On a Mission

Concepcion

San Ignacio

Concepcion

San Miguel

Concepcion

Majadito

San Miguel

Concepcion

Loop of Jesuit Missions

I needed to see another old church like I needed another hole in my head. However, since being in Bolivia, I have been intrigued by the Jesuit settlements in the jungles of eastern part of the country.

The Catholic Church sent a group of Jesuits to some hellacious “off the map” places some 300-years ago to convert the nomadic jungle tribes to Christianity. During the same period, the Portuguese were also in area and had more "laborious" intentions for the indigenous people. The Jesuits were soon forced out, and boundaries were established between Brazil and what would become Bolivia. However, before their forced exodus, the Jesuits built these amazing missions, or “reductions” as they were then called.

The post and beam construction with thatched roofs utilized materials from the cleared rain forest and the architectural style incorporated a fusion of European design and Indian styles, making them unique to anything else that had been built at that time. The non-supporting walls were made of adobe. Many of the missions on the UNESCO list were restored in the 1970’s.

Now in the thick of winter, the dense lowlands are still very hot and humid. I cannot, and do not even want to try to think how miserable it is in the summer months, or how hard it is to get there. Red dirt roads plagued with huge potholes were the only choice. The potholes were impossible to avoid. Imaging what the Jesuits must have gone through to get to these places, to get through the virgin jungle is beyond my capacity.

The missions survived the exodus/slaughter and the local people that survived continued to use the buildings for worship. The Jesuits famously used music as a tool to attract and convert the “savages”, and this has become an important legacy of the missions. Children are still taught how to play music on “western instruments” on site. I was lucky enough to enjoy an impromptu recital by three young girls on violins at the San Miguel mission.

Due to heavy rains, I stayed a second night in the beautiful Gran Hotel Concepcion for about $25 a night, which included a breakfast of scrambled eggs, fresh papaya and pineapple and a selection of the local variations of empanadas. At night I would walk across the square to the Buon Gusto outdoor restaurant for their Majadito. Typical to the area, Majadito is a rice dish slow cooked with shredded dehydrated beef and seasoning, topped with a fried egg and plantain. The juices from the meat make the dish filling and tasty. Served with a salad and a cold Huari beer, it was good enough to repeat the next night – not there was much of a choice.

Another day spent on the bombed-out roads, viewing five of the six missions listed on the UNESCO list, and I had seen enough. I found a hotel just opened by a Belgian couple in the town of San Jose de Chiquitos and was in bed soon after checking in. I wanted to get on the paved road to the border as early as possible in the morning. However, waking up to a flat rear tire and leaking drive shaft changed those plans. ARGH!!

For a good movie on the topic check out the Robert DeNiro, Jeremy Irons 1986 flick,

The Mission

Ruta del Che

Going away party
Cake in a box

I left Sucre on Monday June 30th and would have used the slightest excuse to stay another day or another week, but knew that would not make things any easier. On Sunday, the day before leaving, many of the kids from center came by the house to surprise me with a going away party. I had been tipped off a couple days prior but acted surprised when I swung the large wooden door open. Laughing hysterically at what they thought they had just pulled off, the children entered the expansive colonial courtyard. Eleven-year old Edmundo was carrying a cardboard box that when opened revealed a battered store-bought cake. Peering inside I asked if they had dropped the box down a flight of stairs or if it had fallen off the back of a truck. They played embarrassed as they lined up for a slice. I was presented with many homemade cards and a plastic Chinese made wall clock as a going away gift. “Ah, just what I needed!” After some photos, they scurried off to their next soccer game. There were other goodbyes during that last week in Sucre, but that is the one I will remember the most, and the one that made me want to stay the most.

The plan was to head east and then cut up north to the financial capital of Bolivia, the city of Santa Cruz. On the way I would take the dirt roads and follow the Ruta del Che and visit the last stand of Che Guevara. After a brief stay in Santa Cruz, head north on even poorer roads to complete a loop of UNESCO World Heritage Site declared Jesuit missions. The end of the loop would put me a day’s ride out from the Brazilian border at Corumba.

As Fidel Castro’s right hand man during the Cuban revolution, Che Guevara had always wanted to export the revolutionary movement to South America. Forming many of his political ideals on his own motorcycle journey throughout the continent while in his early 20s, he wanted to right the many wrongs he had witnessed. Bolivia, which borders five countries, was to be the kick-off point for the new revolution. However, many mistakes where made from the onset, and things went from bad to worse once the CIA got word of their existence.

My first night outside of Sucre I stayed in the small town of Villa Serrano. The head cold that I had been fighting worsened and settled deep into my chest and I was forced to stay a second night. The following day I headed out on smooth dirt roads with several small water crossings to navigate. Always traveling alone, I did not have any photos of me riding in the mountains of Bolivia, so I spent some extra time in the morning shooting some video (see below). The roads were fast and fun, but as I got higher onto the ridge, the road conditions deteriorated. I should have slowed down. I hit several large rocks and potholes that jarred the bike and me. Around one corner, I heard a muffled crashing sound and pulled to edge of the road. It is a terrible necessity, and overall bad feeling to have to turn over your shoulder to look up the road for parts of your bike. There, about 30-yards up the road was my right pannier. The previous welds made in Sucre, ones that I knew would only be a temporary fix, turned out to be very temporary. Luckily, I was able to re-attach the pannier and continue – though much more slowly.

