The Wonderous Life of Mr. Lu

There I was, 26 years old, hating my life, and dreading the sound of the 6am alarm clock. Heading to work before the sun would burn the cracked asphalt of Santo Domingo's traffic jammed roads, I would hop on crowded chicken buses, paying the grand sum of $0.25 for the chance to sit on a wooden plank. On most days I lost that lottery, which resulted in hanging out the bus door. The smells of refried chicken, fritos, salami and empanadas, battled for supremacy with the morning Dominican cafecito, and the servicio mixto day-laborers purchased from street vendors, before an honest day's work. This was my life in the gilded paradise of the Dominican Republic. I was no different than the tourists that lay on our beaches, as I also watched the days pass to night. Life bored me, and the challenge of work became the chore of finding new reasons to wake up in the morning.

But hope was in a small, crumpled printout of Brazil, nestled in the back pocket of my sweaty jeans. I had been infected with the idea I should live in Brazil, and see South America along the way.

I arrived in Lima, Peru on January 19th, 2010, on a one way ticket, with no place to stay, no friends and no information on the city. All I had was a backpack, three pairs of underwear, and a few dollars. But I was going to make things happen. I left the DR with no idea of when, or if, I would return. I was beyond fear, but comforted by the fact that I was regaining my sense of adventure. I had to see the world, and the world had to see me. This wasn't a challenge. It was my life, as I should have been living it.

After enjoying Lima, I traveled to Puno, Peru, shunning overcrowded Machu Pichu for an Inca "ho-down" with the Virgen de La Candelaria. Bolivia was next, and a chance encounter with two Canadians gave me a place to stay, while I explored Los Altos, and cheered on Cholita wrestlers.

The Bolivian countryside was the backdrop for an intense, reflective period, as we bused past Kichwa indigenous settlements. The crying babies, screaming roosters and fighting pigs were music to my ears, and I even enjoyed the Jean Claude Van Damme marathon. I was almost left on the side of the road after eating too many churros, but this was a day in the life of a new Lu. I smiled, ear to ear.

I reached Santa Cruz, Bolivia, on February 4th, then caught the early bus for the Brazilian border. And on February 5th I walked into Brazil. I was home. That crumpled print out was a testament that my life was not the same. I was no longer the same. I decided that in this lifetime I would be a traveler, not a tourist, and I needed to tell the world about it.