Three more Mission churches

My hotel helped me to hire a taxi for the day. With the driver, Rober, we made a loop of the three mission churches in the areas outside San Ignacio – San Miguel, San Rafael and Santa Ana.

We headed for San Miguel first, so that I could catch a group playing flute music as part of the Seasonal Concerts of Chiquitos Mission Music. I’d read these places were remote and that the roads were bad, but it was worse than I thought. The roads were hot, dusty, red, and usually barren of civilization. We drove through miles and miles of scrub – the dry red, green and pale gold landscape colored only by a tree that had bright yellow flowers.

We passed an occasional remote community, haciendas with cheerful names like Gloria, posted over dry, colorless brush, and plenty of cows with slack throats that sagged as they walked. When we’d reach a town, it seemed a miracle, as though civilization didn’t belong there. But as I suppose should be expected, the towns weren’t highly civilized.

Our first stop, San Miguel, was actually the largest of the three. It had a plaza with some shops and cafes, a market area that sold fresh fruit and vegetables, and where kids gathered to play foozball, and an organized tourist office that sold carved wooden products to visitors and promoted their region.

Yet I struggled to find a bottle of water. When I finally find a bottle and gratefully bought it, I noticed there was sediment floating in the bottle. And then I noticed the seal was broken. Someone had probably collected the bottle and filled it with whatever water they could find. So I had to abandon that and remain with a dust-filled mouth a while later.

The church was pretty, but the sight of a man peeing off the side of the entrance didn’t make a very good impression. I caught the end of a mass, which attracted a sizeable crowd, then stayed for the flute concert. Though the concert began right after mass and was free, not many of the locals stayed to listen.

San Rafael was a smaller and more dead town – my least favorite of the three. Skinny, runny-nosed children begged there as they didn’t anyone else. There wasn’t much food selection and I had an unimpressive lunch of a chicken drumstick, cold rice and chopped tomatoes and onions of questionable sanitary quality. The tablecloths were dirty and disheveled and I had the sense that people there just didn’t take care of things very well. That maybe they were tired, maybe they’d given up, maybe they were lazy, but there didn’t seem to be a lot of pride in presenting themselves or their properties well.

We picked up a passenger there, a former schoolmate of Rober’s. He’s a truck driver and last week his truck tipped off while crossing a bridge, fully loaded with wood. I didn’t understand the details, if his hand was crushed or pierced by the raw wood, but his hand was injured and he wanted to return to San Ignacio for further treatment. So we gave him a lift.

Our last stop, Santa Ana, was the smallest village – with only 2,000 inhabitants in the entire community (including outlying areas). It looked dead – the central square a large plot of grass, and barely any people around at all. The only activity seemed to be at the small and attractive pension and restaurant Tacu, painted an attractive yellow that matched the church. The church was impressive in its simplicity though with a palm roof and an earthen floor. More than any other of the Mission churches, the Santa Ana church retains the most original architecture from colonial times. Six twisted columns stand in front of it, looking like large wooden candlesticks. The friendly keeper of the church gave us a complete tour, including peeks at the effective rat traps he’d installed and a rare organ, the last one survives from the time of colonial Jesuit Martin Schmidt.

San Ignacio de Velasco

Last night I took an all-night bus on the 11 hour journey to San Ignacio de Velasco, the northernmost town of the Jesuit Misión Circuit. I went alone, and with no hotel reservations. I felt a bit nervous about taking off on my own, especially since I heard that much of the road was unpaved and who knew what I’d find when I arrived. However, all went well. Though I’d prefer to have some company, I’m enjoying my adventure so far.

The bus, a two-story Jenecheru bus-cama, was extremely comfortable, like a business-class of buses. The seats are wide, recline so far back one is almost horizontal, and have a leg rest. There is even enough room to curl up. The most prepared came with blankets, which probably made for a cozy ride. But even without, it was possible to get a decent amount of sleep. I rode next to a Brazilian woman with a three-month-old baby.

Though the majority of the ride was in the dark, by moonlight I could see the desolation. After we passed San Javier, it was almost nothing but vast empty plains, the word pampas comes to mind – covered by a variety of grasses and brushes, small, bare, spindly trees, and occasionally, swamps. Every so often, a thatched hut would come into view. But that was it.

I could feel the bump when we descended from the pavement onto the dirt road. But it wasn’t uncomfortably bumpy. And our driver seemed to be especially careful, which I appreciated.

When light appeared, around 6 a.m., I could see the same things. Only at this time, I also saw the bright red dust of the road, the red light that rose behind the plains and then turned into blue sky, and the fine patterns of the bare branches.

San Ignacio seemed to appear out of nowhere. All of a sudden we stopped, and people began to disembark. We were in the middle of a dusty, red dirt road, a chilly wind blowing, despite the sunny sky.

I found it easier to arrive at 7 a.m., then at 1 a.m., such as I arrived in San Javier. I rolled my suitcase the several blocks to the plaza, then looked at two hotels. I chose the Hotel San Ignacio. It’s a very comfortable place in a historic building, remodeled just a year and a half ago. I have a high wooden ceiling, a tile floor, large wood-paneled windows, wooden furniture that probably comes from some of the same talented artists that carve the pillars in front of buildings here, a TV, phone and refrigerator.

After taking a nap, I strolled around town. The central few blocks are paved, but the rest of the roads are loose, ochre dust. It’s one of the largest towns in Chiquitania, with a population of about 35,000. But it still retains a small-town feel. I walked just a few blocks away from the plaza, to a man-made lagoon, and found myself alone in nature, with good opportunities for birdwatching.

Carved wooden crosses have been placed in several intersections. The central plaza is a large, spacious square, dense with greenery and decorated with statues and benches. The buildings are mostly one and two story, supported by carved wooden columns and topped with roofs of curved red tile. Motorcycles flit around town, their low roars a constant background noise, and bicycles are common.

I found a Brazilian restaurant where I enjoyed a surprisingly healthy lunch buffet of beans, rice and salad. The owner, who is from Brazil, said there aren’t so many Brazilians now, but more are coming to the area. Many, like him, are coming because it’s much easier to start a business in Bolivia. In Brazil, he said, there are a lot of requirements and taxes that serve as barriers. Others, he said, come to escape something they’ve done in Brazil. I’m not so sure the second group is very good for Bolivia, but I don’t know how they are enforcing migration rules.

