This was written on January 27. I'm a little Behind.... as always
Today is my second full day back in Bolivia. My second partial day in Sucre. Last night I slept in a bed for the first time in-well, only four days- but considering I had been to four different cities in two different countries since I had been in any sort of a reclining position, I consider lasts night’s sleep, on stiff corn-husk mattress borrowed from 85 year old woman, a notable achievement. As a reward for my long awaited sleep, I decided to stay in bed until noon- something I haven’t done for years.
It was not long after my plane landed in Santa Cruz that I remembered why I love Bolivia. The streets were alive and full of people. My buses were crowded with so many people- some of whom were overjoyed to help a poor gringa lug her two big bags on and off city busses that are too small for someone to carry a backpack onboard. Santa Cruz, for those of you who are not up on Bolivian geography, is the largest city in Bolivia, with a culture completely unlike all the other cities in the country. In the lowlands( a mere 500 meters above sea-level). It is hot, tropical and lush. Although I’ve never been there, I do know that if you travel to the north and east of the city, you will find a juncture of rivers that form one of the largest and widest waterfalls in the world. Keep going out and you will eventually find tributaries to the Amazon River, weaving its way through the jungle and into Brazil. The city itself has been greatly impacted by the influence of the United States. Walking through Santa Cruz, you think for a second that you could be walking through any of the predominately Latino cities in the United States. In fact, a few days ago, on my first bus trip though Miami, I thought to myself, “Wow, this place is a lot like Santa Cruz. Hot, Muggy, People Everywhere, Reggeton blasting from the windows of stores, restaurants and even people’s houses.
Since neither of my two friends in Santa Cruz were in town on the one day I was passing through, I took my two busses directly from the airport to the bus terminal. “To Sucre?” I asked several different bus lines. All of them simply replied, “through Cochabamba. “ Another Bolivian geography lesson for you: Cochabamba is at least an eight hour bus trip north and west of Santa Cruz. It is a twelve hour bus trip south and east on the most miserable road in the world from Cochabamba to Sucre.. No thanks, I’ll pass. I should have realized then that something must be up, that there must be some logical reason that all of the bus lines were taking people nearly ten hours out of their way to get from the largest city in Bolivia to its provincial capital. I should have realized, but I didn’t. I finally found a bus line that when I asked, “Directo?” replied with a “si, si, si, claro preciosa” (I’ve gotten used to being called preciosa. Depending on who it is that is talking to me, sometimes I even like it.) so I bought a ticket at a shockingly higher price than I would have liked and thanked the Lord that I was finally on the last leg of my journey home.
The last leg, as it turned out was not a short one. The last leg of my journey to Sucre was one of those “Your daughter should look into high jumping. She has such high hips and legs that go on forever” kind of legs. As soon as I boarded the bus and found out that everyone else had also paid ridiculously expensive fares for this old, non-buscama flota, I realized what exactly was up. Bolqueos. I should have known. And now, a Bolivian politics lesson for you. Bolivia is known throughout South America for political instability. In the first 100 years of its existence as a state, some sort of hostile government turnover occurred on average, every ten months. Last year, I was shocked to learn along with my eight grade social studies class the number of Bolivian presidents that came to power by a golpe de estado. Anyway, Bolivians are also known for being fighters. Since it gained its independence from Spain, Bolivia has never won a major conflict with a foreign state. Bolivia is an underdog. Within the underdogs there are those who are fighting for whatever bones they can get. And they fight in whatever way they can. One of the most common demonstrations of political dissatisfaction is a bloqueo or blockade. Basically they build up some sort of huge mound surrounded by people so that no goods, and consequently no travelers can move from one city to another, thus providing my traveling difficulties.
