Saturday, February 24, 2007
So, this is Bolivia.
Day one in La Paz, and I have dodged a massive rainstorm by ducking into this small, crowded internet cafe. Ah, now I really am having dejavu. From what I have heard, it rains a lot here. But, I guess that´s pretty customary of Andean lands in the summer. It does not feel like the summer in La Paz, as the sun seems to kiss my skin, and I still feel a fleece necessary. I stupidly left the house today in just 2 layers, and have pledged to not make that mistake again. I am told that the best days will be in the low 60´s, and that it will get hot...just when I least expect it.
I digress. You probably want to hear about real details. I´ll start at the beginning...naturally. After my 5:45 AM flight out of JFK and a 4 hour stay in the lovely Miami airport (NOT lovely, for those who have not been privy to this facility), I was really ready to relax on the flight to La Paz, and just arrive already. Obviously, the flight was empty (who is going to La Paz on Friday afternoons in February?), and I had an entire row to myself. Spreading out, and imagining how lovely my meal will be as I spread out on all three tray tables, I happily took out my I-POD. My heart jumped a little as I realized that I had just taken off on a 6.5 hour flight, and my I-POD was reading ¨low battery¨. A little dissapointed in myself for letting this dissapoint me so, my friendly Bolivian flight attendant came to the rescue. She saw my sulking, as she handed over my cup of hot tea, and asked what was wrong. I told her my little problem, and she told me that she did not have any way for me to charge in an outlet (as we were in the air and all), but that she would let me plug-in to her computer. Nervous at the prospect that I could loose all my music in her computer (it has happened to me before), I went for it. Great success (yeah, that was a Borat referrence). I was good to go, after just a short while of charging up. I thanked her profusely, and leaned back in my chair (because obviously, no one was sitting behind me...in either of my three chairs). Exhaling, I thought, this random, Bolivian, Miami-based flight attendant has convinced me that I´m going to like Bolivia.
The flight came and went quickly. I had those momentary nerves when I heard the wheels lower for landing, wondering why the flight ever had to end and what am I really doing here...again. But, those nerves quickly faded as I walked off the plane. The walkway correlled all passengers into customs, much like other international flights. However, much unlike other international flights, there was one customs officer at one little booth. I waited to talk to him, and then walked another 4 steps to the baggage claim. My blue backpack emerged, and as I hoisted it onto my back, I noticed that the carousel was not carrying the regular stylings of baggage carousels---baggage. Sure, there were rolling bags and other backpacks, but there were also TVs, VCRS, and a big box containing a Rubbermaid mop bucket (much like the ones we use at camp). Men dressed in uniforms sporting a local bank logo unloaded these some of these goods and walked off, while the rest went to random individuals standing on either side of me. I´m not sure what to think of this. I guess you know you are on an international flight into a developing country when...yeah.
My program´s in-country volunteer coordinator, Abdul, and my host family father, Willie, picked me up at the airport, smiling and eager. Willie immediately said all the things he knows in English at once, and Abdul, a Bolivian who clearly learned English from a Brit, made jokes in his Brittish accent, and exclaimed ¨brilliant!¨ in response to whatever I said...a few times. We took a cab through El Alto, the impoverished city between La Paz and the small airport. Talking as we went, my deliriously tired attempt to share information and get to know them was sort of overshadowed by my eyes. I was trying to soak in the neighborhood as we drove, and in curiousity, I watched the scantly clad women walk the unpaved, dusty streets, and the numerous men, pouring out of brothels to wander the streets aimlessly. It was a calm, sad, and dark scene, and mid-conversation, Abdul leaned over me to lock the taxi door beside me.
A few moments later, we turned a corner from the flat city of El Alto, and began descending down a hill. Once we made that turn, I saw a fantastic, majestic mess of street lights that stretched over miles, valleys, and mountains. It seemed like the lights went on forever. And, they aren´t Vegas style lights; rather, subtle, small, yellow street lights, highlighting the population of La Paz´s bounds. I sat, wide-eyed, trying to fathom how large this city must be. Abdul and Willie assured me that it actually is not large at all, and any of the other cities in South America where I have been are much larger. But, it looked so splendid and grand from where we were, and I couldn´t imagine that this city was at all small. They told me that the city looks large, as it is spread over many mountainsides, and throughout a few valleys.
