Kirt Heinrich
Wolfgang Academy, my high school, was one of the last few boarding schools for orphaned children in the United States. Since its establishment in 1830, when Wyoming was still a Territory of the United States, the school had turned the most unfortunate of orphans into great men and women of society, producing countless entrepreneurs and even five senators.
The institution was founded, built, and supported by the Wolfgang family, a clan of railroad tycoons who later went on to become a family of real estate tycoons when the railway industry declined. This family also owned the vast Wolfang Estate, a tiny part of which the school occupied.
We nicknamed the Academy 'Hogwarts' for two reasons. The first reason was its geographical isolation: it was situated in Wolfgang Estate, a vast private park with only a town of fewer than one hundred inhabitants within. Outside the bounds of the estate, there was no town for miles until Powell. The Estate was all woods, hills, and rivers, and this attribute made it the setting of various stories and urban legends woven by students with a lot of time in their hands.
The second reason why we called the school 'Hogwarts' was that it resembled a real castle: the campus itself was a walled complex of Victorian-era buildings surrounded by a ring of tall mountains that was broken only by a road running between two of those heights. If one hadn't heard about our school before and found themselves climbing up one of those mountains surrounding the Academy, they would mistake it for the ruins of a long-forgotten castle or for an abandoned fort.
The best thing about studying at Wolfgang was the spaciousness of the campus. Among the many buildings- blocks as they were called - classrooms were evenly distributed to avoid concentration. The upside to that was that if one wanted to get lost, to stay alone, there were plenty of areas where they could hide, unnoticed.
The most prominent blocks were the two towers that we called the 'the Residencies.' I know the name sounds like it is from a science fiction novel but, trust me, that's what we called them. The Residencies were where the students stayed: the boys on the eastern tower and the girls on the western. Each residency had: a common-room at the bottom where announcements were usually made; two study lounges in the first two floors on top of the common-room: one for elementary and middle school, and the other for high school; and various levels of living space above.
That night everyone else except for the students of grade ten was asleep. And that was a good thing. Awkward middle schoolers and freshmen wouldn't be annoying the others with their embarrassing music. We, the sophomores, had congregated in the Common Room to hear last-minute instructions about the field trips we were to go on the next day. Section 10 A was the most thrilled of the two grade 10 sections; for, we were going to camp in the Bolivian jungles as part of our field trip, while 10 B was going on a social service trip to help deaf children in Sri Lanka.
Some of the students, me among them, were seated on the couches. A few stood by the side. A few students brought bean bags from the lounges above, while the rest sat on chairs spread out side by side. And in the center of the room stood Miss. Berkley on the Persian carpet.
There was a blizzard outside, and as we sat around Miss Berkley, who kept reminding us of our school's field-trip policy, we wrapped ourselves in blankets: the fireplace wasn't sufficient to keep us warm, nor was the air conditioner in order. My attention was focused on the snow outside and not on what our Algebra 2 teacher was saying. I knew everything that was being told by heart. I guess that's a proficiency one gets when they listen to something the umpteenth time.
"Make sure to check if you have everything you need in your bags before y'all go to bed. Y'all are going to third-world countries. So, if you forget to take something with you, y'all are gonna have a tough time," Miss Berkeley said. "And remember: please don't forget to take your toothbrushes and toothpaste with you. Take spares if you think it'll be necessary! Y'all don't want your chaperones dealin' with your bad breath. Any more questions?"
We all looked at each other, waiting for someone to ask a question. No one dared to ask one, fearing the wrath of those who were so done with the announcement session.
"Well, seeing that none of you have any more questions, I'll make my way to the Girls' Residency. Goodnight, gentlemen! Sleep tight, and take good rest! It's going to be a long journey tomorrow." Miss. Berkley grabbed her cup of hot chocolate and her files and headed out the door.
The silence in the room quickly burst into noise right after she had left. Students began conversing with each other while the gluttons of the class dashed for the refreshments, fulfilling their late-night cravings for fast food. Most of 10 B went to their rooms to take some rest, while the rest of the students were finishing up their final pre-trip chats before preparing to head upstairs.
"That's one boring woman," commented Timothy as soon as Miss. Berkley left, "I can't stand her talking for so long." He was seated with Jackson King to his left on a couch adjacent to the one I was sitting on with Francisco Adelante on my right. "Especially in Algebra 2. She always used to go on and on explaining theorems as if we were stupid."
Jackson King chimed in, "I wonder how her husband deals with her."
Timothy scoffed, "Usually, women like her don't get married or end up divorced."
Jackson and I burst into laughter.