I strolled through the market area, where I saw homemade dairy products, cell phones, pirated DVDs, cheap shoes, and rich-smelling leather products from Brazil for sale. I stopped in the church, the largest of the Jesuit mission churches, and caught part of a confirmation-preparation class for local youth. The church is the largest of the Jesuit Mission churches. If I hadn’t seen San Javier first, I would have been more impressed. The church is beautiful, wide, open-aired, and full of carvings. But the altar seemed a bit gaudy in its bright goldness. And unlike the other mission churches, which have been restored, this one was created anew. The original, built in 1748, was destroyed 200 years later, then rebuilt from scratch. Perhaps for that reason it seems to lack a bit of the historical sense I felt in San Javier.

In the evening, I attended a concert in the church. Both the local San Ignacio choir and orchestra and the Cochabamba symphony orchestra performed. I had the chance to speak with the impressive woman who directs the local musical group, as well as to talk to a 16-year-old violinist. They performed as part of Seasonal Concerts of Chiquitos Missional Music, a series to help draw tourists to the region. The church was about half-full of attendees for the free concert. The music was beautiful, and it’s amazing to hear it in such an atmosphere. But it didn’t captivate me quite as much as the practice session I happened to come across accidentally in San Javier, where the sounds of Baroque music flowed out of a side-building window, and I sat on the grass, a secret absorber of the sweet sounds.

The people here are uniformly friendly and helpful. I always feel much better upon exiting Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz feels too much like a fight to me, one always has to be on guard. Thugs are unable to hide for long in a small, isolated community such as this. Here I can stroll at leisure and comfortably, I can approach anyone and speak to them, I feel free to explore and to be myself.

Approaching Independence Day

Independence day is coming up next Monday and the city is getting ready. There is going to be a military parade in Santa Cruz. The black graffiti sprawled across the city walls, usually criticizing President Evo Morales, is now criticizing the military as well. In the street medians, small entrepreneurs sell flags. The red, yellow and green cloths, waving in the wind, add a nice color to the city. Today I saw two workers lifting a large flag up the tall Christ statue in a traffic roundabout.

I’m taking advantage of the three-day weekend to visit some far-away Jesuit churches on the Mission Circuit. It will be a full weekend, including two all-night bus trips. But it’s my own chance to see this part of Bolivia. I only have four weekends left.

The sun is cautiously emerging and in the past few days we’ve occasionally felt the warmth of its rays, a welcome touch.

Four Wheelers and Smokers

Yesterday I was driving down the street in a taxi when I saw a girl cruise down the central street on a 4-wheeler. Amidst the loud roar from the bright green machine’s engine, I saw her white blouse flutter and her dark hair stream behind her. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.

I’ve seen four-wheelers around, especially in off-road areas and near the super-wealthy neighborhood of Ubari. But I’d never seen anyone using a four-wheeler as transport through the center of the city. I asked the driver whether it was legal.

“Here, whether or not something is legal doesn’t matter much,” he said, highlighting a significant difference between Santa Cruz and Quito.

He told me that it was dangerous to drive such a vehicle through town, given the risk of tipping over. And that not wearing a helmet was crazy. He said that four-wheeling is a popular pastime among the wealthy. Every year, a caravan travels over two weeks or so to a remote place like Beni or Trinidad, attracting about 500 people to the journey.


I have developed a canine-like sense of smell in the past few months. I can identify a scent from quite a distance and the scents affect me strongly – from the lemony scent of the bathroom cleaner used in Quito to the exhaust emitted by the micros, my cherry office freshener, dust buildup in a car, and of course, the ever-present problem of smoke. I’ve never liked breathing second-hand smoke. But I’ve never disliked it more than now when I notice it from all the way across a room.

In the office, it’s gotten better since the human resources department sent out a letter signed by the General Manager strongly recommending that smokers, in consideration for the health of their colleagues, not smoke in work areas during work hours. It still happens sometimes, but with the letter as a backing of institutional policy, it’s easier to ask people to stop and I notice a definite improvement in the air quality. This is not the case however in restaurants, cafes and other public places.

I think it’s unfortunate that the burden is on the non-smokers to have to ask to not have chemicals blown into their faces. I truly miss and appreciate the laws in the U.S. that guarantee everyone the right to breathe clean air (as well as pursue their personal habits in their personal spaces). That’s one aspect of working in the U.S. I’m really looking forward to.

Bingo and Babies

After a visit to the gym, I treated myself with a stop at the local spa. With only a month left in Bolivia, I wanted to take advantage of the luxury while in a country where I can afford it.

From there, I went downtown to the 24th of September Club, on the central square. There, a non-profit was holding a bingo event to raise money to help children with Down’s Syndrome. I went with three colleagues. A card valid for six games of bingo and a raffle cost $20. That’s quite a bit to some of my colleagues, so we each shared a card, contributing $10 each.

The event was organized well and attracted several hundred people. They sat on white plastic chairs at white plastic tables, amidst tall wooden columns and under a shimmering crystal chandelier. The prizes, donated by local merchants, were good – trips to Brazil and Buenos Aires, a bicycle, a stove, jewelry. No one at our table won anything though.

I soon became bored with the monotonous bingo process. I thought back to the bingo games I played as a child, at my grandmother’s country club. I remembered the excitement my brother and I felt, the way we’d hold our breath when we needed only one more number, the frustration when someone else called out bingo just before we had it. I remembered the joy of winning small prizes - $10, $20. And I remember when my brother won what seemed like the jackpot at the time - $70. Wow, he was lucky, and rich.

Bingo is a nice game in that anyone can play it – from the children, to the elderly – and one always has the hope that they hold out a chance of winning.

The people in attendance – mainly upper class families, some of whom had children with Down’s Syndrome – seemed excited by the event and participated with vigor. I was impressed with the quality of the organization and I think it was successful in raising a good amount of money for the organization.

My colleague Lorena told me that integration for people with Down’s Syndrome is difficult in Bolivia, that while they are capable of working, many employers aren’t willing to give them the opportunity. She told me some parents pay employers to give their children the opportunity to work, to contribute something meaningful.

From there we all went to a café in the popular Montsenor district. In the blocks heading away from the giant Christ statue, the streets are filled with one café after another, as well as a selection of great restaurants – Italian, Mexican, duck, frozen yogurt. About 20 colleagues got together to celebrate the baby showers of two women, both named Claudia, and due in August and September respectively.

I was really curious to see what a Bolivian shower is like. The fact that they refer to it as a “baby shower,” in English, made me think it was probably imported from the States. For much of the time, it wasn’t much different from any other gathering of friends at a café, except that two of the attendees were visibly pregnant. Both males and females came, they ordered coffee, tea and snacks, and chatted amongst themselves.

At one point they presented congratulatory cards to the two women, which everyone had signed. And they presented them each with an attractive green baby carrier, purchased through a collection. There wasn’t too much planned or personalized about it – no games, no stories, no pictures.

