La Paz, La Paz, La Paaaaaz

¿Quiere un cerveza?  I´m your man.

Two trips, one job, an obsession with festivals and a lot of walking, oh and that vicious little plague on humanity called altitude.  That is our La Paz, in a nutshell.

The city itself is apocalyptic, as Beth so aptly pointed out upon arrival.  A giant crater of people, endless homes, arid altiplano and no discernable differences seen from the outer rim.  It appears aa a perfect melding between the death of man and the death of nature.  The dusty red rock comprising the landscape blends and weaves itself perfectly into the equally dusty red architecture, or perhaps it's the other way around.  The setting is eerily beautiful and unlike any other city of modernity, from the altitude to the sense of doom imparted to first time visitors it is thoroughly unique. (1)

Overlooking the apocalyptic city.

Our first visit lasted 7 days.  We did very little outside of the occassional walk, predominantly because I got my first compensated "job". Yes, I have finally been recognized for my talent of consuming beer, or something along those lines.  The Brew Adventure, a hostal with its own brewery in the basement, hired me on for a week of tending bar.  30 hours of work, plus a night dealing Texas Hold'em netted me a week stay for free and 25 free beers (most were 10 ouncers, if I had to venture a guess, but I got the occassional pint as well.), which were not only allowed, but encouraged to be drank on-the-job.  It was fun, it was cheap and sometimes it was a complete dissaster, but definitely worth it.

The bustling side steets of La Paz.  The beautiful San Francisco cathedral is the epicenter of downtown.  The steeple can be seen in the background, as well as the haze of smog plaguing the city.

Some highlights of the first week include:
-Finishing the "World's hottest chicken vindaloo" challenge, thus receiving a free t-shirt for 30 minutes work.
-Eating four pancakes our first day of free all-you-can-eat breakfast, almost vomitting because pancakes are the world's dumbest breakfast, but being cheap enough to think it could stave off lunch if eaten at 10am.
- Watching the All-Star game.
- Making veggie chilli spaghetti.
- Getting free beers (before I started ¨working¨) by the cojoined efforts of Beth and myself to lug up a keg of beer five stories at just under 4000m of altitude.  Not as easy as it sounds.
- Going into my first embassy.  U.S.
- Using my work discount for a posh steakhouse, the first we have been in since Buenos Aires.  I'd been craving some proper ribs, which I almost got.  Big, fat and juicy, but without the dry rub or wet sauce tipifying American ribs.  Different, but equally good (equal meaning rib-deprivation has lowered my standards).
-Walking the brilliant markets of La Paz.  Every street, every day is like a professional flea market.  We'd get lost wandering the streets finding anything from 90's Packer superbowl sweatshirts to llama fetuses to whole streets dedicated to selling just light bulbs/steering wheel covers/clocks/whatever-you-want (alright, no steering wheel covers, but wouldn't that be amazing).  Instead of wanting to crawl in the center of those incredibly warm and comforting womb-like clothes racks and die of boredom (my normal response to shopping), every corner brought new intrigue and new hopes for a 1988 vintage, aka used, Dodgers World Series shirt.  No luck, though.
- The Bollocks Quiz.  A Sunday night quiz at my employers bar, which is completely full of shit.  The senior barman and I make up questions, predominantly jokes we've heard or leading questions that require less-than-factual responses, he reads 10 per round to the audience, they answer, we then give points based upon the hilarity of their response.  It's completely arbitrary, but led to some epically obscene responses, two of which I will duplicate here:
Note: both of these questions have correct answers, one of which I remember.  Correct answer given first, quiz players' answers given second.
1. What is it illegal for Indian women to do while menstrating?
a. Enter the Taj Mahal.
b. Give out those little red bindy dots.
2. What makes 8 out of 10 boys happy?
a.  I don't remember, something innane like Jesus or Snickers.
b. That they aren't the 2 out of 10 that have been raped.
Bonus: When asked what my 3 pet peaves were, one group stated: showers, work and Mexicans.
And so our night went, full of obscenities and political incorrectness.

Cheers Spain during the World Cup finals.  Viva España, I guess, though I doubt the South Americans shared that same sentiment.

After retiring from the bar industry, we headed towards greener pastures, Rurrenabaque and the jungle ("Rurre" is the next post), but with plans to backtrack through La Paz the next week.  For the sake of brevity, we are combining La Paz I and II.  

Our return to La Paz from Rurre was less exciting, less beer-filled (though not without), more cultural and fortunately for some of you, dominated by the all-consuming addictivity of shopping, for souvenirs.

We caught up on the blog (kind-of), bought loads of sovenirs at places with names like "the witches' market" and "the black market", drank a beer with the original Andean title of "El Inca Beer", which tasted a bit like hoped up Coca Cola, visited the outside of San Pedro Prison, made famous by the 2003 book Marching Powder (2), which we both found fascinating, and even fullfilled our cultural La Paz experiences by: a) witnessing the week of parades celebrating the bicentenial of the city, literally a parade a day, (3) and b) Visiting the pre-Incan ruins at Tiwuanaku (re: Tihuanacu, Puncan Puncu, et. Al.).  I'd go into details of this visit but our "English speaking guide" sounded like one of those circular kids toys which have animals depictions and when you pull a string and the arrow points to an animal it makes the correct sound.  Legitimately the only decipherable word he said in 2.5 hours was "Zebra" pronounced Zay-bruh, like a Brit.  Apparently it means: represents, in Spanglish.  So much for culture.      

