“Estamos real jodidos,” my new amiga from Barcelona says upon getting dumped in the middle of nowhere Bolivian Andes for a four day hike. Translation, “We are really f#$%ed” I lift my backpack filled with food and warm clothes, give a shrug, and laugh off the dramatic latin sense of humor that I am all too familiar with at this point. Once again it is time to embrace another Bolivian adventure.
The actual fun really begins with Bolivian modes of transportation. I have quickly grown accustomed to hitching a ride in the rear of camionetas (trucks) and cruising around the countryside while fighting for standing space with the cows and sheep that accompany me.
The train ride experience has not been a disappointment either. Presenting a ticket to travel with the peasant class, I shared a 15 hour ride with a group of Bolivian women sporting the typical fashion: braids down to the waist, long skirts, and multicolored sacks slung over their shoulders either containing goods to trade at the market, or small children. Nobody seemed perturbed when the train broke down for hours. Instead, they seized the opportunity to eat more choclo (corn dish).
Buses around the countryside mean throwing backpacks on the roof, praying with every twist turn and bump in the rocky mountain terrain, that it will still be there when the ride is finally over. It can be expected to honk at llamas to get off the road, and pick up various stragglers along the way.
Walking along the countryside of Potosi I even had the pleasure of being picked up by a bus. Bolivians leave no one behind. With my good fortune, it was a busload of elementary school children on their way home from a field trip. My new eight year old friend Michelle, gave me a rock as a present and wished me well on my trip when I hopped off.
In the bustling city of La Paz it would make no sense to have an orderly system of public transport. Instead, hundreds of vans jam the crowded streets while the person in the passenger seat sticks their head out the window and screams the destination of the vehicle. It is the perfect recipe for chaos. It can either be viewed as stress epicenter of the universe, or an exciting afternoon outing.
Camionetas, trains, buses, really it does not matter how you get there because each one is just as unpredictable as the next. Above all, wherever I land it seems to be the most precarious situation that I have ever experienced.
I have found myself setting off dynamite with local miners (first they lit it and chased me around with the explosive sticks… all in good fun), while relaxing by a lake I suddenly became a part of a local funeral where mourning means drinking more than the Irish at a wake, and they burn the clothes of the deceased. I have been dropped off in towns where electricity does not exist. In one instance the children came running out of the school house to say hello to the gringa and see how my digital camera worked (maybe the most surreal moment in South America).
Sleeping is on par with transport. One night in the Andes, my friends and I found shelter in a school house to escape the bitter cold. Other nights I have been welcomed in by Bolivian families in small villages.. The best family lived in a house that rivaled Swiss Family Robinson in the jungle territory of the mountains. I am really making none of this up.
Regardless of the situation, the outcome is always the same. Bolivians have proven to be some of the most inviting, hospitable people that I have encountered in this journey. Now it is time to pop some malaria pills because the Amazon Jungle is up next. Oh and, we lived to tell the tale of the hiking adventure…
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Crossing the line: The Bolivian Border
Crossing borders is one way to quickly learn about a new country before entering it. It never ceases to amaze me how one imaginary line can define essentially everything.
It was seemingly appropriate that I arrived at the Argentine border town called La Quiaca on a cold dark and stormy night. Alone and miserable after long arduous hours on an overcrowded and very delayed bus—the dreary setting seemed to match my mood. A series of unforeseen circumstances had gotten me to this lonely state, and it was time to turn it around.
Traveling instinct kicked in and I approached the first friendly foreign faces that I could find—2 Australian guys wandering down the street.
¨Excuse me, are you guys heading for a hostel?¨ even I could sense my weary and exasperated tone. The taller of the two replied,
¨Nope, we are killing time before a bus to Salta. Where are you heading?¨
He sincerely looked sorry for me, or maybe he realized as well as I suddenly had that I was in desperate need of a shower.
