The Virgen of Urcupina

During the week-long festival of the Virgin Quillacollo, pilgrims walk the 14 kilometers from Cochabamba, Bolivia to Quillacollo. There, they ascend the nearby Calvario hill, where the Virgin supposedly appeared, and use hammers to break rocks that represent money. People carry the rocks home with them, as a loan from the Virgin. These are said to help people earn money during the year. They must bring the rocks back the following year or bad things will happen to them.

When I went to the Calvario hill myself, I saw that pilgrims weren’t the only people to come collect rocks. People of varying levels of faith and physical strength, some with no faith at all, joined the gathering. By 9:45 a.m., when I took a taxi there, traffic was bumper to bumper and the hill already teemed with people. The land below was made into impromptu parking lots, charging $1.25 for 8 hours parking. Yellow and blue tents dotted the hillside, making it look like a shantytown.

I followed the crowds and moved slowly through the dense masses. On either side of those ascending the hill, vendors sold fake money – “Dollars! Bolivianos!” they called out, “$1000 for one boliviano!” – models of houses and stores, and toy cars. These represented people’s wishes for the next year (notably I didn’t see any dolls or babies, I guess this isn’t a fertility rite). People bought these items on the holy hill, carried them with them as they collected rocks or obtained benedictions, then took them home until next year with the hopes that they would become reality.

The website of the Virgin’s festival warns of the dangers of seeing the festival as an opportunity to ask for more and more material goods. It urges people to renew their compromises with the demands of the faith, especially the call to love one’s neighbor as one loves thyself.

However, the popular impression is that the religious faithful are in the minority. “Twenty percent of the people who go there are faithful,” my taxi driver estimated. “The other 80% are there for the celebration, to drink and have a good time.” A banner hanging over the toll booth entering Quillacollo read “Let’s Celebrate Without Excess,” and urged people to avoid too much alcohol and to take care about sexually transmitted diseases and AIDS.

Celebratory materials – hats, confetti, streamers and notably, firecrackers – filled the hillside. Indigenous men wearing woven hats with earflaps burned herbs over charcoal, sprinkled on some streamers or confetti, and enjoined people together with rope as they gave benedictions. Then there was the food – cotton candy, ice cream, giant vats of chicken parts cooked in oil, donuts, chicha, beer. The scents of sugar, bouillon and fermentation mixed with the scent of earth and wool.

The further up the hill I moved, the more consistent became the pops, bangs and plumes of smoke from firecrackers, like shots of gunfire ringing out all over the mountain – or like dynamite breaking apart the rock and revealing riches. Dust from breaking rock floated into the air and settled on my tongue.

As I reached the top, I realized the land was divided into pits. Families would select a pit where they’d hang out for a while. There, they used the hammers available for rent to bang apart the rock. They poured beer onto the ground and drank the remainder. They used their confetti, streamers and fireworks to light off a signal of thanks. Sometimes they used the services of a nearby drummer or band. Forming into a circle, they danced to the music.

Locals had warned me to go in the morning, had told me people became drunk, and the environment dangerous as the day went on. At 11 a.m. I already saw some drunk people and could feel how the population was likely to slowly lose control as the sun grew hotter. All around me, I could hear the hollow bang of hammers against rock, with the sudden grapeshot of exploring fireworks. I walked through scents of beer, of sweet fried food, and foul sewage, coming from homemade bathrooms constructed from sticks and flour stacks, manned by entrepreneurs with stacks of bright pink toilet paper.

After taking in the sights, smells and sounds of the experience, I left. The city of Cochabamba was virtually abandoned. An official holiday was declared. The taxi drivers on duty told me almost everyone had gone to Quillacollo. On some streets, there were more dogs than people, with up to ten large mutts hanging around the streets, like so many gangs.

Robbery by children

Roberto took us on the 2.5 hour trip from Samaipata to Santa Cruz, Bolivia. He was a good driver, cautious on the mountain roads, careful when crossing over the avalanche area in the dark. He got us back safely to the taxi cooperative office, then offered to take us home for the same price as a local taxi. Since we already knew he was trustworthy, we took him up on it.

We’d just moved a couple blocks from the office when we were stopped at a stoplight. The street was full with people leaving a soccer game, people waiting for transportation, selling things, visiting one of the many shops and cafes that lined the road. The buzz of traffic and people on the move surrounded us.

All of a sudden, several dirty, gangly young boys surrounded our vehicle. This in itself wasn’t unusual. We expected they were going to wash the windshield, or do some tricks in order to earn tips.

Instead, one of them opened the Roberto’s unlocked door. Another tried to open the passenger’s door behind the driver, but it was locked. A third stood at my door (I sat in front). While my door was unlocked and window was open, I didn’t think about that at the time. Like everyone else in the car, I looked over at Roberto as he struggled with the boy, who had the car door fully open and wasn’t letting go.

“What are you doing?” Roberto yelled. I could smell his fear and tasted my own.

The boy grinned at though he was playing, his eyes glazed over by glue sniffing.

A hand reached into the car through my window and I shouted, but not before the boy managed to grab something.

“He took some money from you,” a woman selling something in the median told the driver. Fat cascaded from her midsection in two large rolls.

I had money in my hand, but the boy hadn’t gotten that. He hadn’t gotten the driver’s money that was on a shelf. Nor had he gotten my duffel bag, which was on the floor in between my legs. I commented how stupid the kid was. If he had opened my door, he could have gotten away with all my belongings – a nice loot.

But I was sure I’d seen him take something. When I pointed for the second time to the general area of the dashboard where I saw something go, Roberto sucked in air, then exclaimed, “My radio!”

He’d purchased the radio only recently for $200. And he worked the entire evening to make $25 (minus his expenses). Those kids, aged 7 to 12, robbed him of several day’s income. He was so upset that he became distracted, missed turns, had a hard time following directions. At one point he even stopped on the side of the road, unsure of how to continue.

My colleague, Maria, advised him to stay in town for the night, and to visit Los Pozos market the next morning. There is a street in that market where only stolen goods are sold.

“I went there after my radio was stolen and I bought it back for $30,” she said.

The criminals unload their loot quickly and easily at these shops. And the owners resell it with a profit, but at prices much lower than retail. Everyone knows about this street, but no one closes it down.

For me, other than the unpleasantness of being attacked, tricked, and robbed, the overriding sentiment was one of sadness for the society. How could children hold up a car in the middle of a busy street and not a single adult does anything to stop it? How could the children have so much experience at such young ages that they were able to pull it off so professionally? The driver said there are probably older criminals behind them, ready with a knife for anyone who interferes. Where are the police? In a town with so many wealthy people, they can’t find the funds to implement public safety? And then there is the issue of abortion being legal. It’s only in a country like this, where abortion is illegal and it’s very difficult for the average person to access illegal services, that one can see the impact of forcing women to have children they don’t want and aren’t going to care for.