Toward the end, the Claudia who is due in September made the rounds around the tables with a gold chain. She swung it over the palm of both men and women to predict the number and sex of the children that person would have in the future. After raising and lowering the chain toward the palm three times, she let it move of its own accord. If the chain swung up and down, it would be a boy, if it swung in a circle, it would be a girl, if it didn’t move, there wouldn’t be any children.

My colleague Maria was upset, because when she’d had it done the previous day, it hadn’t moved at all over her right palm.

“I’m never going to be a mother!” the 29-year-old, currently without a boyfriend, lamented. “Try my left hand,” she insisted.

There, she received the answer that she’d have one girl. They explained that since Maria is left-handed, her energy came only from her left hand.

When they did it to me, they told me I’d have a boy, then a girl. The third time it didn’t move, which meant two biological children would be it. I told them I’d get back to them in several months to let them know how accurate their predictions were. But they seemed to believe pretty strongly.

Only my German colleague, Helen, refused to be tested – either not believing in the game passed down by Bolivian grandmothers, or not wanting her reproductive future to be made public knowledge.

Last Arrival in Santa Cruz

After the week-long seminar, I stopped in the U.S. for a few days. There, in another quiet, upper-class area, I saw Mexicans lined up along the street early in the morning, apparently looking for work. By 9:30, most of them were gone. In the time I previously lived in that area, I’d never seen that. It seems to be a sign of how out of control the immigration situation is becoming – that in towns across America, immigrants stand out in the open looking for work. Yet they are relegated to remain separate, apart from the population and the culture as long as they don’t pay taxes and can’t legally integrate. It’s an issue that definitely needs addressing.

It was nice to enjoy a couple days of summertime as well as unpack boxes into what will be our new home. It’s old and uneven and the basement is full of dust, spiderwebs and even live spiders. But I love it. It full of the soft light of wooden floors, I find the small rooms cozy, and I love being within walking distance of cafes, shops and a library.

So when I flew into Santa Cruz last night, into the chilly late evening, I realized it would be the last time I’d be arriving, at least this year. Mark and I are expecting a child. So I’ll be staying here through the end of August, then will work remotely from our home until after the birth. After more than three years of overseas living, I’ll be based in the U.S. for the first time. That in itself will be quite an adjustment.

After years of being an overseas resident, I’m afraid I may be one of the people Samuel Huntington referred to in a 2004 article,

“Coming back to America from a foreign strand, they are not likely to be overwhelmed with deep feelings of commitment to their “native land.” Their attitudes and behavior contrast with the overwhelming patriotism and nationalistic identification of the rest of the American public. A major gap is growing in America between the dead or dying souls among its elites and its “Thank God for America” public.”

I don’t think it’s so much a lack of feeling or commitment for my country. But it’s a deep questioning of the popular mentality that comes from learning to look at the broader picture, to consider other perspectives, to not accept what one is fed by a single nationalist media, and to not believe in my country’s superiority without comparative proof.

While I’m seeing more and more the underside of my nation, the areas in which services are desperately needed – from improving healthcare to addressing immigration, from building workplaces and life structures that support community and balance to providing safety and a quality education to poor youth, these problems can seem vast – difficult for an individual to impact. Whereas it’s easier to find individuals and issues in other areas where smaller efforts can make a meaningful difference.

Upon exiting the airport in Santa Cruz, I hopped into a taxi outside the airport, shivering in my t-shirt. The driver wore a jacket, fingerless black gloves, and pulled his collar up around his neck, covering half his face. Unlike the kind old man I had as a driver last time, this one was young, the vehicle ratty and the streets dark and bare. I felt nervous to be alone and didn’t enjoy the ride to my apartment much. But luckily, all went well.

I’m satisfied with my new home in Santa Cruz. While it’s still cold, the wind is light, just a whistle outside my window. I have my own bedroom, bath, and walk-in closet. So even though I share the apartment with up to four others at a time, and cockroaches crawl through the kitchen, my room feels almost like an apartment of its own. For the times when I do emerge from my room, I enjoy having some company I can speak Spanish with.

I returned to work today, and to the routine I have adjusted to here in Santa Cruz. I work for a few hours in the morning, get a workout and something to eat during the lunch break, return to work refreshed for the afternoon, then have some time alone to myself in the evening. Only the weekends vary much. On short notice, I was able to quickly fill up my Saturday, leaving Sunday for some quiet time.

I always knew I wouldn’t stay very long in Bolivia. In fact, I’ve been here longer than the initial two to three months planned. However, now that I have my departure ticket for late August, I feel myself a temporary inhabitant more than ever. And I look upon my experiences with an air of finality, knowing I have only so much time to see what there is to see of this area.

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.

A Colorful Capital

Today we started our seminar on the eleventh floor of a downtown building. Before beginning, we ascended one more story to the terrace, to enjoy the view. There are great views throughout the mountainous city and what I love most is looking out the window and seeing a different display of color each time. There are bright yellow taxis, sea green and bright blue buses, buildings in a variety of reds, pinks, greens, yellows, blues, whites, and modern glass – plus the greens of the forested hills and the city parks, the white mists and clouds, and the blue sky. The people seem insignificant, small pieces scattered across a majestic set.

I’m also surprised by the number of American chains – from McDonalds to KFC to Tony Romas to Baskin Robbins to Martinizing Dry Cleaners – that have set up shop here.

This evening we ate at a place called Pim’s, located on the edge of the city, near a giant angel statue. We looked out over a landscape of twinkling yellow lights and stone churches illuminated by a soft white or purplish glow. We’d endured a day of cheap, tasteless food, so it was a treat to have some quality cuisine over such a spectacular outlook.

mountain biking and a hot thermal bath

I arrived in Quito on Saturday afternoon. For the first time I flew west to east across South America – from Santa Cruz to La Paz to Lima to Quito. I went on Taca, which was a surprisingly pleasant and comfortable airline. I actually had several inches between my knees and the next seat – much better than the U.S. air companies I’ve been flying lately.

The scenery was quite fascinating – great views of mountains, and what seemed to be vast territories of harsh, brown landscape. The snow had disappeared in La Paz and it was again the dull, brown city in a brown landscape. Between La Paz and Lima, we also flew over high brown Andean mountains, rising towards the clouds. Lima also presented itself as a dull, dry and drab city (at least from the air), albeit with a nice airport. Then we approach Quito. And suddenly there are green fields, trees, mountains – a verdant land under a blue sky.

Someone commented to me that Ecuador is the ideal destination country because of the variety it offers – the ocean, the mountains, the jungle and the culture. While I also rate Kyrgyzstan and Vietnam very highly, I think it’s true. Ecuador has so much to offer and I’m glad to be here once again.

