Monday, March 21, 2011

Sí, claro, claro... Oh, you were asking me a question?

Sorry for the long delay, folks. My schedule here is much fuller than I ever expected it to be. But I want to take the time while I have it this morning to tell you all about the life that I've more or less settled into here in Lima.

But first, I added up all the time that I've spent traveling just that first month from Dallas, TX to Lima, and I think you'll be as astounded as I was:

161.5 hours.

That's almost an entire week of my five weeks in South America sitting in some sort of transportation vehicle. 112.5 of those hours were spent on a bus. The rest were in plane, train, boat, or car. Disgusting, no? Traveling cheap has its drawbacks.

Mi familia:

Pepe- Mi padre Peruana, a short, stout man with a toothy grin and bright white hair. He speaks with energy, loads of expression, and the best sound effects I've ever heard. It makes him very entertaining to listen to even when I can't understand what he's saying. He is a lover of modern art, theater, and the cinema. Many evenings have been spent with him out at independent film festivals, art galleries, theater productions, and last week, an international guitar festival. He loves to tell me and my housemate, Vanessa, all about the history of the city; he sits us down in front of a map and tells us which neighborhoods are dangerous, which ones have the best museums, the best parks, the best restaurants, the best beaches, how much a cab should cost to each place or which buses to take to each neighborhood, etc. Last week he gave me a section of the Peruvian newspaper here with instructions to pick an article to read and then discuss with him later to work on my Spanish.

Carmela- Mi madre Peruana, an extremely warm and generous woman with a bright white smile and a kind spirit. She loves to surprise me with a vase of fresh flowers in my room every now and then. It seems like every day there is a new, exotic Peruvian fruit in the fruit bowl because she knows how much I love the fruit here. Every friend I've introduced her to she's invited to come over whenever they want and to help themselves to any of the food in the kitchen. This weekend, she threw a party for Vanessa and I and all of our friends with a huge feast of Peruvian food, deserts, and drinks--her and Sara (who I'll introduce next) cooked for twenty people. She loves to hear all about my life, my friends, my classes, so Vanessa and I have a lot of fun trying to come up with words in our limited vocabulary to describe them.

Sara- Domestic servant, a small woman (couldn't be more than 5' tall), quiet as a mouse, but upbeat and kind. Apparently, domestic servants are very common here, but it definitely is taking me some getting used to. It's a strange feeling to have someone clean my room, do my laundry, and cook all my meals, but not eat with the family or go to the theater with us. But she is well-loved here and was affectionately introduced to me the first day as "Sarita."

Sandra- Carmela and Pepe's daughter, 28 years old, always at work or shopping or at the discotecas (clubs). I rarely see her except maybe in the morning at breakfast, though she is very sweet and has given Vanessa and I lot of advice about which discotecas to go to and where we can find the cheapest clothes. It's typical here to live with your family until you are married or even after you marry (see below). For this reason, the families are very close but each member usually has their own schedule so meals are left out on the stove to be eaten whenever is convenient.

Lorenzo (or just Renzo?)- Carmela and Pepe's son, 30-ish years old, married to Carola. Vanessa and I had been calling him Lorenzo for the past three weeks until we started noticing that no one else calls him Lorenzo, just Renzo. Everyone has a nickname here so we're not really sure if this is his nickname or his actual name, and which one we're supposed to be calling him. In fact, I just found out yesterday that Pepe's real name is Jose. Anyway, Lorenzo is one of my favorite people I've met here. He's got a thunderous laugh and a permanent smile and a fantastic sense of humor. Even when I don't get the joke, I can't help but laugh. He loves to tease me about one night when I accidentally pointed to the wrong state when I was trying to show him where Nevada was. He also tries to convince me that I'm eating dog or rat a lot. Oh, and he's got fantastic taste in music, which makes long, cramped car rides to the beach a ton of fun with him.

Carola- Lorenzo's wife, 28-ish, petite and fit, extremely intelligent, patient, and kind. Some of her family lives in Miami so she speaks a little bit of English, though she won't unless I really don't know one of the words or don't understand what someone is trying to say. Her and Lorenzo are a lovely couple and they both live in the house with us, as well. They tend to spend more time with the family so I am closer to them than Sandra and her boyfriend.