Nearly 10 PM. We arrived at the house after a couple dozens more turns, well before we reached the foot of a valley. Slowly realizing that my delirium was borderline out of control and cursing myself for never sleeping, I walked into the light blue cement and white gated entry and then the house behind both Abdul and Willie. The main room, a living room with two couches holding a multitude of randomly placed pillows, an entertainment center without a television (but sitting in a black unit), and a low to the ground glass coffee table, was the point introduction. As soon as I got one foot in the door, I noticed two small kids and their mother. The woman is a short 5´3, but her kindness radiates in a way that is much larger. She immediately embraced me, and thanked me for coming. Her name is Marisel, and her dyed blonde hair, wooden headband that holds her hair seperate from her feathered bangs, and her green eyeshadow made me want to hug her again. Behind her, the little boy with bed-head surely remaining from the morning, age 3, approached me, said hello, and asked my name. I told him, and returned the question. Fabrizio. I recognized this child with a huge personality, an adult name, and unfairly placed in a smaller than usual 3-year-old body. His sister, a taller, and more confident (but just as articulate), 6-year-old Bailen, also approached me without any trepidation. These kids must be conditioned to volunteers, I thought.
I next met Chris, the other volunteer living in my house. He shook my hand, and welcomed me, as he has been living here for the past 6 weeks. He spoke with an interesting balance of British English (he is from London), and a matching accent to pronounce his well-versed Spanish. He seems to like banter, laughing, and adventures. I am interested to spend more time with him.
Only as all of us walked upstairs to deposit my backpacks in my new room, did I learn that Chris and his girlfriend, Fiona, were going to leave for the weekend---heading off to the beach in Chile for a few days. They invited me, but I felt like that would have been a bit much for my first day back in South America (9 hours away).
The stairs spiraled a bit, and at the top, I noticed two large rooms to my immediate right. These rooms each hold multiple beds, many colors, and a large collection of various possessions. I am told that these rooms belong to the family. I wonder, suspiciously, do they all sleep in the same two small spaces?
We continue through a small, couch and chair filled common room, holding a large television where another boy sat silently, unaffectedly playing a game on the original Playstation with their single video-game controller. He stood up and put the controller down to say hello. This shy, introspective, and extremely reserved boy is Sebastian, the 12-year-old son. I smiled, and watched him return the smile for a brief moment, just short of eye contact. I leaned down to shake his hand, feeling confident that he and I will be friends.
Through a short white door, with a blurred glass window, I was led to my room. This room is not large, nor is it small. It holds a full size bed, with a slightly sunken matress, a small, round, glass table, a chair that seems like it could have been at their kitchen table earlier that day, a dresser, and a television. Yes, a television. I still cannot believe that this television is in my room, and have yet to turn it on.
The rest of the evening consisted of my not understanding how to properly close the bathroom door and allowing the entire family to hear my pee, my deliriously sipping of coca tea (the Andean tea, remedy for altitude sickness), and my desperately grasping for Spanish vocab, as I visited with Abdul, Chris, Fiona, Marisel, and Willie. Eventually, two more people entered the house and joined us for tea and bread. Patricio, a seemingly pre-occupied guy, of nearly 22 years, walked over and shook my hand in a respectful, but stand-off-ish way. I can tell that he is not particularly interested in introductions. His sister, a woman of 23, hugged me eagerly, and smiled contagiously. Her name is Cleidy (pronounced Clay-dee), and she and Patricio are the neice and nephew of Willie, living in the house while they attend university in La Paz from the rural areas of Bolivia.
Yes, three children, a niece, a nephew, two parents, and two volunteers live in my house. And, Chris and I, the volunteers, are the only ones with our own spaces.
