takes us aside at the conclusion of the story, as Marta whispers clandestinely "what can you do to help us?" The woman says that if we arrive back tomorrow with newly purchased tickets (that would be six total tickets purchased to Brazil), and a proper photo, we would be able to get me there in ten days, fingers crossed. Mind you, Clara, and the rest of our mates would be leaving four days after I would arrive, based off of our original plans. At this rate, I didn't even know if I had any money left, after buying all these wasted tickets. We part ways until tomorrow. Maybe.

Marta and I make our way back to my mate's place, as I had to get my things and suss out a new arrangement as they were headed out of town. I was planning to stay at a hostel when Marta offered her place to me. I agreed. We hustled back to pack my things, and took two cabs and a bus to lord knows where. In the midst of this transition, her daughter ended up joining forces with us. As we headed back to Marta's for dinner, she looked at my broken down soul and made a swift left. Liquor store. She was kind AND wise. Wine and beer hugged to our chests, we pushed on to get home. We talked and laughed over my travel stories as Marta finally got the entire tale. I drank the bottle of wine.

As dinner came to a close, I was cashed. My brain was fried from translating Spanish to English and speaking Spanish all day, not to mention the impromptu adventures of the last two days. I rang Clara. We talked things over and I decided I was going to have to pull out. It was a sad moment, and quite frankly, I had to take a logical stance on the matter and factor in my lack of funds, which now would have gotten me no further than a day in Brazil. It was also becoming quite clear that the Universe was trying to tell me it wasn't the right time to go-it only took three failed attempts to get this through my thick and stubborn skull.

URUGUAY 

Marta and Valentina pack me up and take me to my hostel. I decided I will spend a few days actually enjoying my time here in Chile. It's been well deserved. While out on a run, I decide I will give my friend Martin a call and see if he would like to go on an adventure, as he just recently returned to his home of Uruguay from Australia. Martin is keen. I take a look at dates, and flights, and realize this is a stupid idea. I don't even think I have checked my bank account up to this point, because I know that once I see the facts, my fun is over and it's time to head back to....America...Wisconsin at that.

I check my funds-truly, I don't even know if I do- but after another run, I think to myself, maybe it's time to start back from square one. I call Mom. She tells me to come home but doesn't believe I will come back. She finally understands how I roll. I tell her I will be coming home, but I need a few more days to play before purchasing a ticket.

Then I tell her I may stop in Uruguay first, moreso for reaction sake. I think she punched me in the face via the telephone. It hurt.

And so.

Two days later, drinks had, explorations dabbled in, limbs danced off, mates met, sleep lost, I packed my things, and boarded yet another flight, back, to, America....

To be continued....

co-dependency will kill you

Co-dependency; the inability to wholly and completely rely on yourself, to meet all of your fulfillment needs.

What it is not:

When you part from others (mate, friends, family), you don't find yourself worth, confidence and capabilities plummeting to the ground like a house of cards, questioning your existence on this earth. The difference here is that you WANT these people in your life. You don't NEED them in your life. That's not to say that you have no feelings and are detached from emotional relationships and cannot connect with a human being. It's the exact opposite of that. It's to say that your a fully functioning vessel that can hold your space, your self, your person in your own light, worth and love, knowing that you're a complete person per your own permission and unconditional love. You don't view your self worth based on the attention, gratification, and acceptance from others- reacting to how you're treated in life versus responding.

What it is:

 Have you ever thought of why you don't like to be alone?

Why you keep yourself incessantly busy, warding off alone time like the plague?

Have you ever taken a moment to reflect on all the shit - the social bits that fill up a typical day of yours: social interactions, phone conversations, events,  KEEPING BUSY FOR BUSY SAKE- yet finding no real fulfillment as you rush from thing to thing...to thing. Maybe because you find your entire self crumpling the moment silence and being come to a cross roads. Uncomfortable feelings bubble up as you wait for that cute guy to text you back, and with each passing moment, your self esteem and mind fabricate a tale of why you suck at life, and NO he doesn't like you.

Because when you're alone in your own being, the walls feel a bit unstable, and the positivity gained through social interactions now drips from your brow, as a new found negativity begins spinning cobwebs in the casing of your mind. Twisting the lies and illusions from the mind with reality. The gut wrenching pain that snake bites your throat, your heart, leaving you confused and short of breath. This, is co-dependency. 

Often times, this is an unconscious state of being, one that we don't even realize that we struggle with. It could be because we don't give ourselves the space or time to look at these things. We think that just because we are in a relationship- be it intimate, friends or otherwise- that automatically, we are given the golden token of placing every expectation and pressure onto this person, this relationship- a paradigm we are all duped into thinking is ok- is only a reflection of all the things we do not own up and give to OURSELVES.

Unfortunately, in today's society, we are raised in a way that keeps some part of us always attached, and dependent on someone/something- evident in a parent-child relationships as we age. Dad still paying your rent? Taking your car in for you? Grandma still giving you money for holidays? Ring any bells? We are just a bunch of little kids in big kid clothing, who play a really good game of 'keeping it real,' or so we think.

...until we are greeted by the silence and the inner fears, insecurities, and lack of our own unconditional love. What does this all mean? Are we screwed forever?

Don't fret. It's as simple, and as hard as becoming your own cheerleader. Filling your own tank. Knowing fully and competely who you are, your self worth and not allowing that to sway in the midst of others- reacting to life instead of responding. It's a hard process, one that takes compassion, time, love, and acceptance. But the pay off is immense. You will no longer search for your "missing pieces" in others, projecting your lack onto them, inevitably and subconsciously recreating the same lesson over and over again: find new person, search for your missing pieces within them, placing countless expectations on them, and when they cannot fill them or live up to the above- you damn their existence, and say ciao to the relationship- not realizing it's just your own lacking that is the problem.

We are the only things we can change and have control over. Therefore, the best advice in all regards, is always to look at YOU and change what needs to be changed. Becoming 100% self reliant, loving yourself unconditionally is the most gratifying place to arrive because you are finally whole. The relationships and experiences you will have with this world and the human beings in it will become real, palpable, present. All that will remain is love and complete acceptance.