Telephones!

Sunday June 27, 2010

I awoke this morning to Teodoro banging on my door at 5:30 AM. ¿Ya estás lista? (are you ready??) Uhh quince minutos...! (fifteen minutes...!) I respond, kicking off my sleeping bag and frantically patting the nightstand with both hands in the pre-dawn darkness until I feel the small rectangular box I seek. Strrrrike. My world is illuminated. In the flickering light I rush to put my contacts in, throw on long pants and a t-shirt, and double-check the contents of the backpack I had packed the night before. I got halfway out the door before realizing I was deliriously hungry from having foregone dinner for sleep the night before after an exhausting day of work up the road. Fail. I poured a ration of granola onto my super fancy collapsible plate, shoved a handful of walnuts into my pocket and grabbed my spoon as Teodoro came running Ya están! Ya están! Sube! (They're here, they're here! Head on up there!). No time for manners, I shoved the spoon under my door and rushed up the dark driveway shoving handfuls of granola in my mouth, trying to choke it all down before arriving at the beat-up old van that awaited us at the top of the drive. Teo ran up behind me Ven! (come on!). I ran up the remainder of the drive after him, stuffed one last handful of granola in my face as I tapped the remaining crumbs out onto the ground mid-stride and jumped through the open sliding door. Teo hopped in after me and the van took off down the mountain, not even bothering to wait for us to close the door.

Caranavi was our destination; my heart swelled anxiously at the thought of electricity and, more importantly, telephones. It had been nearly a week since I'd spoken English, and though I'm loving the immersion, I was definitely looking forward to the effortless free-flow of dialogue in the mother tongue.

The pale yellow hues of dawn grew stronger by the minute as the road jostled us back and forth. My feet pressed hard against the rubber-covered ledge that ran along the floor behind the front seats—a futile effort to keep myself from sliding off of the shabby vinyl upholstery as we bumped and bounced down the mountain. In my peripheral vision I could see Teodoro's head bob to the rhythm of the road in unison with the tacky tassels on the blanket that rested atop the dashboard. I munched on walnuts and turned my gaze to the window, where the sun was gaining speed as it cast its spotlight on the grand, eternal show that is the jungle. Raptors surveyed the valley floor from their perches atop trees that clung to the side of the cliff to our left. Vultures circled round and round, riding the early morning thermals out of the valley and up, up, up until their immense wingspans were no more than a speck of black in a sea of blue. Green parrots dipped between dusty brown trees and the familiar operatic black birds with long yellow tails were already hard at work reinforcing the tear-drop shaped nests that hung high above the road. A pair of toucans provided a welcome splash of color as they hopped around the dusty canopy at road level. Life was everywhere.

I settled into the pace of the dawn and the feel of the road and began to reflect on what had been a week full of firsts. Though the struggle of life in a foreign language was perhaps the most outwardly taxing item on the list, other major adjustments had been made as well—like the fact that I hadn't seen my reflection in a week, or heard the news, or flipped a light switch. Nor had I had a hot shower, tweezed my eyebrows (I was bound to forget something essential at home), or, for all intents and purposes, washed my hair (in a moment of tree-hugging traveler bliss I would later come to regret, I had opted to bring only uber-lightweight-biodegradable-fully-non-functional-travel-shampoo-plus-conditioner-leaves packaged prettily in a little mini recycled-plastic container with a flip top...This'll be great, I thought.....Fail.). I hadn't heard a phone ring (or even seen a phone, for that matter), I hadn't spent a single ounce of effort wondering what I was going to wear that day (answer: whatever pant/shirt combination I washed the day before), and believe it or not, this nutritionally-conscious, sustainable-agriculture-loving, farmers'-market-going yuppie vegetarian hadn't eaten a single raw vegetable in ten long days (turns out I like not being ill more than I like plates full of lettuce). Another thing I hadn't done was truly miss any of these things with the exception of a phone and the internet to connect me to loved ones. Well, that and shampoo, I suppose....we can't all be hippie superheroes. The week may have been full of firsts, but upon reflecting I was amazed at how easy it had been to fall into step here, just around the bend from Civilization and a good two hours past Nowhere. The gentle rhythm of life in the mountains...the sun, the roosters, the labor, the descansos...the simplicity of it has an appeal that's hard to deny.