The best introduction was to the family dog. You may or may not remember my dog, the late K.C. Soifer. This dog, whose name I still haven´t caught, is short, maybe up to my calf. He has a matted, grey coat, under a fleece shirt they have put him in. He onlky walks on three legs for some reason, is 15-years-old, and cannot see. He hobbles into doors and walls, and does not seem to be very popular in the family, as they step on him quite regularly. Unfortunate.
Anyway, after I nearly fell asleep at the table, my family let me get my first night´s rest in Bolivia.
Today has been about my realizing that the cold that I thought was pending in the States has become rather full-blown in a sneezing and snotting way, this volunteer program is MUCH more relaxed than the one from last year, La Paz is a really interesting mix of socio-economics and hills (reminds me at first glance of Ayacucho meets Valparaiso, if you remember those from last time), and my family really wants to be a part of this experience for me. I have the rest of the weekend to explore the city, and I will update you again as soon as I can. On Monday, I will join Abdul to look around at my volunteer placement, which I have just learned will likely be more like a few placements organized into a weekly schedule. Of course, more to come on that.
I am about to visit the grocery store, which is always a favorite spot for me, to prepare for the week at my house (I supply my own food, although I decided to share the jar of peanut butter that I brought from the states with them...and they are pretty excited about it).
I am still forming judgements on La Paz and letting this experience hit me slowly, so please check back. The commentary will flow, as expected.
I digress. You probably want to hear about real details. I´ll start at the beginning...naturally. After my 5:45 AM flight out of JFK and a 4 hour stay in the lovely Miami airport (NOT lovely, for those who have not been privy to this facility), I was really ready to relax on the flight to La Paz, and just arrive already. Obviously, the flight was empty (who is going to La Paz on Friday afternoons in February?), and I had an entire row to myself. Spreading out, and imagining how lovely my meal will be as I spread out on all three tray tables, I happily took out my I-POD. My heart jumped a little as I realized that I had just taken off on a 6.5 hour flight, and my I-POD was reading ¨low battery¨. A little dissapointed in myself for letting this dissapoint me so, my friendly Bolivian flight attendant came to the rescue. She saw my sulking, as she handed over my cup of hot tea, and asked what was wrong. I told her my little problem, and she told me that she did not have any way for me to charge in an outlet (as we were in the air and all), but that she would let me plug-in to her computer. Nervous at the prospect that I could loose all my music in her computer (it has happened to me before), I went for it. Great success (yeah, that was a Borat referrence). I was good to go, after just a short while of charging up. I thanked her profusely, and leaned back in my chair (because obviously, no one was sitting behind me...in either of my three chairs). Exhaling, I thought, this random, Bolivian, Miami-based flight attendant has convinced me that I´m going to like Bolivia.
The flight came and went quickly. I had those momentary nerves when I heard the wheels lower for landing, wondering why the flight ever had to end and what am I really doing here...again. But, those nerves quickly faded as I walked off the plane. The walkway correlled all passengers into customs, much like other international flights. However, much unlike other international flights, there was one customs officer at one little booth. I waited to talk to him, and then walked another 4 steps to the baggage claim. My blue backpack emerged, and as I hoisted it onto my back, I noticed that the carousel was not carrying the regular stylings of baggage carousels---baggage. Sure, there were rolling bags and other backpacks, but there were also TVs, VCRS, and a big box containing a Rubbermaid mop bucket (much like the ones we use at camp). Men dressed in uniforms sporting a local bank logo unloaded these some of these goods and walked off, while the rest went to random individuals standing on either side of me. I´m not sure what to think of this. I guess you know you are on an international flight into a developing country when...yeah.
My program´s in-country volunteer coordinator, Abdul, and my host family father, Willie, picked me up at the airport, smiling and eager. Willie immediately said all the things he knows in English at once, and Abdul, a Bolivian who clearly learned English from a Brit, made jokes in his Brittish accent, and exclaimed ¨brilliant!¨ in response to whatever I said...a few times. We took a cab through El Alto, the impoverished city between La Paz and the small airport. Talking as we went, my deliriously tired attempt to share information and get to know them was sort of overshadowed by my eyes. I was trying to soak in the neighborhood as we drove, and in curiousity, I watched the scantly clad women walk the unpaved, dusty streets, and the numerous men, pouring out of brothels to wander the streets aimlessly. It was a calm, sad, and dark scene, and mid-conversation, Abdul leaned over me to lock the taxi door beside me.
