Cochabamba

I arrived yesterday morning in Cochabamba, the city in the middle of La Paz and Santa Cruz. I took AeroSur for the 30 minute flight. Despite the short distance, we had an almost full 727 plane, staffed by professionally dressed and polite employees who served us a snack and a drink. My last two trips on South American airlines, Taca and AeroSur, have shown a better quality flight experience than what I see on U.S. airliners lately. I wonder if the high cost of salaries in the U.S. makes airlines cut every other expense possible. Whereas here, even though the flight only cost $50, I didn’t feel the company was cutting corners to save money, but providing a good service for the price.

From the window of the airline, I could see a dry, brown mountainous landscape. The city seemed to similarly lack color – a conglomeration of buildings of various designs and sizes – mostly brown, grey or insipid.

This impression was confirmed during the taxi ride to the hotel. We drove along a rubbly canal almost devoid of water. The landscape was a pale, dusty brown, with lots of beige rocks scattered about as well as a proliferance of large, mangy brown and black dogs. I breathed in the smell of sewers and wondered where the beautiful, mountainous city my colleagues had told me about was.

The driver told me it’s now fall, and for that reason it’s very dry. “By September it will be green again,” he said.

The taxi was much nicer than the taxis in Santa Cruz, and cheaper. Rides in town run about 50 cents. I asked the driver why.

“In Santa Cruz, people work a lot, so they buy old cars that will last. But here, people don’t want to go about in old cars. They want more luxury.”

Not all taxis are that way. Later in the day, I rode in vehicles that I doubted could make it up the hill to my hotel, or with a chassis that seemed to be centimeters from the street below. But the feeling of life being a bit more developed here, of a slightly more advanced quality, remained.

I’m staying in Hotel La Colonia. It advertises itself as a five-star hotel. I’m not sure how the star system here works. It doesn’t seem to correspond to the international system. But while it might not be a five-star hotel on a world scale, it’s definitely a very nice and comfortable place, with wood paneling, a swimming pool, very nice bathtub and shower, and refrigerator. It attracts a variety of small, tropical birds to its grounds, which are pleasant to watch pecking through the grass in the morning.

I spent the day at the office and was able to get a glimpse of the town. The main streets are nicely maintained. A variety of trees line the medians – many of which sprout colored flowers, even in this dry season. I could see a giant, white Christ statue on a hill, and was told it flashes various colors in the evening. We had lunch at La Casa de Campo, a popular place decorated in local style and serving huge portions of Cochabamban food.

I immediately noticed the improved quality of food – from my first bite of bread. I realized that the reason Santa Cruz food doesn’t grab me is that it is bland – it doesn’t use much of anything – salt, sugar, or spices. This includes breads and cakes, as well as salads, soups and everything else. Grilled meat is the specialty, and that doesn’t need much in terms of seasonings.

But here, the bread had taste, the hot sauce was actually spicy hot, and the sweets use sugar. “You’ll probably gain a couple of kilos here,” my colleague Celia told me. Until recently, at work, all employees were served a complete meal, at the employer’s expense, for the late afternoon snack. This was after they’d already had a complete meal at lunchtime. I’m hoping to avoid substantial weight gain, but will definitely enjoy the culinary adventure.

I visited the Cochabamba branch of my Santa Cruz health club, Premier Fitness, and was amazed by the five-story complex – complete with cardiovascular equipment, weights, all kinds of classes, and even an internet terminal. It was full of people – a sign of the middle to upper class here. From what I’ve heard, Cochabamba was the leading center for industry and finance in the country. But due to continued protests, road blockages and political problems, companies began to move to Santa Cruz. And Santa Cruz has now overcome Cochabamba in commercial importance.

I also noticed what seems to be a greater gender equality. For the first time ever in Bolivia, a female taxi driver picked me up. Her son crawled around in the passenger seat, allowing her to combine work with childcare.

I asked why there weren’t more women drivers. “I suppose not many of them like it,” she said.

“Had she had any problems with crime?”

“Thank God, no.” She works for a radio-mobile cab company, and only takes calls that come through the call center. She doesn’t pick up random people off the street, which makes the work a bit more secure. I also saw a female security guard in a bank – another rare sight.

Orderly Quito

The taxis in Quito are new, professional and pleasant – as well as cheap. I was told there is virtually no such thing as a rouge taxi here. That as long as you flag down an official, yellow one, you don’t have to worry about being robbed, like in other Latin American countries. Yesterday I asked a taxi driver how the taxi system works.

He told me that in order to drive a taxi, one must be a member of a cooperative, that has rules for entry as well as standards that must be fulfilled (such as painting the car bright yellow). He said that membership must be purchased, but not anyone can buy it. Before being approved, a potential driver must submit a folder of personal documents in which factors such as the legality of the car, criminal history are checked. He can sell, or even give away his membership, he can’t sell or give it to anyone. Whoever takes over the membership has to submit his papers and be approved.

