I never - not in a million years - thought I would be able to say I spent part of my honeymoon in a pigpen in Bolivia. 

But alas, how life can surprise you…

Brad and I knew that at some point on this trip we wanted to try WOOFing. What in the heck is that you might ask? A strange word really. Sounds a little like a sneeze. But in actuality, WOOF is a really cool organization. Short for Worldwide Organic Farming, it’s purpose is to link farms around the world with a supply of able bodied volunteers, who in exchange for gettin’ their hands a little dirty are provided with room and board. Very popular amongst young hippy types with few material possessions and selective hygiene habits. And not a bad way to see the world when you’ve got empty pockets and a tendency to wander. 

We got ourselves a membership and ended up on this family owned and operated ranch in Santa Cruz, Bolivia called Rancho Montana. The owner, Brent said he needed help “getting his garden ready,” which sounded like an innocent enough request. Gardening couldn’t be that bad right? 

Wrong.

It only took about three hours for us to realize that WOOFing in Bolivia ‘aint for weenies.

The ranch itself was absolutely beautiful, but upon being shown the “garden” I was overcome with a desperate urge to take off running as fast and far as I could in the other direction. Fifteen hundred square feet of overgrown misery sprawled out in front of us - teeming with vicious red ants, snakes, tarantulas, mosquitos and giant prickly weeds that could damn near eat you alive. The plot had been untouched for the past seven years, and now we were expected to get this little gem of jungle oasis back into tip top shape. Lovely.

Thankfully, the family we stayed with was wonderful. Brent was a kind middle aged ex-pat who wore his hair long, his shirt sleeves cut-off and told stories that could keep you glued to the kitchen table for hours. Patty, his beautiful Bolivian wife, only spoke Spanish, but made killer lunches and often forced us into belly laughter with her hand gestures alone. And their three children - Heather, Brandon and Breanna were sweet, polite - helped us with our Spanish and killed spiders the size of baseballs in our room while we stood in corner, watching in horror.

They put us up in a nice little guest house with our own bathroom, laundry and a few dozen lizards (which I learned to be thankful for because the ate all the bugs). And for the next two weeks we spent 6 hours a day, 5 days a week barbecuing ourselves in a tropical inferno - toiling away in the garden from hell - expelling sweat from our pores faster than we could make it. 

There were also other odd jobs, including hauling manure, helping to paint the aforementioned pigpen and corralling its fat slippery tenants from one area to another. The last of which was actually quite entertaining.

On weekends we got do to the fun stuff (the stuff I had imagined from the beginning) picking cherries and blackberries, peeling the bark off of cinnamon trees, learning how coffee is made and seeing the process through from start to finish. 

And all the while, Brent and his family were kind, welcoming and lovely. They invited us for a steak dinner at the restaurant on their property, took us into town to see the Carnival parade,  shared their extensive music collection and were all around fantastic hosts. So I suppose I can’t whine about it all too much. 

And I’ll tell you - that while it certainly wasn’t a picnic - that I detested picking thorns out of my fingers and tallying the swollen bites on my wrists - that watching the brown water ooze down the shower drain saturated with the dirt I had collected from a days work totally gave me the willies  - I don’t think I have never been so proud of a 30x40 plot of land in my life. When we had finished I couldn’t stop staring at it. What a beautiful pile of dirt. Did you see those hedges?? That perfectly groomed layer of “organic material”?? Not a damn weed in there. Perfection.

And it was totally cool to eat a cherry pie made with cherries you had picked, to smell the cinnamon buns baking with cinnamon you had cut. I can’t tell you how much better a cappuccino tastes when you collected the coffee, shelled the beans and roasted them yourself. 

So while it wasn’t always the most enjoyable, and certainly not the most relaxing 14 days we’ve spent this year - it was definitely worth while. It made me want a garden of my own someday - although I’m pretty sure I could do without the pigs - and the memory of Brad jumping ten feet in the air and shrieking like a little girl while a tarantula dashed between his legs will make me chuckle for years to come…

Until next time.

-Kenz