A few moments later, we turned a corner from the flat city of El Alto, and began descending down a hill. Once we made that turn, I saw a fantastic, majestic mess of street lights that stretched over miles, valleys, and mountains. It seemed like the lights went on forever. And, they aren´t Vegas style lights; rather, subtle, small, yellow street lights, highlighting the population of La Paz´s bounds. I sat, wide-eyed, trying to fathom how large this city must be. Abdul and Willie assured me that it actually is not large at all, and any of the other cities in South America where I have been are much larger. But, it looked so splendid and grand from where we were, and I couldn´t imagine that this city was at all small. They told me that the city looks large, as it is spread over many mountainsides, and throughout a few valleys.
Nearly 10 PM. We arrived at the house after a couple dozens more turns, well before we reached the foot of a valley. Slowly realizing that my delirium was borderline out of control and cursing myself for never sleeping, I walked into the light blue cement and white gated entry and then the house behind both Abdul and Willie. The main room, a living room with two couches holding a multitude of randomly placed pillows, an entertainment center without a television (but sitting in a black unit), and a low to the ground glass coffee table, was the point introduction. As soon as I got one foot in the door, I noticed two small kids and their mother. The woman is a short 5´3, but her kindness radiates in a way that is much larger. She immediately embraced me, and thanked me for coming. Her name is Marisel, and her dyed blonde hair, wooden headband that holds her hair seperate from her feathered bangs, and her green eyeshadow made me want to hug her again. Behind her, the little boy with bed-head surely remaining from the morning, age 3, approached me, said hello, and asked my name. I told him, and returned the question. Fabrizio. I recognized this child with a huge personality, an adult name, and unfairly placed in a smaller than usual 3-year-old body. His sister, a taller, and more confident (but just as articulate), 6-year-old Bailen, also approached me without any trepidation. These kids must be conditioned to volunteers, I thought.
I next met Chris, the other volunteer living in my house. He shook my hand, and welcomed me, as he has been living here for the past 6 weeks. He spoke with an interesting balance of British English (he is from London), and a matching accent to pronounce his well-versed Spanish. He seems to like banter, laughing, and adventures. I am interested to spend more time with him.
Only as all of us walked upstairs to deposit my backpacks in my new room, did I learn that Chris and his girlfriend, Fiona, were going to leave for the weekend---heading off to the beach in Chile for a few days. They invited me, but I felt like that would have been a bit much for my first day back in South America (9 hours away).
The stairs spiraled a bit, and at the top, I noticed two large rooms to my immediate right. These rooms each hold multiple beds, many colors, and a large collection of various possessions. I am told that these rooms belong to the family. I wonder, suspiciously, do they all sleep in the same two small spaces?
We continue through a small, couch and chair filled common room, holding a large television where another boy sat silently, unaffectedly playing a game on the original Playstation with their single video-game controller. He stood up and put the controller down to say hello. This shy, introspective, and extremely reserved boy is Sebastian, the 12-year-old son. I smiled, and watched him return the smile for a brief moment, just short of eye contact. I leaned down to shake his hand, feeling confident that he and I will be friends.
Through a short white door, with a blurred glass window, I was led to my room. This room is not large, nor is it small. It holds a full size bed, with a slightly sunken matress, a small, round, glass table, a chair that seems like it could have been at their kitchen table earlier that day, a dresser, and a television. Yes, a television. I still cannot believe that this television is in my room, and have yet to turn it on.
The rest of the evening consisted of my not understanding how to properly close the bathroom door and allowing the entire family to hear my pee, my deliriously sipping of coca tea (the Andean tea, remedy for altitude sickness), and my desperately grasping for Spanish vocab, as I visited with Abdul, Chris, Fiona, Marisel, and Willie. Eventually, two more people entered the house and joined us for tea and bread. Patricio, a seemingly pre-occupied guy, of nearly 22 years, walked over and shook my hand in a respectful, but stand-off-ish way. I can tell that he is not particularly interested in introductions. His sister, a woman of 23, hugged me eagerly, and smiled contagiously. Her name is Cleidy (pronounced Clay-dee), and she and Patricio are the neice and nephew of Willie, living in the house while they attend university in La Paz from the rural areas of Bolivia.