You get streets full of vagabond children, kids in training to become criminals far before the usual time, and underfunded orphanages full of kids that nobody wants. I visited one of those orphanages. On one street corner, there were four separate institutions, all full of kids. The one I visited took in boys, ages six to sixteen. Unlike countries where parents make a choice whether or not to have a child, the vast majority of children in this orphanage had living parents. But the parents gave the kids away because they were unable to take care of them.

The employee we spoke to said that most were single mothers and most had five, six, or seven other children. They could not take care of another. Almost 80% of the boys living there had a living parent in the area.

While this particular orphanage received foreign funds and had relatively nice facilities, the boys sleep 30 to a room, run around in ragged clothing, and eat food that leaves a lingering, unpleasant smell in the hallways.

As far as the employee knew, there had never been a single adoption. Nobody wants these children. No one loves them or takes the responsibility for raising them. But because some people insisted that they must be brought into a world that has no place for them, it is society that has to deal with the consequences of what they turn into as adults.

Bolivia

I watched another movie about Bolivia today, the third in a triad of depressing films about the country (The Devil’s Miner, Our Brand is Crisis and Bolivia). This is an Argentine film about an illegal Bolivian immigrant who comes to Buenos Aires in 2001, at the height of the Argentinean economic crisis. He has left his family and three daughters in La Paz, unable to work there after the “Yankees” burned the fields where he used to work on a combine. The fields grew coca, among other crops.

He’s a hard-working and polite man, doing his best for his family. But the majority of the clients in the lower-middle income restaurant he works at are also unemployed or facing serious financial difficulties as a result of the crisis. Not very accepting of other races to begin with, tensions mount when foreigners are given work and locals remain unemployed.
It’s a stark, simple movie, filmed in black and white, never for more than 3 days at a time due to budget constraints. But it’s effective, not only in portraying the situation in Argentina and the case of the common Bolivian migrant, but of highlighting the tensions of immigration in many countries, of the dichotomy between what is better for the individual and what is better for the national society.

Bolivian Strife

Today I spoke to a former colleague in Bolivia who told me the office and the country are shut down again due to protests. The topic is still the relocation of the government from La Paz to Sucre, the same issue that was causing commotion in August. It’s sad and difficult to see to see such continued strife in a country that needs unity and economic growth.

Yesterday I watched a fascinating movie about Bolivia called Our Brand is Crisis. It’s about the 2002 Bolivian presidential elections. One of the candidates, Goni, who had previously served one term as President, hired a U.S. political consulting firm, GCS Consulting, to advise him on his presidential campaign.

I’d heard of Goni while I was in Bolivia, heard how he was raised in the U.S., became the President of Bolivia, then fled to the U.S. after protests that drove him out of office. I’d seen leftover signs of support for him, especially in the rural Cochabamba region, where his name was still spraypainted onto walls and bus stands. But I hadn’t much sense of what type of a person or a President he was, nor did I have any idea that a group of Americans was so involved in the election. It seems from the movie that Goni definitely could not have won without the assistance provided by this consulting firm. The nagging question remains – would it have been better for the country had he not won?

The methodology used by the firm was quite impressive – endless focus groups and careful statistical studies to read the mood of the people, to understand what they wanted, and to instruct Goni how to deliver. At the same time, they also worked to discredit Goni’s two main rivals – Evo Morales (currently the President of Bolivia) and Manfred. Through carefully constructed messages, they were able to help Goni win by just a hairline. The final results were Goni 22.5% of the vote, Evo Morales 20.9% and Manfred 20.8%. No one candidate received more than about a fifth of the vote, an indication of divisiveness even more powerful than that in America.

Evo’s campaign was unexpectedly helped by the U.S. ambassador at the time, Manuel Rocha, a man James Carville (one of the consultants) called an idiot. Rocha made the following speech shortly before the election, linking Evo Morales to Osama Bin Laden:

“It’s unbelievable but true. A few weeks ago Evo Morales claimed the US embassy threatened to kill him. This vile accusation is totally false, an absolute lie. The U.S. has threatened to kill one man: Osama bin Laden. Perhaps Evo Morales, with his tremendous lie..wanted to show his solidarity with that assassin and terrorist. Evo Morales also said in a speech…that if he is elected…he’ll stop the US anti-coca program..I want to remind Bolivians California will only buy your natural gas if Bolivia is not involved in cocaine. Citizens of Bolivia. Open your eyes. The future of your children and families is in your hands.”

Goni joked that perhaps Rocha was actually Evo’s campaign manager, since after that speech, Evo’s support increased. “It’ll make me happy if he keeps talking,” Evo said. In focus groups, people responded that the ambassador’s speech made them more likely to vote for Evo. “It brings out the rebellious part in us,” said one man. “So now because we’ve been attacked and because I feel rebellious, I’m going to vote for Evo Morales.”

I try to imagine an ambassador of any other nation making a speech to the American people before an election and telling them to open their eyes. I don’t think such a condescending tone would go over very well with the electorate.

So Goni won by a hairline, but his victory didn’t last long. His reputation for arrogance continued and people continued to feel he didn’t understand or represent them. I was surprised to hear that his Spanish was about as heavily accented as mine, which seems to make it difficult to integrate among one’s followers. He didn’t seem to really understand or care about the poor and was extremely reluctant to communicate directly with or move among the poor. Under pressure from the consulting company, he sent someone else out into the communities to listen to the people, but didn’t do it himself.

Within seven months, the government was in crisis. Goni wanted to sell natural gas via Chile, but the people were against it. They considered Chile an enemy since losing their coastline to Chile in the 1879 war. And Goni raised taxes on all salaries above 880 bolivianos a month (about $100 a month). The consultants thought the tax should have been raised only on salaries about 5,000 bolivianos a month (about $500 a month), which would have avoided making the very poor even more poor. And finally, the people didn’t see progress on the creation of jobs, which was the number one issue during the election.

These problems led to street blockages and protests, led by Evo Morales. Goni used troops to clear the streets, resulting in the death of about 100 people. Forced to leave office, his vice-president took over for 20 months, but didn’t have much more success.

In December 2005, Evo Morales was elected with 54% of the vote, a landslide not seen since Bolivia’s 1982 return to democracy.

Now of course, two years later, there is a lot of criticism of Evo’s policies (especially in Santa Cruz, where I was). It’s true there are real downsides to having a poorly educated national leader, for pandering to sentiments of the majority rather than promoting technically strong plans that will have actual impact. But I learned from the movie that the large, poor, indigenous Bolivian majority is not going to understand or support economic plans unless they are explained and sold to them. That any candidate who wants to hope for success in Bolivia needs to take these people seriously.

The First Snow and I Become a Cord Blood Donor Reject

Today the first snow fell. It seems early to me for New Jersey. But it was so startlingly beautiful that it captured my attention and even led me outside to photograph it. When I looked outside my office window, I saw thick, fluffy white flakes drifting down in front of the brilliant red, orange and green leaf collage that composes my view. It didn’t stick to the ground but just fluttered through the sky – a magical white blanket – then disappeared. It now feels like winter.