I took an adventurous bicycle trip, that involving starting out on a snowy 4,000
meter mountain peak, and bike down the Andes into the jungle, all in the rain. We warmed up with a fantastic thermal bath at the Papallacta pools, then headed for another ride down the Andes, heading toward Quito this time. Quite an adventure!

Five Days in Santa Cruz, then off to Ecuador

The earplugs worked well in helping me to sleep through the wind. And within the few days, the wind went down. By the time I left, the sun had finally returned and people seemed to greet the day with a lighter, happier face. According to news stories, the cold was especially hard on the poor, who don’t have the clothing or houses needed to keep warm. On the front page of the newspaper was the wife of a construction worker, the mother of 6. Her toddler walked barefoot on the freezing ground, her baby was hungry, and they burned wood inside their home to try to keep warm. I read quotes from other poor families speaking about the difficulty of sleeping with cold bones.

From my new 7th floor window, I look right out at a construction sight. Until 9 p.m., the top story of a new multi-level building is illuminated by lights, construction workers in hardhats continuing their labors.

“Were they paid so poorly that their children went without shoes and heat?” I asked a co-worker.

“Yes,” she said. “People used in construction are common laborers, and they are at the bottom of the pay scale. Architects are paid well, but the workers don’t make much at all.” She told me she has friends who work in construction in the States and that they were shocked when they saw how workers in Bolivia are treated.

“We do our best as an institution,” she said, “by making sure we don’t hire companies that mistreat their employees or use child labor.” Noticing children is easy enough, but how one verifies that a company isn’t mistreating its employees in Bolivia seems a bit more difficult.

In an effort to help the common worker, President Evo Morales recently passed a law requiring that all non-management staff receive a 5% increase in pay, effective as of May. The problem is that many employers only have a portion of their employees registered officially, and the law will only apply to them. And there are those who say that the effect will be laying off some people to make up for the additional costs.

We’ll see. But the inequality is often so high. When the owners are making profits of thousands of dollars a month and the workers are making a measly $50-200, a five percent raise doesn’t sound so outrageous to me.

That reminds me of something I saw last weekend in my short visit to the U.S. I was in Southampton, the tony area of Long Island, outside of New York City. Driving down a residential street, I saw lines of Latino men lining the road – probably the same guys who’d get paid a pittance to do construction in Bolivia. There were so many of them that one couldn’t fail to take note. It looked like the corner near my house in Osh, Kyrgyzstan, where unemployed men stood around, hoping for contract work.

It turns out this was the same situation. Construction companies, landscapers, and others firms catering to the rich could stop by and pick up workers. A local told me they pay $10-15 an hour, significantly above minimum wage. But since they aren’t paying taxes, it comes out to be much cheaper for the company. And of course, it’s a great wage for the workers.

On this same street, on the 4th of July weekend, stood a group of white people, holding flag and banners saying “Deport illegal aliens.” The Mexicans and the Caucasians were only feet away from each other, and it seemed a potentially explosive situation. A cop car sauntered past, watching.

The same local resident told me that the mayor had proposed a space in a park for the workers, so that they weren’t lining the road. But people got upset that a park could be used for such a purpose. So now the township is suing the village, or the other way around, and the conflict continues.

Of course, the country needs to come up with a solution to the immigration issue. But the fault lies in Washington for the lack of a policy, not with people who are working hard to try to make a living. I found it hard to believe that these people had nothing better to do on a Saturday than to stand out on the street corner of a wealthy neighborhood and try to send poor people back home.



This week I celebrated my birthday in Santa Cruz and was able to see from the celebrant’s perspective how the locals treat birthdays. First thing in the morning, a whole stream of people came into my office, some of whom I didn’t even know their names. They all kissed my cheeks, wished me a happy birthday, and told me they hoped I had a “beautiful day.”

At lunchtime, my team took me out to La Casona, a tasty German restaurant, where I had pumpkin soup and strawberries with fresh cream. In the late afternoon I returned to my desk and found a giant red-glazed cake there (Congratulations jj written in white icing). Birthday gatherings are not allowed in the office, so that those not invited won’t feel excluded. So again, visitors stopped by, singly or in pairs, to give me their birthday wishes and simultaneously enjoy a piece of cake.

The cake was from a shop my Spanish teacher Oscar had recommended to me, Karmelle. And it was the best cake I’ve had in Bolivia – chocolate, filled with layers of strawberries and chocolate pudding, topped by a delicious fresh cream, sliced strawberries, and strawberry glaze.

The celebration was neither elaborate nor expensive. But it was clear people thought about the occasion and made an effort to make the day special. They succeeded in making me happy on what might have otherwise been a lonely, foreign birthday.

Kept up by the Wind

Last night, before going to bed, my roommate Nora warned me I might be kept up by the wind. She lived for a period in this room and told me she had trouble sleeping.

“It took me three nights before I could sleep through the night,” she said.

“I like it,” I told her. “It’s somehow romantic, as though I’m out in nature, even though I’m in a condominium in an urban area.” It reminded me of my stay at the bird reserve in Buena Vista and how I felt united with the nature that lay just outside my window. Here I could feel the same.

Not long after falling asleep I woke up. The wind screamed and roared and shook my window. I repeatedly imagined it breaking. And should that happen, the glass would fly right into my face, as my bed is right across from it.

This kept me up for much of the night. At one point, I got my ipod, and tried to blast classical music into my ears to drown out the sound of the wind. It helped, and it was 28 songs before I turned it off, but I could still hear the harsh whistle behind the soft melodies.

The next morning, when my roommates asked me how I slept, they laughed when I told them I was up half the night.

“Yes, the windows shake,” Nora agreed as we rode to work in a taxi. “And it feels like they will break right into the room.”

“You should get used to it in three nights,” Renata said. “But there are some people who can’t get used to it at all.”

I didn’t look forward to three sleepless nights.

“How did the woman living here just before me adjust?” I asked.

“She got lucky. There weren’t any winds while she was here.”

But I moved in during the coldest week of the year. The temperatures ranged from 7 to 16 degrees Celsius today. People on the street dressed in winter coats and scarves. There was less traffic than usual, with those who had the option of staying home, avoiding unnecessary ventures outside. Right now in my bedroom it’s a mere 16 degrees.

I’m spending next week in Ecuador. Today I looked at the forecast and saw the exact prediction I received for Germany – cool, cloudy and rainy, every day that I’ll be there. I’m starting to wonder if it is me.

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 German respite

I’ve come to Germany for some meetings this week. Having a little time in Europe feels like a pleasant respite from life in Santa Cruz, despite the jet lag.