And thus was our La Pazian experiment.

The entrance to the sun temple at Tiwanaku.  This is the most restored portion of the temple.

(1) Feeding this sense of death-to-everything is the extreme smog.  The inevitable pollution that bowl and  population breed is unrivaled in this city.  My inland empire upbringing, orange alerts and all, has given me a stout resistence to lingering automotive fumes.  Not here.  It is t-o-x-i-c.

(2) San Pedro Prison is located essentially in the center of the city.  It encompasses approximately one square block, albeit a small one.  The heroine (mild pun intended) of Marching Powder began introducing tourist into the prison for tours as a means to entertain himself and make a few bucks during his stay.  One tourist, and future author of the the book, was so intrigued he transcribed Thomas Mcfaden's  story.  Briefly, it is an account of a drug smuggler landed in a Bolivian prison, but really it is a fascinating description of a unique, and sometimes horrifying (what prison isn't horrifying though?), economic model for administering a prison.  There is no real regulation, prisoners are provided nothing and in fact have to PAY an entrance fee.  As a result the prison has morphed into a small self-provisioning city with restaurants, housing districts (you must pay for you "cell" and often times must go through a real estate agent) of better or less repute, food stalls, cell phones and any other number of goods and services all owned and operated by prisoners.  Obviously, as they are locked up, these goods must pass through the gates, which the guards allow after all the proper "tips" have been sure to pass hands.  Even women and children reside in the halls of the prison, with their incarcerated patriarch (apparently generally as a result of a lack of ability to provide for the family but occassionaly as a means  to keep the family unit together).  Conversely, and ironically, some of the best cocaine in the world is supposed to filter out of these walls.  Produced and distributed by a network of prisoners and their handlers.  Outside of the tenuous and cliched romantic side-story, and the less-than-par prose, the book is well worth a read.    

(3) I gorged on street food.  Three chorizo sandwiches, all from different vendors.  A taste of Coca Colla (sic), which is Bolivias new attempt at soft drink and taste like Snapple mint tea and doesn't get you high, in case you were curious.  And lastly, a stick of chocolate covered strawberries, for dessert.

Beerometer:  yes, a new meter, for a new man, a sometimes employed man.  Staying a week in a microbrewery has its advantages, or at least its advantage, that being beer.  Admittedly I followed the rules of free, mostly, but I was sure to take advantage of the 2 liter, 17 Boliviano beer discount provided me as a member of the staff.  Lagers, Ambers, Negras and Stouts were all available.  Most were unexceptional (though all were tasty enough), unless compared to the national beer, Pacena, which makes these seem interesting enough to be Belgian's best.  The tastiest option, and one of the best beers I've had in South America, was the Amber.  Delicious, not too sweet, interesting undertones and though listed at 6% something, the brewmaster claimed it was much nearer 8.5%, a claim I'm willing to vouch for as it has a definite Racer 5 effect.  Outside of the freedom-limiting a job tends to entail, the brewery and its abundance of beers was about the best way to drink away a week in La Paz.

The brewmaster is a 40-something Nittany Lion fan from Texas who may or may not have a Bolivian baby on the way (one bollocks quiz question was: When doesn't [name expunged] buy condoms?) and has been banned from drinking at the bar by management, details of which were elusive to me.  For some reason this seems important to know when considering the beer.  Next up on his to-do list: experiment with home brewed cider.  Biggest hold-up: No cheesecloth in Bolivia.

Beth cheesin´ because she is half a flight away from our second free beers of the trip.

Note on the Title:  at every bus terminal, or rather on every side street that buses depart from (few cities have proper bus stations and even when they do, they only serve the biggest cities, if those), the driver can be found rhythmically and obnoxiously chanting the name of the city for which the bus is departing.  This is in part due to the fact the bus won't depart for said destination until full.  It is also the most commonly attributed cause of irritation during our many delayed travels through Bolivia.  La Paz, La Paz, La Paaaaazzzzz, can literally be heard throughout the country.  Try it yourself...   

Uyuni

Salt Flats at sunset.

Widely acclaimed as one of South Americas most impressive sights, I'm going to agree, but with a giant asterisk, two in fact:
One being I have not seen all of SA, thus cannot verify this general claim.  And two, there is a fatal flaw.  The way in which the general backpacker populace views this phenomenal landscape is the same way in which one would experience the zoo if you were a caged animal, from the inside out.

We spent three days touring the solar de Uyuni.  But, in actuality we spent three days in a Land Rover (yes, to my unending surprise they have Land Rovers aplenty in touristic Bolivia).

How to describe the Solar?  A land devoid of anything but tourist and salt.  An endless reach of salt, lacking in total perspective outside of the occasional pyramid-like heap set aside for the purpose of salt production, or rather, salt harvesting.  Nothing grows, nothing lives.  A place where truly only starkness, sun and salt reside.  This fact alone makes it unique and forces you into some contemplative stare, or would, except you are trapped in a vehicle speeding across a wasteland incapable of sustaining life, but filled with tourist and Bolivians yapping away.

