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.

A Seventh Floor View Over Santa Cruz

From Germany, I had a short stopover in the U.S., where I enjoyed the fourth of July weekend celebrations. Last night I flew into Santa Cruz. The plane was supposed to fly from Miami to La Paz, then continue on to Santa Cruz.

“I have good news for some of you, and not such good news for others,” the pilot said as we approached La Paz, already two hours behind schedule. “Due to poor visibility and snow, we are unable to land in La Paz. Even if we could land, we then wouldn’t be able to take off again. So we are continuing on directly to Santa Cruz.”

I was happy to be in the group that received good news. Not only would I arrive on schedule, but I wouldn’t be stuck involuntarily in La Paz, at a dangerously high altitude of over 4,000 meters. The woman next to me, traveling with her son, was part of the unlucky group. She put her head in her hands.

“It never really snows in La Paz,” she said.

This morning on the TV I saw how it snowed. The entire city is covered in a layer of white, the airport is closed, and the roads are almost empty. Children, who rarely see snow, were out in hordes building snow sculptures. I suppose my fellow passengers are still stuck here in Santa Cruz. But they aren’t alone. Even the President, Evo Morales, is stuck, governing from Cochabamba.

Argentina is also under a snowfall and the cold air is blowing east to the plains as well. It’s chilly here (only 19 degrees Celsius in my bedroom right now), with a wicked wind blowing outside. The news said this was the coldest week of the year and Wednesday should be the coldest day of all.

So I appreciate the warm Saturday I spent on Long Island even more. That was one of the few days of summer I’ll experience this year. Germany, though green and flowering, was cool and rainy the entire time I was there. After a short dip into American summer, I return to the coldest week of the year in Bolivia. I haven’t put on sunscreen in months.

After a short rest and a morning at the office, I moved apartments. I loved my last home, but since I’ll be traveling quite a bit in the upcoming weeks, it was no longer worth the price. Now I’m in the apartment I originally rejected, which I share with four other people. However, this time I got the best of the three rooms. Not only do I have the room to myself, but I have my own bathroom. It was sharing a room that I had a problem with before. As long as I have a private space to myself, I don’t mind sharing an apartment.

So I’m on the seventh floor and this is a big change from my former first-floor dwelling. First, I have a great opportunity for exercise if I can continue to use the stairs instead of the elevator. In the daytime we have a nice view over the city. A large window, directly across from my bed, looks out onto the yellow lights of the city below, shining in the blackness. But most noticeable of all is the wind, which rips by my window like a razor through paper, whistling with a violent strength, making me wonder whether it has the power to blow my window in. It whistles so loudly, so persistently and with whips of violent strength, that goosebumps form on my arms and legs, as though my body was the direct recipient of its force.

In coming back to Bolivia, I simultaneously felt glad to be back in a developing country – as though these types of places are where I belong – and impassive about returning to Santa Cruz. This city has not grown on me. I didn’t miss it, nor did I feel any love for it upon my return. My taxi driver was a kind, older gentleman and I realized as I looked out at the passing building that it’s the people I like best about Santa Cruz.

I’m looking forward to the opportunity to travel to other parts of Bolivia, specifically Cochabamba next month, in order to gain another perspective on Bolivia. Santa Cruz is serving as my window onto Bolivian life and culture, even though I know it’s an anomaly, rather than a representative piece.

A Weekend with Local Company

I had expected to spend this weekend alone. I didn’t mind that idea since I looked forward to having a few days to try to get things in order, post-move. But my friendly Bolivian acquaintances made sure I had something to do each day.

Yesterday, my colleague Maria invited me out to lunch. She took me to Alexander Café. It’s her favorite place and I think it will soon become mine as well. Owned by an American in La Paz, it’s a chain café, featuring salads, sandwichs, wraps, fruit drinks, muffins, brownies, and desserts, as well as the best coffee in the city. I had an Asian chicken salad, a strawberry yogurt shake and a whole wheat muffin – a California-style wholesome meal.

Maria, a slender, attractive, single woman with a bright smile and a positive attitude, has worked for the the past five years. Originally from Cochabamba, she worked in La Paz for several years before moving to Santa Cruz.

“La Paz is not a pretty city,” she said, “but it’s a comfortable place to live. The cost of living is low, one can walk everywhere, and cafes and restaurants are on every corner.”

I told her that I liked the atmosphere in the bank and in the country. She said it was largely due to the importance of family in Bolivian culture. She described how when the bank moved its headquarters from La Paz to Santa Cruz, many headquarters staff had to be transferred to Santa Cruz.