I’m staying in my usual place, Hotel Motel, a cheap (for Frankfurt) but comfortable and utilitarian place. I have a small room with a small bed and comforter (no sheet) and a window looking out onto a green, leafy park. Occasionally I find myself bumping into things in the room, but it’s quiet, clean and efficient. I also like the neighborhood, with plenty of shops, cafes and internet within walking distance.

Entering Germany was a breeze – even easier than entering my own country. Free luggage carts are provided to all passengers to ease their exit, the passport line went quickly, with the official not even asking me how long I planned to stay before stamping my passport, and I soared right through customs.

The taxi I took from the airport traveled down the freeway at a frightening 180 kilometers per hour, while the driver constantly removed one hand from the wheel to poke his GPS machine. I enjoyed the traditional German breakfast with a nice selection of teas, deli meats, cheeses, whole grain breads, jams, yogurts, pates, granolas, and sliced vegetables.

While I spent most of the day sleeping and overcoming jetlag, I did get out for a good walk. I like the small cars and the variety of houses and apartments (no gated communities or identically constructed complexes around here). I love the excellent walking and biking paths, the prevalence of bikers, and the courtesy shown by drivers to bikers and pedestrians. Now, in the summertime, I enjoyed the greenery and the beautiful flowers.

I stuck to park paths as much as possible and despite being in the middle of Frankfurt, was able to walk amidst greenery for much of the hour. I passed an adult male soccer game, where spectators relaxed around the field, or sat at tables just outside the fence enjoying grilled bratwurst, beer and gummi bears. Other than that, there was not much going on on Sunday, with almost all businesses closed.

Both in the morning and the evening, I heard the beautiful melody of church bells ringing, a surprise to me in a country so secular. I can also hear the regular roll of the tram.

The people are usually not too friendly or helpful to an English speaker here, though the Indian owners of an internet shop were nice to me today. But I don’t mind too much. It allows me an unusual and welcome period of silence, in which I speak only a few words during the day, and have a greater than usual opportunity to think and to drink in my surroundings.




I traveled here through the U.S., with a one day stopover. That also went better than usual. There aren’t too many fliers at Miami at 6 a.m., which helped the lines go quicker and the agents were more friendly. Everything – from the flights to the subway to the local trains, moved more or less on time and I was able to get where I wanted to go on schedule.

I was a little embarrassed for my country upon watching a couple from England enter the New York Jamaica subway station from the airport. The air was hot, stifling, and stinky. The station was dark and dank. And the train, metallic gray, is ugly. I knew they had images in their mind of the London Tube and the other European subway stations, which are brighter, cleaner, faster and more pleasant. Definitely not up to European standards, but at least it is relatively safe.

I was listening to A Tipping Point on audio book today. The author spoke about the small steps that were so critical in reducing crime on the New York subway in the 1980s – stopping fare beating and graffiti. The ugly metallic cars are used so that as soon as someone vandalizes it, they can use solvent to remove the graffiti. And making such small crimes unacceptable prevents the jump into larger disorder and criminality in the subway system.

Yesterday I walked with my husband to a local bagel shop where they also served a selection of pancakes. I ordered cranberry walnut pancakes and we sat at the simple tables enjoying the paper over our breakfast. The small, independently-owned business was full of couples, families and individuals. It was the closest thing I’d seen to a community hang-out in a town I generally consider an isolated suburbia, lacking a center or culture of its own. As we walked home, we passed a group of adults in the park practicing Tai-Chi. Most were Asian immigrants, but a few African-Americans joined them. I found it beautiful to watch them lifting their arms and legs in slow motion in the neighborhood park under the morning sun. I loved seeing people join together outside, bringing an aspect of Chinese culture I like so much to the U.S.

On the way to the Newark airport, a large billboard, Divorce Made Easy (through Mediation) caught my attention. It seemed to be directed at commuters. Frustrated with their drive to New York, upset by the fight they had that morning, they see the giant billboard and realize they can get a divorce and escape from all their problems. It’s made easy.

I was surprised by the emphasis on the 4th of July celebrations in the U.S. This year it falls on a Wednesday, which is inconvenient for those without much vacation. But it’s leading others to either take a five-day weekend or an entire week off. Radio shows were full of talk about barbeques as people prepared for the largest outdoor picnic day of the year.

The fourth of July is a holiday I can do without. I don’t miss it while in another country. But since I happen to be traveling back to Bolivia next weekend, I’ll be celebrating it with family next Saturday. It’s always nice to have a reason to bring people together and to enjoy a barbeque.

Cecilia and Oscar

Earlier this week I had the chance to talk to Cecilia, the woman who comes by my apartment to clean three times a week. Her 2nd grade son was there cutting out photos from a newspaper, working on a project. She takes him with her to work whenever there are no classes, which seems to be pretty often. This time it was because his teachers were participating in a training.

She told me that her family immigrated to Santa Cruz from Beni three years ago.

“There is not much work there and prices are high,” she said. She works as a domestic and her husband is a jeweler, working in a place where his employer supplies him with the silver and he makes the art.

I asked her how hard it was to find a job. “Not too bad,” she said. Only the first few days were difficult. I looked at ads in the paper and also went out to find work.”

It looks like the next month or two won’t be good for her, as I’ll be changing apartment and her other employer is going to spent two months in America, where he has a daughter.

Her cell phone rang. When she hung up, she told me it was her sister, calling from Spain. “She calls a lot to ask about her children,” she said. Her sister works at a hotel in Malaga. From the $1300 she earns per month, she is able to save $800 of it.

“She’ll return after two years and use the savings for a new house and to establish a business here,” she said.

I have great respect for such people, who are able to leave their families behind, to go to a different country, and work in low-level jobs in order to set a financial foundation for their families. Usually, they lack education and opportunity. But they don’t let that stand in the way, sacrificing time with their family to work hard and give themselves a better future.



Yesterday Oscar and I tried to go to a museum he wanted to take me to. But we turned around when we saw student protests. I remembered seeing on the news that students were organizing large protests for fear of losing the right to private education, and they planned to mass on the central square.

Heading back, a man in a horse-pulled cart trotted down the road, alongside the mass of cars honking, jostling for position, and avoiding near crashes. Horse-drawn carriages, just like the man on a bicycles selling brooms, are the little details that make me remember I’m in Bolivia and appreciate that such diverse people and modes of life can unite in one place.

“Look at that!” Oscar said. “A horse in the middle of the city. That’s just evidence that Santa Cruz is really a village. A big village that wants to become a city.”

Buena Vista

It feels as though I’ve lived through a lot of hours this weekend, as though Friday morning was ages away. I certainly packed a lot of experience into a few days.

This morning I woke up at the (for me) ungodly hour of 6:30 to take a bird and a monkey-searching walk into the jungle with a local guide. Shortly after I’d arisen and thrown on my clothes, Robin stopped by.