We arrived in Caranavi around 7:30 with two goals: make phone calls home and purchase vegetables for soup. Being too early to do either of those things, Teodoro showed me around town a bit. We passed small shops with their mini aluminum garage doors pulled halfway up as shopkeepers ducked in and out in preparation for the day, we passed tired-looking women in stained blue smocks as they neatly arranged boxes full of bread, bags full of dried cereals, and crates full of eggs along blankets on the sidewalk. We passed groups of insufferable young men ...Ayyyy guapa....! (“borrachos,” Teodoro said quietly amidst a backdrop of crude catcalls as he led me to the opposite side of the street), we passed entire families on single motorbikes, we passed early-morning ice cream vendors and fruit juice makers, we passed half-finished buildings and wandering chickens, we passed emaciated cows sifting through trash, we passed singing church congregations, and finally we stopped for breakfast. We each paid 4 Bolivianos (roughly 50 cents) for an api con buñuelos, or in English, a sugary thick red corn-based drink served piping hot with a side of fried dough. Hearty...

At last the door of the Punto Cotel raised all the way up; I disappeared into a phone booth for a glorious hour of effortless conversation (thanks, boyfriend...).

I exited the phone booth feeling renewed, and with a bit of a spring in my step I rejoined Teo as we made our way to the market. On the sidewalk we approached a garbage bin-sized bucket full of colorful plastic brooms that surrounded a perch upon which sat three parrots. Imagine my delight when, as we passed, I realized the birds were chatting away in Spanish, not English! As we neared the market, the road and sidewalk filled with colorful tarps and long wooden tables, all brimming with bright piles of vegetables and exotic fruits. More women sporting dirty blue smocks over their layered skirts called out the names and prices of their goods with the practiced tongue of an auctioneer: TomateCebollaZanaoriaBetarugaUnaPesetaParaDos—Dos, OoooonBolivianoooo! We made our way up the line, selecting two cuts from a humongous dark green winter squash, a bunch of Swiss chard, and a huge bundle of celery. Inside the market was more of the same plus a line of vendors separated from the rest of the floor by a row of glass cases, in and around which hung bright red and pale pink carcasses. Fluorescent hand-lettered signs that were stuck to the glass announced prices of various cuts, as the men who ran the booths were far too busy cutting, hanging, and rearranging to announce the deals themselves. We moved deeper into the market and purchased liter bags bags full of carrots, onions, tomatoes, peas, broad beans, and small purple potatoes, as well as two plastic grocery bags filled with dry pasta, a can of powdered milk, candles, and matches. Everything disappeared into the large potato sack that Teodoro had slung over his shoulder. When all was said and done, I had paid approximately $11 for a sack of local, organic produce that would last us all week. Take that Davis Square Farmers' Market....

Then we waited. There was only one taxi leaving Caranavi and heading in our direction that afternoon, and it didn't leave until 1:00 pm. We found a bench in the town plaza and took turns guarding our vegetable loot so each of us could see the sights (honestly there were not a whole lot of sights to be seen), and at 12:30 we headed to the taxi stand to make sure we could claim two seats (or maybe one and a half)