It's no surprise that this desert, this wonderland of natural beauty, was the inspiration behind many a Dali painting (our tour company's name: Dali Tours), but I will bet that he did not witness it through a Toyota manufactured lens.

The Solar and its surrounding area is definitely one of the most beautiful placed we've seen, we thoroughly enjoyed every 30 minute stop and accompanying photo op and we even enjoyed our carfull of traveling companions.  But the way to see such places, the only way to truly know them, is not in carfulls, but by your own two feet.

[Note:  Apparently, in places, the salt reaches up to 12m in depth.  That's a lot of salt.]

Without further ado, our snap-tour journey through the land of Salt, Sun and Stars:

   

Text for UYUNI....

Nothing PG comes to mind...

Squish.

Be quiet or I´ll eat you.

New meaning to Moustache Ride?

Rock on?  Given the boot?  I hate Dickers? 

I am the Buddha, cu-cu-ca-choo.

My shadow finds me irresistible.

Lady Justice.

Squash.

Dali´s rock. 

A Three Part Series:

Good Day, Bad Day...

Great Day!

Get.  Off.  My.  Hand.

Dios Mios! Diablos Mios!

A mouthful of coca leaves and sweltering heat is fine for a few hours, but does not an easy life make.

Part I: The Heavens

Auspicious beginnings is what one would expect from a city unmatched in either number of churches per capita or pure architectural cleanliness and beauty of those churches.  It is a city of extremes: geography, culture, climate and religion.  Unfortunately, the extremities applied in Potosi are not just pillars of its earthly piety, but there is a palpable sense that the city itself is reaching towards the heavens.  At over 4000+ meters--give or take, 13000 feet--it is considered the highest city in the world. (1)

Altitude sickness reportedly affects up to 25% of people not accustomed to  venturing up to such extreme heights.  For our little half-pack, it was 50%.

Altitude sickness, for those happily at sea-level, traverses the spectrum from mild headaches caused by less oxygen in the air and resulting dehydration to potentially fatal pulmonary or cerebral edemas.  The laundry list of symptoms make a nyquil commercial seem incredibly tame.

This is the condition I found Beth in at 330am when she failed to make it back from the bathroom.  I got worried, checked on her and felt as if I'd just walked into a lifetime afterschool special.  After asking if she was ok and getting the slow drawled response: "I'mmmmm sick", I asked her to open the door.  Ten seconds later the door swings open to what should have been a cloud of reefer, at least based upon her condition.  Her eyes were glazed and almost rolling back into her head, her body nearly flaccid and everything she did was in slow-motion.  After making sure she was alive I ran to the room to get some water only to return to bedlam, or more accurately, bed-floor.  She was sprawled, like a stoned snow angel or a dog on a tile floor in summertime, across the bathroom floor.  This from the girl who gets angry if I set our backpack on a hostel floor.

After force feeding her water, reading the lonely planet guide about cerebral edema and putting a much more cognizant Beth to bed, we realized that she would be fine after a few days, as her symptoms were mild and short-lived.  However, her next few days were to be confined to rest, relaxation, Spanish telenovelas, top raman and lots of cocai...coca tea.

An  acclimatizing and two days later we were ready to celebrate the worlds favorite holiday, The Fourth of July.  Bolivia isn't a bastion of American touchy-feeley sentiment, so our hopes for a firework-filled day rested in our sometimes-capable hands.  We wandered the streets and found a party store, piñatas and all, which even had fireworks.  Unfortunately they were industrial strength and I figured it'd be best to maintain my independence during Independence day--no need to find myself in Bolivian jail for accidentally setting fire to one of the plethora of churches.  Our fallback option was to find a US flag car air freshener, which have an oddly ubiquitous presense in Bolivian taxis, and hang it up to everyones disdain.  Also a failure.  We settled with a "tener" of Potosina and listening to Lee Greenwood on the iTouch.  Not exactly a summer 'que with budweiser, baseball and the weekly standard, but plenty patriotic in heart, effort and mind.

          *            *            *

Part II: The Descent

Yin and yang.  Cathedrals galore.  Mines-a-more.  Heavenly hands.  Devilish soles.  As high as Potosi reaches towards the heavens, its journey towards the depths of hell is even more astounding.

I've panned gold before.  Outdoors, a spry, fresh-faced 8-year old sloshing what I now think of as a camping plate through a quaint little river in the great outdoors of Tahoe.  It was fun.  I no longer have any preconceived notions, however small they might have been, towards the gilded and slightly glorified nature of precious metals, in particular how they are extracted from this earth.

With Beth still reeling from the altitude and unsure about her role in a tour of a working mine, I set out to visit the depths of the mine overlooking and underwriting the city of Potosi. (2)  

I met the guide, by the uniquely Latin name of Freddy, and the two other members of my mine party at 8:50am so we could share in a bit of the ritualistic coca tea beforehand.  The entrance of the mine is at about 4300 meters and the tea is supposed to help with the altitude.  We summarily departed, by microbus--essentially Bolivias version of public transportation--to a back-alley shack containing the necessities required for mining: water-proof boots, plastic-y pants/jacket, helmet and a lantern attachment with an enormous generator of car battery likeness.  The only notable, and apparently western, apparatus missing was an air filter. (3)  Decked out in our miners garb we departed with the rest of Potosi, on our second micro of the day, towards the mine luming over the city.