“It’s cold and windy, and will probably rain. I don’t think you’ll see much. It’s probably not worth going.”

Given his expertise, I trusted him and went back to bed. But then I reconsidered. I wanted the opportunity to talk to a local, to not get all of my local information from an Englishman who is not on very good terms with the community. In any case, I wanted a bit of exercise, so I might as well take advantage of a morning walk.

Roberto lives down the road from Robin and owns 48 hectares. He’s a farmer, who grows rice, yucca, plantains and vegetable for his own consumption and local sale. He also has some chickens and a cow. He and his son work the land, growing on one portion while allowing other areas to rest for 4-5 years.

Robin has to walk across his land to do his beetle work, and to take tourists on walks. So it seems they have an arrangement. On the rare opportunities when tourists come, they are expected to take a walk with Roberto, at a cost of $10. I thought this was fair.

True to prediction, we didn’t see too much. But we went much further into the damp, thick greenness. We crossed a small stream, scampered up and down bank, and walked amidst a mist of butterflies. Besides the sloth, the butterflies are my favorite animal in Bolivia, flapping around in a brilliant array of reds, yellows, whites, blacks, blues, and oranges.

We could hear monkeys, and at one point, looked up to see a capuchin monkey almost directly over us. We took a short break at a simple thatched hut. Underneath the roof was a pile of hay, some dried corn, oranges, and a few dishes. Roberto offered me an orange, saying this was where his son worked. We then slid down a steep slope and approached the clear sound of monkeys. We could hear their calls, we could see the tree branches shake, we could hear the fruit falling from the boughs, banging against the ground.

When we stood still for a while, we began to see them crossing. First one, then another, later another. I had the realization that I was standing in the middle of the South American jungle watching monkeys and I appreciated the moment. Not a bad way to spend a weekend. Despite my fuchsia windbreaker, they didn’t seem to pay any attention to us. We were silent witnesses to their gathering and feeding off the bobosi tree, a fruit popular among several local mammals.

Coming back, we had a nice close-up view of a hummingbird, which seemed to freeze momentarily in mid-air. Around us, we heard the calls of many different birds, including toucans.

Last night I stayed up until midnight skimming through a draft manuscript Robin has written about his experiences in Bolivia. It left me with a sad feeling after reading of constant tension, conflict, and inability to create alliances – the result of a man with a singular drive and passion who has difficulty bringing others to his cause. After reading about the opposition in the town and the government towards founding the National Park, I asked Roberto what he thought about it. Had the town benefited from it’s creation?

“For us, who live a bit further away, not so much,” he said. “But those who live closer to the boundary and in town have had more opportunities to earn money from it.”

Did he support its creation?

“Sure,” he said. “It was only the people who lived in and near the park who were against it. For everyone else it was OK. I think it’s a good thing that we have this area saved. So that something is left for my children and their areas. So that if they use up everything outside the park, something will still be left for them. The problem is that many people have a hard time looking into the future. They only think of what they can get today.”

So for him, a toothless middle-aged farmer, the benefit was not so much the preservation of species as making sure some resources remain for his family in the future. His perspective was understandable.

He did have a good quality pair of binoculars, one of the 18 Robin say exist in the village, and seemed to enjoy identifying birds, though not with the same passion as Robin. I learned more about the wildlife from Robin, who was able to bring it to life for me through descriptions in my own language about the vegetation, birds and animals. From Roberto, I learned more about the local life.

He told me only a few people are employed in Buena Vista. “Much of the work is only short term, for a day or a week. There is not much stable employment. So many live off the land, growing what the can. And the young are heading for the city, where they can earn a bit with more stability.”

In the afternoon, I met several work friends for lunch on the plaza, followed by a tour to the local coffee producing factory, and a stop at the river Surutu, a river that one can walk across to enter the Amboro National Park. Even though the river wasn’t too high, and a busload of locals were on the other side, cooking lunch over a campfire, I wouldn’t want to wade across. It was wide, moving at a good pace, and hard to tell exactly how deep it was. I read that each year, several people die walking across the rivers in that area. A run-down, sad-looking, but evidently formerly colorful bus was on the beach, part of it’s occupants across the river, the rest sitting in the bus to escape the cold wind. “Comfortable, elegant, service” was written across the top of the bus.

I’ve got a couple of days to focus on working and on packing up, then begins a pretty hectic month of travel.

Beetles, monkeys and birds

Last night I woke up at 3:30 in the morning, itching my arm. The darkness was deep as velvet. But as my eyes adjusted, I looked out the screen across from my bed and saw a light show – a flashing display of lightening bugs. Robin told me there are tyrophorous bugs as big as his thumb, with two lights on back and one on the front. He said catching one would provide enough light to read a book by. And the natives cut off the head and thorax and make a necklace from them that glows for an hour.

After turning on the light, I checked on my three companions – the moth, the spider, and the toad. All had moved and were now in unknown areas of my room. I noticed a bug bite on my wrist. So I got up, put on a long-sleeve shirt, rubbed some bug spray onto my hands and wrists, and went back to sleep.



In the morning, I had breakfast with Robin and Sonya in their modest 3-room house. Then Robin offered to take me on a 15-minute walk to spot a particular bird. I agreed. It ended up being a two hour hike, complete with education on how beetles lay eggs, develop and mature, how the forest is affected by slash and burn agriculture and how the birds are affected by wind.

He showed me a tree with a dual name – the Palo Devil’s Stick or the Palo Saint’s Stick – depending on whether it’s being recognized for the stinging ants that live inside the branch, or for the arthritic help these ant bites can provide. He brought me right up to the bird, a heliconia. According to Robin, it’s the cutest bird in the jungle. When we heard howler monkeys, a loud roar like a powerful wind, we walked off the path to track them. Although we could hear them nearby, we failed to find them. But we did come across a group of squirrel monkeys moving across the branches. That was my first monkey sighting in Bolivia.

I enjoyed walking through the forest, listening to Robin attract birds with his pygmy owl calls, and watching bright butterflies flutter around us. I also enjoyed Robin’s evident passion for the land, the animals, the birds and the bugs. He is a cynical, negative person, with almost every other sentence coming out as a complaint. But those alternating sentences were full of interesting facts and stories. In two days, I learned enough to imagine the story of his unique life – the moves from country to country, the relationships that didn’t last, the jobs that didn’t last, the consuming passion for the land and animals, and eventually, a focus on a subject that took him out of the conflict zone - beetles.



In the afternoon, after a nice siesta, I went to the top of the observation tower, where I could hear howler monkeys, making a noise like cows. I felt the warmth of the sun, the light breeze rippling against my skin. As I looked out across the greenness extending in all directions, I listened to the rustling of leaves and the cooing of birds. I really felt out in and one with nature. Looking out over the patterns of light and shadow made by sun and clouds, it was as though I stood on top of a big, green, wild world.