“There was a whole process, that took about a year – of helping people to find housing, to sign up for kindergartens. One weekend they even flew everyone and their families to Santa Cruz to allow them to check it out and make sure they’d be comfortable living there.”

I saw the family atmosphere this afternoon. I spent the afternoon with my Spanish teacher Oscar, his wife Rosario, and sons Sergio (5) and Mario (9 months). After they picked me up, we went out for lunch at one of their favorite cafes The Corner That Everyone Should Know. The unassuming exterior led into a pleasant courtyard filled with chairs and a small restaurant. Almost every table was full – young tables, families, and families with children.

“Every Sunday, families like to go out for lunch,” Rosario told me. “It’s the day of rest.” She also explained that household employees work from Monday through Saturday. So Sunday is the only day there is no one to cook for them.

“Do most families have household help?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“But the employees don’t have anyone helping them.”

“No. That’s why they have Sundays off.”

This is just one of the indicators that sets Santa Cruz off from the rest of Bolivia – the fact that the average citizen has a housekeeper.

Oscar and Rosario are solidly middle-class, but far from rich. Oscar earns $8 an hour teaching English and Spanish. Rosario is an accountant. They rent their home and they drive a small car with no radio, clock, or glass in the side mirrors (one was stolen, the other smashed).

After enjoying our plates of grilled fish with French fries, rice and salad, we headed for our main destination, a butterfly park. To get there, we had to drive past the wealthy suburb of Urubo. We traveled on a smooth, well-maintained road, lined by brick walls with wire toppings, much like a jail wall. I asked what these walls were for.

“It’s because it’s a closed community,” Rosario told me.

I had wondered what Rosario would be like. Oscar had told me she wanted to marry him after one year of dating, but that he wasn’t interested. She continued to date him, but was sad to not have his commitment. He finally did marry her because she was pregnant. She was only 21 at the time. When I asked why she was in such a hurry, Oscar said, “Because she didn’t want to lose such an interesting guy.”

He is an interesting guy. And very nice. But his short height, his pot belly, his former immaturity and reliance on his mother, and most notably, his shrunken left arm and hand, apparently a birth defect, could make it hard for him to find a partner.

He has come to love and appreciate Rosario and told me repeatedly that “She’s a very good woman.” She looked similar a woman who one could imagine would overlook physical shortcoming. She herself was slender and pleasant, but rather plain, with a wide mouth and large teeth. But I could easily feel the tranquility radiating from her that Oscar had described. She seemed simple, kind, caring and good. I liked her.

And Oscar clearly loved his children. He had told me that their running to greet him when he comes home in the evening is one of the things that makes him happiest. Throughout the day, he held them, kissed them, talked to them, called the baby his king, his world.

After the series of fancy lots, we drove down a rough road, so dusty and sandy it was like driving on a beach. As motorcycles, 4-wheelers and large trucks and 4x4s passed us, they raised clouds of dust so dense we couldn’t see a thing.

After a couple of miles of this, we reached Guembe Biocenter, a park on 83 hectares of land. Admission cost $7.50 for adults, quite steep by Bolivian standards. I worried it was more than Oscar and Rosario expected. We were assigned a young man as a guide, who would lead us through the park.

First he brought us to butterfly laboratory, where we saw the stages of butterfly development – first the eggs on a leaf (visible through a magnifying glass), then the larvae, the cocoons, and the butterflies breaking free. Once they broke free, they were moved to the butterfly museum. They say it’s the largest butterfly museum in the world. I’ve only been to one other – on the Canadian side of Niagara falls. I’d have to say the Canadian one was better – with a denser population of butterflies and better visibility. But this is Bolivia after all and it was still quite impressive, especially since they only use local butterflies.

Inside the netted viewing area was a 120 meter observation deck that we could climb and look out over the dense tropical greenery. The butterflies lived between 24 hours and 8-9 months, with an average of four weeks.

From there, we saw a couple of orchid plants, and a symmetric stone structure, where the property owner practices yoga, considering it a center of energy.

They had a series of small pools as well as a lagoon, where one could kayak. I hadn’t brought my swimsuit, since Oscar thought it would be too cold. Although by the afternoon, it was blazing hot. Unable to swim, I took a quick spin on a kayak and spent some time reading. In the afternoon, we took a horse and buggy ride through the forest. The buggy was equipped with incredibly soft seats that absorbed the shock of the rapid trot.

We ended up spending the day there, not leaving until almost six. It was the first time for both Oscar and Rosario to visit that place and they seemed to enjoy themselves. They invited me to their home for evening tea, an invitation I appreciated. But since I still had some things to do in the evening, I asked whether I might be able to take them up on it another time.