He said that most drivers tend to purchase newer model cars, and replace them every 3-4 years, because passengers won’t flag down taxis with old cars.

“If they see an old taxi, they’ll see a newer one coming just behind it, and wait for the better car,” he said. “They want to travel in comfort. So if a driver wants to get a lot of clients, he’ll make sure he has a nice car.”

“So one has to have some money to start as a taxi driver in Quito?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s like any investment in a new business.”

He told me it is against the law to drive what are called “pirate taxis,” taxis that work outside the cooperative system. Most importantly, he said the police enforce the law. When they come across a pirate taxi, they take away the car and charge heavy fines. That enforcement seems to be the most important aspect in ensuring passenger safety.

I’m liking Quito better on this visit than my previous two. Perhaps it’s because I’m in a nice hotel, because I’m surrounded by interesting, professional people, because I took a really cool bike trip out into the nature and hot springs. Or maybe it’s because I have a regular view of thick groves of eucalyptus trees lining the mountain tops and the upper level view that allows me to look upon the orderly city as a toy town, in constant action.

When it Rains, You're Stuck

Lately I’ve been using the taxis from a five star hotel near my house. For my most common destinations, they charge me the same price as other radio taxis (those you call, and are more secure than taxis caught off the street). Plus, it’s convenient to be able to walk out and get a taxi whenever I need one, since I never know how long it will take a radio taxi to arrive.

I also find that these are the only taxi drivers I feel completely comfortable with. The cars tend to be in better condition. But much more importantly, they are calm, professional, reliable and they all know each other. One of them couldn’t do anything wrong and get away with it. With any other drivers, even the radio taxis, I feel a certain caution and nervousness, as though at any minute the driver could pull something. None have yet, and the majority are good, honest people. But there have been enough cases of bad taxis that the typical local understands the need to be careful and is quick to offer tips. Only in these hotel taxis can I relax and do without that nervous caution.

I woke up at 5 a.m. this morning to a powerful rainstorm. When I left for work, it was still raining lightly. I commented to the driver on how little traffic there was.

“Yes, most people live on the outskirts of the city. And when it rains, they have a hard time leaving their homes because of the muddy roads.”

He told me that he himself lives on the outskirts, and had a hard time getting out this morning. The roads are truly terrible, made of dirt and dust. Even a little bit of water can turn them into a muddy soup. I’ve driven on some of them and each time, I’m amazed at how vehicles, buses and pedestrians make their way through.

I asked him whether the government was making any progress in paving some of these roads. It seems a shame to prevent people from getting to work whenever it rains, especially since those who tend to live in these areas tend to be people who need the income.

“No,” he said. “They just fill the holes in the road. Our area is very low-lying. A while ago, they whole place was flooded.”

During the day, I had a hard time getting a cab off the street, with one of them trying to charge me 50 percent more because of the water. I approached one at the same time as a man and the frustration I felt when he jumped in made me feel like I was in New York City.

In the evening, I couldn’t get a ride at all. The radio-mobile company I usually use didn’t answer the phone. I caught a ride with a coworker to a supermarket, where there are always taxis. Tonight, there weren’t. I called the company and was told they didn’t have any taxis available.

I stood there for quite a while, with no luck. When I saw a hotel taxi approach, I jumped on it, but the passenger had asked the driver to wait for him. I asked the driver if he could call another hotel taxi to come get me. Several minutes later, I finally had a ride.

The driver told me that taxis don’t want to work when it’s raining, both because of the muddy roads, but also because the puddles make it difficult to see holes in the road. He told me how he took someone to a city market in the rain and his tire was damaged when he hit a hole that was underwater.

“But we work regardless of the weather,” he said. “And we only work with a limited clientele – people from the hotel and people who live in the surrounding condominiums. That way, it’s safer for us. We have less problems and it’s better for the passengers as well. They can trust us. If anyone ever forgets something in the car, they know they’ll get it back.”

He told me he’s been working as a taxi driver for the past six months. Before that, he worked as a police officer. He told me he earned about $120 a month and worked 10 hour days. But he didn’t like that he frequently had to travel to the site of disturbances, so he couldn’t have lunch with his family. Plus, he didn’t like the danger and the fighting.

I asked what the most frequent problem was.

“Protests,” he said, without pause. I asked him if it was true that police don’t have the right to prevent protestors from blocking roads.

“Yes,” he said. “Because this is a democracy and people have the right to express themselves in public. As long as they aren’t damaging anything, they have the right to organize.”

“But why can’t they organize in a park?” I asked. “Don’t other people have the right to use public roads and to be able to get to work and lead their lives?”