Pepo- The most loved dog in the world. A giant, calm golden retriever of ambiguous age (every time I ask I get a different answer). He is a vital member of the family and the life of every party. I always know when one of my family members comes home because the sound of their greeting to Pepo rings through the house: "Pepooooo! Hola, Pepo! Hola! Como estas?! Ohhhhhh, Pepito, perritooooo, ohhh, buenisimo perrito bonito!" Or some variation of this.


A few things I've learned about the Peruvian culture, the people, and Lima itself:

Every surface of the city of Lima seems to be covered in propaganda for one of the eleven candidates for the presidential election that will take place here in April. There is no main political party here, but the favor seems to be divided more or less evenly between seven of the candidates. Everyone in Peru is required to vote starting at age 18. When you vote, a stamp is put on the back of your identification card and if you don't have this stamp, many businesses such as banks are required to refuse you service. You must also pay a fine should you choose not to vote. In addition, two days preceding voting day, consumption or sale of alcohol is prohibited throughout Lima, though apparently there is a fair amount of bootlegging or sneaking in the back door of bars or clubs.

Speaking of discotecas, they're so much more fun here than they are in the States. For one, Peruvians love 80's and 90's American music. It's been really fun to sing along to songs from my childhood with Peruvians and then attempt to try to translate them. There are also electronic/techno discotecas and salsa discotecas. And all of the men here love to dance and are great at it. My friends explained that if you don't know how to dance, you're not a man.

In addition to 80's and 90's American music, I have found that interestingly enough that Three and a Half Men is the most popular TV show here. I don't think I know anyone in the States that watches that show. Oh, and they also love Charlie Chaplin. Awesome, but pretty random. I see posters and paintings and cookies with his face on them everywhere I go.

Mayonnaise is the condiment of choice here and can be eaten with anything. Sandwiches, pasta, seafood, chips, any type of meat. Yesterday at the beach I had octopus in a sauce of mayonnaise, olives, and olive oil on saltine crackers. It took about an hour for them to bring it out and when we asked what was taking so long, they said they were killing the octopus. Not a joke. Literally. Fresh octopus straight from the ocean.

Breakfast is eaten whenever you happen to wake up and usually consists of coffee, bread, jam and butter, and fruit. Lunch is then eaten around 1 or 2pm and is the largest meal of the day. Then there's "lonchera" which is a small snack of bread and cafe around 5 or 6pm. Dinner in my house is leftovers from lunch and is eaten after whatever your activities were that evening, which usually means I'm starving and about to pass out when we finally eat around 10 or 11 at night. But people here typically stay up later than we do in the States. My padres take their walks in the evening after dinner, so between 11pm and midnight. Young people leave for the discotecas around midnight and come back between 4 and 5 in the morning. I haven't quite adjusted to this schedule yet so Vanessa and I usually leave early (3 am or so), to everyone's confusion.

The people here are incredibly friendly. One of my biggest worries when I left was that I was going to have trouble making friends, but whoever I happen to be sitting around in class has been so quick to strike up a conversation with me and it's typical to invite someone you've just met to the discoteca with your friends that weekend or over to your house for dinner with your family.

Classes are an interesting experience, as well. Somehow I wound up taking 22 hours this semester: four classes in English and two in Spanish. Most of my English classes are painfully easy, though I think a couple of the professors have such strong accents that it would be easier to understand them in Spanish than English. My Spanish language class is great and I'm excited to be learning some grammar to add to my mostly useless vocabulary that I just picked up in my month of traveling beforehand. (Things like "sparkles" or "oatmeal" or the Chilean slang word for "gangster.") However, I am the only gringa in my Organizational Behavior class (in Spanish, Comportamiento Organizacional) and I'm hoping I catch on to all the business lingo so that I can catch a little more of what we're talking about in class. There is very little homework during the semester in my classes, but instead you are usually put in a group at the beginning of the semester and will complete a semester long project to be presented at the end for your final grade. Also, the class environment is much different here than in the States. Professors don't care if students come to class or talk in class, so I've had to get used to tuning out the conversations going on around me as the professor lectures. As far as books go, people here just don't have the money to spend $200-500 on books every semester. But luckily, copyright laws don't exist here so students go to the Fotocopía (Photocopy Station) to purchase photocopies of whatever chapter of the book they need for the next class for S/.1 or 2 (about 50 cents).