Che’s ill-fated and ill-planned Bolivian campaign ended when a local villager informed the CIA trained military patrol of his whereabouts. He was captured and quickly killed while his hands where bound in a small mountaintop schoolhouse in the nothing-of-a-village, La Higuera. From there, his body was strapped to a skid of a helicopter and taken to the small town of Vallegrande. There, his body was put on display atop a laundry sink at the town’s hospital – a trophy on display for the international press.

Fearing that he would be viewed as a martyr and that his body would become a symbol for other revolutionaries, a small group of Bolivian soldiers secretly buried his body under the dirt runway of the local landing strip. For 30-years the location of his body remained a mystery, until a group of Cuban anthropologists found him in 1997, and transported his remains to Cuban where he now rests.

After visiting the now historic schoolhouse, I ventured on towards Vallegrande. The weather could not have been better, and other than tired shoulders and some coughing, it was a great day. The vistas were stunning with hazy blue mountains stacked up for as far as the eye could see. I was sad to be leaving the mountains that had become my home.

The dirt and clay roads were deeply rutted from previous rains and had dried hard and rigid, but manageable. I rolled into Vallegrande at about 3:30 and by 4:30 had checked into a $6 hotel, changed out of my riding suit and dropped off the pannier at a welding/machine shop on the outside of town. For $15 an aluminum plate would be welded to the inside panel of the box reinforcing all the weakened areas caused by previous breaks and welds. They would also machine a new mounting part that I noticed was missing from the opposing pannier. They promised the work done by noon the next day, giving me time to tour the sites of Che.

Since crossing into Mexico, Che’s presence has been a constant. His image is omnipresent. Whether it is on t-shirts, taxi or bus windows, stenciled graffiti, key chains … you name it, he is always there. I have tried to find greatness in him, reading his biography and his Bolivian journal, watching the movies, talking to Bolivians and Cubans, visiting museums and I could never really find what I was looking for. He is an icon, a man of his time and a man that was intensely committed to his ideals. He made the most of his life and I believe his intentions were honest - for this I respect his legacy. Seemingly, for a period of time, his stars aligned and he found himself in the right place at the right time and he changed history -there is no denying that fact. He has become an iconic image for college freshman and the oppressed poor everywhere. He represents change, albeit iron fist change. However, it is often overlooked that his vision of the “ideal man” was one that lived under the strictest of discipline and government control.

Last word: Some now call what is happening politically in South America, as “Che’s Revenge”. Hugo Chavez’s brand of government has spread to almost every South American government, wherever the majority of the population is indigenous and/or poor. Although, I would not call what has happened in Cuba and Venezuela a success story. What Cuba can be proud of, and largely thankful to Che, is a quality education and healthcare system. Cuba now trains young doctors from all over the world for free - even though the country cannot afford it. All Cuba asks is that graduates go back to their country and treat the rural poor. In fact, Santusa and Damian’s oldest son, Daniel, just graduated from the five-year medical program, gratis, room and board included. Now a doctor, he is back in Bolivia practicing in a small mountain village, treating people that otherwise would receive no care. Cuba also sends it’s own doctors abroad to staff clinics and hospitals where there is a shortage of physicians. In fact, the irony is not lost on the fact that Cuban doctors now staff the hospital where Che’s body was once displayed.

Here is a short video of my time on the Ruta del Che

Video

Dos Hombres in the Land of the Lost

6:00-8:00 AM The Departure

We woke at 5:00-AM for a 5:30 departure. We left at 6:00 with enough food to last us two days, thanks to Santusa also waking up with us to prepare some food for the journey. The motorcycle was squeezed through the house gate and loaded up.

I was a bit confused as to why we were to still going ahead with the trip. The night before Damian commented that he could not get in touch with his friend, our guide, on the phone –his number was not longer in service. I asked him if we would be able to find the tracks without a guide. He said no, he had never been there before himself and did not know the way. The hike was to be three hours in and three hours out. In the chill and darkness of the morning I decided not to question our actions, besides, the damage was done I was now wide awake and nursing a mug of instant coffee.

Wearing several layers of clothes, we left Candalaria. The road would be cobblestone until Icla, then dirt to Uyuni, and rocky dirt to our destination. Several creek beds had to be crossed, with and without water, along with pockets of deep sand.

Two hours later I was waiting in the center of the village while Damian looked for his friend’s house. The village consisted of one street about three blocks long sitting at the foot of a wall of red rock. Memories of southern Utah came to me. He found the house, but his friend was not there, only his wife. In the house, a long discussion in Quechua ensued. I did not have a clue what was being said, but it was clear that the woman was not very happy to see us. Before setting off, I tried to park the bike up into their courtyard but could not get the rear wheel up and over the high curb. The crowd of 6-or-7 young boys offered no help.

8:00-10:00 The Beginning

The wife led us to a wide expansive mostly dry riverbed. She stopped there and pointed off into the far distance. It was now clear that we were proceeding without a guide. After the woman was out of earshot, I asked what was going on, “where is your friend?” “He lives in Santa Cruz now and has a new wife”, Damian replied. The tone of the conversation back at the house now made sense, but continuing without a guide did not.

The immediate goal was to follow the riverbed to where it snaked between two mountains. We came across a man with a donkey, then a group of kids in school uniforms, and a couple other men walking towards the village. I couldn’t figure out where they were coming from, where they lived. Damian asked each one for directions, but was not getting the information he needed. Finally, a man in his 30’s stopped and spoke to us, his tone seemed nicer than the rest (all conversations were in Quechua) and when it was over Damian reached into his Chuspa and gave the man a large pinched of coca leaves. “He told me that people do not want tourists coming here, and that is why the other people were not giving me the correct directions”. “GREAT”, I thought, “I just left my bike parked in the middle of a town full of unfriendlies!”