Later, I sat with Robin and Sonya on their overlook, to watch the birds come back. We peeled and ate mandarin oranges as we waited for their arrival. Robin pointed out the pretty green white eyed parakeet. As dusk fell, Sonya showed me the progress two beetles were making in chopping off branches.

The beetles were dull dark, colors. I could barely see them against the branches. I had imagined brilliant sparkling, Amazonian insects. Those black things seemed to me a rather boring way to spend one’s concentration. But later that evening, he showed me his collection, which contained a wider variety of sizes and colors. In just about every collection box, several of the species were highlighted yellow, an indication that it was a new species he’d found. While the bugs he’s focused on now, the Hemilophi tribe, aren’t very pretty, they are unique in that they make two cuts in a branch before dropping to the ground, extra work that isn’t explained. According to Robin, he’s the first to discover this species and this habit.

I spent my evening reading a draft of a book Robin wrote about his life and battles in Bolivia – against the exporters of endangered animals, against the indigenous squatters, against his colleagues and bosses, against his romantic liaisons.

Alone in the Jungle

Boy, this is sure an adventure. Tonight I should have been in a romantic cabana in Samaipata, showing my husband Bolivia for the first time. But due to flight delays, he didn’t make it. And rather than come for a hurried two-day visit, we decided to postpone it a month or so until he had more time.

Of course, I was disappointed, after putting in so much planning and expectation. It would be too sad to follow through on our planned trip alone. And being home would just remind me that he should have been there as well.

So I decided to get out of town and travel in the other direction, to Buena Vista. While Samaipata is situated on one end of the Amboro National Park, Buena Vista is at the opposite end.

I found a hotel mentioned in both my guidebooks, promising 200 hectares of primary forest, a bird-watching tower, and guided wildlife walks. Sounded great.

After work I took a shared taxi for the two hour trip to Buena Vista. There is room for 5 passengers – two in front and three in back. When I saw a Japanese couple approach the car at the same time I did, I thought they were Japanese tourists going to visit the park. Only after I got in the car did I see two more young Japanese in the back.

It turns out they are all students in Santa Cruz and come from the village of San Juan, which is one of the local Japanese colonies. Similar to the Mennonites, the Germans, the Russians, among the variety of ethnic colonies, they have maintained their language and culture since coming year during the war in the 1940s.

The girl next to me told me her father is a mix of Bolivian and other nationalities, but her mother is Japanese. The other three appeared to be pure Japanese. They played with their cell phones and mp3 players and spoke in alternating Japanese and Spanish.

After we got to Montero, about an hour from Santa Cruz, the traffic disappeared and the road became dark, with few settlements along the way and no streetlights. I looked up at the clouds moving across the half moon.

The driver let me off at the motorcycle taxi stand on the central plaza of Buena Vista. There, for $1.25, I got a ride to my hotel.

It took no time at all to get out of town and soon we were riding down an isolated dirt road, stars twinkling above us in the striated sky. I breathed in the fresh air and tried to enjoy the nature. But I found it pretty uncomfortable riding on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle, on a sandy, dark road, in the middle of nowhere. At any point, he could turn off the engine, pull a knife or gun on me, steal all my stuff or worse, and leave me there on the rural road. Unfortunately, those are the kinds of scenarios that Nicaragua put in my head. I tried to reassure myself that Bolivians are nicer, this is a small town, and the whole posse of motorcycle taxi drivers saw me go away with him.

Unbelievably, we turned off the dirt road onto an even smaller road, rough, rutted, and overgrown with grass. Overhead, trees united to form a low arch. Only a small wooden placard labeled “Forest and Fauna” assured me we were actually heading in the right direction.

After what seemed like a long ride, but was probably 15-20 minutes, we reached some cabanas, but they were dark and look abandoned.

“There is no one here,” the driver said. He pulled over as if to turn around.

“Go a little further please,” I asked. “Let’s see if there is an office.”

Finally, we spotted a light. I could see a man without a shirt inside. Were these guests? Was this a private home? It didn’t look much like an office. But it was a human, so we approached the door.

“It’s pretty late,” the unshaven, 50ish man said as he opened up the door, buttoning up his shirt. “We go to bed early around here.”

I told him I’d called the Santa Cruz office and told them I’d be arriving around 8.

“You know we’re closed,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “I thought I’d made a reservation. Do you have room for one?”
“Yeah, sure, come on in.”

I paid the motorcycle driver and wondered how I’d ever find transportation back into town.

Robin, who spoke to me in English, became more friendly, offering me supper, and when I refused, got me some boiled water.

“How long have you been closed?” I asked.

“Forever,” he said. “There are no tourists here with Evo Morales.”

I’d read that Buena Vista was becoming part of the “gringo trail.” If anything, I worried I was going to someplace too touristed. But it seemed I was the only guest.

“It’s OK with us though,” he said. “We have scientific projects that keep us busy. And if some people come and we’re able to make some money from that, it’s good. Mostly though, we have scientists visiting us.”

He showed me to my cabana, pointing out a wooden observation tower on the way. “If you don’t plan to sleep right away, you can do some moonwatching there.”

One of my guidebooks had listed this as a luxury hotel. When I called to make a reservation, they told me they had a swimming pool, gym and bar/restaurant. So the simple twin beds and disheveled facilities came as a surprise to me. However, it’s perfectly comfortable. I have good light, good screens, a normal toilet and shower, warm
water and a fan.

Nevertheless, I feel myself very much in the jungle. On one wall I have a unique moth, on another a large spider, and on a windowsill some type of frog or toad. All three have been motionless for a very long time. Several bugs are pressed against the screen, approaching the light, and sometimes I hear them bang against it. The jungle is full of noises – crickets chirping, the coo of some nocturnal birds, and the sounds of an animal I don’t recognize at all. Sometimes I hear the cracking of branches. Since I know the only couple here is going to bed, it has to be an animal. Maybe they are the monkeys Robin mentioned.

I took Robin’s suggestion and went up for a little moonwatching. It was pretty sitting at an elevation, looking out over palm fronds and the shadows of tropical trees, and up at a dark sky brilliant with the light of stars, a half moon and the illuminated, moving clouds.

This doesn’t seem to be much of a place for resting. I was given the choice to get up at 5 for breakfast with Robin, or to come by at 7:30 for a more complete breakfast with his wife Sonya. I chose 7:30. Probably on Sunday I’ll get myself up at dawn to try the bird and monkey exploration walk they offer.