I take the "public" buses to school every day which has been an experience in itself. The public transportation here isn't actually public as there's not one bus system owned and operated by the city. All the buses, taxis, and combis are privately owned. This also means that there's not an actual bus schedule. So to get to school, I walk about 10 minutes to one of the major intersections in my neighborhood, listen for someone yelling out "Todo Javier Prado!!!!" ask if they stop at near my school ("Baja La Molina?"), and then hop on and hope that there's a seat. It's about a ten minute bus ride depending on the time of day, and then at my stop it's another ten minute walk to campus. The violent starting and stopping of the bus combined with the smell of pollution and the suffocating heat makes for a nauseating start to the day, but I'm adjusting. Then I repeat the process in reverse on the way home. Taxis are only taken when absolutely necessary because they're more expensive than the buses, but I've learned all the tricks. I know exactly how much it should cost to each neighborhood so I know whether or not I'm getting ripped off and I know which types of cabs to look for (basically, just avoid the Ticos- extremely small Korean made taxis which are common here because they're very cheap but are also quite dangerous). Traffic here can also be quite frightening at first. Cars drive impossibly close to one another (within centimeters, it seems) and lanes mean nothing. If there's three feet of space, simply hold down the horn and squeeze your way in there. Also, pedestrians do not have the right of way. Cars will not stop for you, so don't try it.

Learning another language has been... amusing. Frustrating and exhausting at times, but mostly all the mistakes just make for good stories in the end. For instance, I sent out a mass email in Spanish to all of my new Peruvian friends that I met in my classes to invite them to the dinner party that we had on Saturday. One of them, Andres, informed me (between bouts of hysteric laughter, of course) that I had used one of the slang words wrong. You see, "pata" is a Peruvian slang word for "friend." So in my email to everyone, I greeted them with an enthusiastic "Holala patos!!!" I changed the word to pato because I thought that it was like most other words in Spanish and the ending changes depending on if it's masculine or feminine. Nope. Because "pato" means "duck" or is also slang name for a homosexual person. So when I thought that I was giving out a cool, friendly greeting to all of my new friends, I was actually saying "Hello ducks!" or "Hello gays!" I guess I won't make that mistake again.

This weekend I head to Ica/Paracas with my study abroad program. I'll try to post again when we return to tell you all about it.

Monday, March 7, 2011

The Last Filthy Leg of the Journey

Sucre is the most beautiful city I think I've seen yet. Grand white-washed buildings dating back to the colonial era line the wide, rolling streets and plazas, granting small glimpses of colorful gardens sheltered within. It is an antique city filled with history, reputable centers of learning, breathtaking churches, and perfect weather. The locals are friendly and optimistic, and who wouldn't be in a place like Sucre? Our time there was spent tranquilly browsing through the mercados filled with stacks of colorful, exotic fruits and vegetables and the artesenias displaying intricately woven alpaca crafts and gorgeous turquoise jewelry. We visited a couple of museums and cathedrals but other than that simply filled our days wandering the streets, eating, drinking coffee, and enjoying the weather.

I was sorry to leave Sucre, especially upon arriving in Potosí--a city which at one time was the richest and largest in the Americas but now suffers from decline and poverty. However, I quickly adjusted to the stark contrast in atmosphere between the two cities and Potosí became another one of my favorite cities before long. It's disorganized, maze-like, narrow streets and cock-eyed tiendas lend a quirky air to the place. And the eerie city mascot helps too--a gigantic face with wide eyes, a permanent ear-to-ear grin, and dark permed hair with a crown of ivy and grapes. Now, anyone who reads this or looks at either the huge original in the Casa Nacional de Moneda or the many small replicas sold in artesenias around the city will say that it's Bacchus, of course. Well, that's one theory. The other (and the favorite among the locals) is that it is Diego Huallpa, a local who first discovered silver in Potosí which led to the city's years of prosperity and fame. One night, so the legend goes, he caught a man trying to steal silver from the mines and immediately notified the authorities. Turns out, the perpetrator was his boss who then had Diego executed. That same night as the boss was alone in his house, the door was thrown open and in floated the famous eerie, grinning face of Diego Huallpa. Then he killed himself, I think. Take what you will from that story, but I think either theory gives you a little taste of the flavor of Potosí.