I explained that I was slowly making my way to Bolivia. The second backpacker chimed in with a laugh,
¨ That´s a seriously slow pace, you do realize that Bolivia is just right there. You can walk across right now if you like.¨
His lanky arm stretched out pointing towards a dark menacing main road. It is with no exaggeration that within visible view of the ¨other side¨ plump round forlorn faces were staring at me from a begging distance.
My instant loyalty to Argentina was prevalent. I was convinced that it wasn´t time to part ways with a country that had been so accommodating, and its people so welcoming. How could I possibly abandon it now? I graciously thanked the travelers, wished them well, and scurried out of the rain into the first inviting hostel to demise a Bolivian scheme.
A new day is a new beginning, and reason enough to enter another country. The sun was shining, and I reunited with amigas from Uruguay. Armed with courage and a passport that craved another stamp, I walked down the main road toward the border crossing, and didn’t look back.
The first lesson learned at the border—there are no rules amidst the chaos of third world security, but money talks. The guard would not acknowledge me until I displayed the wad of green American dollars in my hand that are required for a Bolivian visa.
The second lesson learned—excessive amounts of consuming Coca Cola really will rot your teeth. Bolivians should be the official sponsor of this beverage as their obsession with coca runs deep. Nearly every Bolivian flashes a toothless grin, or it is adorned with golden crowns. Ironically I have spotted more dentist offices in this country and each one sends a shiver down my spine. Perhaps I am more sensitive to this issue as the proud daughter of a Dentist.
It has been four days since the border crossing event. Painfully slow and pungent trains have carried me deeper and higher into the altiplano. I am currently writing from an Army Barracks converted into a traveler refugee camp (seriously) in the middle of the Bolivian salt desert. It has been a three day journey in a Land Rover (which has a New Jersey inspection sticker-- questionable?) with an international assortment of adventure seekers. Among the superlatives swimming in my mind, this is possibly the most interesting thing that I have ever done. My mind is about to explode with endless amounts of details on Bolivia that I wish to divulge… stay tuned for more on that and why Bolivia is quickly becoming my new favorite country.
It was seemingly appropriate that I arrived at the Argentine border town called La Quiaca on a cold dark and stormy night. Alone and miserable after long arduous hours on an overcrowded and very delayed bus—the dreary setting seemed to match my mood. A series of unforeseen circumstances had gotten me to this lonely state, and it was time to turn it around.
Traveling instinct kicked in and I approached the first friendly foreign faces that I could find—2 Australian guys wandering down the street.
¨Excuse me, are you guys heading for a hostel?¨ even I could sense my weary and exasperated tone. The taller of the two replied,
¨Nope, we are killing time before a bus to Salta. Where are you heading?¨
He sincerely looked sorry for me, or maybe he realized as well as I suddenly had that I was in desperate need of a shower.
I explained that I was slowly making my way to Bolivia. The second backpacker chimed in with a laugh,
¨ That´s a seriously slow pace, you do realize that Bolivia is just right there. You can walk across right now if you like.¨
His lanky arm stretched out pointing towards a dark menacing main road. It is with no exaggeration that within visible view of the ¨other side¨ plump round forlorn faces were staring at me from a begging distance.
My instant loyalty to Argentina was prevalent. I was convinced that it wasn´t time to part ways with a country that had been so accommodating, and its people so welcoming. How could I possibly abandon it now? I graciously thanked the travelers, wished them well, and scurried out of the rain into the first inviting hostel to demise a Bolivian scheme.
A new day is a new beginning, and reason enough to enter another country. The sun was shining, and I reunited with amigas from Uruguay. Armed with courage and a passport that craved another stamp, I walked down the main road toward the border crossing, and didn’t look back.
The first lesson learned at the border—there are no rules amidst the chaos of third world security, but money talks. The guard would not acknowledge me until I displayed the wad of green American dollars in my hand that are required for a Bolivian visa.