Today I received the disappointing news that my application to donate our baby’s cord blood to a public cord blood bank was rejected. After doing quite a bit of research on the options – saving it in a private bank, donating it to a public bank, or throwing it out – Mark and I had decided to donate it. It was a decision I felt good about. It doesn’t hurt, it could help someone else, and if by chance no one else needed it, it might still be around if someone in our family developed a need.

I stopped donating blood after I was told by a blood collector I had the surface veins of a 90-year-old. So I was happy to have found something I could donate. I filled out the veritable mountain of paperwork required of donors and sent it back. Out of the many, many variables, the only question I marked a yes to was having spent time overseas. I have lived overseas for much of the past three years. But I didn’t expect that to be a problem. I’m in very good health, as the many boxes checked no indicated.

Guess I was wrong. They rejected me because I was in Bolivia and there is malaria in the Santa Cruz region. I told them I was in the city, not the rural areas and that I never heard of a malaria case among the people I came in contact with over five months. While I have taken anti-malarial medications in other countries due to the risk, in Bolivia it was so close to non-existent that I didn’t take anything, nor did the other foreigners I came into contact with. Even if, by chance, malaria came to the city, I was there during the winter, when mosquitoes just weren’t around. And if I had acquired malaria, wouldn’t I notice it by now?

Most importantly, malaria can be easily tested for. Why throw out a donation when they could just do a test and verify that I don’t have malaria. Last week, the medical director agreed with me. He said they would warn the doctor of a potential recipient of the risk and that doctor could order a malaria test. But apparently he consulted with his supervisors and they didn’t agree. Because today he called and said they couldn’t take the risk.

I wonder if it has to do with the recent case of the HIV-tainted organs donated by someone who acquired the disease shortly before dying. Similarly, they think I could have acquired malaria recently and not realize it yet. But in this sad, but single HIV case, the only one in more than a decade, everyone except the patients knew the donor was high-risk. The opportunity was there to order an HIV test before doing the transplants. It was just a failure of communication. It’s too bad that there is so little confidence in the communication structure of the donor system that it’s considered wiser to discard a potentially life-saving donation than to ensure that the appropriate information, documented in the reams of paperwork, is passed on to the people who need it.

Mining with the Devil

I saw a great documentary about Bolivia this week. Called The Devil’s Miner, it’s about two brothers, ages 12 and 14, who work in one of the mines in Bolivia’s mining center, Cerro Rico. After their father died, their mother moved them from the countryside to a mountaintop, where she got a job guarding mining equipment for $25 a month. Since that wasn’t enough to both live on and allow the children to study, the boys worked in the mine during the afternoon, and studied in the morning.

In addition to the story of two boys, the movie portrays well the life and culture. It explains some of the history of the mines, of the forced labor the Spanish employed, in which every indigenous male had to spend six months working in the mines without pay. One aspect new to me was the concept of “tios,” devil figures located in every mine that must be worshipped and given offerings in order to not kill the miners. These tios receive more worship and respect by the locals than God does. But they go to church anyway, looking for double protection, hoping someone will help and protect them. It also displayed well the carnival, the happiness generated once a year among even the most destitute – the festivities, dancing and mayhem. Watching the dancing troupes reminded me of what I saw at the Festival de Urcupina outside of Cochabamba. And like what I saw in Bolivia, the celebrations in Potosi aren’t complete with random explosives going off all around.

These mines are located above Potosi, which at 4300 meters, is the highest city in the world. The children were living and working in very harsh conditions, at a very high altitude. Nevertheless, the movie inspires hope. It portrays the beauty of the harsh rocky landscape. And despite the incredible difficulties they face, these boys are determined to study and to find a career for themselves outside of the mines.

I’m currently reading Regreso del Idiota, (Return of the Idiot), a recently released book that seems to be getting some attention in Latin America. My colleague Maria’s brother was discussing it when I lunch with her family in Cochabamba. And I saw it prominently placed on the bookshelves in the Miami airport.

It’s written by three Latin American authors and is a diatribe against the far left socialist leaders in Latin America – mainly Chavez (Venezuela), Castro (Cuba), and Morales (Bolivia). They write that these “idiots”, with a purportedly social agenda, are actually harming the poor in their countries by prohibiting social advancement and the operation of free markets.

Searching for quality maternity care

My husband and I had another pre-natal doctor’s appointment today and again, the quality of the visit was disappointing compared to Bolivia. At my last appointment in Bolivia I received quite a bit of information. In addition to 3-D pictures, the doctor spent a good 45 minutes examining the fetus, he provided detailed and helpful responses to my questions and I learned a lot. I was told the fetus was almost one kilo, and was in the top 3% for height-weight at its point in development. He showed me a chart indicated that if that rate of growth continues, I could expect the baby to be between 3.5 and 4 kilos at birth.

The American doctor listened to the heartbeat and measured my abdomen, saying “OK.” That was it. The answers to our questions were extremely terse and I had the feeling we were taking his valuable time. We asked if there were any doulas he’d recommend. He gave us a single first name.

“Any ideas on how we could locate Gloria?” Mark asked.

I asked why he recommended this particular person. “Because she knows my name,” he said. “The other don’t.”

Is that really a reason why we’d hire someone? Because she knows the doctor’s name?

Mark’s impression is that the doctor is flakey and he isn’t impressed with the knowledge levels displayed by the staff we’ve had contact with. Now, when we still don’t have full confidence in our primary doctor, we have to begin to rotate through the other four doctors in the practice, so that we’ll have had at least five minutes of contact with the random person who will deliver our child.

It’s understandable, with such a low level of personalization, with no single individual really paying attention to the needs of the couple throughout the pregnancy process, that demand is growing for non-medical staff like doulas. I almost look back nostalgically to the local country doctor – the person who knew his client well, who was available to come in the middle of the night if necessary. Since doctors have moved so far from this model, people have to look elsewhere to find a person who will listen, provide personalized advice and promise to be available over a period of several months.

Last Day in Bolivia

Yesterday I had a taxi driver only on the job five days and not yet jaded by the endless queue of passengers. He told me about a festival for the Holy Child that would be taking place in a small town this weekend. He was planning to go and urged me to consider it, saying it would be a beautiful sight.

A call came in from the dispatcher, ordering his taxi to his mother’s house. I laughed.

“Is your mother your customer?” I asked.

“She makes empanadas and when someone wants a delivery of empanadas, I transport them,” he said. “If you ever want a wonderful empanada, you should try hers. She’s been making them for 27 years.”

I had a busy day yesterday, finishing up my work and all the errands I wanted to finish in Santa Cruz. It was better to be busy than not though, as I’d reached the point where I was just counting the hours until my departure. In the evening, several of my colleagues took me out to dinner – a delicious meal of fried yucca pieces with various sauces, a chicken breast in cheese sauce, vegetables and potatoes. My Spanish teacher Oscar gave me our first baby blanket – a soft, pretty yellow blanket with a little arc full of animals on it.

The light was soft and gentle when I left this morning, the sun rising from a mottled sky, the palm trees on the way to the airport waving in the light breeze. There were no blockages, no protests, just the quiet normality of a city getting ready to go to work.