All in all, I spent a pleasant weekend with very nice people. I think I could get used to living here.

first day in Santa Cruz

Today we passed by the Miss Universe/Miss World office, a nice house surrounded by greenery. The daily local paper contained a two page color spread about the Miss Paraguay competition. Beauty pageants here seem to be considered worthy news – whether they are local, regional, national or international.

I had the chance to move some more through the city today. I noted a lot of fancy, gated condominiums and a lot of SUVs – Nissan, Suzuki, SSR, needed for the dirt roads that surround the city borders. The license plates are white with bright blue letters – Bolivia written above the numbers. Those without cars travel in micros – small buses in between the size of a mini-van and a full-size bus. The fare is 1.5 bolivianos, or less than 25 cents.

I was taken to one of these gated condominiums today. The three-bedroom condo, on the seventh floor, was supposed to be my new home. Not only were there already three people living in this condo, but I was led to a small room with two twin beds and told I’d be sharing it with someone else. That would be four women sharing one bathroom and not a corner of private space to myself. While I wanted to be flexible and was ready to agree to sharing an apartment, I’m too old to share a room for a period of several months. So I moved back into my hotel.

I drove into the center of town today. On the way, we passed the National American University, a Mexican art shop, an architectural art shop, and a whole street of photo shops across from a park. “Help us keep our high school clean,” and “Don’t write or publicize on these walls,” was written right next to “Without a future” scrawled on the wall. We drove past banks guarded by men with guns. I watched a Japanese-looking man get out of an SUV and six young women in colored skirts buy fruit juices from cups being sold atop a cooler.

I spent the day with Cynthia, a young married woman who finished the university in 2001. She was trained as a production engineer and wanted to work in a factory. After applying for several months with no results, she began to become depressed.

“Our society is pretty macho and they only wanted men,” she said. “There are hundreds of men working there and they worry that having a woman would cause them to feel disrespected.”

She saw a listing advertising an opening as an assistant to a regional manager and applied. Among the 120 candidates, she was selected for the job. Two years later she became an analyst, then a manager.

“A lot depends on one’s personality,” she said. “I know that you could put me with any group in a factory and I’d be respected, but they don’t give me the chance to show it.”

She invited me to her house for the two-hour lunch break. Every day, she goes home to eat a meal prepared by her mother. She and her husband live in an annex just behind her parent’s home. We had a traditional local dish made of spiced rice with shredded meat, fried egg and plantain, followed by a small dish of gelatin and a glass of lemonade.

She told me that her employer had recently sent her to Ghana to improve her English. I asked how she liked it. “It was an unforgettable experience of course,” she said. “But was so poor. People here always complain about poverty, but when I got there, I felt we didn’t have any poverty at all.” She told me that the minimum monthly salary is 500 bolivianos ($63) but that the average, lower medium class earned 1000-1500 ($125-200).

In the afternoon I had a Spanish lesson with my teacher, Oscar. Oscar is short, with a friendly, genuine smile, a pot belly and a stunted arm and hand. He is married with two sons, five years old and eight months old. Seeing his children run to him when he gets home makes him happiest. Rush hour traffic and politicians make him most upset.

He told me he lived with his mother until the age of 28, going from being dependent on his mother to being dependent on his wife. Nevertheless, he believes that the man is the head of the family and women can only present their opinions on important decisions. By law, women are named A B de C after marriage, the C being the man’s last name and the de meaning “property of.”

He dated his wife for three years and after the first year, she was ready for marriage. He, however, resisted, until she was pregnant, another thing he says he’s not proud of. However, marriage and children seem to have been good for him, teaching him how to be responsible. He now praises his wife and his face lights up when talking about his sons. He reads books like “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People” and “The Cash Flow” and takes copious notes. He’s trying hard and working hard to be a responsible, successful person in all areas of his life, and this topic is a major part of our class.

I like him and find him a great person from whom to learn about the local life and culture. He frequently brings up the difference between La Paz (cold and rocky) and Santa Cruz (warm and tropical). He believes that climate influences personality and culture.

“The youth here aren’t interested in books or learning,” he said, with great disappointment. As a person who loves to teach, he likes people who want to learn. “They just want toys and to have fun. This attribute is specific to Santa Cruz.”

Arrival in Bolivia

On my American Airlines flight from Miami, most of the passengers looked Hispanic, but well-off. I don’t think I saw any Indians, who are said to make up 80% of the Bolivian population.

After flying through the night, the plane first landed in La Paz, then continued on to Santa Cruz. Taking off from La Paz, I saw basic adobe or brick houses, much simpler and more poor than in Quito. Then I looked out over desolate, sparsely populated mountain peaks, snowcapped in the highest areas. Clouds settled among them, the peaks rising like islands and peninsulas in an ocean.

