Friday, June 18, 2010
My journey began weeks ago in Boston with a tour of outings, coffee dates, thoughtful toasts, and splendid parties, as well as phone calls, messages, and well-wishes from an impressive number of time zones and latitudes across the country. How incredibly lucky I am to have so many people in my life that insist on reminding me to always appreciate the value of sharing life's finest moments. Though I'm only leaving for a couple months, I savored each goodbye, took my time in clearing my room for the subletter while packing up trinkets, mementos, and keepsakes attached to what have undoubtedly been some of the most marvelous moments of my life these past months in Boston. At the same time, my attention slowly turned to the growing spread of necessities laid out on my bed, my best guess at a sufficient tool-kit to carry me through any trial or tribulation I might encounter in the next two and a half months in any multitude of unfamiliar settings.
Questions came in a constant flow from friends and family. I relished in not being able to answer many of them: “I'm really not sure on the details....it'll be an adventure for sure...!” was the line that many of you heard in one form or another. As someone who diligently keeps a calendar, depends on “to-do” lists, and delights in having “all my ducks in a row,” this lack of knowing has been surprisingly exhilarating instead of nauseating. Indeed, this forced flexibility has so far helped me to keep a cool head when things have gone awry. If you don't know what to expect it's difficult for something to not meet your expectations.
So I packed. I handed my bike lock key off to James & Kristen, who will keep Tonks in shape for me while I'm gone, I left my house key on the kitchen table for the subletter, and shut the door behind me with an empty caribeaner (formerly holding the keys to all of my worldly possessions) in one hand, 35 pounds on my back, a small backpack in my other hand, and a supportive if anxious young man by my side. Logan Airport was kind to me; no long lines, no delays, no stress. I had a fantastic traveling companion on my flight to Miami, a forty-something man from Uruguay who has spent his life traveling for both work and pleasure. I asked an endless sea of questions and he fired off stories, anecdotes, and advice for 4 straight hours.
The flight from Miami to La Paz was restless but ultimately entertaining I suppose. They served dinner (followed by coffee) at 1 AM which I found curious to say the least. Concerned with little more than sleep at that point, I kept opening my eyes in disbelief to see a plane full of people eating chicken, lasagna, and salad at one-thirty in the morning. I must have checked my watch five times just to be sure I wasn't completely crazy (“is my watch wrong...? is it really the middle of the night...?? Who are these people?!”). Despite foregoing the hearty midnight snack for a bit of rest, the night remained restless as I sat wedged between a middle-aged man overspilling the bounds of the armrest and an angsty twenty-something prone to (as far as I could tell) unprovoked turrets-like outbursts drawn from the depths of deep sleep.... “Turn it ooooffffffff!!!!” My eyes bolted open at 3:45 to see him jolt forward in his chair and cock his head to an odd angle, aiming his demand at no one but the seatback in front of him. Were it not for my seatbelt holding me firmly in place I'm certain I would have jumped up in a confused and terrified haze, pressing any button I could lay my hands on to turn off whatever had instigated such frantic discontent. Alas, he writhed slightly before falling back in his chair, eyes closed, unconcerned with the outburst that left my heart thumping in my chest, eyes wide-open, staring at the airsickness bag in the seat pocket in front of me for the better part of the next ten minutes. My mind wandered to and instantly regretted a moment of indecision earlier in the day, when, while standing at the air-conditioned self check-in keyosk at the American Airlines counter in Boston, Lonnie at my side, I had opted to leave my seat assignments to chance for the day's flights. Fail.
I arrived in La Paz slightly delirious but ready to take on the day. My head felt like it was inflating as I stood in line to get my Visa; whether from the sudden lack of pressure as my feet hit the ground at 13,000 ft or the fact that sleep had managed to elude me all night, I'm still not sure. I forked over $135 for my Visa, the cost of which I was reminded of no less than 3 times by an overzealous security guard who didn't appear to have any direct responsibilities concerning the Visa purchase. The conversation went like this:
Ignoring the other ten people in the Visa line, he leans over to me to say
“Visa, ey? Ciento treinta y cinco dolares”
I nod.“Sí, señor, lo sé.”
Five minutes later, I'm still filling out my paperwork and minding my own business, he drops by again...