There are actually still working silver mines in Potosí that many tourist agencies offer tours through. However, there's a very voyeuristic feeling about that whole concept. The conditions in these mines are apparently just unbelievable and can leave you physically sick from the sight. The Lonely Planet guidebook has an excellent description so I'll include a couple exerpts here to give you an idea:

"In the cooperative mines in Cerro Rico, all work is done with mostly primitive tools , and underground temperatures vary from below freezing - the altitude is over 4200m - to a stifling 115 degrees F on the 4th and 5th levels. Miners, exposed to all sorts of noxious chemicals and gases, normally die of silicosis pneumonia within 10 to 15 years of entering the mines."

"Deeper in the mine, visitors will undoubtedly see a devilish figure occupying a small niche somewhere along the passageways. [...] Since hell (according to the traditional description of the place) must not be far from the environment in which they work, they reason that the devil himself must own the minerals they are dynamiting and digging out of the earth. [...] On Friday nights a cha'lla (offering) is made to invoke his goodwill and protecion. A little alcohol is poured on the ground before the statue, lighted cigarettes are placed in his mouth and coca leaves are laid out within easy reach. Then, as in most Bolivia celebrations, the miners smoke, chew coca and proceed to drink themselves unconscious. While this is all taken very seriously, it also provides a bit of diversion from an extremely harsh existence."

So obviously, our group opted not to participate. None of us really felt right about paying to observe the suffering of others, though I think it's really important that people are aware of the existence of these mines and the conditions within.

So after having our fill of mercados, museums, and nights spent doing nothing except catching up on sleep, we boarded a bus to Uyuni. With feet tapping anxiously on the floor of the bus, we arrived in the small, sleepy town of Uyuni in a short six hours. We were greeted by a woman at the bus station who offered to take us to a hostal in return for a chance to pitch us a tour to the salt flats with her company. Done. The hostal was cheap and clean and the tour package met all of our standards so everything was taken care of in about an hour. So we laid down around 2am and decided to wake up at 7:30am so we could be the first ones in line for the shower (the situation was getting desperate).

Well, we woke up at 9. Miraculously, showers were available so I took the fastest shower of my life, got dressed, ran out to find a tienda to buy snacks for the trip and an atm. It was about 10:15am when we finished all of our frantic errands, but in true South American fashion, our tour was running late and we actually had about half an hour to eat dry cereal in our room before we headed out. Then there was another small hiccup when we found out that the frame on top of the jeep was broken so we wouldn't be able to bring our backpacks with us. So we drove about twenty minutes to the other side of town, picked up a new jeep and driver, and then drove back into Uyuni for our things. It was then 2 o'clock in the afternoon by the time we were legitimately on our way to the salt flats. But boy, was it worth it!

MILES of perfectly flat, white land covered in salt and maybe an inch of water--just enough so that the surrounding snow-topped mountains are perfectly reflected across the expansive stretch of blank space. It's like God forgot to create something there so we're just a bunch of curious tiny humans wandering around this glitch in the creation of the world. Anyway, so it was awesome and Jefe (we could never quite figure out his name so "boss" had to do), who was something like Donkey Kong personified, gave us about half an hour to take pictures and eat lunch because we were running late. Time was a little short, but we convinced him to let us all sit on top of the jeep on the ride back across the flats which was absolutely exhilarating and a feeling I hope I'll never forget. Hopefully I can steal some pictures from someone soon to show you guys. Unbelievable.

So in a small pueblo in the middle of nothing, we found a hostel crammed full of other backpackers mostly making their way to or from Chile. The dining room that night was filled with young people enjoying their meals of soup, grilled chicken, papas fritas (french fries), and usually a few beers and a bottle of wine, all loudly chattering away and learning about the plethora of different nations and cultures represented in the smiling, sunkissed faces. Afterwards, we wandered the wide, deserted dirt roads a while by the light of the stars.