Overall, the city and the country have been good to me. I’ve met a lot of kind people and have generally had good experiences over the last five months. However, the country hasn’t taken a hold on my heart the way Kyrgyzstan did. It was painful to leave the land and the people of Kyrgyzstan as I felt it had become a part of me. Here, I remained a visitor, someone here temporarily. I was glad to have a final chance to spend time with colleagues. But I don’t have a connection with the land. And rather than with regret, I leave happily, eager to start a new adventure in the U.S., happy for the first time in years to be able to set up a home and family, however short-term it may be.

Stroll Through a Strike Zone

It’s 6 p.m. and as the sun fades pink against the horizon, the city wakes up. Even though the strike was for 24 hours, and shouldn’t end until midnight, everyone seemed to know that one evening came, the restaurants would open back up, the cars return to the road. The bicyclists head home after enjoying a day of unique freedom. The hum of cars fills the air again. The silence pill has dissolved.

From my seventh floor room, I had a nice view of how things were developing throughout the day. From morning on, occasional sounds of firecrackers and little plumes of smoke would come from the city center. I imagined what it must be like to live in a city at war – to hear the crackle of gunfire, to be unaffected as long as its far enough away.

One of my roommates went to work early this morning, before the blockades were put into place. She was picked up and brought home by the company car.

“Nothing’s open,” she said. “Not the supermarkets, no stores, no restaurants.” She said there was a large blockage when she returned to the apartment, at the fourth ring. But that they were able to find alternate routes around it.

In the morning, there were a couple of cars, a few private taxis, and some vehicles with green and white Santa Cruz flags flying from their windows. Were they “authorized” cars, who brought the blockades to their jobs. Or were they the ones assigned to make sure no one else moved around?

Despite a bit of traffic, I saw four tourists, hauling large suitcases and giant backpacks, making their way by foot up my street. I wondered how one would warn a visitor who didn’t speak the language about a general strike the next time. I imagined them arriving by an evening bus, and finding themselves in a still and quiet city of 1.5 million.

From an early hour, people were out walking, and they quickly made the roadways theirs. I watched a father push a child in a car-stroller, casually sauntering down the middle of a lane. More and more bicycles emerged and they especially liked the street in front of my apartment building, which has eight lanes divided into four sections of two each. It’s long and smooth and for once, was empty.

A few blocks away, I watched them set up a minor roadblock. First it was a car put in the middle of the road. This was more of an inconvenience than anything, as most were able to drive or maneuver around it. I wonder who volunteers to let their cars be used as blockage objects, and why the large numbers of people who are being blocked by a few don’t ram their cars into the one in the middle of the road.

Around 11, a more substantial roadblock was set up, with small piles of roads and bricks spread across the road. A car blocked half the road, a green banner and a Santa Cruz flag the rest. There weren’t a lot of people manning this blockage though, and no firecrackers at this point. I saw some bicyclists pause as they approached, then turn around. Others moved forward and were able to get through along the edges. Some cars found a way through, others turned around. I saw motorcycles and four-wheelers push up the curb and drive on the sidewalk to get by. But by this time, few cars were out and the world belonged to the bicyclists.

My roommates told me the members of the Civic Committee – those who declared the strike – were pressured do to their employment to participate and to enforce the roadblocks. I don’t feel like there is a strong public sentiment that moving the capital to Sucre is an important, immediate concern. So the few people in charge of the roadblock near my house had already gone home by the time my roommates and I went out for a walk later in the afternoon.

We walked randomly, probably a mile-long circle. We passed a casual roadblock or two – small streets blocked off with a couple of tree branches and rocks. But what we saw a lot more of was people having a really nice time – flying down the streets on their bicycles, bright-faced and smiling. Families walking their babies, pushing the strollers down the center of a lane. Kids playing soccer, people walking, or gathering on street corners.

My roommate Juanita, from La Paz, looked enviously at the bicyclists. “I wish I knew where I could rent one. I haven’t been on a bike in so long.”

My other roommate, a mother of a two year old who has left her child for the first time on this 11-day business trip, spoke endlessly of childbirth and childrearing.

When we returned, we went to the top floor of our building to look at the swimming pool. There, one of our co-workers, who apparently lives there, opened the door. He was bleary eyed from an evident nap.

It’s an interesting experience to have nowhere to go, nothing to do, all day. And for the entire city to be in the same situation. Yet, unlike a warzone, to know that despite the social tensions, there aren’t any serious conflicts going on. It seemed to give people the chance to sleep, relax, get some fresh air, and spend time with family. I think if they could ban cars once a month, on a weekend day to not disturb work, it would make for a much happier and healthier city.

Babies from multiple partners and fighting back against road blockages

Last night I took a taxi from work into the center of the city. My driver, Leo, was a talkative man and since traffic was heavy at that hour, we had quite a bit of time together. Suddenly, he let out a big yawn.

“Are you ready to go home?” I asked.

“Yes. I work until ten, but I’m tired already.” It was shortly before eight. “The thing is I have a three-month old baby and he doesn’t let me sleep, crying all night.”

I congratulated him.

“I actually have two children, both born on the same day, May 6th. One is from my wife and one is from my second woman. I certainly didn’t plan to have two, but my boys are really beautiful, really special. One was born at 11 a.m. and the other at 8 p.m.” I wondered how he arranged the logistics of that.

His chubby face fell into a reverie as the images of his baby sons appeared in his mind. He didn’t even seem to think it strange at all to admit to his foreign passenger that he has two women, or two babies that may or may not know about their brother.

I had to stock up on food last night since stores and restaurants will be closed until this evening. Early this morning, around 6:30, I saw a couple of cars driving around. That might be early enough to be safe, before the blockaders get out of bed. A little after seven I heard the first firecrackers going off. And now, shortly after 8, I hear only an occasional car going by. I expect it will stay that way until the late afternoon, when people will start to reopen and try to recoup the income they lost during the day. As long as the strikers prevent a full day of normal business operations, they will probably be satisfied. The government estimated that the strike, taking place in six regions across Bolivia today, will prevent the exchange of $20 million.

People seem to accept the limitations on their freedom with surprising passivity. Yesterday, while returning from Samaipata in a taxi, I told the driver I’d read that in a national road blockage, the population only rose up against those blocking the roads in two places. One of them was Samaipata, a small mountain town.

“Yes,” he said. ‘They are afraid to block the roads near Samaipata now. When they do, we all go out, as an entire community – men and women and children, all carrying sticks. And we get rid of them.”

He told me how the church bells are used as a means of announcing community information. “Usually, when they ring, the children rung to the square to find out who has died, or what has happened. But when they ring urgently, as they do when there is a road blockage, the adults gather.”

I’d also read that it wasn’t so easy, that some citizens were severely injured. However, it seemed to have been a good investment for the community. Now, unlike much of the country, they are free from being trapped within their town. But today, even my driver who shuttles passengers between Samaipata and Santa Cruz, will be sitting at home. He hasn’t been able to stop the strikes in the big city.