Yes, three children, a niece, a nephew, two parents, and two volunteers live in my house. And, Chris and I, the volunteers, are the only ones with our own spaces.
The best introduction was to the family dog. You may or may not remember my dog, the late K.C. Soifer. This dog, whose name I still haven´t caught, is short, maybe up to my calf. He has a matted, grey coat, under a fleece shirt they have put him in. He onlky walks on three legs for some reason, is 15-years-old, and cannot see. He hobbles into doors and walls, and does not seem to be very popular in the family, as they step on him quite regularly. Unfortunate.
Anyway, after I nearly fell asleep at the table, my family let me get my first night´s rest in Bolivia.
Today has been about my realizing that the cold that I thought was pending in the States has become rather full-blown in a sneezing and snotting way, this volunteer program is MUCH more relaxed than the one from last year, La Paz is a really interesting mix of socio-economics and hills (reminds me at first glance of Ayacucho meets Valparaiso, if you remember those from last time), and my family really wants to be a part of this experience for me. I have the rest of the weekend to explore the city, and I will update you again as soon as I can. On Monday, I will join Abdul to look around at my volunteer placement, which I have just learned will likely be more like a few placements organized into a weekly schedule. Of course, more to come on that.
I am about to visit the grocery store, which is always a favorite spot for me, to prepare for the week at my house (I supply my own food, although I decided to share the jar of peanut butter that I brought from the states with them...and they are pretty excited about it).
I am still forming judgements on La Paz and letting this experience hit me slowly, so please check back. The commentary will flow, as expected.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Here we go again
I know I promised that May 2006 was the end. Actually, I really believed that when I said goodbye to Lima, it was the end of this travel blog...at least...for a while. Alas, here we are again; I have returned to the keyboard, and you to the reading of my rambling words and imagining my raspy pronunciation (especially raspy now...at 3:30 AM in Michigan).
Well, I can't believe that we have gotten back to this so soon. But, I guess I have to humbly thank you for your interest, and for preparing to embark on this new adventure with me. Thanks.
I leave Michigan tomorrow, and arrive in Bolivia on Friday night. I am really excited, but it is much less extreme than last time. I know no one in Bolivia, nor do I have any more of an idea what I am walking into than I did in December 2005 when I departed for Peru. However, after the positive experience of last time, the empowering period of reflection in the months thereafter, and the Spanish lessons I have been taking in New York, I feel pretty well-equipped for anything coming my way. This could be wildly inappropriate ease, or wildly predictable and warranted, but I guess that I will figure that out shortly. Besides, it's 5 weeks...not 5 months.
Either way, my backpack is taking shape again (full of clothing and art supplies), I purchased new hiking boots (you may recall that I left mine in Argentina), and I filled my prescription for new knee braces.
Here we go again...
Well, I can't believe that we have gotten back to this so soon. But, I guess I have to humbly thank you for your interest, and for preparing to embark on this new adventure with me. Thanks.
I leave Michigan tomorrow, and arrive in Bolivia on Friday night. I am really excited, but it is much less extreme than last time. I know no one in Bolivia, nor do I have any more of an idea what I am walking into than I did in December 2005 when I departed for Peru. However, after the positive experience of last time, the empowering period of reflection in the months thereafter, and the Spanish lessons I have been taking in New York, I feel pretty well-equipped for anything coming my way. This could be wildly inappropriate ease, or wildly predictable and warranted, but I guess that I will figure that out shortly. Besides, it's 5 weeks...not 5 months.
Either way, my backpack is taking shape again (full of clothing and art supplies), I purchased new hiking boots (you may recall that I left mine in Argentina), and I filled my prescription for new knee braces.
Here we go again...