The most beautiful flight I’ve ever taken was from Bishkek to Osh, Kyrgyzstan. In a country with 90% mountains, the view of the peaks from the sky was spectacular. Bolivia is similarly impressive.

While moving from Kyrgyzstan to Bolivia is truly jumping across the world, I realized that the two countries do have their similarities. Both are land-locked, poor, highly mountainous, and hold a similar number of inhabitants.

For the first time I became excited. It was hard to leave my new husband after three weeks of marriage, my friends and my family. But looking out over the harsh scenery reminded me that travel to the remote and exotic, coming to know foreign lands, is my passion.

Forty minutes later, I looked out over a flat, green terrain with many agricultural plots, brown rivers snaking through the land. I saw a city along a river. It spread out in a large flat mass, like a stain, then dribbled out into villages.

Memories of my short visit to La Paz, five years earlier, caused me stress. I recall extreme altitude sickness, a lack of roads, and my rental car catching fire in an isolated neighborhood. But thoughts of Santa Cruz inspired ideas of romance. Santa Cruz de la Sierra rolled nicely off my tongue. The airport code, VVI, stood for Viru Viru International. That also sounded exotic to me. The greenness, from the air, looked clean, the roads appeared well-tended, the trees thick and bushy. I looked out over banana trees with uplifted fronds and saw sheep or cattle being led across a field, like a small colony of lice. Unlike La Paz, from the air Santa Cruz seemed calm, clean and prosperous.

We landed near a flat field, from where I could see a few billboards, street signs, and buses. The airport staff were friendly. Women, dressed in civilian clothing, served as the passport stampers.

A man named Eduardo picked me up and drove me the 15 minutes into town. He told me Santa Cruz is an important agricultural center. I could see the influence in the number of farm machinery shops we passed along the way – as well as Nissan, Toyota and Suzuki dealerships. Quite a lot of pickups and SUVs drove along the main road – a sign not only off driving country roads, but of wealth.

Eduardo tells me that Santa Cruz is different from anywhere else in Bolivia, that most of the population is descended from Europeans and other foreigners. He himself comes from German ancestors, who came to Bolivia to escape World War I. And it’s green. “I don’t like La Paz,” he said, “because it’s so barren. They don’t have any of this vegetation,” he said, pointing at the green around us, even as we entered the city.

Eduardo told me that drugs made the fortunes in this city. He said the height was in the 1980s and most of the drugs were grown to the U.S. “But now, due to US help, it has been reduced,” he said. “People used to carry around drugs like anything else. Not any more.”

He took me to a fast-food fried chicken joint for lunch (fast food seems prevalent here, as it was in Nicaragua), then to my hotel. At first I thought I was in for luxury when we came to the Royal Lodge Hotel and I saw four stars in the comfortable lobby. But once one leaves the lobby, it becomes dim and shabby. I had to leave my first room due to water dripping constantly from the air conditioner. The second was more comfortable, but 1970s comforters in bright red, orange and yellow covered the beds and the other furniture seems similarly aged. Yet, the stain-glassed window of a fish on the bathroom door, and the balcony step looking out over a small pool are both pleasant.

I looked through one of the two local newspapers, the El Deber, to see what makes up the news. A color photo of Miss Bolivia, Jessica Jordan, covered the first page of the society section. And she had another whole page to herself inside the insert. The beauty pageant news included the information of who won the Miss USA contest, a young woman born in Panama. I doubt I’d come across that easily in a US newspaper. But here, it appeared in color and took up a quarter page.

The obituaries announced “The person who was Luis Mario Roman Justinario,” a baby boy, or other names, “has stopped existing.” The baby’s father’s employer, Weitnauer Bolivia printed their condolences on a subsequent page.

I saw lots of medical ads, promoting assistance with impotence, rheumatism, plastic surgery, and dermatology, among other medical specialties.

In my brief car journeys across town, the city appeared to be flat, open, and relatively safe. I entertained thoughts of buying a bicycle and biking to work. But when I relayed my experience of being attacked in a taxi to Eduardo, he told me that two years ago he was mugged in mid-day. One attacker put a gun to his stomach, the other a knife to his side and they threatened to kill him. Other people on the street could see what was happening, but they didn’t do anything for fear of being attacked next themselves. He gave up his wallet and cell phone.

“But still, compared to Nicaragua or El Salvador, where they went through civil wars, it’s better here. The violence is more randomized, rather than being institutionalized.”

I hope so, because Santa Cruz is my new home and I’d like to be able to feel safe here.