We set out around 8am the next morning to hit the next highlight on our tour--gigantic rocks, perfect for climbing and taking in a spectacular view of the mountains. I found a nice, quiet place all to myself to take a much needed moment of stillness. And about as soon as the peace washed over me, panic replaced it. The night before I had decided to be extra cautious and sleep with my money belt under my pillow since our doors didn't lock correctly. Well, of course the next morning I woke up and packed all of my things up... except for the one thing an experienced traveler should never part with and which, if one is going to double check for one thing, it should be this one: MY PASSPORT. So I dangerously sprinted over to the rest of my group, grabbed my handy translator, Jessie, and ran to alert Jefe of the emergency. He calmly informed us that going back to the hostal to get our things was impossible because then he wouldn't have enough gas for the rest of the journey. But it's my life--mi vida!--I explained, close to tears. Finally, after much convincing, Jefe said that he would take us back if I would be willing to pay S/. 50 for gas. Um, yes, I think I will pay less than $20 for my identity, thank you. Jessie accompanied me out of the kindness of her heart but actually discovered along the way that she also had left her passport at the hostal. For two people who had been backpacking through South America for a month without getting robbed or seriously scammed, we had managed to make the biggest rookie mistake possible. But our things were right where we left them and we were able to join back up with the group less than an hour later. I've never loved my ugly, annoying, touristy money belt so much.

So on we went to see and climb more awesome rocks with a backdrop too incredible to be real and a few beautiful lakes. By mid-afternoon we were already at our hostal for that night right on the coast of Laguna Colorada, a lake which turns from orange to red to purple according to the season and is inhabited by huge flocks of pink flamingos. Vicuñas (in the llama family) also graze along the coast of the lake. A short climb--though incredibly cold and windy--up the nearby ridge provides an astounding view of the water and wildlife. We ate a filling meal of soup and spaghetti and a bottle of wine (kindly provided by Jefe, himself) and went to bed early because we had to wake up at 4am the next morning to watch the sunrise over the geysers... Probrecitos, no?

So up we rose dark and early and by 5 am we were headed to the geysers (money belts on and tightly fastened). About half an hour later as we pulled up in our four wheel drive jeep it was still too dark to see anything safe what looked like fog hovering in patches just above the ground. But I could hear the sound. And as we climbed out and watched as the sky slowly brightened, the fog turned into a group of five or six powerful geysers letting out the steam of the earth. The next group of geysers we headed to was still more incredible. Countless numbers of them in varying sizes interspersed with lakes or puddles of molten, bubbling earth. The ground was soft and spongy beneath our feet. I felt like if I stepped in just the right place, I would fall through and slide right into the middle of the earth.

We stopped at another lake (this one green, I think) for lunch. Miles of flat land surrounded the lake and one faint dirt road led to and away. Beautiful, but very difficult for a girl desperately in need of a bit of privacy... I was late for lunch because I walked about half an hour to a small structure I spotted in the distance which may or may not have been an Incan ruin. Either way, I think Pachamama understood. Lunch and the rest of our journey to the Chilean border was a bittersweet and anxiety filled time. Once we hit the border, my two best friends, traveling companions, and security blankets would be leaving me and I would travel back to Uyuni, La Paz, and then to Lima alone.

And so after long goodbyes, lots of hugs and kisses and of course pictures, we arrived in Uyuni about 5pm. I quickly ran from bus company to bus company hoping and praying that there would be room aboard a bus to La Paz for that night. If I couldn't find one, I would have to stay another night in Uyuni, leave the following night, and pray that I made it to the La Paz airport in time for my flight. But my game plan actually went pretty swimmingly. I bought a bus ticket that left at 8pm that night and would arrive in La Paz at 8 the next morning. I ran a few errands in Uyuni and then sat down at a restaurant to eat when I saw one of my friends from the Uyuni tour. We sat together and attempted to converse, but Spanish is his second language, Portuguese his first, and he only knows a few words of English. I spent a good ten minutes trying to figure out what word he was trying to say to me, including having him write it down and looking it up in my dictionary (it doesn't exist). So after struggling a while longer I left and hit up an internet cafe to kill some time before my bus. At 8pm I climbed on with several other tourists fresh off their tours, all relieved not to be one of the frantic ones running around asking where they could find a last minute ticket to their respective destinations.