"Dude, that was mean!" I said, chuckling. I felt terrible for joining in mocking Miss Berkley. She was a darling - always kind and sweet to me. Well, I guess I would have said that about any teacher for that matter. I was a teacher's pet. People thought that I bribed the teachers for their 'special' treatment or did favors for them, but, in all honesty, it is not difficult to become a teacher's pet; all it takes to become one is simple obedience and a good work ethic. People judge others based on their work ethic and attitude. And, they like those who have the best of the two; teachers are no different.
Still trying to suppress his laughter, Jackson said, "Wait till Michaela hears that! She'll go on a huge rant about how you are the epitome of sexism and misogyny."
I quipped in, "Haha! I can't stress how true that is. If Michaela were here, she would've gone off on Twitter posting thread after thread blasting Timothy for representing sexism, demonizing you as someone who trivializes misogyny, and yelling at me for not intervening and minding my own business."
Francisco Adelante laughed, "You know, even I was in such a situation. I got her angry, and she went off on Twitter on me."
Jackson rolled his eyes while Timothy smirked. I stayed silent because I knew that no one wanted Francisco in the conversation.
Francisco's cheeks turned red as he stared at us awkwardly, wishing the sand would bury him that moment or that he could just run away. He broke into a burst of stuttering, fake laughter, and then lowered his eyes and went back to his video game.
The reason why a lot of people disliked Francisco was that he always sucked up to girls, at the cost of his own self-respect. He had been suspended for three weeks at the beginning of the school year because he had creeped out a lot of girls by hugging them randomly, saying, "Where's my hug?" Furthermore, he regularly offered to carry the bags of almost all the girls in school to their classes, to impress them. The girls didn't go on a date with him as he had wished, but they did take advantage of his free porter service. Those who didn't exploit his folly, simply snubbed him. Among these, those he vexed to the boiling point by incessantly insisting on helping them regularly screamed at him in the hallways. One of them also gave him a tight slap in front of everyone. Yet, that wasn't sufficient to halt his idiocy.
It was no wonder that he had become a regular laughing stock of our school's unofficial Instagram meme page. My friends and I tolerated him initially because we had assumed that it was just teenage immaturity. However, the point when he had become annoying even to us was when he started attacking others during group projects or peer-evaluations whenever they gave genuine criticism to a girl that he sought to impress. Even those girls hated that and regularly told him, "Excuse you! I can defend myself if I need to, creep."
"Well, guys, I'll go to my room then," I said, trying to break the tension.
"Goodnight, Kirt," said Jackson, followed by Francisco Adelante and Timothy McAllister.
"Goodnight, guys." I got up to leave.
Sensing that his presence was not wanted by Timothy and Jackson, Francisco walked away and sat in the corner of the room and sat on the table, playing Zelda.
Just as I was about to leave the Common Room, I remembered something and asked: "Timothy, did you see Hernanda lately?"
"Ooooh!" said Jackson, nudging Timothy. "Someone's got a crush." Jackson winked at me.
My face warmed up. I tried to maintain a stoic countenance, with all my strength, But I failed: I couldn't help smiling and then bursting into laughter.
"Look at his face! Red like a lobster," said Jackson pointing at me.
"Shut up, Jackson," I said, throwing a cushion at his face.
He caught it and said, "Someone is in love."
"His face is getting redder and redder," teased Timothy.
"Guys -" I couldn't formulate the rest of the words. My cheeks and ears warmed up, my heart racing. "Guys - "
"He can't even talk. LOL!" said Jackson.
Soon the laughter calmed down, and Timothy said, "Last time we saw her was at the Student Lounge in Braydon Hamilton block. She left early from our Dungeons and Dragons game because she wanted to pack up and go to bed before 9."
"Oh," I said. "Thank you, Timothy."
Jackson King chuckled.
"I'll go then, guys. Gotta pack up."
"Goodnight, Kirt," Timothy said.
"Goodnight, man," Jackson said. "And, by the way. Kirt?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't spend the whole night texting 'You Know Who.'" He winked at me twice. "You've got to rest."
"Shut up, Jackson!" I said, blood rushing to my ears once again, while my cheeks became warm.
Both the boys broke into laughter.
On my way out, I grabbed a can of Coke from the table along with a few biscuits.
In the Boys' Residency, each grade had its own floor. My floor was the tenth because I was in tenth grade. Since the building was old, there were no elevators. Whenever we had to go to our levels, we had to take a long way: the stairs. At the Residency, we counted floors starting from the first floor above the high schoolers' lounge. So the tenth floor would be the tenth from the second lounge. The Residency was a cozy place to reside. But, more than the rooms, I loved to hang out in the stairs on the thirteenth and fourteenth floors, which were abandoned. Every full night, the crystal white light of the moon flooded the lonely stairs through the large windows that overlooked the field. And, I used to sit there, thinking, as I basked in the moonlight.