El Fuerte

Today was a cold, drizzly, windy day – the kind of day that’s perfect for curling up indoors with a book and a cup of hot chocolate. I did find two cups of hot chocolate, and luxuriate in the warmth of Tuscany in my book Under the Tuscan Sun. But I also took a half-day tour of the nearby El Fuerte ruins, one of four UNESCO World Heritage Sites in Bolivia.

It’s only nine kilometers away, at the summit of a mountain, but the going was rough. On the way out of town, the driver stopped at a store to buy shampoo. “So the window won’t fog,” he said. “It’s a secret trick among drivers.”

It did keep the window from fogging, but it also streaked the inside of the window, so viewing was still difficult. We headed up a dirt road that had turned to mud from the drizzle. We crossed a river, continued uphill, then drove over rock. We were among the first to make it up. An SUV in front of us turned around partway. When we left an hour or two later, we saw many cars stopped part of the way up, or turning around in defeat.

Our guide, Erica, took us along the path through the pre-Incan ruins. The area was beautiful. Unfortunately, the fog and mist prevented us from seeing more than 10-20 meters ahead. When we climbed the overlooks, we could see only what was right below us. The photographic sites were, for us, just a collection of mist off the edge of a mountain. From what I’ve heard and seen in photos, the views are supposed to be spectacular. But I imagined they had misty days centuries ago as well. And I could try to visualize what it would have been like to live there and see a scantily dressed warrior with a bow and arrow emerge along the misty jungle path.

Though conditions were less than ideal, it was still interesting to see. It was unique compared to other ruins I’ve seen in that the highlight was a giant, 200 by 60 meter sandstone rock, carved with jaguars, serpents, ceremonial circles and tombs.

I had my lunch in the Latina Café, a nicely decorated place with large windows looking out over the hills. I ordered the pollo milanesa and was surprised to see it was as big as a pizza, taking up the entire plate. They brought the sides in a separate dish.

I’m taken with the prevalence of natural and organic food here, so I stopped at the local market to see how much the local products reflected the finished goods sold so enthusiastically to tourists and to restaurants and grocery stores in Santa Cruz. The first thing that caught my attention were the green and brown eggs from sale, from criollo chickens. There was a full and colorful selection of fresh vegetables overflowing wicker baskets – lettuce, spinach, carrots, peppers, radishes, and herbs.

Erica told me that now should be high tourist season, due to the European summer vacation. But they have less visitors than they’d expect. “Bolivia has a lot of problems,” she said. What amazes me though is how many Europeans cross the world and the ocean to get here, yet so few Americans know about it or make the trip. Samaipata is a wonderful little retreat – a great place to relax and enjoy nature, or to explore the surrounding ruins, national parks, or a giant, ancient fern forest that I unfortunately haven’t been able to get to. I’d love to come back here for an extended time.

The cold prevented me from using my hammock or spending any unnecessary time outdoors. Even so, every time I went out, I breathed in the spicy, sweet scent of herbs, flowers and tropical trees. I purchased herbal teas, an herbal mix for pizza and a rhubarb compote. But I wish I could somehow bottle the scent of the air and take some home with me.

Return to Samaipata

I’m extremely content right now. I have my own little house with a gate (called La Casita) and I’m currently sitting in a hammock, with my laptop on my thighs. I look out at vines, flowers and tropical trees. I smell herbs and flowers. I hear thunder, the rustling wind, and someone whistling to a dog.

It was so hot in Santa Cruz this morning it was almost uncomfortable. I took a shared taxi, that took an hour to fill up and cost just over $3 per passenger. I was happy to have a good driver and a comfortable ride. On the way, we passed a dance troupe and band, similar to those that performed in Cochabamba, walking down the side of the road. The dancers wore heavy red and gold costumes, with bells built into the men’s shoulders. Despite the heat and the sweat, they smiled, wiggled and blew into their heavy brass instruments.

We traveled along the old road to Cochabamba, driving under sheer rock faces, occasionally looking up for pending avalanches. As we followed the edge of a cliff over a river and winded around the mountain turns, we drove through a dense conglomeration of greenery, flowers, rocks and birds. I felt dwarfed by the nature, impressed by our insignificance.

Samaipata was quiet, but still looked the same as before – the dirt streets calm, the central, cobblestoned streets lit up by the stones, sculptures and greenery of the central square. Carefully built homes stood next to small, mud structures. Cacti grew around both types of residences, a natural art form. I noticed the signs throughout town – fresh bread, ice cream, homemade cheeses. This is a really unique town in that people seem to compete with each other to produce the most natural, healthy and organic foods. It’s a culinary paradise, set amidst a cool, flowering tropical mountain setting.

I began my culinary experience at Landhaus, a German owned hotel and restaurant. I enjoyed a meal fit for a king – pork medallions in a mushroom sauce, potato croquettes, green beans with grated cheese, vegetables, salad and homebaked rolls. This was accompanied by two bottles of mineral water and a slice of apple strudel with vanilla ice cream and sweetened cream sprinkled with cinnamon. Given the quality of the ingredients it was made with, it could easily have cost over $30 in the U.S. Here it was a mere $8. Even better, while eating, I got to watch the wind ripple the tropical trees and see a tortoise stroll by.

In the afternoon I came to my hotel, La Vispera, the place I stayed before. The hotel has a fully functioning organic farm and café, specializing in herbs and teas. I have a cabana, or a little house to myself. It has a hammock out front, where I can lie amidst the scent of fresh herbs and watch hummingbirds feed from nearby flowers.

I had pumpkin soup, cubes of gouda cheese, whole wheat rolls, and fruit tea delivered to my cabin for dinner. I could heat it up in my own little kitchen. Darkness fell at 6:15 and I moved inside, to my cozy little abode. I was struck by the silence, and by the feeling that my one-room space (that encompassed a double bed, a table and chairs, and a kitchen) was all I needed. I dreamed of returning here for an extended time with my family. Until then, I enjoyed the peace and the deliciously sweet air that surrounded me.

Upcoming General Strike

I read in the paper today that the regional assembly declared a 24-hour general strike for this coming Tuesday. From what I could understand, it’s in support of Sucre. Several regions will be joining in, paralyzing the majority of the country.

I called Maria to ask what that means. “There will be no transportation,” she said. “Neither government agencies, nor private companies will be working.”

“So we have the day off?”

“Yes.”

It doesn’t do much good to have the day off when there is no transportation and you can’t go anywhere. I’m going to have to cancel the appointment I had for an ultrasound on Tuesday afternoon. That’s disappointing since I was looking forward to getting a good view of the baby for the first time. I hope it will be possible to reschedule before leaving. The same service of a 3D or 4D ultrasound that costs $25 here costs $400 in the U.S.

I asked one of my roommates why she thought the strike was being called.

“Every region wants to be independent, to manage its own resources,” she said.

“So Bolivia could become a bunch of miniature countries?”

“Yes.”

I asked if there would truly be no transportation available during the strike. I
imagined some of the drivers must need the money.

“They make an agreement that anyone who is out driving will get attacked, will have their tires burned. So everyone stays home.” Guess I have no choice.