I slept hard enough to dream on the bus, which is always cause for celebration. Then arrived disgusting and exhausted in La Paz. I grabbed a taxi and headed to a hotel I had heard of that I picked especially because it promised free breakfast and hot showers. Turns out, breakfast isn't free and by "hot" they mean that they have good intentions to provide hot showers, but unfortunately their electric showers are not functioning properly. So after a breakfast of jam and bread and coffee for which I paid B.12 (roughly $1.75) I wandered around the insanely crowded markets selling everything from children's toys to watches to fruit. So after dropping off those essentials at my hotel room and washing a few clothes I headed out again into the rain to find a camera to replace the one that had been gifted to Pachamama in Huaraz. Well, the cameras are cheap but it's Bolivia and no one has a credit card machine so in order to purchase one, you have to carry around over a thousand Bolivianos to the electronics store. Being a gringa traveling alone in La Paz, I opted to wait for a safer opportunity to begin capturing memories. Once back at the hotel, I hung up my rain-drenched clothes and crawled into bed at 5pm because it was the warmest, driest place in the room. I watched part of Cinderella Man on the small, fuzzy TV screen in my room, ate the bread and bananas I had bought of the street earlier (saving some for breakfast, of course), and fell asleep after quadruple-checking my alarm.

At 5am I woke up, but on clothes that had not dried from the day before, packed my things, and jumped in a taxi for the airport. After navigating my way through the airport and waiting at a gate that I was never quite sure was the right one, I breathed the greatest sigh of relief once I sunk into my airplane seat by the window. I was on my way to Lima. While I can imagine that other students in my program were filled with a mixture of excitement and terror as they boarded their planes from the states, all I felt was relief and calm because the hardest part was over. Waiting for me in Lima was a loving family, a home-cooked meal, a warm bed, and a room to myself.

Friday, March 4, 2011

And I Sing of Bolivia with Smog-Filled Lungs

It was a short three hours from Copacabana to La Paz and we arrived sometime in the late evening. We met a couple of Holly and Jessie's friends at their hotel in La Paz, but it was a little pricey for our taste. So our cab driver took us to a couple other places, all equally expensive. But eventually we got tired of looking and decided to spend a little extra for a little convenience. I fell asleep with my journal and pen open on my bed at 9pm that night. Traveling will do that to you. We slept late, did some much needed laundry, met Holly and Jessie's other friend, Matias, and grabbed some breakfast.

Then we set out to find a different hostal to stay in for the rest of our tour in La Paz. We settled on one near the Mercado de Hechiceria, a street near our hostal populated by witches who sell a variety of goods from dried plants and herbs to the skeletons of baby llamas. Safe choice, I think. After weaving through hordes of Bolivians crowding the terribly narrow sidewalks, we decided to take a cab to the Mirador for a little space. The small, rusted car "I think I can, I think I can"-ed it's way up the steep, spiraled street to the top of a hill overlooking the city. La Paz is a giant brown blob filling the bottom of a valley surrounded by grass-covered mountains. The temperature swings dramatically from suffocating heat and humidity during midday and cold rain in the evenings. Poverty abounds in this city, as in all of Bolivia, and the indigenous community must be something like 50% of the population. All of this makes for an interesting city, but not one that I care to spend too much time in.

While Matias and I bought bus tickets to Cochabamba, the girls met Ben and Rom (two Israeli friends Holly and Jessie met at Patagonia) at their favorite restaurant in La Paz. Fun fact about Israelis: they travel a LOT and apparently always to La Paz. Hebrew hostals and restaurants abound, always with large groups of ten or more Israelis merrymaking within. Anyway, we spent the rest of the day wandering around the markets looking for souvenirs and gifts. Bolivia is wonderfully affordable so the market experience was a lucrative one. We carried our treasures back to the hostal to share a bottle of wine and a few laughs. Then it was downtown for dinner... after about an hour of wandering up and down the main street searching for any sort of food other than fast food chicken. Finally we found a sufficient restaurant which served dry pasta and bland soup. But of course we still ate our fill and decided to call it another early night.