Having been away from Bolivia for almost six weeks, I didn’t even think about bloqueos. Midway on our journey, I remembered. After traveling for about four hours we came to a point in the road where we could no longer pass. Without skipping a beat, our bus driver backed up and took us on a tiny road through the jungle, a road I doubted the bus could even take. As we traveled along this dirt road for several hours through the jungle, tree branches reached in through on both sides of the bus. We drove along a road without any other traveling buses, or really any other vehicles. Once, we passed a farmer’s tractor, but that was about it. I couldn’t help but wonder where this farmer was taking his tractor since we were completely surrounded by jungle. As our bus putted along the road, with one of the driver’s helpers on the roof to move any large tree branches or random cables out of the way, I could not help but think, that if it were not for the bloqueo I would have never traveled along this road in my entire life. I would never seen the beauty of this part of the rainforest and its few inhabitants in my life. Again I was reminded, by God, who I believe has been romancing me during my entire life in Bolivia, that everything is under control, and if you look for it, even in political instability and hot stuffy busses, you can find beauty, you just have to look out the window.
My arrival, eighteen hours later , into Sucre, was nothing special. I took a taxi to meet my employers and to figure out where I will be living, or at least staying. Everyone greeted me with a hug and a “how was your trip?” but continued on with their lives. I was taken to this house in a part of the city that I have only ever seen through a bus window. A nice house, a small house with a bedroom, dining room, kitchen and a bathroom, each room with its own door to the outside. The house also has tons of fruit trees- apple trees, peach trees, apricot trees and figs, plus an unending amount of blackberry bushes- and a great view of the city. I live here alone, at least for now. And for now, I think I like it. My life in Bolivia is different. People who know me from other parts of my life might have difficulty believing how it is here. They might have a hard time understanding how a white American 24 year old girl could be happy living in somebody’s grandmother’s house alone and spending most of her time with fifteen year olds. They might not understand how such a gregarious, outgoing person like myself could be here alone, without much communication with the tight communities that I have been a part of in the states. They might talk to me from time to time and hear how hard it is, and wonder why I just don’t do something easier. Rather than give 1,000 reasons why I should be here in Bolivia, I simply want to say to those people who, out of genuine concern and love for me, I want to clarify something about Bolivian travel. Upon arriving in the airport in Santa Cruz, I had about two hours until a nearly empty plane would fly from Santa Cruz to Sucre. The flight, by all U.S. standards was inexpensive. Instead of microwaving my trip I decided to take a hot, stuffy bus, because on the bus, I could look out the window.
Today is my second full day back in Bolivia. My second partial day in Sucre. Last night I slept in a bed for the first time in-well, only four days- but considering I had been to four different cities in two different countries since I had been in any sort of a reclining position, I consider lasts night’s sleep, on stiff corn-husk mattress borrowed from 85 year old woman, a notable achievement. As a reward for my long awaited sleep, I decided to stay in bed until noon- something I haven’t done for years.
It was not long after my plane landed in Santa Cruz that I remembered why I love Bolivia. The streets were alive and full of people. My buses were crowded with so many people- some of whom were overjoyed to help a poor gringa lug her two big bags on and off city busses that are too small for someone to carry a backpack onboard. Santa Cruz, for those of you who are not up on Bolivian geography, is the largest city in Bolivia, with a culture completely unlike all the other cities in the country. In the lowlands( a mere 500 meters above sea-level). It is hot, tropical and lush. Although I’ve never been there, I do know that if you travel to the north and east of the city, you will find a juncture of rivers that form one of the largest and widest waterfalls in the world. Keep going out and you will eventually find tributaries to the Amazon River, weaving its way through the jungle and into Brazil. The city itself has been greatly impacted by the influence of the United States. Walking through Santa Cruz, you think for a second that you could be walking through any of the predominately Latino cities in the United States. In fact, a few days ago, on my first bus trip though Miami, I thought to myself, “Wow, this place is a lot like Santa Cruz. Hot, Muggy, People Everywhere, Reggeton blasting from the windows of stores, restaurants and even people’s houses.
Since neither of my two friends in Santa Cruz were in town on the one day I was passing through, I took my two busses directly from the airport to the bus terminal. “To Sucre?” I asked several different bus lines. All of them simply replied, “through Cochabamba. “ Another Bolivian geography lesson for you: Cochabamba is at least an eight hour bus trip north and west of Santa Cruz. It is a twelve hour bus trip south and east on the most miserable road in the world from Cochabamba to Sucre.. No thanks, I’ll pass. I should have realized then that something must be up, that there must be some logical reason that all of the bus lines were taking people nearly ten hours out of their way to get from the largest city in Bolivia to its provincial capital. I should have realized, but I didn’t. I finally found a bus line that when I asked, “Directo?” replied with a “si, si, si, claro preciosa” (I’ve gotten used to being called preciosa. Depending on who it is that is talking to me, sometimes I even like it.) so I bought a ticket at a shockingly higher price than I would have liked and thanked the Lord that I was finally on the last leg of my journey home.