Fortunately, all the other grades had gone to bed that day; otherwise, it would have been a commotion at that hour in the stairway. On an ordinary day, freshmen and sophomores would be scampering up and down trying to work on the group assignments in which they had procrastinated. The Middle School and Elementary Schoolers were the worst. My greatest wonder was how they managed to run up and down the steps at the speeds they moved at without falling down. And those little ones seemed to be made of tough material. While I was walking by one day, I saw one of them fall down a couple of stairs. Yet, he got up, dusted his clothes and walked away as if nothing had happened. When I checked on him later, it turned out that he wasn't harmed at all. That was puzzling.
After entering the room, I dumped the coke down the drain, and then surveyed the place. Pleasing to the eye it was, unlike how it used to be during the academic year. I don't like keeping my room tidy. The bags I would be taking with me on the next day lay stacked underneath the bed, while the pieces of clothing that I wouldn't take with me lay folded in my wardrobe. Remembering that I needed to take some novels with me, I opened my cupboard, pulled out a few books that I could reach, and stuffed them into my carry bag. Before going to bed, I checked all my bags for one last time to confirm that all I might need were in them.
Throughout that night, I tossed and twirled in my bed, unable to sleep due to excitement over the things traveling had in store for me in the days to come. When I did sleep, I dreamt of the different adventures that I would encounter in the jungles, the animals I would see, and the people I would meet. I loved movies about jungle survival, and I thought how wonderful it would be if I had my own adventurous experience getting lost in the jungle, having to face predators and nature's fury. It would be fun, I thought.
Ms. Berkley had told us that the bus that would take us to Billings Logan Airport in Montana the next day would arrive at 7:00 a.m. According to the itinerary, 10 A, which was my class, and 10 B would board the same bus to Billings Logan Airport, Montana. From there we would fly to New York on the same plane until we reached New York, where 10 A and 10 B would split. 10 B would board a flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka, while 10 A would board a plane to La Paz, Bolivia.
The Day After The Next Day
The flight was tedious and cumbersome. I couldn't get myself proper sleep: the baby of the passenger in front of me was crying incessantly. But that wasn't the only reason why I couldn't sleep. Whenever I saw the mother nurse and comfort her baby, I was reminded of the sad truth that my own parents were dead. I envied the child. I longed for a mom who would call me and pester me before I went on a trip like that. I yearned for the opportunity of having my dad teach me soccer and being my best friend throughout high school. But, the sad reality of life was that sometimes the most beautiful things we wish for, don't come to us. Thinking about those things kept me up.
People often thought that Wolfgang students were privileged, and in some ways, we were: our school's wealthy donors made it possible for us to receive regular generous allowances, to get excellent electronic devices for doing our work, and for us to go on exciting field trips. But these things didn't replace one thing that we longed for: family. I wouldn't mind living in an impoverished home in Appalachia in exchange for having a mother and father, instead of staying in a well-funded school for orphaned children where I got almost everything that I had needed and even more. There is something precious, irreplaceable, in parental love that one would never get from their spouses and friends, or money. Despite living the best life in Wyoming, I longed for one valuable thing: a parent's love.
It was almost dawn by the time the flight was near La Paz. The plane had a very rough landing. A thunderstorm stretching from Colombia to Bolivia was to blame. Ever since the airplane had crossed into South America, all I could see from my window until we had hit the tarmac were thick clouds occasionally lit by bolts of lightning. Hernanda was sleeping on my shoulder for the whole journey. I didn't want to move her head. I just smiled at her.
We bade goodbye to our friends from 10 B the previous day when they had to board their flight to Sri Lanka a few hours before we got on ours at New York's airport. They were envious of us; for, they were going on a service trip while we were going on an adventure. But, sometimes life isn't fair, and we can't choose the things we are part of.
Nausea and dizziness struck me as soon as I deplaned. My lungs were sucking in more air, working harder until my body finally adjusted to the elevation. The transition was the easiest for me. My classmates and my teachers, on the other hand, struggled with headaches, dizziness, and all other symptoms of altitude sickness until we reached our hotel two hours after we landed.
"I just feel like I wanna pee all day. If I keep it back at this rate, my bladders are gonna burst," Timothy said as the bus left the airport, while Jackson King complained of a never-ending headache.
Hernanda Wilkinson used a vomiting bag more than once. "I've never ever felt like puking like this before."