“Cuesta ciento treinta y cinco dolares”
I look at him, nod again.“Sí, señor, lo tengo, pagaré en un momentito...”
Five minutes later, after having already paid the actual Visa agent, as I tried to get back in line for customs, he asked me again just to be sure.
“Has pagado..?? ciento treinta y cinco dolares por la Visa.”
“Sí, señor, ya he pagado....tengo la Visa aquí en mano...ves.” (“Yes sir, I've already paid...I have the Visa here in my hand, look.”) {{he cast a doubtful eye as I held out my Visa for him to see...he looked at the Visa...he looked at me...looked again at the Visa. Apparently deciding I was not to be trusted, he turned and walked over to the Visa agent to ask him if I had paid. The Visa agent followed the guard's pointing finger and emphatically nodded his head...I watched his lips mouth “sí, claro que sí...” (“yes, of course”) while his head gave a nod hinting the slightest bit of exasperation at what was obviously not the first time he had seen the guard get too big for his britches in the presence of an unassuming young female traveler. Finally the guard seemed satisfied and returned with a smile and a nod in my direction}}
“Bueno, ya está. Ay...tardes mucho, ¿no?...los demás ya se han ido! Que tengas buen viaje!” (“Okay you're all set. Geeze, you're pretty slow, huh?...everyone else has already left! Have a nice trip!”)
I passed through Customs, got my Visa stamped by 3 different people and emerged into an uncrowded baggage claim area where my pack was not waiting for me. Apparently the plane weighed too much so they had opted to leave a bunch of bags behind. My lack of expectations carried me through that one with calm disconcern. I jumped in line with the other passengers in the same boat and watched the airport employees as they lined up a slew of unclaimed bags remaining in the empty waiting area. Somewhere along the line, American Airlines had started having to leave bags behind in Miami as they made their daily overnight trip to La Paz. I imagined the self-satisfied brilliance of the guy who suggested sending them along with the following day's plane, disregarding the fact that tomorrow's cabin would be just as full, its load just as heavy as the one today. I wondered how long they had been playing catch-up for. As I watched the well-oiled crew perform their daily routine, the hems and haws and gesticulations of my fellow “chosen” passengers reached my ears and fell away, unable to penetrate my sense of calm. I smiled at the baggage agent as he took my information and gave me instructions to call at 8 AM the following morning. Turning towards the door, I relished in the thought of traveling light.
Jaime was waiting outside for me, bless his heart...with the weather delays in Miami and my Customs and baggage issues, I was a full two hours late. He was my second challenge of the day....no English! I feel like I held my own and managed to understand most of what he said and actually carry on a decent level of conversation as he carted me around La Paz over the next three hours, picking up towels and bedding from storage at Invalsa, stopping at the supermarket so I could purchase groceries for the weekend, and attempting to buy a calling card (alas, Bolivia is not so big on those). He then brought me out to my classmate Tina's father's house, where I will spend the weekend. Jaime will be my chauffeur while in Bolivia; he will bring me to and from my coffee-region excursions and I get the feeling he'll be the one keeping track of me while in the city as well. He is looking forward to learning a bit of English from me, and I am excited by the challenge of Spanish-only conversations with him during our travels.
As the sun crested the mountainous wall that protects the city, golden light set aglow layer upon layer of angular red brick buildings clinging to the sides of the cliffs, spilling to the bottom of the valley as far as the eyes could see. My head, already somewhat woozy from the altitude, reeled as we passed not roads but staircases that shot straight up the cliffs for hundreds of feet. Suddenly having the best view in shantytown didn't seem so appealing.