Sam and Molly got up very early the next morning to ride Death Road, the world's most dangerous road which is now closed to vehicles but is very popular for avid bicyclists. It is a narrow, gravel road with cliffs with up to 600 meter drops--an average of 26 vehicles a year disappeared into the abyss below before it was closed. While they were risking their lives on rented bicycles, the rest of us unknowingly put our own lives in danger over breakfast. We grabbed bread, cheese, coffee, and bananas and headed a nearby plaza to eat. Apparently, pigeons really like bread and aren't too afraid of people either. I tried to keep my cool but when one flew treacherously close to my face, I let out an embarrassing yelp that echoed against the surrounded buildings and spilled scalding coffee on my newly washed pair of jeans. The toothless man plucking his whiskers in the park thought it was quite hilarious.

With a full stomach, stained jeans, and a heavy heart, we accompanied Holly, Sam, and Molly to the airport to say goodbye for the next five months or more. As they headed to Uyuni and then to Chile for their orientations, Jessie, Matias, and I felt like worried parents watching our children walk away with their oversized backpacks, not to be seen again for far too long. We spent the rest of our day in La Paz wandering leisurely through other markets, met Ben and Rom for dinner, and then hopped on a night bus to Cochabamba.

Originally, we had planned to break up our 16 hour trip to Santa Cruz by staying a night in Cochabamba, but when we arrived we discovered that there was a strike going on and if we wanted to get to Santa Cruz we would have to leave immediately to beat the road block. This was just as well since Cochabamba didn't give us the best first impression, anyway. When we got off the bus, there was a crowd of people around the underneath compartment grabbing for their bags. As we got near the front, Matias thankfully noticed an extremely frightening man who looked like Shere Khan grabbing for my backpack and claiming that it was his. Matias jumped in and grabbed it for me before it was stolen, but by that point, we couldn't wait to hop on the bus to Santa Cruz. So by 6:30am we were on our way.

Going from La Paz to Santa Cruz is a little bit of a shock. Because of a recent agricultural boom, the city is more prosperous, has a more diverse population, and a higher standard of living. In some areas of the city it was hard to believe that we were still in Bolivia. Ritzy steakhouses and boutiques selling clothes for American dollars line the main street in a neighborhood of tropical mansions. The central plaza is bustling with Bolivian teenage hipsters making their way to the variety of uppity coffee shops, Cuban restaurants, and sushi joints. Since 2006, a portion of the city's population have been voicing their desire for independence from the rest of Bolivia which has led to an understandably rocky relationship between the two and a continuing attempt by Santa Cruz to further differentiate itself from its home country. All this to say that Santa Cruz is a wonderful city that offers a wealth of cultural and environmental experiences inside and out of the city center, all with a slightly different flavor than the rest of Bolivia.

We spent a lot of time in Santa Cruz frequenting a couple favorite Cuban restaurants and coffee shops, wandering around lost, and planning a trip to a small nearby pueblo (town) that never came to pass. But we also stopped by a steakhouse in the most prominent neighborhood in Santa Cruz to say hello to the owners, the parents of one of Jessie's friends from Trinity. They were extremely kind, generous, and hospitable, comping us a meal that otherwise would have been very impossible to us. After weeks of meals consisting of bread and cheese, a delicious steak with roasted vegetables and rice was nirvana at that point. The day before we left Santa Cruz for Sucre, we hit Biocentro Guembe, a butterfly sanctuary outside the city. Little did we know, it was actually a resort with ten natural swimming pools, hammocks and pavilions, and a restaurant with international cuisine. In addition to the butterfly sanctuary there was an orchid exhibition, an aviary, and a meditation garden, all along a perfect dirt path through the forest. As we laid out by the pool, we wondered how we had found ourselves soaking up the sun at a resort in the middle of Bolivia...

From Santa Cruz to Sucre was 19 hours in a bus. Yes. 19. It may have been the most miserable bus ride of the entire trip. Partially because it was nauseatingly hot and humid and because I had gotten sick in La Paz and was still taking cold medicine like it was candy. Also because every square inch of the bus was occupied. Elderly people and families with small children sat in the aisles for the entire trip. The woman in the aisle next to us sat up perfectly straight on her bag of belongings with a one-year-old child in her arms for the entire journey. Her head bobbed in a constant rhythm as she fought off sleep, lacking a place to lay her weary head. I think I can speak for us all when I say that Sucre has the sweetest, softest soil I've ever felt beneath my feet.