Now, about 9:00 we followed the man’s directions further up the riverbed sidestepping large rocks and boulders while crossing the stream many times. It was already quite hot and I stopped to remove a layer of clothes. (Damian never even took off his corduroy blazer or wool hat.) An hour later, we came across several dogs barking viciously. We picked up some rocks and sticks in preparation. Damian called out to a woman that was walking towards a primitive looking shelter. It took awhile for her to warm up, but finally she too got a pinch of coca. She had her hands full now, so I reached into my backpack for a small baggie of the leaves that I had picked up as a free sample from some coca growers at a coca fair in Parque Bolivar the day prior. It would be easier for her to carry, plus I thought it might be a beneficial gesture if the coca came from the gringo tourist. She warmed up some more.

They talked and she led us past her house, past the goat pen to a smaller dry riverbed. There we waited while she came back with a bowl of boiled corn on the cob, or choclo. She also brought with her two fossilized shells and a hunk of solid copper. She sat and shared some of our boiled potatoes and oranges. It was a needed rest under a tree and we said good-bye, after I agreed to her asking price of 30 Bs ($4.20) for all three relics. I thought how I should have brought my GPS unit, not only to potentially save our lives, but also to sell the coordinates to the Chinese for the copper find.

10:00-12:30 The Ascent

At 10:00, we left the riverbed and started climbing per the woman’s directions. The new plan was that we were going to take a more direct route up and over the mountain in front of us, and then return by using a system of riverbeds back to town. We started climbing, and continued to climb. There was only a goat path to follow and goats do not use switchbacks to ascend, they get from A to B using the most direct path – in this case straight up. Being that Damian must be part goat, and well acclimated to the intense Bolivian sun; he had little difficulty with the climb. I was a different story. While in the riverbed I was able to wet a bandana in the stream and place it under my hat, but the climb had taken us away from any water. It was obvious that I was not prepared or equipped for a hike like this in the heat of the day and at 11,000-ft. By 12:00 I was experiencing symptoms of heat exhaustion. My head under my black cap was boiling and I was becoming lethargic and nauseous and we still did not know exactly where we were going.

The terrain was sparse and rocky with nothing but cactus, scrub brush and a few small pepper trees baking under the midday sun. The rock and ground looked of ancient lava. We came across another goat herder and asked for directions. We were directed to a lone tree further up on the ridge. I told Damian that I did not think I could go on. We agreed to make it to the tree and decide there. Otherwise, the only way down was the way we came, which was steep and of loose rock. The only good thing about the ascent was that when turning around the views were stunning -full of red mountains, lush green foliage along the rivers and a clear blue sky. By the time I made it to the lone tree, well behind Damian, I was completely spent, useless. The high ridge dropped off into a deep crevice with a couple of thatched roofed homes at the bottom with crops of corn.

The wall of the opposing mountain was completely different from what we had seen all day. It was not desolate landscape of lava rock and cactus, but of smooth red rock dotted with tall Palm trees. “Palm Trees?” There was a creek running between the two mountains at the bottom of the “crevice”, the terrain along the water was green and fertile. The quest was over for me, but I had to admit, if we were going to find dinosaur tracks, there could not be a more primitive or bizarre looking setting as this. It was like cresting the ridge and finding the Land of the Lost.

12:30-1:00 Tracks Discovered

I followed Damian down to where the houses were and he told me to rest under the tree while he walked up the trail where the locals said the tracks were. I agreed, and collapsed under a tree. A small boy in ragged clothes stood and stared at me, probably never have seen a dying gringo before, or at least not one so pathetic. Damian came back just as I was dozing off. “The tracks are about three minutes away”, he said. “Verdad?” “Seriously?”

The tracks were definitely impressive, much more than I had anticipated, and along with the surrounding scenery it was truly like traveling back in time. There was even evidence of an old Incan irrigation system carved into the rock next to the spring that was feeding the stream. This water source had apparently been supporting life for many, many years, and there was evidence of this all around us that told the story. With the palm trees and ample shade, the area was quite tranquil. After a few photos, and it already being 1:00, it was time to leave. After more advice from one of the resident families, we were off to follow a system of dry riverbeds until reuniting with the main river. The estimated time back to the bike was five hours.

1:00-5:30 The Return

We followed dry riverbeds for three hours before reuniting with the main river. During this time clouds started rolling in. The relief from the sun was divine, but then the rain started. The nausea would not go away. Once back in the larger riverbed we had to wait out a thunderstorm under a clump of trees at the river’s edge.

5:30-7:30 The Road Home

The motorcycle was how I left it, untouched. The woman came out to greet us and seemed to be in a much better mood. Damian and I agreed not to tell her, or anyone else who asked, that we had found the tracks – their secret would be safe with us. (However, it is just a matter of time before the secret gets out and the tour groups show up.)

We blazed home and arrived back at the house at 7:30, a 13-hour day. Santusa had a plate of pasta waiting for me and Damian and I shared a beer together. By now, we were scrolling through my camera’s photos and laughing as we told the rest of the family what we had gotten ourselves into. Damian even admitted how tough it was, which boosted my spirits and ego some. I give him full credit for finding the tracks and getting us back safely, even if it was a bit longer than a six-hour hike.