Tomorrow morning I’ll be leaving for Samaipata, the mountain resort a few hours from Santa Cruz, where I’ll spend my last Bolivian weekend.

Political Problems

Although warm weather has returned, the winds haven’t died down, reaching up to 82 kilometers an hour today. As a result, sand swirls through the town. It’s common when driving in a taxi with the windows rolled down to suddenly get a whip of sand across the face.

Political problems relating to the location of the government continue in Sucre. I see the images on TV and in the newspaper – of lawmakers punching each other in a brawl, of police gassing protestors, of street hoodlums destroying property – but it seems like another world. It could be another country as much as I feel it here.

I asked my co-worker Julia what is going on there, because I find the newspaper stories so full of politics it’s difficult for me to decipher. She said that according to the constitution, the Bolivian capital is Sucre. Based on this, some people are demanding that the government should be located in the capital and move to Sucre. Practically, however, La Paz is the capital. She said these “constitutionalists” believe that La Paz has become too imperialistic, that the people there have too much power and whatever comes out of La Paz, the rest of the country has to follow.

I asked her what President Evo Morales’ position is.

“He has a strong base in La Paz, so he’d rather stay there,” she said.

“And what do the people in other parts of the country think?”

“They think it would be good to move the government to Sucre. It would reduce La Paz’s power and spread out the areas of influence in the country a bit more.”

Final Days

It feels like winter is finally departing from Bolivia. It’s getting to the point where one can wear a sleeveless shirt all day long and be comfortable. Today I flew from Cochabamba to Santa Cruz and upon both embarking and disembarking, I felt the warm rays of the sun and felt as though I were in a tropical country. It’s too bad I’m leaving just as the nice weather returns. On the other hand, with no A/C or fan in my current apartment, maybe it’s a good time to go.

This morning, at my hotel in Cochabamba, a bevy of bodyguards in black suits milled around the front door, looking at me suspiciously. I found out a Mexican musician, Anna Barbara, was in town to give a concert the next day. I’ve never heard of her, but I was told she sings ranchero music.

Upon leaving Cochabamba, I took in the view of the giant white Christ overlooking the city, the purple flowering jacaranda trees dropping their leaves, and the foul smell of a canal. I sat near the window on the plane and looked out over the dusty, brown mountainous city, then a landscape of bare brown mountains and scrubby matching homes that stretched until the flat, greener area of Santa Cruz.

Santa Cruz is the same as usual – hectic, loud, dusty and though now warmer, still windy. I noticed some new graffiti among the usual anti-Evo material. This one reads (with a large E, V, O):
En
Venezuela
Obedezco

(In Venezuela I obey), referring to what anti-Evo people consider his bowing to Venezuelan leader Chavez.

Today I read the second report within just a few weeks of illegal Ethopians and Eritreans caught in Bolivia. In the first case, a group of immigrants was found in a house near my original apartment. I wondered why they’d choose to emigrate to Bolivia, especially since I almost never see an African here. Today’s newspaper article said they are using Bolivia as an entry point to the U.S. and Canada.

For what seems like weeks now, the newspapers have been full of stories of protests and conflict in Sucre. I could never quite understand what was going on. So today I asked my taxi driver. He said that people in Sucre wanted the governing bodies moved to Sucre.

Idiotically, I asked why. “The capital is in La Paz isn’t it?” I asked.


“No, it’s Sucre.”

I’ve lived here five months and didn’t realize the capital was Sucre. In all practical senses, La Paz is the capital, with the government, business, and airlines centered there. So understandably, Sucre wants a change. If they could get the government to relocate, maybe they’d get some more recognition.

My taxi driver didn’t think it would happen. “The people in La Paz feel just as strongly about it staying,” he said.

Chapare

On Sunday, I continued my adventure in Villa Tunari. I hired a taxi to take me to the Carrasco National Park. I’d heard that the Chapare region was Bolivia’s prime cocaine-growing area, but only on the way to the park did I realize it. My driver stopped on the way to buy a bag of coca leaves (for 25 cents). We passed by small village households actively drying coca leaves in the sun in their front yards. When I stopped to take a picture and said hello, I received a gruff response.

Conservation International implemented what seems to have been a successful project, training locals to serve as guides in the park. Visitors are taken on an easy 2.5 kilometer loop. First, we crossed a river in a cable car, which was an exciting way to enter. Then we walked along a path, looking at jungle wildlife along the way. Our destination was two caves – one that held a variety of bats, the other the unique guacharo bird. This nocturnal bird is very aggressive and at the sound of our approach, they began to squack, filling the dark cave with audible anger. Our guide, Juan, told us that the man who originally found the cave thought there were wild cats inside. He was so afraid by the sounds that he didn’t approach too closely, but came back the next day with someone else.

Villa Turani is known for its fish – fresh and delicious from the many surrounding rivers and streams. I enjoyed a piece of surabi, fresh from a streetside grill. Then I went back on the same mode of transport that had served me so well the previous day.

But this time it didn’t go so well. I should have been warned when I saw the driver picking his zits in the mirror when I entered. My arrival didn’t affect his work. Once we started moving, I had the strong sense something was wrong. He leaned forward and gripped the wheel in a strange manner. His head seemed somehow to be loose. He frequently bent over, and drove with only one hand. It took me a while to realize he was typing text messages onto a cell phone while he drove. His reactions to things in the road seemed impaired and when we stopped at a checkpoint, he yawned and stretched.

I thought he was going to fall asleep. I tried to reassure myself. Maybe he’s missing something upstairs, I thought. I’d had several similar drivers in Cochabamba. Maybe he’s worked long hours. But when I asked him, he said this was his first route of the day. Night was soon to fall and we were driving on mountainous roads. If he was having this much trouble in the daylight, how was he going to manage in the dark?

He illegally picked up another passenger on the side of the road and put him next to me. It seemed to be an acquaintance and he told this man he “was dying of sleep.” This passenger pulled out a bag of coca leaves and they both started to chomp. That, plus the music and the conversation seemed to help. But I still wasn’t reassured. And an hour after departing, when we reached the first place with some civilization (a police checkpoint), I got out. Even though it was already dark, I’d preferred to take my chances flagging down another bus than to risk flying over a cliff with this guy.

Luckily, I found another option quickly – a private citizen with a minivan who’d been vacationing with his son. He took passengers back to cover his gas expenses. He was an excellent driver and I could pass the rest of the journey relaxed, breathing in the scent of the coca leaves the elderly man next to me was busy chewing. It smelled like the dried piles of leaves I used to jump into at Halloween as a child.

Interesting Industries

I met some interesting people today. One was the owner of the largest children’s jeans factory in Cochabamba. I was able to see all the production stages – from cutting the fabric to embroidering the designs (done with a Chinese machine that entered the designs into a computer and simultaneously directed many needles to move along the same patterns), sewing the pants, putting on buttons, washing, ironing and packing. The production process has always fascinated me, seeing how a well-designed system of machines and people can create large quantities of goods in a short time.