Our first, of many, eye opening encounters was not seeing a 12-year old boy working the dust-laden mines, as we'd heard tell of, but rather a 65-year old widow staked out in front of the mines. (4)  Apparently if the husband dies the widow receives a small stipund, but nowhere near enough to live.  So, often times the woman will suppliment this meager income by helping to sort through smaller piles of rocks to make sure nothing of value has leaked through the cracks.  The job pays little, leaves her exposed to the sun all day (excepting a tiny little hovel made of rock, equivalent to a kid-designed fortress), and though she was at the time sitting, I have no doubt it is a physically strenous job, not toil that somebody of 65 years of age is meant to be doing to their body.  For this reason it is clear that these womens circumstances have forced them into their position: an incredible hard and, no doubt thankless, job, at the age of a grandmother.

The old woman can be seen on the right with Freddy divvying out coca leaves.

From there we entered the mine.  In terms of climate it was at times hot, at other times cold, but always humid.  I have to admit that from what we saw, the conditions were not as bad as my imagination had created.  There were no giant boulders careening towards us, no pitfalls to the depths of hell and no dead parrots warning us of immenent doom, though perhaps this last would be a useful, if ominous, addition.

This is not to insight luxuriousness, because it was in fact miserable.  At times the dust was so thick I couldn't see my own feet, which is incredibly fear-inducing as there are holes up to 80m deep, not to mention the havoc this wreakes on peoples respiratory systems.  And altough we did not encounter any 12-year old kids we did meet a 16 and 17-year old tandem clearing rock into mine-carts in a fog of dust with only coca leaves as a barrier to entry from the poisonous particles.  We were told that, because it was during a school break, we would find many younger people at work here.  Instead of getting summer jobs at Burger King or some religious based campground, kids come to the mines.  It makes flipping patties and gaining a third-degree acne case seem like winning your first scratcher.  

The miners filling up the mine car to be pushed out for mineral extraction. 

We spent a total of about 2 1/2 hours inside of the mine.  Much of this was spent walking through relatively flat ground, watching human-powered winches lift minerals from the 100m deepths of the mine, and even helping push a dislodged mine-cart.  A prerequisite to entrance, enforced by the guide, is the purchase of a bundle of gifts for the miners.  Our noble Frenchman bought all the sinful gifts: cigarettes, 96% "potable" alcohol and coca leaves.  That being accounted for, the English girl and I purchased copious amounts of Cola products, which apparently the miners love because of the overwhelming heat of the mines.  When not walking, we were watching the day-to-day task of the miners and divvying out Colas, which seem simple enough gifts, but were all received with great thanks.  A small gesture, on both sides, but one that made the experience feel much less divided and unfair, given that both inherently existed.

Stifling dust combined with water and a hydrolic drill make for messy work.

Considering we were privvy to experiencing an actual working mine, the experience felt genuinely safe, which is a testament either to our tour guide's choice of viewing or of the safety standards set forth by this particular collective, as opposed to government sponsored.(5)  The one part of the tour, nearing the end, which put the old sphincter on orange alert, was the 80m decent to the "new" tunnel.  Two shafts about 40m deep, with approximately five 20 foot ladders had to be descended.  These ladders are not Sears lifetime insured ladders, they are janky, dilipadated pieces of pre-Colombian wood.  You descend one ladder to a platform which has a hole adjacent to the next ladder descending further down to another platform..  The entire time you are in a 5 foot diameter shaft, stepping upon jiggling footholds that feel as though they should have snapped in half ninety steps ago and you are just waiting to start tumbling and tumbling and tumbling.  At the bottom we saw drillers, dust and dynamite, which didn't ease my worries of ascending, especially after Freddy looked at his watch warning us we had to hurry because the dynamite gets setoff everyday before lunch at 12:30, 5 minutes from when we started climbing.

What goes down must come up.

I made it without falling, which ironically enough gave me a chance to meet what some might call my maker, Uncle Tio, also know as The Devil.  In an effort to reap more silver and zinc out of the mines, and in what makes perfectly logical sense to me, the miners, who appear to be god-fearing people above ground, give alms to the devil below it.  The cigarettes, alcohol and coca leaves, which at first I believed to be for the miners, were actually for who they call Uncle Tio.  A little alter of a devil sits in one of the tunnels and every miner, tourist and guide comes to pay respect to the holder of the underworld and by extension, the precious metals.  So, this is how I came to meet the devil.  Freddy lighted a smoke, put it in the altars mouth, quite a hilarious sight I must admit, especially considering the cigarette stayed alight through its quick burning life.  Then he dumped coca leaves over the devil and poured a little booze ontop, in some fanciful bruja-like concotion of sin.  Next, we passed the 96% booze around like a game of chug-and-pass, took a few photos and headed back to the world of sunshine and meadows, thus ending our foray as miners and, hopefully, cutting our short-lived chord to the devil.

The devil and his domain of coca leaves, booze and a half-smoked cigarette.