Here is a video I made of the trip for Damian, Dos Hombres

Leaving Bolivia

(top photo courtesy of Steve Nute)

Once back from The Island, I was fortunate enough to have three separate friends come and visit me - two from the States and one from Argentina. There was a celebration of my 2^nd anniversary on the road, and a lot of good meals shared. After the last guest left I had nothing stopping me from packing up and finally moving on.

I have long struggled with the idea of leaving and it has been heavy on my mind for many months now. Ongoing conversations with myself continue daily, about continuing my travels versus the urge to stay put and nurture my freshly sprouted roots. The process has been much more difficult than I had imagined – and I am growing concerned about all the voices in my head.

My situation deserves no sympathy, I realize this and I know how lucky I am to be in this conundrum. I arrived here one year ago almost to the day, exhausted and with my wanderlust largely satisfied. I had gone a year without hearing my name called in public or without being touched in any real meaningful way. In many respects, I had rolled into town on an empty tank.

Things are differently now. I cannot walk across the plaza without hearing my name called, no, shouted at least once. Maybe it’s Angelica selling birdseed in the square or small Ronaldo needing help washing the roof of a truck. And the beauty of it all is that I have the time to stop and help fill bags of birdseed or to wash the roof of that truck. It is my way of taking time to “smell the roses”, and its a daily occurrence.

From my time volunteering with the working kids and just being around for so long I have acquired a large family of little people that supply me with a ton of laughter and affection. Thursdays I take a group of seven to the school for the deaf where we are all learning sign language so that they can talk to a young cousin that is hearing impaired. The outing is an absolute hoot, and I would hate to leaving with such a limited vocabulary.

I have another family in the countryside whose art and way of living fascinates me. I had originally sought out to meet them because of how different they seemed, now their home has become my sanctuary. Recently we have had several conversations about me leaving and my potential return. “Yes, I definitely will be coming back”, I say. On my last visit I was asked when that might be. The only reply I could give, and an honest one at that was, “whenever I feel that my travels are over, maybe one, two, or five years from now”. Speaking in Quechua, but the message perfectly clear, the 82-year old grandmother said that five more years would probably not work for her. The room went silent and it struck me then that it could never be the same again, not as it is now. My little friends would have grown and some of my older friends would be gone.

In addition to my new families, I also have a beautiful, intelligent and loving woman here that wants me to stay. It is has been hard to explain why I am choosing the unknown over her.

During this process, I have had to reevaluate what it is about traveling that is so important to me. I have always discounted the “what are you looking for” comment, and responded with something more like, “I am not looking for anything, its just what I like to do”, but recently those voices in my head have been asking, “why?”

For me, at this point, what I expect from travel is:

a) To experience diverse people and cultures,

b) To learn more about myself, and challenge my limits,

c) To participate in my surroundings, even if in small ways,

d) To allow an adventure to unfold everyday, and

e) Ultimately, I set out to see as much of the planet as possible while still physically capable.

Through the practice of writing this all down, I realize that I am fulfilling much of what's on this list by being here, but it is not complete. Regardless, it feels like a waste to leave. But then again, it feels like a waste not to leave - to go out and see more. “Right?”

That said, I have been actively trying to convince myself to move on, doing everything short of making flashcards of the following:

• · As fascinating as the culture is here, it is a reminder of all the other interesting cultures yet to be experienced.
• · Yes, these children are gorgeous, gracious and deserving, but so are so many more out there that you have not yet met. What about them?
• · The seasons are lined up perfectly for leaving, but there is only short window of opportunity. The time to go is now!
• · You gave up everything to do this. You owe it to yourself to keep going. It’s too soon to stop, and,
• · You can always come back.

So, at this exact moment in time, the plan is this:

• o I will work to shed the extra baggage that I have picked up during my idle time here, both around my mid-section and around my apartment.
• o I will read about the travels of others like I did before leaving Seattle, encouraging my mind to leave first - body and bike to follow later.
• o I will focus my attention and research on Brazil and Africa.
• o I will spend my remaining time here saying good-bye, with full intention of staying in touch.
• o I will anticipate a bout of Post Bolivian Depression, but will get through it. I will have new scenery, a new language and new culture to distract me.

Therefore, on May 29^th I will leave Sucre on my way to Brazil. Within four days of leaving I will be at entrance of the Pantanal, the world’s largest wetlands (aka: swamp) where I will dig out my mosquito spray and expired malaria meds. Will proceed next to the capital city of Brasilia to explore the architecture of Oscar Niemeyer, followed by the beaches and bikinis of Rio de Janeiro. From there, down the Atlantic coast through Uruguay ending in Buenos Aires. Once there I will make the decision to make the leap to South Africa, or commit to starting a life in South America.

I suppose the moral of this conundrum, is be careful what you wish for. You might get it!

Thanks for listening, the voices in my head have quieted.

Secret Agent Man

A lot has happened, and nothing has happened since my last blog entry. I am still here in Sucre struggling to make my next move. But first, an update on my activities since the chime of the New Year:

I spent the month of February on an island in the Caribbean. My girlfriend, Silvia, accompanied me for the first two weeks and flew back while I stayed on for an additional two (the bike stayed at my apartment for this trip). “The Island” had long been on my list of places to visit as all my life I had heard family stories about what had happened there. Back in Guatemala I had bought the appropriate travel guide and started talking to my father about the trip. During our conversations on Skype we would go over Google Earth satellite photos on our respective computers. “Does that look the right place?” “Is that the bridge you remember?” Over a series of calls and sending screen shots of map images back and forth he was finally convinced that he had found the house where his father had died. My grandfather. Dad lived in the house as a 12-years old in 1953, while his father was stationed there with the U.S Army - until the time of this death at the age of 39.