Continuing to descend, the hard angles of the shantytowns soon gave way to colorful, magnificent , ornate cement buildings in the old part of the city. Even at 7:30 in the morning, the road absolutely bustled with activity. I began to see the destinations of the indigenous women whose appearance and behavior had caught my eye earlier. Everywhere small steel garage doors were being yanked up to reveal shops bursting with any number of colorful sodas, fruit drinks, candy, and other over-processed, pre-packaged culinary delights. Elsewhere women laid out colorful blankets on the ground, carefully arranging trinkets to catch the eyes of passing tourists (apparently not all of those vibrant hammocks tied to womens' backs coddle infants as I had initially thought). Men bustled about as well, looking less exotic in dated western-style garb, but no less energetic. Every couple minutes I saw one hurriedly toss to the sidewalk a small bag and an even smaller blue nylon folding stool, upon which he quickly sat, legs splayed out to either side in order to best reach the black leather shoe placed in front of him. It seemed to me a futile task---spires of unsturdy sandstone give an eerie layer of dimension to the arid landscape dotted with scruffy low-lying bushes and dingy cacti. Scraggly eucalyptus trees and the occasional frail evergreen set up in groves here and there, a meek effort to steady the soil against the constant wind that moves and shapes the bone-dry earth. Thirty minutes in and my throat burned already...I cursed my lack of foresight at having opted to not fill my water bottle to the top at one of the twenty water fountains I passed in the Miami airport. There is no escaping the dust.
The old district soon opened to a more modern-looking city street, with square cement brick buildings shooting up twenty stories or more in places. Billboards, which had previously depicted slightly plump women adjacent to any number of products, now looked like any American billboard---full of scantily clad, airbrushed women, their long and lean figures standing out obscenely amidst the plump, calloused, tarnished-fingered, hardworking women on the street whose shapes were indiscernible under what must have been ten pounds of layering. I wondered what these women thought of the ads.
After a poorly executed trip to the supermarket to get me through the next three days (read: two 6 oz yogurts, a half liter of soymilk, one small box of granola, one can of tuna, one can of chickpeas, and a box of magic crackers (“Whole Grains! Zero grams trans fat!”) whose entire caloric value is magically little more than a single hearty meal...) and a couple other stops, Jaime and I hit the road again to head 30 minutes southeast out of town to Nelson's house where I am spending the weekend (left). It's a beautiful villa with unbelievable mountains on three sides, a wrap-around tile porch on the second floor, and a beautiful outdoor kitchen with a wood stove.
Dust. Everywhere, everything is dulled by a thick layer coating its surface, permeating its cracks, stealing its vibrancy. Even the ancient bougainvilleas, red and magenta in full bloom, lining picturesque stucco walls and framing elegantly stained wooden and wrought-iron entrance-ways look tired and defeated, resigned to a life of sub-par botanical grandeur. Everything here seems to be in a constant state of change, though any motion to that end is barely perceptible. Piles of bricks, stones, beams, and other construction materials lay dust-covered at the entrance to nearly every establishment. The concrete and brick homes that line the street have a decidedly unfinished look to them, most notably in both their lack of windowpanes to fill the large gaping holes that are customary on the second floor, as well as in the audible flap, flap, flap of the blue tarp roofs protecting the construction more from sun than rain. If it weren't for the regular stream of Hispanic music, World Cup broadcasts, and the occasional tidbits of conversation that I hear cascading from these open abodes, I would certainly consider them abandoned. As it is, however, when I consider the mild climate, warming sunshine, and lack of rain, I am hard-pressed to come up with a justified reason as to why these abodes are entirely uninhabitable other than what must be a tiresome struggle to beat back the dust and ward off the nighttime chill. Empty lots also abound, though they are strangely partitioned by networks of red brick walls tracing odd, partially closed-off 
I walked through three or four villages, separated by lengths of road spotted with homes hidden behind ornate but weathered estate walls. A gutter on either side of the road occasionally carried a stream of murky brown water and orange peels; dogs sniffed their way along the walls, occasionally dipping out of the sun to pad their feed in the cool (if rank) water. Discarded chunks of concrete served as mini-bridges over the gutter from road to doorway at intervals along the walls. I passed an impossibly old woman crouched in an open doorway, layered in skirts and shawls spilling over the asymmetrical block beneath her. Hair that was more salt than pepper fell loosely gathered at the nape of her neck underneath the rim of her bowler hat, and her tiny eyes pierced crystal blue from the depths of the deeply browned ridges that gathered around them; their clarity startled me...I smiled and said hello and she muttered incomprehensibly in a dialect I did not recognize. Every once in a while the road would widen to accommodate a central plaza with rows of well-tended gardens, painted iron gates, laid brick sidewalks, and invariably a small number of lazy restaurants, a church, and a small army of people-watchers. I felt their gaze and sometimes smiled, but usually kept my head down and feet moving, disinterested in becoming the subject of the day's gossip. 