I was surprised to see that a majority of those sewing were male, whereas in most developing countries I’ve visited, this tends to be a woman’s job.

“The men are better here,” my colleague, Fernando, said.

“People marry early here,” expected the factory’s accountant. “The wives are at home with the babies and the men are sewing to provide for their families.”

The factory has been struggling to find workers, with people leaving constantly to either set up shop independently, or more frequently, to emigrate overseas. Due to the worker shortage, they have started to use the service of small-scale independent sewers, who produce jeans according to their patterns in their own home.

Almost no one is paid over $100 a month. I asked why they didn’t consider raising wages in order to retain staff. The constant retraining has its cost.

“Our company pays more than the other companies in the area for this type of work,” the accountant told me. But they forget that in this climate, comparing themselves only with Cochabamban companies is a limited view. The workers are looking beyond Cochabamba – to Santa Cruz, Spain, and the U.S. for potential work. The local industries need to offer wages that, while lower than the other destinations, are high enough to incentivize the workers to stay in their home area and with their families.

I think this will happen, only slowly. Already, the use of small scale producers working at home allows those contractors more flexibility and independence, an improvement of conditions from a fixed salary within a factory setting.

In the afternoon I met a couple that is among the most impressive I’ve met in Bolivia. Originally from Brazil, they emigrated to Bolivia eight years ago with $100. They used that $100 to buy ingredients to make Brazilian chocolates, which they sold on the streets. They brought them to pastry shops, then rented a small 1x2 meter market stall. There they added a few other products and were soon selling over 1,000 items a day.

They took a loan for $100 to buy an oven. Later, they borrowed $1200 to buy a motorcycle. After that, they took out subsequent loans to buy a car, and then to build their house. Further loans helped them to open and expand their restaurants.

Today they have a restaurant with two outlets in Cochabamba and they want to open one more. They are also considering expanding to Santa Cruz. They have assets of several hundred thousand dollars, built up in a span of eight years. While other people with such assets live luxurious lives, this family spends no more than $300 a month.

“We eat all our meals at the restaurant, and just have a simple breakfast at home,” the wife said. “We don’t need much.”

“For five years, all our money went to the children,” the husband said. “We had two children with genetic diseases. We poured all of our money into tests and treatments, but they just remained like this – frozen.” He hunched his shoulders together and made a pained face.

“Five years we worked for them,” he said, and he began to cry. “The first one died in November, only two and a half years old. The next month, in December the next one was born.”

He wiped his tears away, his voice broken. He spoke with a thick Portuguese accent. His wife continued with a calm face. “The second one was born healthy and we thought everything was OK. But in the third month, it started to have trouble moving and it turns out it had the same disease. My husband and I are both part Jewish and we are both carriers. It’s a recessive gene, so if one has only one, they are OK. We have one daughter that is alright. But the other two got the gene from both of us.”

The second child also lived to be only 2.5 years old.

“They would have terrible, racking convulsions,” the father said. “And we were constantly doing tests – urine, blood – every week. Because they were always sick, but could only get antibiotics if it was bacterial. So we were spending $100-150 a week just doing tests.”

“We lived through hell,” the mother said, and she also wiped tears from her eyes. “But now we are able to focus on building something.”

“Your angels are in heaven now,” said my colleague Celia, a young woman who believes strongly in the virgin of Urkupina. She not only danced, but walked the 14 kilometers at three in the morning to show her faith.

“Yes, they are waiting for us,” the father said.

This restaurant works only at lunchtime because of a lack of staff. They used to have 21 employees and now have only 14.

“There are no workers available,” they told me. They are putting out adds to try to bring in workers from other neighborhoods. When I asked if they considered raising wages, they said they were probably going to do so.

They gave us a sample of the chocolates made with condensed milk, that set them upon the path to success and they were as rich and delicious as they claimed. Since they claim their food has no competition in Cochabamba, I’m going to have my final lunch in Cochabamba there tomorrow.

One other interesting event today is that I saw Evo Morales house – where he lived before he became President. The house itself isn’t visible because it has a gate overhung with bouganvilleas. But it’s clear that it’s not very tall, or it could be seen.

“It’s a very modest home in a modest neighborhood,” my colleague Fernando said.

It seemed someone was living there in his absence and I could see laundry hanging on the line. Across the street was a small but pleasant park with a little operating fountain.

“This park wasn’t here before he became President,” Fernando told me.

“A perk of the Presidency?” I asked.

“Yes, but actually, if you look around, they haven’t developed this neighborhood much at all. The road is still stone and hasn’t been paved.” He was right. It was a big contrast from the nice paved road that ran all the way to the remote birthplace of the Kyrgyz President. Evo Morales is definitely a unique character among world leaders.

Trip to Villa Tunari

I left town this weekend with some hesitation. I’ve been tired, I have a nice hotel in Cochabamba and I only have two weeks left in Bolivia. Did I really need to go off with a duffel bag on a long bus ride to who knows where? Yes, I decided. Because while I’m sure I’ll find my own adventures in the U.S., hanging out with wild animals and in the jungle won’t be among my options, especially for a weekend. I need to take advantage of the chance while I can.

So I headed to the street corner in Cochabamba where microbuses depart for Villa Tunari. I bought a ticket on a 7-passenger “special” bus for just over $3. The three-hour ride was surprisingly comfortable. The minivan was nice and the roads smooth and paved for most of the way. The scenery was also very enjoyable.

I jumped out at the Parque Machia, where there is a unique reserve for wild animals that have been rescued from captivity. I spent several hours talking with the dedicated staff and seeing the collection of monkeys, parrots, macaws, pumas and turtles among others they are trying to rehabilitate back into the wild.

Then I took a taxi to the Hotel El Puente, located a few kilometers outside of town. It’s on a hilltop overlooking a small river and has a series of natural pools nearby. It’s isolated, in the middle of the jungle. In that sense, it reminds me of my time in Buena Vista. But this place is better maintained. I have a comfortable little cabana with a window that takes up almost one whole wall. From the bed, I look out onto tropical green trees and plans and listen to the calls of various birds, one of which sounds like an arriving text message.

On the ride to Villa Turani, I’d been thinking of how hectic the past few months have been – filled with work, travel and major life changes. That pace seems likely to continue in the near future and I longer for some time with no responsibility and nothing to do.

I found it when I got to the hotel. I’d left my computer behind – so I could read, write by hand or sleep. Seeing the immensity of a whole book before me and having the time to read as much of it as I wanted was a shock for me. I barely knew how to handle the luxury.

Childhood memories of pouring over one book after another seem distant. Now it’s only thanks to audiobooks that I listen to while exercising, while in transit, or while doing chores, that I keep my reading up. A chapter or a few chapters of a paper book is a bedtime treat. The ability to continue reading on as long as I want to feels like a dip into my past.

Stop and Go

This evening I visited an interesting store. Called Stop & Go, it had a driveway running through it, kind of like a car wash. But either side was stocked with goods, from alcohol to butter, milk and yogurt, candy and gifts. Purchasers didn’t leave their cars, but told one of the employees what they wanted. They brought the order to the customer and collected the money, then watched them drive off. It seemed quite popular in the evening, as people picked up last-minute items on their way home from work. I thought it was a good idea, even faster than a convenience store.