The last leg, as it turned out was not a short one. The last leg of my journey to Sucre was one of those “Your daughter should look into high jumping. She has such high hips and legs that go on forever” kind of legs. As soon as I boarded the bus and found out that everyone else had also paid ridiculously expensive fares for this old, non-buscama flota, I realized what exactly was up. Bolqueos. I should have known. And now, a Bolivian politics lesson for you. Bolivia is known throughout South America for political instability. In the first 100 years of its existence as a state, some sort of hostile government turnover occurred on average, every ten months. Last year, I was shocked to learn along with my eight grade social studies class the number of Bolivian presidents that came to power by a golpe de estado. Anyway, Bolivians are also known for being fighters. Since it gained its independence from Spain, Bolivia has never won a major conflict with a foreign state. Bolivia is an underdog. Within the underdogs there are those who are fighting for whatever bones they can get. And they fight in whatever way they can. One of the most common demonstrations of political dissatisfaction is a bloqueo or blockade. Basically they build up some sort of huge mound surrounded by people so that no goods, and consequently no travelers can move from one city to another, thus providing my traveling difficulties.
Having been away from Bolivia for almost six weeks, I didn’t even think about bloqueos. Midway on our journey, I remembered. After traveling for about four hours we came to a point in the road where we could no longer pass. Without skipping a beat, our bus driver backed up and took us on a tiny road through the jungle, a road I doubted the bus could even take. As we traveled along this dirt road for several hours through the jungle, tree branches reached in through on both sides of the bus. We drove along a road without any other traveling buses, or really any other vehicles. Once, we passed a farmer’s tractor, but that was about it. I couldn’t help but wonder where this farmer was taking his tractor since we were completely surrounded by jungle. As our bus putted along the road, with one of the driver’s helpers on the roof to move any large tree branches or random cables out of the way, I could not help but think, that if it were not for the bloqueo I would have never traveled along this road in my entire life. I would never seen the beauty of this part of the rainforest and its few inhabitants in my life. Again I was reminded, by God, who I believe has been romancing me during my entire life in Bolivia, that everything is under control, and if you look for it, even in political instability and hot stuffy busses, you can find beauty, you just have to look out the window.
My arrival, eighteen hours later , into Sucre, was nothing special. I took a taxi to meet my employers and to figure out where I will be living, or at least staying. Everyone greeted me with a hug and a “how was your trip?” but continued on with their lives. I was taken to this house in a part of the city that I have only ever seen through a bus window. A nice house, a small house with a bedroom, dining room, kitchen and a bathroom, each room with its own door to the outside. The house also has tons of fruit trees- apple trees, peach trees, apricot trees and figs, plus an unending amount of blackberry bushes- and a great view of the city. I live here alone, at least for now. And for now, I think I like it. My life in Bolivia is different. People who know me from other parts of my life might have difficulty believing how it is here. They might have a hard time understanding how a white American 24 year old girl could be happy living in somebody’s grandmother’s house alone and spending most of her time with fifteen year olds. They might not understand how such a gregarious, outgoing person like myself could be here alone, without much communication with the tight communities that I have been a part of in the states. They might talk to me from time to time and hear how hard it is, and wonder why I just don’t do something easier. Rather than give 1,000 reasons why I should be here in Bolivia, I simply want to say to those people who, out of genuine concern and love for me, I want to clarify something about Bolivian travel. Upon arriving in the airport in Santa Cruz, I had about two hours until a nearly empty plane would fly from Santa Cruz to Sucre. The flight, by all U.S. standards was inexpensive. Instead of microwaving my trip I decided to take a hot, stuffy bus, because on the bus, I could look out the window.
