Entry 18: South America

Around the time of my separation & divorce, a revolutionary tool emerged, online dating. The first platform didn't have a quick swipe left or right feature, but an entire page provided, so the user could post an array of photos, and enough space to share hopes, dreams, weight and height. After my relationship with the alcoholic, I decided to join Lava Life, and ended up staying up most of the night typing up a rather poetic and heartfelt profile. My approach to dating was much the same as my approach had been within the church. Be nice no matter what, give everyone a chance, care what they think, stay and make it work, and attempt to fix them when needed.

Having a database filled with eligible singles, I thought it would be easy to find someone, but all there seemed to be was a pool of non-committal and rather strange men. I'd found the whole process to be exhausting, and was about to shutdown my profile for good, when I came across a local photographer. After chatting for a few weeks we decided to meet in person, as I nervously waited on the restaurant patio, praying he looked the same in person as he did on his profile. A few minutes later he rolled up on his motorbike and got off, several inches shorter than what he'd listed on his profile. Still, after a slew of bad dates, I was desperate to meet someone normal, and after chatting with him for over an hour, he appeared to check the box.

There'd been nothing dynamic about our meet-up. It had been pleasant, yes, but there'd been no spark, as we hugged goodbye at the end of it. "It was nice to meet you," he said, as I lingered, wondering if he'd hint at another meeting. He didn't. So, I headed home, wondering what had been wrong with me. This was the problem with me and online dating, we had a terrible relationship, with it bringing out all my insecurities, and leaving me ridden with anxiety for days. Up to this point, I managed to play by all the dating rules, which was not to chase or look too eager, for fear you'd kill the men's primal instinct to hunt. But with the photographer, I decided to send a little note, thanking him for meeting me, and that I'd be open to seeing him again. And so out the e-mail went, as I refreshed my page over and over, waiting for a response.

By day four I still hadn't received one and I was now spiraling, as I played our conversation over and over, wondering what might have put him off. And that's when I broke the #1 dating rule: If he doesn't respond, he's not interested, and you should never chase him under any circumstances. So, I composed my next message. "Hey, I'm not sure if you received my last message or not, as I didn't hear back from you. Just wondering if you'd like to meet up again."

Later that day, I received a response. "Hey, sorry. I didn't realize our meeting meant that much to you. Sure, we can hang out again." And that is how our relationship began, a slow burn with no real fire. Where the fire did exist however, was within his photos, that looked like they'd just come off the pages of a National Geographic. It had been baffling to me, how undynamic he was in person, only to pull out his camera and capture nature and humanity in such a way that it left you breathless. And so instead of falling in love with the man in front of me, I fell in love with the man behind the camera.

His tenderness only played out within his photos, as he continued to be distant and often cruel. "Why are you so nice to me?" he'd snapped whenever I showed kindness to him. Whenever he took a set of photos and asked for my opinion, which was always positive, he'd end the conversation with, "Don't you have any hobbies of your own?" in an especially demeaning way.

Then one day, he asked if I'd like to meet his family, which had been shocking, since there'd be no indication he even cared for me. "Sure, I'd love to," I said, wondering if this would be thing that would solidify our relationship. We headed to the family property an hour of the city, where I met his mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, niece and a host of other extended family members. They were lovely; warm, accepting, liberal, and I immediately felt a warmth around them. "Come back again," they said, waving goodbye as we left later that afternoon.

I was on cloud nine as we drove away, excited to talk about his family and the visit, but he already had a hateful look in his eyes, as he grasped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched in anger. "Your family is so nice," I said, trying to ease the tension. He didn't say a word. Instead, he reached across me, fully rolled down my window, then his, and then blasted the radio so loud I couldn't hear myself think between the swirling wind and rock music. This was my punishment for it going well, and I was too scared to react, as I sat there for the next hour, looking like one of those elves on the end of the pencil, with crazy wind blown hair, and smeared black eyeliner around my eyes. I know I should have broken him right then and there, but because of his difficult childhood, I kept telling myself that this wasn't who he truly was, that under this tough external layer was a man with a loving heart. There had to be.

Our trip to South America had not come from two people excited to travel together, but a guilt trip. I'd planned to go with my best friend, while my photographer boyfriend tagged along for a couple of days before a mountain climbing expedition with his own friends. But then my best friend cancelled the trip due to finances. "Just because she cancelled, you won't consider going with me? Thanks a lot!" he said, with me immediately wanting to appease him. And that's how I ended up finding myself travelling across the world.

As soon as I arrived, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. He immediately treated me like his camera assistant rather than his girlfriend, and everything I seemed to say and do annoyed him. He hated it when I was nice, happy, kind or excited, with him determined to squash it the moment it surfaced. I'd soon learn that the trip was going to be all about his wants and needs, and I'd soon learn, that he had no fear of putting us in extremely dangerous circumstances in order to capture a photo. One day, while on the border of Brazil and Argentina, he decided to rent a motorbike. "It's the best way to see the area," he said, as I hesitantly got on, tightly grasping his waist. We'd explored part of the city where we were staying, and the surrounding national park with over 275 waterfalls.

I was just beginning to relax, when he suddenly spun the bike in the opposite direction, heading down a dirt road. "Where are we going?" I shouted above the whirr of the bike. He didn't respond, as he continued to drive further and further away from the city where we were staying. "I think we should turn around," I yelled again, but he just ignored me. Suddenly, the entrance of a town was in front of us, only when he drove in, I noticed it wasn't anything like the one we'd come from. The streets were lined with small metal shacks with torn cloth across the doorways. Children were playing in the streets covered in dirt and tattered clothes, and babies were in soiled diapers that hung down to their knees. I'd never been anywhere this poor before, and I immediately felt uneasy, as people came out from their shacks to get a look at these two foreigners who'd just rolled in on a shiny new bike. After driving in quite far and reaching a field at the end of one of the streets, my boyfriend stopped and got off the bike. "Here I want you to drive the bike so I can run behind it and take photos. Then if I need to, I can quickly jump back onto it."