The leadership of the Urcupina church doesn’t hesitate to link the religious festival with social, economic and political beliefs. Earlier in the week, they asked for national unity and integration and were disappointed when President Evo Morales didn’t respond. Yesterday they asked the virgin to look over migrants and their disintegrated families and blamed capitalistic and socialistic governments for not creating employment that could allow Bolivians to stay in their own country. According to the local paper, Los Tiempos, the parish of the sanctuary of Urkupina, Luis Saency, asked migrants to not forget their faith, to not destroy their families and to remember the education of their children. He also reminded the beneficiaries of remittances to be grateful for the assistance they receive.

While people brought photos of Bolivian migrants who had gone overseas to be blessed and remembered, many also brought figures of small suitcases as well as fake money, asking the virgin to fulfill their own dreams of migrating. They’d have the suitcase blessed, then look for a miner to extract a rock from the hillside. The larger the rock they extract, they believe, the greater will be the attention they’ll receive from the Virgin.

It’s understandable why so many people want to migrate. Salaries of 500-800 bolivianos a month ($63-100) are common in Cochabamba. The government has been unable to ensure that employers implement the labor standards enacted into law. I visited a pharmaceutical laboratory today, a professional operation with a strong capital base, that had all of its employees on a contract, rather than a permanent basis, as they should by law. This means they don’t receive the double salary they are entitled to by law in December. And should an employee become pregnant, she’d have a hard time getting her three month’s paid leave.

Child Labor

Today I had the chance to visit the owner of a small pasta factory in a town about an hour outside of Cochabamba.

We drove out of town, past small, earth-colored homes set upon dun brown hills. The starkness and lack of color reminded me of La Paz. We moved into an arid landscape. A green cactus lined the roads. My companion, Reynaldo, said it’s edible and delicious. We passed a polluted, but beautiful lake, lined with cafes and a hotel overlooking the mountainous panorama. A lot of new homes were being constructed along the roadside. These houses would look out over arid plains and towards the brown mountain ridges that rose in the distance. Reynaldo said the construction is spurred by remittances from Spain – emigrants sending money back to families to build new homes.

The pasta factory is owned by a 47-year-old man who has a university student as his “concubine.” They’ve been dating since 2000, but just starting living together six months ago. They already have two children.

“We were planning to get married this year,” Wilson said, “but she needs to finish her studies first.”

“Can one not study and get married at the same time?” I asked Reynaldo.

“It’s probably that he hasn’t made up his mind yet,” Reynaldo said. “If he marries her, she’ll own half of the business and he’s probably nervous about giving up any ownership.”

Wilson showed himself to be a very distrustful, jealous and avaricious man. He has a store, where he could sell his product. But it’s only open once a week because he doesn’t have time to manage both the factory and the store.

“Can’t you hire an employee to run it for you in your absence?” I asked him.

“No, you can’t trust anyone here. When people sell large quantities and they are taking in thousands of dollars, they begin to be careless and think that they can take some of that money. The owner across the street had an employee run off with $8,000. Then they use the money to emigrate to Spain or the U.S., so it’s really hard to do anything about it.”

But the store across the street works daily and the owner was not on site today. Clearly he makes enough of a profit that it’s still in his interest to operate, even with an occasional loss.

“Do you not have any family members or people you trust who you could hire?” Usually relatives can recommend a distant relative or friend that can be relied on. I myself hired someone who entered and cleaned my apartment in my absence, and had full access to all my belongings. I don’t believe that reliable workers don’t exist in Bolivia.

“No,” he said. “You can’t trust anybody.” He doesn’t even trust his family to touch any money, although they live on the factory site. If a customer wants to buy some noodles, they call him and he drives the hour there to make the sale himself.

I later asked Reynaldo, “If he were to pay someone an attractive salary, such as $200 a month, do you think they’d work honestly?”

“Yes,” Reynaldo said.

When we arrived at the site of the factory and his family’s home, we were greeted by giant guard dogs. “If we didn’t have these, the place would be overrun by thieves,” his mother said. She was an elderly woman, with a crooked row of gold teeth on the bottom and none on top. She wore a round hat and a worn blouse, apron and skirt over her heavyset body.

We weren’t allowed to see the factory itself. “Wilson is jealous and doesn’t let anybody at all go in there,” his sister said.

We did however see his employees, a group of young boys, carrying 50 kg bags of noodles from a porch into a storehouse. They were overseen by the elderly mother and by a handicapped brother. Both of them sat guard to make sure they didn’t steal anything.

“How old are they?” I asked the sister.

Her daughter, no more than 10 herself, immediately said, “18.”

They didn’t look it. I asked about the small one.

“One of them is 18, another 20, another 23,” the sister said.

I later approached the two smaller ones and asked their ages. One didn’t speak Spanish, but I found out they were 13 and 14. They earned 500 bolivianos (about $60) per month.

These boys live on the factory premises and seem to have nothing to look forward to professionally in life. I left the factory and the home with a terrible feeling. I’ve met plenty of Bolivians (and Kyrgyz) who earn thousands of dollars a month, yet see nothing wrong with paying their workers a pittance. And then they complain about not being able to trust their workers not to steal. But this was the first time I’d seen children and it really upset me.

Reynaldo and our driver, said the situation was pretty normal. “Those boys are just carting bags,” the driver said. “I’ve seen children forced into much more difficult and dangerous work.”

He said that while yes, the owner should be paying more (the minimum wage in bolivia is 800 bolivianos ($100) per month), one needed to think of what the alternative for the boys would be. “These kids come to town from the countryside to seek work. Many times they are sent by their parents. Their parents have a ton of kids and can’t maintain them. So it’s not so much a question of exploitation as survival.”

Then he relented, admitting that the need for survival created a situation in which people could easily be exploited. “Many people exploit these populations. Because they are so unsophisticated. They don’t know anything about their rights. The employers know that these people will never go complain to a labor office about their rights.”

On the drive back to Cochabamba, we passed a laguna on the edge of town, with a running/biking path around it. Seemed like a nice place for the community. But according to them, it’s not.

“All the drug addicts hang out around here,” they said. “There have been all kinds of violent crimes – not just robberies, but also rapes and even murders.”

Maria suggested I not visit the giant white statue of Christ on a nearby hilltop, even though it’s the tallest in the world. The cable car is under repair and it’s dangerous to walk, both because of feral dogs and because the isolation makes it a target for robbery.

In a book I’m reading by Isabel Allende, she quotes an InterAmerican Development Bank report as saying that Latin America is the second most violent area in the world, after Africa. My taxi driver yesterday claimed that Hispanic men in the U.S. could act aggressively because they are separated from their families – that it’s the spouse and children that help control the aggression. Yet Allende writes of widespread domestic violence. Where does it originate from? How can it be eliminated? Finding answers to such questions would make the world an immeasurably better place.