A few notes not covered above, or below:
- Pachamama, or mother earth, also oversees the mine.  Women, outside of tourist, are not supposed to enter the mine.  It's not some antiquated sexist argument, but rather a belief that Pachamama is a jealous overseer and thus will take her seething anger out upon the miners for betraying her.
- The gov't gives money to those suffering from lung silicosis, but only after 80% lung compacity is gone.  And, according to Freddy it is a meager sum, not nearly enough to live.
- likewise, these same miners can't live in Potosi any longer because there lungs are unable to cope with the decreased oxygen at altitude.  They are forced to move to sucre/cochambamba, or some alternate city at lower altitude.
- Though we did not encounter any kids as young as 12 in the mines, it does happen, in particular in the less regulated collective mines.
- Freddy claimed as many as 8-10-12-15 deaths a year occur, but his disclaimer was that many were alcohol related.  This is unconfirmed, as is most of what Freddy said.
- Miners can't eat inside the mines, though Im unclear as to why.  So lunch, generally taken inside the mine, consist of coca leaves and Cola products.  
- Once a year, during the month of June, Llama sacrifices are held.  Either for Pachamama, the devil, or both, they are killed, eaten and bring good mining.  We just missed these Friday night bashes, or rather, I did, as I'm sure Beth would dissapprove of such "senseless" slaughtering.

(1) Though I know not the definition of city, I would guess it is a quantifiable number of citizens.  I would also guess there are plenty of smaller towns well above this altitudal threshold, but maybe not towns that brew their own beer, which is my own personal reqirement for city status: a brewery, or in Spanish: fabrica de cerveza.

(2) Freddie, the mine guide, claims that within 60 years the mine will be thoroughly decipated of anything worth value on the open market.  When I asked, in incredibly broken Spanish, what next for Potosi, he said "tourism".  An ominous answer for the future of a surprisingly gorgeous, not to mention fairly modernized, town--tourism already a considerable and thriving part of the economy.  I can't imagine an influx so great after the mine (arguably it's second biggest tourist draw outside of being the highest city in the world) closes to counterbalance the loss of jobs for most of the towns general populace workforce.

Me and Freddy, BFF.

(3) The only miners in possesion of air filters were the driller/dynamiters.  Freddy claimed it was optional for regular miners, but as the chewing of coca leaves served the same purposes, everyone simply opted for them as their preventative health maintenance of choice.  Sounds a bit like the old tried and true "pull-out" method to me.  Fitting for a Catholic country, even.

(4) I say mines because it is one mountain, but there are numerous different groups with their own distinct inroads into the mountain.  The two main types of groups are the government sponsored and the collective.  Each have their own cells, probably numbering (and this is a somewhat dubious number) close to 50 groups for each type, all with their own separate mines within the mountain.

(5) the major difference between collective and government sponsored mines is the ways in which the miners are compensated.  In the government mines the regular miners are paid per day, according to Freddy.  In collectives there is a percentage distribution based upon the load found.  The boss gets the predominant amount, 50% or so, in part because he also supplies the miners with all the tools, instruments and dynamite needed.  The equivalent of the Forman, his underlings, like veterans, then split up the rest, with the Forman getting a higher percent.  The younger group, the more unexperienced and the temporary workers, get a per-cart-load-extracted-from-the-mine rate, regardless of what they find.  7 Bolivianos, or $1 US, per cart-load.  Freddy claimed they could do about 10 loads a day, or $10 US.  In money terms, he claimed on a good month the veteran miners could make 3000 Bolivianos or more, but the next might be less than a 1000, or theoretically nothing, if they found nothing.  As a bit of an aside, the workers in government mines had set work hours, while collectives generally worked 5 days a week, but sometimes worked more--and were paid a higher proportion of the find as a result--because their pay is contingent upon what they uncover.

Meat Meter:  On hiatus for too long in expensive Brazil and chicken-lickin' dominated Bolivia, its slowly making a comeback.  In Potosi I devoured my first llama burger, no doubt a touristic schtick, but tasty and very similar to a hamburger.  Apparently it also contains, or decontains, half the fat. My first, and hopefully last, accidentally healthy meal.  Cheers to llamas, the mangy spitters, but oh so tasty.

Samaipata: Return of the Tent

Howler monkeys, clearly attracted to the essence of a like-smelled soul.

Small towns are inexplicably safer, more enjoyable and entirely more friendly than their large city counterparts.  I think this is the case across the world.  In fact, outside of cultural relativity, I'm certain of it.  And Samaipata--a two hour taxi ride outside of Santa Cruz--might just be the perfect counterbalance to the big city depravity.

As with most great places we'd first heard about it via backpackers, then realized it was in the guidebook, and finally relegated ourselves to our lonely planet fate.  By any source, rumor had it that a solstice festival of Bolivian proportions--and if you've ever seen a Bolivian woman..,(1)--was to take place during the upcoming weekend.  We also read of tons of hiking and some pre-colombian ruins and most importantly we learned it wasn't Santa Cruz.  Sold.

Our first and most unique experience took place at the local zoo, or more accurately the tiny little refuge which allows tourist a chance to pay-to-play with exotic animals.  The theory is nice:  abandoned or mistreated wildlife from the surrounding area, cute and cuddly animals from boars to monkeys and goats to parrots, tennant the cages until they are ready to be rereleased into the wild, or as is the case much of the time, find themselves permanent residences because they are no longer fit to fend for themselves (Darwin would probably fire-bomb the place).  It's a win-win situation really.  Tourist get to experience first-hand, unintrusive nature while at the same time funding the wild-equivalent of the SPCA.

