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Logbook to a resentment (End)

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A month of Mondays goes by, every day identical to the previous one, exactly as the one to follow. But one day one particular Monday arrives and it is time to leave. I hate farewells because there have been so many in my live that they have taken their toll. So I bid goodbye to just a few people and get on a truck that will take me back to the big city and I get done with it.
But as I drive away I decide that that is not a proper way. The truck has a two way radio and I know that all the people of the crew are out there, working. And without thinking too much I grab the mike and break into the frequency and decide to bid adieu to everybody. And it will mean everybody. I thank them for their effort, their kindness towards me, and their professionalism. I say so, cut the mike, and keep driving.
And in a few moments, the radio comes alive. And from all the field people out in the jungle, up in the mountain, somewhere around this land, they all bid good bye to me:
“Good bye, Mr. P”
“Farewell, Mr. P. Good luck”
“God Bless you, Mr. P. Hope we will work together again”
And on and on the messages come through the ether. And I admit that I choked.
I finish this narrative at the Viru Viru international airport. I sit in the lounge waiting for my plane as the sun rises in the east and I am thinking about all this. What these two months were. Because one thing that happens to me, that is like a sixth sense, is that when I leave a place I always get this feeling about whether I will return or not. And every time I have left Bolivia, I get that feeling that I will be back. But not this time. This time, my antennae are silent, and I do not feel that déjà vu of being here in the airport and the sense that I will see this place again. And it saddens me.
Because I started talking about this joke that it was to be back here, but the one that did not understand the joke was me. It was not just to send me back in time, it was to send me to my past so I could get the proper perspective of how far I have come. Of what I have become. The joke was not to send me to my past to laugh at me, it was to send me to my past so I could appreciate my present. And Bolivia was the only place that could do that because, whether I like it or not, I have a relationship with Bolivia. A little bit of me belongs here, without me being able to say or do anything about it.
Am I legend in Bolivia? Of course not. But I am a little tale, I am a private story. I have a name here. There are people here that appreciate me, there are people that are my colleagues but that have been so for so long that we know and have shared too much for me to just regard them as such. People know me and respect me, and when I come back their handshakes are honest, their friendships are sincere and they make me realize that Bolivia has given me a lot. Bolivia has put food on my table, money in my pocket. I have loved in Bolivia, I have been loved. Bolivia is like that friend that you run into every few years and you sit down for a beer and have a really nice time but yet, you don’t exchange phones, your lives are not that meshed.
And as I wait here for my plane to depart, I feel a touch of loneliness because I don’t know if I will see this friend again, and it took 20 years and a celestial joke to realize my appreciation. And I can only shake metaphysical hands, and blow Bolivia a kiss and wonder if my antennae are right and I will never be back or Bolivia has more surprises for me in my life.
The joke was on me and that is alright. And I don’t know if it is over or not because, when it comes to Bolivia and me, Bolivia always has the last laugh.
Ha. Ha. Ha.

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