Back Post

It was not a good week, so instead I will back post something happy. This is a trip I took in the Cordillera Real last October, the Andean range northeast of Lake Titicaca in La Paz:

We leave from the town of Sorata, a few hours from La Paz and lush at barely 2700m. It is a well-established base camp for mountain expeditions, developed and traveler-friendly. We have a topo and Chris can navigate but the trails out of town cross and fade, so we hire a local guide to take us as far as a mountain pass before our first night’s campsite.

This is our guide, Don Octavio, and his burro Chato who Chris and I rename Bill-the-pony.

The first day is a brutal 5600-foot climb to where we plan to camp for the night, the abandoned mines at Titisani, 4400m. It takes less than two hours of ascent for me to pledge my lifelong love for the burro, who is carrying our packs.

The hiking group looks something like this: Don Octavio, of Andean superior lungpower, and Chris, whose leg:vertical being ratio is abnormally high and hikes like he is racing……here’s the burro………………………………here’s me.

Not visual enough? Ok, here’s me with the group at 9000ft:

Here’s me “with the group” at 11000ft:

Humbled, I concentrate on how amazing it is to be here; the spring of moist pasture under my boots, tiny Sorata in the valley below, the welcome bite of primitive wind across my flushed face and the thud of my heartbeat in my ears as we gain altitude and lose air. It is barely noon when the fog moves in, ghostly beautiful over ponds lying like mirrors in grass and crumbled shale, but I have to strain to keep sight of Chris and Don Octavio.

At 5.5 hrs, we have reached 14300 ft at a corte, a pass in the mountain that descends steeply to the mines. We are in the center of a drizzling cloud as we bid adieu to Don Octavio and Chato and shoulder our packs. The rain becomes definitive as we scramble/slide down the black, flaky scree on the other side of the pass. It is steep and past where we stand the bottom disappears promptly from view, covered by fog, but I don’t need a visual to cling to the mountain side. If the fog were sulphuric steam, this would be Mordor.

The mines would probably make a good camp if it weren’t suddenly a hundred simultaneous mountain streams. This was the chance we took coming so late in the season. Every flat spot that is not a little pond is piled with cow paddies. We find a tiny niche in the rocks just big enough for my Northface Tadpole. I devour an entire bag of M&Ms before we even start cooking dinner. I love backpacking. In the morning, it is still and the light illuminating the rain fly is inconclusive, bright but not sunny. We pile out of the tent; sun!!

Well, brief sun, a glimpse of the amazing view below that should be haunting each step of this trip, then the fog moves back in.
Up, up, up. Step, breathe, step, breeeathe. Last 2000 ft of climb but in the fog and water running all down the mountain we lose the trail to the Laguna Glacier. A myriad of rock cairns lead us up over a moraine. We reach the top – GLACIER! But not the right one. It’s unidentified on the map so Chris names it Tortila and I name it Baby Llama and we call it a day.
We’re at 5000m, no altitude sickness but I can’t sleep. It’s snowing, which caps the tent like saran wrap and the condensation drips on my face all night while the thunderous sound of glacial ice calving sounds a lot spookier and closer now that I’m trapped in a tent.



The morning is brilliant in blue and white. Breakfast, the worst muesli in the world, freezes to my hand. I settle for my mountain mocha (Nescafe+Swiss Miss) and my glacier view. We spend the morning hiking over the next moraine but still no Laguna Glacier. The unwelcome fog drifts back in and we enjoy our last view of Lake Titicaca from 16000 ft.

The descent is interchanging vistas and fog. We pound down 1000m over boulder fields until we reach Laguna Chillata, where the fog lifts for a final view of the cordilleras.

The Cordillera Real is 100 miles, from Illimani overlooking La Paz in the southern end at 21125ft to the northern view before me, in the shadow of Illampu (20892ft) and Ancohuma (21086ft).
Back down to sub-9000ft. Fin!

Thanksgiving and La República

Thanksgiving morning is sunny, after a rainy night trying to figure out where our friends coming in from the campo are. Our Peace Corps security coordinator calls to say they are still stuck in a blockade a few hours outside Sucre, sounding as cheerful at 8 a.m. as he did at 3 a.m. when we called to report them missing. It’s another protest in the wannabe Capitalia Plena - routine marches, blockades, boycott of session by opposition members of the Constituent Assembly, etc.

Then the majority party of MAS locked out the boycotting asambleistas and voted to approve the framework of the constitution, details to be worked out for the December 14 deadline. The new constitution addresses everything from abolishing the term limit on the presidency to whether private property goes to the state. Sucre exploded. Even my neighbor, a tranquila mother of 4, was out in the streets rioting.