It was an excellent opportunity to talk more with my dad about this pivotal point in his life and learn more about my biological grandfather. I ordered a digital recorder from Amazon so that Dad could reminisce at will and send me his thoughts via email. I was never that close to the grandfathers that I had growing up - I don’t think either of them had ever picked up a baseball, as they just were not those kinds of guys. Though they were loving and had their qualities. As a kid I always envisioned that my “other grandfather” would have been the type to teach me how to throw a curve ball while sneaking in a few bawdy jokes every once in awhile. He would have been that kind of guy.

I was enjoying the conversations with Dad, but at the same time I was in awe of the technology that we were using. Having taken much of it for granted before, I kept thinking about how far things have come in my own lifetime. Not that long ago (okay, quite awhile ago) President Kennedy and his staff were scanning over fuzzy black and white photos from U2 spy planes, contemplating if what they were looking at was a stockpile of nuclear missiles or a truckload of drainage pipes in route to a new road works project. Now, here we were talking clearly, with video, some 8,000-miles away from each other looking at the same maps almost in real time taking a virtual tour of a neighborhood in a foreign country asking, “is that it?” And, it was free!

Once ready, the trip had alluded in Guatemala and once again while in Colombia. I had largely given up on the idea, but then thought my time here in Bolivia would be my last chance before leaving the continent. Finally on the island, and after Silvia had left, I enlisted the help of a local that I had befriended, “my fixer”, and we set out in a 1953 Pontiac taxi to find our key landmark -the long defunct dog track. From there we walked towards the creek along the main double lane boulevard stopping once to ask for directions, showing my Google Map print out, crossed over a small bridge and walked up a typical residential street. There it was, after so many conversations and daydreams about finding it, there it was right in front of me. A house.

Outside of my quest to find the house, I had never really thought about what I was expecting to get out of the experience. Maybe I thought it would bring me closer to something that I had always felt cheated on, or maybe feel closer to my dad, but standing in front of the house I felt nothing more than if I had been standing in the front of the house next door, or if I were to turn around and face that house. I waited, but nothing came. Sure, I envisioned my young father and uncles playing in the creek, or riding the horse that kept in the vacant lot, but no parting of the clouds or bolt of lightning occurred, just a mild sense of accomplishment.

Walking away I noticed a woman sleeping in a rocker on the upstairs porch next door, obviously into her 80’s or more. It was the house were all the kids, my aunt and uncles, were taken when my grandfather collapsed of a heart-attack while loading a moving van - they were in the process of moving to a new house cross-town. Suddenly, there was a glimmer of hope of a personal connection. I had my fixer friend Vivian ask the younger man, assumingly the son, in the driveway how long they had lived there. “Only two years. Why?” Never mind.

It was meaningful project and I am thankful that I was able to go through with it, but it was also another example of the journey outshining the destination.

Mercado Campesino

Sunday 2, 2011

Adequately caffeinated, I stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi. “Mercado Campesino, por favor”.

There are two markets in Sucre, the Mercado Central near the center of town, and the much larger Mercado Campesino on the other side of the tracks. The central market is rudimentary and authentic enough, but the market for the “country folk” is infinitely more interesting. It covers numerous more blocks and incorporates interior and exterior shop space.

Today’s safari was to buy some clothes for a family of four kids that have adopted me. They have been practically wearing the same clothes since I arrived.

The taxi fair had dropped from 6 Bolivianos back down to 4 Bs since the president rescinded a recent gas hike an hour before the ball fell for the New Year. I asked the driver to drop me off at the Ropa Americana area. There, vendors sell used clothing from the United States. The clothes that you thought were being donated to the poor is often times shipped in containers to Chile, sold to Bolivian brokers in bulk lots and trucked to Oruo where it broken down into smaller lots and sold to individual vendors. From there, the garage sale leftovers and Goodwill surplus ends up on the sidewalks of Sucre, and other towns. The same happens with toys. It has proven to be a good business opportunity for a lot of single mothers.

I walked a couple of blocks, sizing up the competition. Its not just about finding what you want it here and buying it, it is the tact in which you approach transaction - the art of the kill. I stopped at a bin of children’s t-shirts. I found a couple of shirts with beach themes, a mesh athletic jersey for Edmundo, and two fleece jackets for Maria and Anjelica, plus a couple of others plain shirt with Goodwill tags still attached. “Cuanto?” I asked, separating each one in high in the air so she could count. “110”, was her initial serve. Game on! I took off my sunglasses so she could fully appreciate my “are you crazy lady” expression. I volley back with “no, no, no…60!”. She fires back a quick “100”. I put down a shirt and ask for a recount. She counters and we continue to volley. Before breaking a sweat we settle on 70 Bs, or $10. We both smile as I give her the exact change, and bid her a good day. Walking away I see an old Czech made Jawa motorcycle on the corner and walk over to take a photo of it. I hear someone shouting behind me and turn around. It’s the “venadora” that I just haggled with. I had accidently had given her an extra 20 and she was returning it to me. I give her a peck on her right cheek. The tone was set for the rest of the day.

