A few nights ago, I was talking with Andrei on a café terrace. We mentioned something that lately has become constant: spring in Romania no longer knows how to arrive. It rains when it should be sunny. The sky can’t decide. The weather has the same kind of indecision you feel when you’re not sure whether to stay or go.
We each spoke about our travels. He talked about Germany and Russia, and several places in Romania I’d never even heard of. Oh, and his passion for winter. I, on the other hand, thought of other landscapes and other seasons. I dug through some old photos. Wow—what memories. I found pictures of myself at Machu Picchu, on the Javari River (a tributary of the Amazon), in Huancané (Puno), and at a glacial lake of the Waytapallana (around 5,500 meters above sea level).
More than ten years ago, I worked for an NGO called CARE Peru. I learned incredibly important things—both professionally and personally. On the professional side, I learned to think and work strategically. To stop being afraid of saying “I don’t know, but I can learn.” And then to actually learn it. Personally, I learned to stand up for my causes, my morals, my principles.
I worked on several major projects. Among them, one on climate change: Glaciares. And another focused on dialogue among civil society actors regarding extractive industries (mainly mining): Dialoga.
That’s how I got to know corners of the country I never would’ve reached on my own. I traveled through the north, the center, and the south. Peru is five times the size of Romania, by the way.
I saw the coast—Piura. The highlands: Cajamarca, Junín, Ayacucho, Apurímac, Arequipa, Cusco, Puno. And the jungle: Madre de Dios. What a nostalgia. Peru has so much diversity, you could never get tired of it. The ocean takes your breath away. The mountains are so tall they seem infinite. And the green of the Amazon reminds you that hope never dies.
Still, the purpose of those projects was also to raise awareness about a not-so-silent threat: accelerated glacial melt, deforestation, and uncertainty.
And here I am, in a distant city, talking with a friend about a spring that no longer feels like the ones before. It used to start in early March. Now it’s late May and… what is this? The green comes later. The seasons seem disorganized.
Ten years after hearing about those “forecasts,” with a cup of coffee and a jacket on in May, I can’t help but think that nature feels offended—or maybe even angry.
It’s been raining for days. The waitress spoke to me half in English, half in Romanian. My t-shirt and hair smell like tobacco. And I get lost in conversation between raindrops that seem to change direction every five minutes. It’s not cold, but not warm either. And I love watching the drops fall under the streetlight, imagining them in slow motion.
Ave Migratoria 