The second lesson learned—excessive amounts of consuming Coca Cola really will rot your teeth. Bolivians should be the official sponsor of this beverage as their obsession with coca runs deep. Nearly every Bolivian flashes a toothless grin, or it is adorned with golden crowns. Ironically I have spotted more dentist offices in this country and each one sends a shiver down my spine. Perhaps I am more sensitive to this issue as the proud daughter of a Dentist.
It has been four days since the border crossing event. Painfully slow and pungent trains have carried me deeper and higher into the altiplano. I am currently writing from an Army Barracks converted into a traveler refugee camp (seriously) in the middle of the Bolivian salt desert. It has been a three day journey in a Land Rover (which has a New Jersey inspection sticker-- questionable?) with an international assortment of adventure seekers. Among the superlatives swimming in my mind, this is possibly the most interesting thing that I have ever done. My mind is about to explode with endless amounts of details on Bolivia that I wish to divulge… stay tuned for more on that and why Bolivia is quickly becoming my new favorite country.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
and Holy Week begins!
Palm Sunday…Holy week is on the horizon. From my experience in Spain with Semana Santa, I have learned that when it comes to the Spanish Speaking World and Easter, a dramatic spectacle can be expected. It is no surprise that South America doesn’t mess around with Jesus either. Drums and explosions are currently awakening the small Andean village of Tilcara in the middle of nowhere Northwest Argentina where I am claiming my temporary residence for the next week or so. I am accompanied by my amigos, Natalia and Carla from Uruguay, and Fernando from Argentina.
The province of Jujuy is Argentina’s poorest region in the country, but it is rich in culture and scenic beauty. Artisan craft markets fill the village streets, folkloric music livens up the tranquilo scene, and the aroma of coca leaves that are ritually chewed can be detected just about everywhere. The surrounding landscape is painted with cactuses, canyons, and layered rocks of shades of red that only seem to exist here.
Walking through the streets I feel eyes on me. I am a gringo mixed in a world of poncho wearing, coca leaf chewing, folkloric flute playing, indigenous people. On a side note-- I was informed by my kind Uruguayan friends that due to contrary belief, the more widely used term for gringo in South America is actually Yankee. I am a lone Yankee in a sea of South Americans ready to embrace some Holy Week traditions.
The festivities commence tomorrow with a 7 hour long procession to some other neighboring village. At home, attending church on both Holy Thursday and Good Friday was once considered a major effort. While attempting to experience a new culture, I now eagerly accept taking 7 hour long pilgrimages… all in the name of religion. I have never been a more devout Catholic.
Amidst the fusion of Native American culture and Catholicism, this Easter will not include hunting for Easter eggs, jelly beans, and Easter bonnets, but I am certain that Semana Santa will not lack some lively traditions.
The province of Jujuy is Argentina’s poorest region in the country, but it is rich in culture and scenic beauty. Artisan craft markets fill the village streets, folkloric music livens up the tranquilo scene, and the aroma of coca leaves that are ritually chewed can be detected just about everywhere. The surrounding landscape is painted with cactuses, canyons, and layered rocks of shades of red that only seem to exist here.
Walking through the streets I feel eyes on me. I am a gringo mixed in a world of poncho wearing, coca leaf chewing, folkloric flute playing, indigenous people. On a side note-- I was informed by my kind Uruguayan friends that due to contrary belief, the more widely used term for gringo in South America is actually Yankee. I am a lone Yankee in a sea of South Americans ready to embrace some Holy Week traditions.
The festivities commence tomorrow with a 7 hour long procession to some other neighboring village. At home, attending church on both Holy Thursday and Good Friday was once considered a major effort. While attempting to experience a new culture, I now eagerly accept taking 7 hour long pilgrimages… all in the name of religion. I have never been a more devout Catholic.
Amidst the fusion of Native American culture and Catholicism, this Easter will not include hunting for Easter eggs, jelly beans, and Easter bonnets, but I am certain that Semana Santa will not lack some lively traditions.
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