The Mercado stretches for many blocks in every direction. For the most part it is divided up into sections. I would not use the term “organized”, but the fruit people pretty much hang with other fruit people, the toy people stay with other toy people, and so on. The ceramic Jesus people would never be found close to the bootleg DVD people. There are blocks and blocks of fruit, pastas, rice, household goods, blocks of meat separated by whether it moo’d, oink’d, or bok bok bok’d. All the essentials are here – like an outdoor Wal-Mart, farmer’s market and giant flea market all rolled into one.

After an hour I was completely lost, partially by design. I came across some basic but interesting potato and sugar sacks that my dad could try selling on Ebay, then an intricate embroidered tapestry that might make a good Ebay item as well. My Mexican beach bag that I brought with me was filling up. I stopped at a stall of dried toucan heads and llama fetuses. I paused and tried thinking of a good Ebay description, “Rid your home of unwanted spirits. Completely natural, no chemicals necessary” or “Jerky for your cat.” I thought better of it and moved on.

After finding a “tres por cinco” bin and buying three more shirts for 5 Bs, it was lunchtime. A fried chorizo sandwich with a smear of extra grease across the bun would keep me going a couple more hours. Dessert was a fried Churro (fried donut-like dough) with a warm chocolate sauce injected in the middle upon ordering.

Though I made some worthy purchases, the day was really just about walking around soaking in the smells, sights and overall good vibe. Block after block countless vignettes played out before me; the bewildered kid staring at his dropped ice cream frozen in shock, the toothless old woman wrapped in a blanket laughing on a cell phone, the nursing mother jokingly trying to get me to pay 5 Bs for taking a photo of her chilies, the disembodied pig’s head wearing an eternal smile, a woman selling press-on gold caps for your front teeth.

It was a day of cheap entertainment from the other the side of the tracks, often times the more interesting side.

Christmas 2010

Three days before Christmas the poor started coming to town. Campesinos from nearby mountain villages come to Sucre every year in hopes of receiving food and money from charitable hands.

Women, burdened with a blanket-load of supplies and three or four small children in tow, walk the city knocking on doors or following the stream of people to the next church or organized handout location. Once there, do-gooders dole out individual packets of milk, yogurt, bread or cookies. You can always tell where a “gathering” had taken place from the trash strewn about - the charitable groups never think of bringing a trashcan.

Though Sucre experiences this pilgrimage every year, there would be no facilities waiting for these people. They sleep in the parks or huddled in doorways. To make matters worse, it is now the rainy season and spontaneous downpours are good for washing the urine from the streets, but it does not bode well for those who put it there.

Christmas day I sat in the main plaza and soaked it all in. It was an incredibly sad thing to witness, but at the same time it had a palpable energy to it that was hard to walk away from. Every 20 to 30-minutes a SUV or truck would stop curbside along the plaza. A silent alarm would seemingly go off as children, dirty hungry children, would sprint across the plaza in their Chinese plastic or tire tread sandals to receive what was being handed out. Attempts at forming a line never came to fruition because everybody knew from experience that there would not be enough for everyone – it was first come first serve, survival of the fittest. Within 10-minutes the now empty SUV would close it’s doors and drive off.

I came across a couple young girls that spend time at the center where I volunteer. As we chatted and watched the “well off” kids play with their new Christmas toys around the statue of the city’s namesake, they told me that they were not having a very good Christmas. They did not get any toys, “We never do”, was their very matter-of-fact reply. Not bitter, they were just stating the facts with a smile on their face and a shrug in their shoulders, reinforcing what I have learned during my time here – Bolivians, especially children, accept their fate with great attitude and absolution, a cruel symptom of an ugly class system. They know they are second-rate citizens and matter little. Mid-sentence, they were off, reacting to yet another plaza stampede.

The day after Christmas the Bolivian government announced a 70% increase in gasoline and an 85% increase in diesel fuel. Everything will soon be more expensive. The poor just got poorer. In response to the announcement, the transportation union and drivers announced that they would go on an indefinite strike starting the following day. No micros (small buses) or trucks would be running for the time being. For now, there is no ride home, and when there is a ride home, it will cost twice as much as it did to get here.

Just another day in Bolivia.

(update to post: an hour before midnight, New Year's eve, the president bowed to recent protests and demonstrations and rescinded his fuel hike.)

Class of 2010

December 9-12 2010

My recent trip to the campo occurred during high school graduation. I never plan it, but I always seem to show up during some sort of festival. This is not a reflection of my good luck, but a reflection on how many celebrations are on their calendar.

It was also well into summer now and the mid-day temperatures were not as pleasant as I had experienced on previous trips. Everyday from about 11-3:00 was spent in-doors reading or sleeping, but Saturday’s graduation would all-day event. Make that an all-weekend event.

Ten boys and two girls stood atop a make shift stage in the basketball/soccer court under the 100 degree mid-day sun. The boys’ wore new grey suits, and the girls a grey skirt jacket combo. The sun was relentless and the boys’ jackets soon became heat shields during continuous speeches. Outside the school gates were tables of cheap plastic flowers and other worthless Chinese made trinkets that are traditional gifts for the grads – stuff that that nobody should ever want or have.

Later, under the cool cover of darkness, I returned to the basketball court. The festivities had continued through my naptime and into the late afternoon. Now, most of the town folk were sitting around tables with a bucket of chicha acting as a centerpiece. (Chicha is the two-week old fermented corn beer that is popular in the campo.) A band was playing (“more drum machine please”) and there was some line dancing by the new grads and some adults. I got an eye full and left, but the party was full-tilt until 2:00am.