Our taxi was a small station wagon. In that small station wagon we fit 8 adults, a toddler, and a puppy in a box, and the trunk was 2/3 full of vegetables and other luggage (all 100 pounds of Teodoro squeezed into the other 1/3). Up we went through the clouds of dust, sailing at break-neck speeds over ruts, craters, and small canyons, always on the edge of the precipice. Our driver seemed to have a bit of an ego, and though he clearly was more comfortable (and more capable of) driving at a reasonable pace, every time another car came up behind us wanting to pass he would speed up to keep the car at bay. All this accomplished was gravely aggravating the drivers behind us (who maintained a steady rate of honking the entire time) and quite possibly giving himself an aneurism as he nervously sped on, obviously uncomfortable with the pace. As I may have mentioned before, one hundred percent of drivers here are absolutely terrible. Not only are they perpetually in an extreme hurry to get wherever it is they're going, but they're always trying to find the least bumpy route to take them there to boot. What this equates to is that regardless of whether there are other cars on the road or not, your driver will constantly swerve all over creation just to miss a few rocks and dodge a pothole or two. Because of this unrelenting swerving, all preconceived social norms of driving on a particular side of the road go out the window; rather, it's a complete free-for all in which, if you are occupying a particular space, the other vehicles on the road are expected to not occupy that same space....may the most aggressive driver win. God forbid a large truck come from the opposite direction at a narrow part of the road, at which point you get to experience the whole thing, terrifyingly, in reverse. All of this happens, of course, while terrible Bolivian music blasts from the stereo, tassles from the decorative blanket on the dashboard sway wildly back and forth, trinkets hanging from the rear view mirror and/or suction-cupped to the windshield clang loudly on the glass, and your driver, invariably, is constantly rolling up and down his window (manually) in his best (but wholly futile) effort to keep the dust out. It's absolutely incredible.

So back to my terrible driver on this particular Sunday afternoon. When he would finally decide enough was enough, after minute upon minute of racing white knuckled around hairpin turns whilst violently jostling the car and its contents back and forth, the passing car would lay on the horn and flip us the bird as they disappeared into a trail of dust. Though comfort was merely a pipe dream and death was never more than a few feet away, I loved every minute of it. I literally laughed out loud recalling how my worried parents, bless their hearts, told me over and over again, “if it's a question of spending more money to be safe, don't even hesitate. We want you to be safe—if you need money just ask!” The idea of a “safer” way seemed laughable, as I sat with my left shoulder jutting forward, right arm awkwardly jammed up against the door, eyes squinting against the constant storm of dust that sailed in through the open window. This was the only way. The only taxi from Caranavi to Tupac all day. Up we went.

The first passenger got out an hour or so into the ride; suddenly feeling like I had all the room in the world (there were now only four bodies and a puppy in a box in the backseat), I settled in for the rest of what I anticipated to be a (comparatively) comfy ride. At this point, however, our egotistical driver did not continue forward, but rather jumped out of the car and ran up the path after the recently departed young female passenger. I watched him nervously knock on the door of her family's small, one room abode; I watched him fidget and rock back and forth on his feet as he waited for her to reappear. I had just about decided that our driver was going to ask this poor girl out when he came running back down the path with a huge grin on his face (success!?). He reached into the trunk and pulled out an empty potato sack. Hmmmm....It wasn't until the young girl reappeared with a brown and white chicken nestled into the crook of her arm that things began to make sense. Into the bag goes the chicken, **slam** the trunk door closes. The head count in our small station wagon is now at seven adults, one toddler (who has by this point wet herself, the lap she was seated on, and the seat beneath them), one puppy-in-a-box, and one chicken-in-a-bag; however this status was not to last. It immediately became clear that our driver does not often deal with live animals because he fully neglected to secure the opening of the potato sack in any way. No sooner had we peeled out into the road did I turn around to see a curious, cautious chicken head emerge from the bag and look right at me {{pause, head cock, stare, chortle chortle, peck, stare}}. Sensing her impending demise, this cautious emergence lasted mere seconds before all hell broke loose; next thing I know the chicken is flapping and skwaking all over the trunk, risking life and wing to get to the open window by my head. I lurched forward in my seat as beating wings ruffled my hair and a pointy beak aggressively tapped the back of my neck. When I turned around to face my assaulter, I caught a glimpse of Teodoro watching the scene unfold next to him with calm disregard; our driver, equally unconcerned, didn't appear at any point like he might even be pondering the idea of pulling over to address his misbehaving dinner. Thank God for the young girl sitting to my left who calmly placed a hand on the chicken's shoulders (do chickens even have shoulders??) to keep it in the trunk and prevent it from pecking and scratching my eyes out. It was all I could do to keep myself from laughing hysterically out loud for the next 30 minutes as we sailed up the mountain to our destination...

Best. Cab ride. Ever.