In record time the roads and airport were blocked and the air black with smoke from burning blockades of tires and trash on every corner within a 10-block radius of the town center. The city itself was fairly quiet, since the Constituent Assembly had been moved outside town to the military base. The volunteers who could get out of town left and the rest of us ventured out for food. Then came the calls from Peace Corps, people boarding up store fronts, rumors of the first deaths, and trucks full of flag-bearing young men tearing out of the city. The marches continued the entire night, even passing by my neighborhood where it’s usually always calm.

A few of us spent Sunday holed up in my apartment or sitting on my roof watching the progress of smoke across the sky while trying to filter information from the storm of “news”. 3 confirmed dead, over 100 injured, 100 prisoners escaped from the San Roque jail, and the police in Sucre fled to Potosí. Meanwhile, 3 of the national news channels cut their feed and a 4^th had “live” coverage showing everything as peaceful in Sucre. It was actually footage from earlier in the week; volunteers that already left Sucre for Cochabamba were on the tape sitting in the plaza!

Today the sun is out, buses are running, and people are out walking like we didn’t have a massive breakout at the jail and still have no police in the city. This will always bewilder me. Bolivia can be like T.V. magic, where all hell breaks loose and then is wrapped up before the hour spot is over. Except here the situation isn’t necessarily resolved, but gets shelved for the next blowout. I went to work today but the office shut down in the afternoon for the burial of Gonzalo Durán, the first death in the weekend siege. The plaza crowd is angry, chanting “Evo asesino”, but otherwise peaceful out of respect for the mass taking place before the burial. The prefectura building is scrawled in graffiti of varying political wit, but it shows a change of mood against the current administration and the influence of Venezuela. Instead of putting up Christmas decorations I pack a few boxes with my most important belongings here, in case of evacuation. But with the holidays coming up it´s more likely we will be waiting until 2008 for this to be pulled back off the shelf.

FUN FACT / QUOTE OF THE DAY: “Chavez manda, Evo cumple” – graffiti on the walls of Sucre´s prefectura
[Hugo (Chavez) commands, Evo fulfills - a play on Morales campaign slogan]

Burnt tires, burnt out

It is the August meeting of one of our groups in the town of Yotala. Something tells me I won’t get to my class today (which, ironically, is about communication and conflict resolution). Señora 1 wants to guarantee Señora 2, but no one else. The credit assistant and I explain that participants in a solidarity group loan must guarantee every other member of the group. Señora 2, ignoring what we just said, thinks Señora 3 shouldn’t even be allowed to take out a loan. Señora 1 says that most in the group are being irresponsible. Señora 4 says Señora 5 insults her when she’s drunk. Señora 5 says now is not the time to talk about that. Señora 4 says well, it’s true. Señora 6 is sleeping and Señoras 7-12 have not attended the meeting, as usual. I’ve finished counting the bricks in the courtyard archways. There are 256.

It’s not always this way. And when it is, I’m usually more resilient. But almost a year of slow, frustrating work plus losing a string of volunteers in my region, including my best friend in the Peace Corps, is really getting to me. I have no buffer here, nothing to control swinging from wild optimism to crushing disillusionment. I don’t want to sound like a discouraged idealist who wanted to save the world, or a pampered suit expecting to be admired and obeyed. I am honestly neither; I am just tired.

I think my poor city is tired too. In August, Sucre began a movement to be reinstated as the capitalia plena, the sole capital of Bolivia. There were protests, blockades, and paro cívicos (complete shut down of the city, including businesses, schools, and all air and land transportation) almost weekly. The pretty white buildings are now marred with political graffiti and after each protest the streets are littered with the ashes of burnt tires. In September the protests were bad enough to make the Peace Corps nervous and those of us in Sucre were evacuated to Santa Cruz for a week. Sucre even had to postpone the parade for Virgen de Guadalupe for a month.

The Virgen de Guadalupe Entrada is our biggest town festival. There are more than half a dozen traditional dances, performed by numerous dance groups in beautiful, elaborate costumes from 8 a.m. until 2 in the morning. I joined a group to dance chacarera, an Argentine dance from the Chaco region. 6 practices a week and the delays from protests weren’t so terrific, but the parade itself was one of my favorite days in Bolivia. I didn’t fall on my face even once (powered by obscene amounts of caffeine and fabulous volunteer friends and Mama Lu, bearing water and snacks) during 6 hours of dancing in a long skirt. This is a huge accomplishment; next, I’m going to try learning to walk in a straight line.

FUN FACT / QUOTE OF THE DAY: Next week is our mid-service conference! 1 year down, 1 to go..

Habits I´ve picked up in Bolivia

1. Accepting anything.

Example 1
Neighbor: “There is a protest today. You’re going to have to take a taxi to where they’re blockading the plaza, walk past it, take another taxi to where they’re blockading the market, and walk the last ten blocks to work.”
Me: “Oh really? That sucks. Okay.”

Example 2
Other volunteer: “They just revoked the 22nd amendment.
Me: “Oh really? That sucks. Okay.”
Other volunteer: “I was kidding.”
Me: “Oh really? Okay.”