The next morning, during my coffee and bread, Damian approach and said that we had some work to do. I pointed to the cornfields where I had done some work with a hoe the day before, and he said no, and pointed in the opposite direction. Santusa came along and we all walked down the street to a neighbor’s house. Today was to be a party and feast in celebration of graduation. I wasn’t clear on the details but it sounded like we were going to prepare a special meal where the graduates would all stop by and partake.

Damian took me out to the woodpile and asked if I could chop wood. It was 8:00 in the morning and this was the last thing I wanted to do. My experience with their dense wood and dull axes was not my idea early morning fun. Also, wearing flip-flops, I didn’t want to have to travel two hours to the nearest hospital with a chief complaint of only having eight toes. I took a couple of half-hearted swings, and that was enough for Damian - I had failed my audition. He abruptly took me back inside the mud-brick courtyard and into one of the small dwellings. There I crouched onto a small wooden “pedestal” and began peeling potatoes with the old ladies. This was more my speed.

I soon poked my head into the adjacent room where Santusa and some of the other women were working. My stomach did a quarter turn when I saw an entire cow dismantled on the concrete floor atop a blue tarp. For a split second, in my brain’s eye, it appeared as though they had spread out of the parts and were trying to reassemble the cow, like you would a car engine or other complex mechanism. Of course the cow was not to be so lucky and within three hours the group had carved up all the “parts” until there wasn’t much left, but a head and a fetus (never figured out this part).

Soon the party moved outside, slicing and dicing onions, greens, tomatoes, and more potatoes – always more potatoes. Huge pots of soup were bubbling and plastic tubs filled with salad. There was no shortage of toothless grins or laughter, both were in abundance. I wish I could say that I saw someone wash their hands sometime during the day, but I cannot. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger", right? Later, I ventured next door where men from another party house were roasting an entire pig in one of the “pizza ovens”. They were standing around the grill shooting the shit drinking corn beer, while the women were inside doing everything else – hmm, just like any BBQ back home.

Eventually the meal was prepared and the receiving room was decorated. The family’s proud graduate appeared in her finest blouse and pleated skirt and it was finally “go time”. I had gotten it all wrong; the graduates did not visit the different houses, the party house hosted a single graduate, usually a family member. The people of the village traveled to each house congratulating the person of honor by pinning money on a “money scarf” hanging around the graduate’s neck. Once the money has been given, you are energetically thanked and presented with a dentist cup of warm herb infused alcohol, some chicha, and a complete meal - whatever they had been preparing during the day.

I was a bit intimidated when I entered the crowded room, not knowing the exact protocol. People lined the walls drinking with music blaring and everyone having a good time. (Sometimes, being the only outsider, I often think that I should leave them alone to their rituals and celebrations, but I am almost always proven wrong and welcomed wholeheartedly.) I approached the table where the person of honor stood. On the wall behind her was a makeshift alter of plastic flowers mounted on a hanging blanket, and her new diploma authenticated by all its various rubber stamps. Streamers of toilet paper hanging from the ceiling completed the shrine. She stood covered in white confetti waiting for me.

Once face to face with her, I suddenly felt like I was at prom, not knowing where or how to pin the money, so I just handed her the 20 Boliviano note ($2.85) and shrugged my shoulders. She motioned for me to come forward and remove my hat, and she “blessed me” with a handful of white confetti over on my head. Her father patted me on the back and thrust a cup of chicha in my hand, as a woman put a plate of food in the other. I found a place along the wall to crouch and soaked it all in. “How cool is this?”, I thought and soon found three more house where my technique improved, but I got to the point of not being able to eat anymore food as good as it all was.

Thanksgiving 2010

Thanksgiving this year was spent in the jungle. Silvia and I had taken a flight to Cochabamba in order to catch a bus for a three-hour trek over the mountains to Chapare. A long way to go just to sit by a pool, but what the hell it was a holiday.

Cochabamba, Bolivia’s third largest city was hot and humid, and noticeably more green than Sucre’s dry landscape. The presence flowers and lush gardens was a welcome change, but nothing else about the city impressed me. It was dirty and industrial. The next day we arrange for three seats in a Toyota minivan. The third seat was my idea of upgrading ourselves to first class. At $3 a seat for the three-hour journey, $9 secured the whole row for us.

The van did not have air conditioning, and the air coming in from the windows was thick and sticky. In the row of seats in front of us were a young mother and her two kids, and a young girl of about 12-years old traveling by herself. Her mother had sent her off with a couple of bags of flowers that were stowed in the back, and she sat with a floral table setting in a plastic bag in her lap. I suspected that someone was getting married.

Thirty minutes out of town we started to climb. The higher altitude meant cooler temperatures, and once in the clouds, we were closing all the windows due to the chill. I thought of the movie Scarface, because these were the mountains where Tony’s Bolivian connection lived. I caught myself looking out the window for the mansion compound in the dense mountainside, but reminded myself that the drug lord was a fictional character, besides, “the house would not have been visible from the road you dummy”.

The road was terrible, and it was impossible to relax or sleep. The constant switchbacks, road construction and our driver’s obsession of passing trucks on blind corners were anything but relaxing. Our driver did redeem himself when he handed a lone construction flagman his bag of coca leaves, which was a very nice gesture. He then opened his glove box and pulled out one of two other plastic bags of the leaves.