By 8:30 a.m. I was in the hotel room that I would be sharing with Timothy McAllister, Francisco Adelante, and Mr. Michael Gallagher for the three days we were to be staying in La Paz until the bus to take us to our camp in the jungle arrived. Hernanda Wilkinson, Ms. Christina Seagale, Catherine Newcastle, and AnnSophia Fabron stayed in the room just opposite ours while the rest of the students stayed in the other rooms on the same corridor.
The view from our room's window was stunning: we could see the shops, little houses, cars, schools, and restaurants in the nearby hills and in the lower regions. I was glad that our teachers chose a hotel situated on higher ground. The sight of the horizon was breathtaking, especially my view of the sublime Andes mountains from the window.
On our first day in La Paz, the whole class, led by the teachers: Mr. Gallagher and Ms. Seagale, visited the marketplace and took a walk around the vibrant city. We had no difficulty adjusting to the time zone; for, the time in Bolivia was the same as Eastern time, two hours ahead of that in Wyoming.
During our walk, we were entertained by artists who were dancing, painting portraits, juggling, and performing magic tricks. Moreover, there were many bands of musicians playing instruments like the harmonica, saxophone, trumpet, the classical guitar, charango (an Andean variant of the lute), quena (a traditional flute), siku (Andean panpipes) and reco-reco (a musical instrument with African origins that made its way to Bolivian music). Some of these hands had singers, and the singers in those bands had such powerful voices that could belt out even the highest of pitches perfectly.
"Aren't they the Mariachi?" Alice asked when we stopped to take selfies in front of one such band.
"No," I said, after Miss. Seagale had taken a group picture of Hernanda, Alice, Jackson, Timothy, and me. "People who are part of the Mariachi usually don't wear that colorful blanket-like thingy over their neck, and they don't have so many traditional instruments."
"How do you know that?" Hernanda asked.
"Is there anything you can't find on Google?" I chuckled.
We then ventured into what was a spice market, which was saturated with the warm, spicy aromas of spices that reminded some of us of our time visiting Souq Waqif in Doha, Qatar, when we had gone to attend the THIMUN-Qatar Model UN conference.
"¿Buenos días señores y señoritas. Ustedes necesitan algo?" a little boy asked Hernanda, Timothy, Alice and me, offering to let us smell some fresh cloves
"No, gracias," I said, staring at those sackfuls of fresh spices organized in neatly arranged rows.
What I liked the most about the market was street food. At almost every street, one could hear the sizzle of boiling oil, indicating the presence of a food stall. The alluring scent of cheese, fried meat, and dough that wafted through the air caused even the most committed of folks, who were dieting, to give up on their regimes.
"Weren't you dieting?" Timothy teased David Taylor, who had stuffed an empanada into his mouth.
Cheese, meat juices, and oil were dripping from the corner of his lips. David mumbled for a while and then waited to swallow before opening his mouth. "Can't help it, Timmie!"
"Well, I'll leave you to enjoy your moments of infidelity against your dieting plan, then," Timothy said, laughing, as he bought two of those empanadas from a stall operated by an elderly woman.
On our second day in the city, we visited Valle de La Luna. The highlight of Valle de La Luna was that it had a rocky, barren, greyish terrain that resembled the moon. This uniqueness of the valley was why it had been chosen as the filming location for various blockbusters. Before returning to the city, we visited a small lake and a reptile park. For the rest of the day, we were at a food festival in El Alto Commercial Center after resting for three hours at the hotel.
La Paz had enthralled and captivated us to such an extent that on the third day - our last day in the city - we were sad that we had to leave for camp. Our teachers told us that a bus would come to pick us up at 2.30 p.m. that day. But the bus arrived late, and I had dozed off, tired of waiting for long. When it arrived three hours late at 5.30, Mr. Gallagher woke me up and helped me carry my bags to the bus.
"I am Sergio Abrigo," a tall, sturdy man greeted me in Spanish-accented English, offering his hand as soon as I got into my seat. I later learned that he was the person who would be in charge of our camp.
"Heinrich. Heinrich Kirt." I smiled and shook his hand.
When all of us had boarded the bus, our teachers checked if everyone was inside. Once they confirmed everyone was in, they got inside and gave Sergio and his assistant the clearance to leave, after which Sergio drove out of the hotel's driveway.
As the vehicle hit the road, I bade goodbye to the hotel I enjoyed staying in and the room from which I enjoyed breathtaking views of La Paz and the mountains on the horizon. I couldn't wait to experience the adventures that I thought I'd encounter and the fun I thought I'd have.
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