He agreed, but didn’t seem to think much could be done. “Just this morning, the college students were protesting at the airport and disturbing flights,” he said.

When I asked Oscar why the government just can’t pass a law prohibiting blocking transportation routes and give the police the power to break them up, he answered, “Because this is a government that came into power through blocking streets.”

a short stop in Quito

The honeymoon is over and I’m now in Miami, just having returned from Ecuador, and waiting to head off to my next assignment and adventure in Bolivia.

Mark and I flew from the Galapagos to Quito on Saturday afternoon. We found a room in the Antinea Hotel, a beautifully furnished hotel owned by a French-Ecuadorian couple and listed on the Quito Cultural Heritage Sites. While we liked our beautiful, though chilly, room, the owners seemed to be out of town and the service wasn’t very personable.

We had a full day to spend in Quito on Saturday. I had been there about five years ago, but it seemed much prettier than I imagined. A large and long city, it’s at an altitude of over 9,000 feet, ringed by mountains and low-lying clouds.

We decided to check out the teleferico, a new cable car that transports passengers up the mountain for a beautiful view of the city. During the 15-minute ride, we climbed to 4,100 meters. From there, one can hike another three hours to a mountain peak, but we decided not to try that without acclimatizing first. So we enjoyed the beautiful views, looking down at the clouds and the cluttered, hectic, historical city.

From there, we visited a cultural center and took in some exhibits – photographs of natives of the Andes, a contemporary artist, Quito history told through wax figures.

Driving around the city, we saw young men playing soccer on a narrow strip of land between two freeways, the ball running down the slope into oncoming traffic. I found it hard to get my bearings in the city. The various storefronts, the bus stops, the parks with statues, the multiracial population, all seemed to blend together. After my bad experience in Nicaragua, I was quite nervous taking taxis. Every time we got into one, I imagined the driver pulling a gun on us. Luckily, all of them were OK and the majority seem to work within an official system, in a cooperative, where someone is tracking the taxi’s movement. It was definitely helpful to be traveling together with Mark. I hope that I will have a car and driver in Bolivia so as not to be subject to the taxis on my own.

We found lunch in a little local joint in a commercial center. On the second floor, several small cafeteria owners served up set meals of the day to local vendors and workers. We were the only foreigner there and I was glad to have a little exposure to local life – even if it meant we couldn’t drink the bright pink drink or eat the fresh tomato slice. Our meal, including a drink and soup, cost $1 each.

In the evening, we headed to the Café Libro, a place we’d read had a bohemian atmosphere, as well as dance lessons available that night. For an hour and a half, we studied tango, with two talented and very patient teachers. And while we stumbled quite a bit on our first effort, we managed to get an 8-step routine down. All of the other attendees were Ecuadorian. I enjoyed being in such a mellow environment and participating in an activity together with locals.

And then, morning arrived and it was time to go. We fit a lot into a short period of time, and made lots of lasting memories. But at the same time, it seems to have gone quickly.

7:45 a.m. in Osh

This morning I left my apartment for work. As I began to walk down the five flights of stairs, I saw a creature race down one flight in front of me. Initially thinking it was a rat, I froze in fear, then realized that it was a bird, the source of the loud twitterings I often hear in the morning.

I emerged onto the street in the cool, sunny air. The empty, faded playground stood still. I walked along the Soviet style apartment building, reading the graffiti and marveling that this is one of the most exclusive areas in Osh. I was looking for a garbage can, since I still didn’t know where to throw my garbage away. I saw a pile of plastic bags in the grass near my building and another pile of leaves and garbage on the street, near a bus stop, but no actual bins.

I passed the taxis, lined up in their usual spot, and crossed the street. The vendor who usually sets up a table within the fenced in Foreign Languages faculty hadn’t arrived yet and the street was strangely silent. The swishing sound of the street sweepers followed me as I walked to work. At least four people were sweeping per block, using clumps of branches tied together as brooms. They worked intently, sweeping the dried leaves into gutters, then setting the piles on fire.

No one seemed to be out but me and the street sweepers. The old woman who usually sells sunflower seeds and cigarettes on a corner was just putting out her wares. Usually she sits ready when I walk by, watching the passerbys from her small chair, her head wrapped in a colorful scarf. On this morning, there were no other pedestrians and very few cars. I felt unusually tuned into my surroundings.

Dirty water ran under the sidewalk, appearing in pools and canals tinkling, somehow retaining a blue color. Pigeons cooed and fluttered amidst branches, dropping some of the last dried leaves to the ground. Smoke rose from burning leaves and garbage. With the golden carpet dried up and swept away, my feet tapped against the uneven sidewalk.

I arrived at work and found it dark and empty. The suspicion had been growing and I finally had to accept it - daylight savings time had occurred without anyone telling me. It was actually 6:45 in Osh.