2. Giving long, formal opening statements at meetings that involve individually thanking every person for their attendance. Sitting through said statements of everyone else at meeting.

3. Dealing with fleas. It’s no longer appalling when I get fleas from the campo (or a bus ride, or another volunteer…). Nor is scratching the fleabites until they bleed. I’ve thought about using the cheese grater, but I’m not quite there yet.

4. Being able to sleep through horrific, long bus rides over broken rocks and rubble with a spanish-dubbed Steven Seagal movie blaring in the background.

5. Eating cream cheese. By itself. With a spoon.

Things I will never get used to in Bolivia:

1. Listening to static.

2. Yapsss, or Ya pueeees…

3. My Bolivian work partners hiding from me. HOW OLD ARE WE??

4. Walking reeeally slow while blocking the entire sidewalk.

5. Kicking starving dogs, games that involve burying live chickens in the ground, etc.

FUN FACT / QUOTE OF THE DAY: “Como es...en Gringolandia?” (What´s it like...in Gringoland?) -My Bolivian work partner

Cambaland

I went to the campo of Santa Cruz this week to help my friend start a community bank. San Jose de Chiquitos is a town of red dirt roads and spring greens even in the dead of winter. There are bulging trees that are said to hide duende, leprauchan-like creatures that play tricks on people. The Bolivian town is dotted with pocket communities of fierce indigenous nomads and Mennonites, tall Europeans related to the Amish that speak low-German and mostly farm (think Children of the Corn, in dark denim overalls, light blue dress shirts, and straw hats). In the hills you can hike to a great rock formation called Valley of the Moon and collect a fruit that tastes like dates and looks like smooth brown rocks on the ground, but you have to watch out for the crazy three-fingered man that lives there looking for gold. It feels like a fairytale land, or maybe a Hayao Miyazaki film.

The students are on winter vacation, and it´s quieter and cooler than the last time we were here in the stifling spring heat. Cooler meaning, you still don´t have to sleep with a blanket and cold bucket baths feel great in the afternoon. Jenny´s counterpart is a priest named Brother Melchor. He is like a jolly little elf and claps and shouts “Ánimo!” after each of our ideas. He lives with two other priests in a cozy little house in the ghettos of San Jose and they are all teachers at the Catholic Marista high school. The hermanos Melchor, Nacho, and Francisco are wonderful. They feed us lunch and tell us animated stories with exaggerated facial expressions like cartoon characters. I miss the fireworks and BBQ´s of a real 4th of July, but we bake a lemon pie for the brothers and spend the evening playing basketball with the orphanage kids Jenny works with. “Basketball” is any number of kids grabbing the ball and running halfway across the court before dribbling it twice and throwing a wild pot shot. There are 2 full-court basketball games and a soccer match taking place on the same court, miraculously without any casualties.

It is a nice break from malingering in my office, trying to track down people who don´t want to work with me. But it´s a short break; the blockade rumors begin in the afternoon. A paro near the border of Brasil, which will block the train from arriving in San Jose. Then, protestors demanding “autonomia indigena” close in on all roads to Santa Cruz. By the time we catch the last spots on a 2 a.m. train back to the city the miners have locked down the altiplano and the students are blockading Sucre roads. It´s an all-star week of civil unrest. Back in Santa Cruz I gorge myself on all the food and shopping I don´t have in Sucre. The city is decked out in green and white; the departmental colors of Santa Cruz and the autonomia movement in general. July 2 was the anniversary of the movement and everywhere banners and t-shirts scream “100% Camba” and “¡Autonomia, Carajo!” I assume that´s what the demonstraters on the street are saying too; the cambas drop their s´s and slur and I cannot understand a damn word they say.

Somehow, the only road not blockaded is the old, unpaved road between Santa Cruz and Sucre, so I am able to get back home via a 14-hour rattling wreck of a bus ride. When I left Sucre last week, police were lining the streets to protect the Constituent Assembly from torch-bearing students protesting state control of the university. In typical Bolivian fashion, it flared up and died down within the week. Now the new constitution, originally due August 6, has been postponed to December. So we can look forward to another half year of come-and-go blockades until the constitutional blowout. Ánimo!

FUN FACT / QUOTE OF THE DAY: “This would be SO much better if we had, like, a 40% chance of getting kidnapped.”

Dear Diary

Cold. Undercaffeinated. Irritated. Bolivian work partners ignoring me. Feel like I´ve accomplished nothing. Insert new date and repeat.

FUN FACT/QUOTE OF THE DAY: The plaza was tear-gassed last week while students were protesting for university autonomy. Oski would be proud!

Haikus for Bolivia

Got hit by a bus
Because in Bolivia
They don´t share sidewalks

Ahorita means
In 5 hours or a month
But never right now

Que lástima que
no traduzca en inglés
“capacitación”

FUN FACT/QUOTE OF THE DAY: Today is the anniversary of the revolution for independence, or the “first cry for liberty”