We swung spider monkeys through the air, marveled at macaws three feet away, saw a three legged feline about the size of two housecats who genuinely spewed bitterness and resentment at the world and had howler monkeys clamoring for our attention.(2)  It was not all fun and games though, some animals seemed to have assimilated themselves towards human devices a bit too much.  After forcing the male howler off my lap, he either decided to get revenge or show me who's boss by proceeding to attempt an ascent up beths skirt.  The handlers got to him before anything scandalous occured, though I'm pretty sure I saw him flash me a sneaky grin of victory on his way down the stairs.  Note: Beth was unharmed during this visit and I think even a bit flattered, if a bit put-off by the forward nature of the monkey, by the whole experience.

Jason getting bandied about by a little monkey.  

The next evening was the all-night, top-o-the-hill solstice festival.  By evening we'd recruited (or been recruited) a garrison of 7 gringos, obscene amounts of Bolivian beer and the infamously dangerous and hangover inducing Ron Cubano, or cheapest rum in the world.  We met in the main plaza (small town, it's like Wal-Mart for the Midwest, you stay there long enough and the whole town will venture through) and after some pre-Rons hailed the hour and a half long taxi.  By the time we got there every spot had been claimed but the wind-rattling section on the side of the hill.  Due to beer consumption along the way we stumbled through setting up the two tents (the point is to stay up all night and watch sunset, hence our 1am arrival), wandered the vendors a bit, saw the fire from afar, missed the 2am dancing because there wasn't a seat in the house left, I drank a bottle of vinegar with an Englishman who was convinced it contained booze (3), and eventually we were all in bed well before sunrise.  The most exciting part of the night was the girls fending off a drunken Bolivian trying to get into the tent and the return of my one stolen shoes by some good Samaritan.

Two days later, and many hours napping outside of our tent or resting in the hammocks of our amazing campground by the name of El Jardin, we had recovered...from the lack of sleep compelled upon us by the all-night solstice festival.

The main tourist draw of the area surrounding samaipata is the rich tropical forest.  Tours between from anywhere between 1 and 16 days are offered.  We tried to catch on with a four day fishing tour (which included much boating, non-fishing nature activities and vegetarian cuisine), but were unable to find two more suitors--a minimum of four people being required by the guide.  So, we settled for an all-day hike through the cloud forest an hour and a half outside of town.  It was an easy meandering hike through lushly green forest.  The highlight of the lowlands is an ancient fern tree, perhaps 10-15 feet in height and all well over, if i remember correctly a 100 years in age.  But, the pinnacle of the hike comes when you enter the dense layer of clouds that is starkly different than the surrounding lowlands.  Moss drapped trees dominate the highlands with a dense layer of moisture coating your skin as you enter into a vastly differently ecosystem created by the accumulation of moisture.  The entire forest from tree tops to ground level morphs into a moldy breeding ground of damp.  The only drawback was that it was also a home for ticks, one of which attacked me with great zeal.  If not for the guides handy, "turn right three times then extract from skin" rule of thumb, I might have turned into some bumbling degenerative fool with a fondness for poop pies and fingerpaints and thus never been able to tell this story--that's not true, apparently south America doesn't have lymes disease, the head was removed and I wouldn't digress into nincompoopness that quickly, but I admittedly was concerned, at the time, of contracting some incurable South American disease.  Alas, I am well and our jaunt through Amboro National park was thoroughly enjoyable and most rewarding in that for the first time in days we got out of our hammocks and trolled the area for flora and fauna.

A day and two book exchanges later we headed west towards the judicial capital of Bolivia, Sucre. (4)        

(1) Bolivian women, by all accounts, appear to be truly matriarchial, inspiration to the likes of Jewish mothers and Gloria Steinum, alike..  They work, they tend home, they bare godawful amounts of children, and they deal with Bolivian men.  Men-- notorious for their intemprance, disdain for work and, well, perhaps I should stop there as I'm noticing some commonalities here between Bolivian men and a certain blogger...named Beth.

(2) maybe the cutest damn thing I've ever seen:  howler monkey perched on my lap.  Me never having experienced this before, I treated him like a dog, scratching/petting/bonding.  After 10 minutes I'd had enough, so I stopped.  Howler, however, hadn't, so he reached back, grabbed my hand and began petting himself with my hand until I took back over.  Then the female monkey, who'd previously been locked up in a cage on time-out for bad behavior (personification gone feral) came over and ruined our moment.

(3) to his credit the woman selling vinegar was claiming it contained alcohol of some unknown percent.  I do not believe that the "red wine vinegar" had a lick of booze, but I drank my fill anyway.

(4) book exchanges have been surprisingly friendly, for the most part, but nothing has compared to Samaipata.  Half the towns businesses are owned by foreigners and half those again have legitimately good book selections.  So, it was with a gay little trot that I left town with Blood Meridian and a book of short stories by Philip Roth.

Note:  The best part of our campground was the copious amounts of orange trees and the accompanying juicer, which the owners gave unlimited access to for campers.  Nothing says last nights cheap rum don't hold me down like fresh OJ.

Dinosaur statues of South America aint got nothin on the San Bernardino County museum.