I offered to place the young girls flower on our floor space to get it off her lap, and let her read Curious George (in Spanish) on my Kindle. You could tell that she was not used to traveling alone, but I think the extra attention helped.

What goes up must come down, and what I thought was hot weather before in Cochabamba now seemed like sweater weather. We had dropped down into a completely different ecosystem and it was now 100-degrees with equal humidity. Palm trees, giant ferns, banana and papaya trees, everything tropical and dense. This was also one of the main coca growing areas of Bolivia, or at least the beginning of it. The area is known for its cocaine production, but also as the childhood home of the country’s current president, Evo Morales. He made news about five years ago when he became the first indigenous president of Bolivia. Before his political career began, he was a coca farmer in Chapare.

Part of our two-day stay included a two-hour jungle hike, which took me away from the pool and I could have done without, but what I did find interesting were all the homes that we passed along the way that had coca leaves drying out in front of the house. We also passed many coca plants alongside the road, which were pointed out by the taxi driver, and then came across many small coca fields during our hike in the national park. All of which was on the up-and-up because it was for personal use.

Coca is completely and totally ubiquitous outside the cities in Bolivia, and commonplace enough within the cities. It is used on a daily basis by many people. It is used in almost every religious ceremony, both by chewing it and by using it as an offering. It is used as a medicinal remedy, and to alleviate fatigue and the effects of high altitude. Historically, the Incan elite chewed it, and to chew was to be Incan. It many ways, it was, and still is, the cornerstone of their cultural identity. Recently, a team of international researchers discovered that coca leaves have been chewed by inhabitants of Peru and Bolivia for over 8,000-years!

I have chewed coca leaves many times, and always have some coca tea on the shelf in my apartment. I like it. The stimulating effect is very mild without the jitters you get with caffeine, and I do think it has helped me at altitude. The only noticeable side effect is that your cheek can go slightly numb after awhile. Many people include a pinch off a calcium rich stone that helps release more of the leaves active chemicals. The leaves contain several alkaloids, but only one is extracted to make cocaine, and that is a very complex and difficult process to complete. The everyday indigenous person has zero interest in cocaine.

The point is that the leaves represent so much more here than just the production of cocaine. It is a major part of people’s daily existence, so when a UN agency on drugs reports that Peru and Bolivia should “abolish or prohibit activities … such as coca leaf chewing and the manufacture of coca tea”, it is absolutely and utterly impractical. The UN list coca leaves as a dangerous controlled substance, along with cocaine and opium. That is like putting poppy seeds on that same list.

Now I don’t like the current president here. He is a “Chavez high-fiving, want-to-be dictator”, but he has been able to stand up the US and DEA regarding the eradication of coca leaves. Bolivia refused to follow the US’s demand of spraying herbicide over coca fields. The US cut off funding, and subsequently the DEA and US ambassador were kicked out of the country (there was other finger pointing going on as well).

When I was in Colombia, a country that does spray herbicide from low flying planes, I read in the newspaper several times about indigenous people coming out of the jungles with untreatable skin lesions and dying of respiratory disorders. People in loin clothes with sticks through their noses who have been living peacefully on their own for who knows how long, but now are getting dump on with toxic herbicides, not to mention the animals and everything else that lives in the jungle.

Of course this is an incredibly complex issue, and there are a lot of problems here associated with the drug trade, and wherever the drugs end up, but you cannot eradicate an entire culture and way of life during your quest for a remedy. There is nothing in the American culture that you can compare it to. We have plenty of vices that would be hard to give up, but nothing that connects us to who we are and where we came from like coca does here.

(more coca news)

Stay in the Campo: Follow-up

Since my initial visit to Santusa’s, we have kept in close contact. I have made many drop-in visits on the bike, even taking friends on occasion, and stayed again for a multi-day visit. When they are in town visiting their son, they stop by to say “Hi”. They are open and honest good people that show empathy towards others, and through them, I have experienced everything that is good here, but also what keeps this country down – prejudice and an archaic class system. Santusa and Damian treat me as an equal, and I them. I would do anything for them, as they would for me. Whenever doubts creep into my head about what I am doing, or if I simply get into a funk, just being around Santusa makes it all better. There is such a positive energy about her, always giggling or laughing, in spite of a difficult life. So, during my last visit when they asked me to be Padrino, or Godfather, to their youngest son I was incredibly touched. In their culture, a Godfather is someone to stands up for a child during the major events in their lives, i.e., graduations or weddings. It is a position of great honor just to be asked, and once you accept, you become part of the family. So, I am now considered their brother, and they are my brother and sister. If I am here next December I will stand up with Carlos during his high school graduation. They know that I may not be here, but with the relationships that I have made since "pausing" the trip, it will be incredibly hard to leave.

Follow-up to the follow-up:

• · The pottery pieces were dated from between 1200-1800, which could pre-date Incan times, or not.
• · Yale has not returned any of my calls.
• · When I went back to the States in October for a visit I was able to sell a lot of Santusa’s textiles at Write Around the World’s fundraising auction (and I brought her back some decent sewing scissors). Now, some of my most favorite people back home also have a piece of Santusa.
• · Damian has become accustomed to riding on the back of the bike, and I think sits a little taller now when we enter the town’s center square.
• · The black poncho that Santusa made Damian when their oldest son was only two is now one of my most cherished possessions, and keeps me warm on many a chilled mornings while drinking my coffee and answering emails.
• · That feeling of contentment is still with me.