"What? I can't drive a bike!"

"It's easy, I'll teach you."

Suddenly an old man with no teeth, no shirt, ripped jeans and a crucifix around his neck began shouting at us, waving his hands in the air. "What's he saying?"

My boyfriend strained to listen. He's saying there's no police here, and that we need to leave right away, as it's not safe."

"Then we need to go!" I said, completely frantic, my heart pounding out of my chest.

"Nah, we're fine, Ellie," he said, smiling at the old man and giving him a wave. " Now this leaver is the accelerator, this pedal here is..."

Suddenly the old man began shouting even louder, while making a cross signs on his chest and kissing his crucifix. "No police, no police," he kept repeating, while shaking his head at our foolishness. I was desperate for us to get out of there, so I quickly jumped on the bike and squeezed the accelerator entirely too hard, as the bike spun from under me, causing me to fall off of it. Within seconds the bike had driven itself up a large mound of dirt, and caught so much air that it flew through the air and then came back down as I scrambled to get out of the way, only for the hot exhaust to pin me to the ground, my calf sizzling against it like a raw piece of meat.

My boyfriend scrambled to get the bike off of me, as a piece of skin tore away from my calf, causing me to scream out in pain. "Please, we have to get out of here, so I can get to a clinic. It's really bad," I pleaded, tears rolling down my face.

"Okay," he said, grabbing the bike and inspecting it for damage. Outside of a broken mirror and large scratch across the body it seemed to still be in one piece, but it failed to start, as it spewed out black smoke each time he turned the ignition. Finally after the fourth time it started, as I jumped on the back, praying to God that we'd make it out of there alive. Through the tears, I noticed groups of people gathering on the streets, the news of our arrival having already spread, but fortunately the roads themselves were still clear as we made our way to the entrance of the shanty town, and back onto the dirt road leading us back to the city where we were staying. I let out a sigh of relief.

The next afternoon we were scheduled to leave, and I wanted nothing to do with my photographer boyfriend who showed little remorse for having put us in so much danger. I'd decided to stay close to our motel and do a bit of shopping in the touristy area, while he decided to go and take some photos, with us making a plan to meet up at the bus station by 2:45. But as 2:45 approached, he was no where to be seen, and I was starting to panic, as we had no way to get in contact with each other. Suddenly in the distance, I saw him running towards me, his face full of blood. I went to ask him what happened, when he grabbed my jacket and pulled me onto the bus, as he continued to look over his shoulder as we made our way to the back of it. His hands were shaking and blood was running over his one eye from a gash above his eyebrow.

As the bus drove away, he told me how he'd returned to the shanty town again in hopes of getting some photos, this time entering in by foot as he got dropped off by taxi. He'd managed to take a few photos of some locals, but then he came across a teenager, who'd asked if he could get his photo taken as well. As my boyfriend leaned over to change his lens, the teenager picked up a wooden plank and attempted to smash it over his head, as he yelled, "No police, no police," over and over. My boyfriend reacted just in time, the plank narrowly missing his head as he made a run for it. Now there was a group that had gathered who began chasing him, and at one point he fell and hit his head on a rock, causing the gash above his forehead. But he'd managed to get up quickly, and due to his athleticness had run out of there, and all the way back to the bus station. He was now sobbing in his seat, his body convulsing. "I always believed I had a guardian angel protecting me my whole life, but after today, I realize that might not be the case," he said, his hands still shaking as he wiped the blood off his face with a tissue.

As we drove away, I prayed this experience would curb his recklessness, with four days left together before I went home and he headed on his climbing expedition, but two days later, I found myself abandoned in another South American country, with him deciding to meet his friends early. "You'll be fine," he said, stuffing his clothes into his backpack." I had no idea if the hotel we were staying at was even in a safe area, and I had no idea where I should explore that was safe either, as I wandered the streets by myself, trying to stay in the busy touristy areas. I was scared the whole time, and it hadn't helped seeing a woman in front of me getting her purse snatched by way of a large knife, as he sawed the strap off her shoulder. And it didn't help that one night, after deciding to put a chair against the handle of my hotel door, due to there only being small push in lock, someone tried to break in, as they turned the handle back and forth before eventually giving up.

I'd never been this emotionally and physically tired in my life, as I made my way home on the plane, accidentally sleeping on the shoulder of the man next to me. I felt beaten down, and when I got home, all I wanted to do was barricade myself in my condo and sleep. "The trip was great," I told everyone, not wanting to admit how disastrous it had been. "Want to see the photos?"

I hadn't heard from my photographer boyfriend (if you could call him that) for several days, when suddenly my cell phone lit up with a strange number. The line was crackly with a faint voice. It was him, and he was crying on the phone. "This climb is proving to be harder than I thought," he said, out of breath. "I can't seem to regulate my oxygen." I didn't say anything, refusing to show empathy for a man who'd been so thoughtless and cruel. "I also realized something else while up on the mountain," he said. "I love you, Ellie."

I wish that I could say him shouting his love from the mountain tops would end in some fairy tale love story, but that wasn't the case, with a break-up occurring soon afterwards. As I stared at the one beautiful photo he'd taken of me on the trip, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever allow the beauty he captured, to enter into his own heart. And more importantly, I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever find true love, or if I'd always be destined to date men I wanted to fix but never could.

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