Beth Loves Dogs

DECISION, 2010

Winner, winner.  After long debate and a realization that the wit of our friends, though mainly humorous, contains an aire of the disturbing, we've chosen a winner.  But before the winner is announced, as would only be fair, we are listing our Letterman-like bakers top 11, in no particular order:
10) Tree Humper
9) Tree Huggers do it better
8) Once you go green, you never go back
7) "When Nature Calls..." Big Johnson
6) I wanna take a ride on your disco stick
5) Tree: "What, I lost my underwear."
Pee Wee Herman:  "That's what I said."
4) Welcome to Prince Albert State Park
3) Morning Wood
2) I went to the Amazon and all I got was this strap-on.
1) Dick pics are soooo 2008
0) Tree hugging: never felt so good
-1) Madidi Style: pre-Colombian, pre-Colonization, pre-MISSIONARY (note: Madidi is the name of the park, and possibily the name of the tree, if we understood our guide correctly.)

And without further ado:

Honorable mention:  To Wang, for the most vividly disturbing entry.  To Jaime, for her sheer force of will.  And to Spencer, for correctly recognizing the trees threeing.

3rd place: For the un-oft used dendrophobia, "A nymphomaniac dendrophobic's ultimate tough decision", April Bible.
     
2nd place: For bringing the blogger down a notch, Kimberly "KY" Sadler, with "Dickers sat and contemplated the purple-headed warrior tree that suddenly left him feeling unworthy of his nickname..."
 
And the Winner and proud owner of a future souvenir of unprecedented stature, Arlen Marking with "Imagine having to get a circumcision with a chain-saw."  

Santa Cruz, Bolivia: Not to be confused with its hippie Northern American counterpart

We have no good pictures of Santa Cruz, mostly because there is nothing good to take a picture of. 

 Thus, here we are  in La Paz, happy to be out of Santa Cruz.

It's 10am.  We've been in Santa cruz for one day.  The place is a bit dreary, and yet is the richest city in Bolivia.  A month in brazil has decimated our budget and we just spent three days lapping up the luxurious life in puerto quijaro.  Bolivia is our savior, at least the prices are.

We pack up our stuff from our current low-budget, tenderloin housing hotel to head over to the cheapest place in town--Residencial Acbar.

The day before we did a quick walk thru looking for the standard signs not to stay: filthy bedding, often portending to bed bugs, bathrooms out of a Tarantino film, street walkers on the corner and excessive amounts of bars (on windows, door frames, managerial offices, et al).  The place failed only the bar test, but redeemed itself with interior decorating straight out of the Mickey mouse club (admittedly this would normally make my you-know-what puker, but this is Bolivia, so it makes me feel all warm and safe inside).  So, we returned via sweltering winter heat and fifteen blocks of the madest drivers in the world.

What we found is that the bar test is clearly the most important test regarding safety, and clearly useless when dealing with armed bandits.  We walk in and the first thing we notice is an Irishman (well, perhaps not the first thing we saw, he was a weeeeee bit small) with a recently found shiner, a frantic French girl (neurotically chain smoking and solidifying more American-French cliches) and two Bolivian police officers.  Through deep draws of a cigarette and a mildly unintelligble accent we learned the following:

- the black eyed Irishman was robbed last night.
- he came home in a taxi at 4am (this is Bolivia AND Santa Cruz at that, so he could have potentially been doing absolutely anything).
- he was accompanied by the "taxi driver" and, according to the hostel owner, two friends--in this case friends being two men with guns pointed directly at Irishman's head, not to mention bestowing upon him the gift of Shiner.
- his "friends" stole the owners keys to the hostel, the owners cell phone, and, after stripping the Irishman down to his skivies, stole all his cash and cell phone, as well.  
- friends then proceeded to lock everybody in the hostel, possibly as a prank, but more likely so they couldn't get out to, a) see criminals get-away, b) call the police, c) chase armed men with stolen cell phones.

That's not all either, not only did the Irishman suffer the violation of derobing in front of strangers, but the police wanted to bring him in (read: arrest) because he refused to pay the owner for his stolen cell phone (owner's completely "valid" argument being that he [Irishman] brought his friends in the first place).  After slipping a $20 to the cops and agreeing to pay for his last night/thrilling-experience, at the hostel, all the Irishman had to do was take a brief trip downtown.

During the thirty minutes the cops took to sort it out--and after the manic French girl's 10 minute debriefing--we discussed our options.  To stay, for half the price of anywhere else, or to go.  This took the better part of the remaining twenty minutes.

Yes, twenty minutes to decide if we would stay in the hostel that was raided by gunmen the previous night, one man being full-montyd, robbed and held at gunpoint (by his own words, pressed to the side of his head).

Now, I've always thought I was frugal, at worst, and incredibly cheap, at best, but you never really know the true dedication you have to something until you face the possibility of getting strip-robbed at gunpoint.  I'm proud to say I got within a hangnail of winning the gold-medal of cheap.  A chance encounter with an American deciding to leave, and imparting a bit of exchange-rate wisdom, pointing out that it was only about $2.50 more a night/person, pushed us back into the realm of sanity, saving us from our continuingly more reckless and miserly ways, and sending us back through the hords of bad drivers, to our original, and minimally bar'd hotel.  So, we left, safe for one more night, but a little poorer for it.

Note(s):
- We gringo'd ourselves silly in Santa Cruz.  Irish pubs, US football, NBA finals game 7, the Bolivian Rainforest Cafe (complete with absurdly ecclectic menu, i got a BBQ bacon cheeseburger, and CD rain sounds--though it sounded more like a Safeway vegetable section), bagel sandwiches, and a room with a television.
- We are off to a small town named Samaipata next, but we are planning on returning here to see the only "must-see" site, the worlds largest butterfly biodome, which sounds a bit like the worlds largest Popsicle stick house, but still, I'm intrigued. (note: we never returned to Santa Cruz, thankfully)
- Best quote (from an English speaking Bolivano while addressing our surprise at the large amount of Mexican food available): "Yeah, there are lots of Mexicans here.  We have three in our neighborhood..you know, the drug trade and all." (Not where you thought that was going, huh?)
- Santa Cruz, like Rio, also seems to have an excessive appreciation of Jesus.  They show their love more conventionally, however, by having Jesus of Nazareth ATMs surrounding their central plaza.  Surprisingly enough, I was unable to extract money from the Jesus machine, something about "deficient tithings" being quoted as the source of problem.
  

Bonito: Where Fish Swim, and Dogs Die

Bonito is best known for being the gateway to the Pantanol; a semitropical paradise where rainbow- colored fish swim in freshwater rivers as clear as Jimminy Cricket's conscience; where toucans fly freely (and plentifully) from palm tree to papaya tree; where tourists take refuge from their pack mule existence in shaded hammocks around refreshing swimming pools. However, this heavenly retreat had something else in store for us.

We spent our first day lounging around the cheapest accommodation we could find, our first legitimate HI (Hostel International) hostel. For those of you who don't know, HI hostels are often the "most luxorious" hostels in town, and are filled with boozehound English- speakers who remind you of why you did  (or didn't)  hang out with the fraternity crowd in college.

The next day we rode bikes 4 miles out of town through the less-than-pleasant heat to arrive at a much appreciated oasis, Balneiro Municipal, on the beautiful, crystal clear Rio da Prata. Over 12 feet deep in some sections, you can see the bottom of the river (and the over-abundance of fish) from wherever you stand, and we rented snorkels and spent the day enjoying the cool refreshing water, swimming amongst over 30 varieties of brightly colored fish. Best of all, we were amongst the only people there, many of the said frat- boys apparently opting for the more expensive organized tour to other parts of the river.

Without much warning (which seems to always be the case in life), this Jimmy Buffet Cheeseburger- in -Paradise- promise land then suddenly warped into a disfigured paradise more akin to the Island of Dr. Moreau. The rainbow-fish transformed into images reminiscent of Jaws and flesh- eating pirahnas. The colorful toucans bastardized into Hitchcock's birds or Poe's raven  tormenting all things around them, wishing death and suffering upon us. The picturesque rainforest turned into the dark, haunted forests of Sleepy Hallow, the Grim Reaper searching for his next victim.  The obnoxious, shallow fraternity boys... well, they remained obnoxious, shallow fraternity boys. After a quick call home, my world turned black. My dog had died.
The power of denial shines through with dogs. Though we know otherwise in our heads, our hearts embrace them as members of family, with life spans equal to ours. Cheyenne was a special part of our family, a unique individual who our lives will always shine a bit brighter because of; a special being who our hearts will ache for in rememberance.    
I spent the next several days with swollen eyes locked away in our room, dealing with the shock of losing something I love, readjusting to a world without my buddy. Dickers bought several candles, which we burned as a memorial. With a deep sense of loss, we boarded the bus, in search of happier times in Bolivia.


Upon crossing the border, we were greeted by the small border town of Puerto Quijarro.  In it's own right, Puerto Quijarro is a bit of a depressing place. Sharing a border with Brazil but with a currency about four times as weak, Bolivian women deal with their prices being exploitated by working harder, trying to make ends meet by selling Brazilians goods their own families never have a prayer of being able to afford. The Bolivian men here seem  to opt to take a different approach, getting piss drunk throughout the day on cheap alcohol and stumbling in the steets until they pass out on the sidewalk in the 100 degree heat. Most of the general populace doesn't seem to have much of a liking to gringos (not to say I blame them). Buying water or produce required patience, sometimes waiting ten minutes at the counter despite being the only customers and the cashier having little else to occupy them but ignoring us.

We, however, managed to find a slice of paradise in this rather grim town: Jodanga Hostel. The right remedy for feeling low. Located directly above the river that lies between Brazil and Bolivia, the immaculate hostel was more like a resort than a backpackers accomodation. A lap-sized swimming pool overlooked the beautiful river,  surrounded with straw quinchos (tropical stand-alone porches) and hammocks to relax in. We opted for a 24 bed dorm, of which we shared with no one our entire stay. We took a week relaxing by the pool, enjoying the tranquil and breathtaking scenery, letting the grief ease and the pain to subside, just long enough for the world to become beautiful again. A reminder to me in my life: love those you care about to your fullest degree, shower them with praise (or pets), hold them tight and let them know how much you care. Nothing lasts forever.



To my family and friends who have read on despite my sentimentality (and those who have not), I hope my brief absence has not made you forget: I LOVE YOU! Each and every one.