My plan was to head to town tomorrow and to see what kind of tours the local travel agencies offer. Then I did something unusual for me – I appreciated what I have at the moment. I’m already in the jungle, surrounded by animals, and all alone. What do I need a tour for? I should enjoy and explore the place I am. So while I’ll probably have to head to town for food tomorrow, I mostly plan to spend the day in the jungle. And I’m looking forward to it.

Exploring Santa Cruz

Today, during my mobile Spanish class, Oscar showed me some interesting sights. First he showed me some of the upper-class, gated communities, built on the outer northern side of the city, in the sixth and 7th ring. I thought they looked like dull places to live, completely separated from life outside the gate, requiring a car to go anywhere or do anything. But some people like exclusivity, especially here it seems.

Then he took me to the central cemetery. I found that fascinating. It looked like a city, formed of a combination of elegant structures, blocks of stone, and modern creations that could be mistaken for a jewelry store. Everyone was buried above ground. Some families had entire monuments, or vaults to themselves. Others purchased single spaces. These were stacked five high and up to eight wide, each space sufficient for a horizontal coffin, and coming with a window at the front of the stone, where the family could include a photo, an engraving of their name and date of death (usually they didn’t include the birth date), flowers, and any other artifacts that represented that person.

I loved this set-up because it conveyed so much personality. Rather than reading a bunch of script on granite, I could look out and immediately see the meaningful symbols of 20 lives.

Oscar said this is an expensive cemetery, with an individual space selling for $1,000, cash upfront only. Whereas other cemeteries will sell plots on a payment plan.

He took me to where his father was buried. There was a family plot, a large mustard stone. Half of it was recessed and contained a monument and a large photo of a woman who he said was his aunt. Several other family members had individual spaces and plaques on the other half.

“My father is in there,” he said, pointing to his aunt’s grave.

“Is there a photo?” I asked.

“No.”

“What about his name?” Oscar’s last name, Hidalgo, appeared on only one of the plaques.

“When my father died, we didn’t have the appropriate resources to get him a spot, so our relatives allowed him to be put here.” His remains were just put into the same place as the remains of Oscar’s aunt, which no marker of his name or existence.

“We never prepared anything for him because we always expected we’d move him,” Oscar said. “My mother has purchased three spaces in an American-style cemetery and when she dies, we’ll bury him with her.”

I asked about a photo of a man in the family plot who seemed to have died fairly young.

“He was 45,” Oscar said. “Unfortunately, he was involved in drug trafficking. When he was in Colombia, some people got upset and just shot him, without giving him any chance to explain.”

The quote on the plaque said, “You will live eternally in the hearts of your loved ones.”

Drug trafficker or not, to his family, he was still their son, brother and relative.

Finally, we stopped by a private environmental organization which is implementing an interesting project to encourage children to recycle. They produced a video called The Little Train, that encourages them to separate their waste and put it into the recycling train. They put these trains in the school, each carriage for a different type of garbage. People from the community can bring their waste as well. The school uses the money it gains from selling the recyclable products to buy materials, and the children learn about keeping their city clean.

Oscar wasn’t in a very good mood. He hadn’t come home until 12:30 the night before, having gotten caught up with beer and conversation with some friends. He hadn’t told his wife in advance.

“She’s so jealous,” he said. “Tonight she’s going to leave me with the children.”

“Yes,” I defended her. “She’s jealous that you should have more free time than she does. She also wants to have time to enjoy herself.”

Guided by a Nun

On Friday afternoon, I had my mobile Spanish class with Oscar. Generally we visit different places in the city to learn about the place, the culture, and to practice the language. This afternoon, he surprised me by taking me to his aunt’s house.

Two days earlier, one of his aunts had died in her 50s from Chagas. She had contracted it three years earlier when visiting her native village of Vallegrande, about three hours from Santa Cruz. This is near to Higueras, the place where Che Guevara died. In the past three years she had wasted away. While medication is available to slow down the progress, there is no cure.

Oscar told me the name of the bugs that spread it, but I didn’t understand it in Spanish. So I took a look at the CDC webpage and see they are called triatomine bugs. Found in simple houses, made of adobe, straw, mud and palm, the bugs come out at night. After biting and sucking blood, they defecate on the person. The person becomes infected by accidentally rubbing or scratching the feces into the eyes, mouth or bite wound while sleeping. Sounds pretty gross.

I think it’s relatively common in the rural areas of this region, which makes a local homestay sound like not a very good idea. Wikipedia says 25% of the Latin American population is at risk, and about 50,000 people die annually.

As a result of this aunt’s death, Oscar’s family gathered for the funeral, including an aunt from Tarija. I was surprised when we arrived and I saw a nun, dressed in a long, shapeless ivory smock, with a white wimple.

“I’m surprised to see you are not in black,” Oscar said to Marlena, as she and her sister got into the car. Both of them were sisters of his grandmother.

“That just makes me feel worse,” she said, “It makes me think sad thoughts all the time. So I decided I’d do better in white.”

I learned that both sisters had been sent to the nunnery at the age of 12. Sofia left as a teenager, though she never married or had children. But Marlena had remained for the past half century.

Oscar told me it was common at that time for families to send their young daughters into nunneries. “They were too poor to take care of them themselves,” he said. “So they sent them where they could get some care and instruction.”

Fifteen years ago, Marlena was ordered by the powers that be to serve in Tarija. “They have to sign a vow of obedience,” said Sofia, “and must do whatever they are told.” In Tarija she works with a nursing home run by the nuns. While visiting Santa Cruz, she wanted to visit the partner nursing home here.

We went with her. After leaving us in the lobby while she went to introduce herself to the mother superior, she returned to fetch us and give us the tour. As we walked along corridors, she bustled ahead, keeping me following her flowing white robes, wondering how she kept them clean. Whenever we reached a doorway, she’d pause to let me go first.

The facilities were quite impressive – clean, orderly, large, airy – a multi-storied building centered around a courtyard. Topiary spelled out Love Jesus, and little sticks and signs with religious slogans appeared everywhere.

About 200 elderly live in the facilities. The poorest live there for free. Those who have pensions or relatives who held support them pay between $40 and $100 a month, depending on their ability. This includes an institution-like bed in a room shared with 2-10 others (they are now trying to make all the rooms for three people only), all meals and use of the facilities. It may include medical care as well.

She told us that this group of nuns, headquartered in Spain, run nursing homes like this in 20 countries. They’ve recently opened homes in the Philippines and the Dominican Republic. She said standards were identical at all of the homes, and she led us through the facility as though she was walking through her home turf in Tarija, pointing out the plastic covers that protect the tables from spills, the high windows with short curtains to allow in light, the kitchen facilities and the TV room.

Except for the shared rooms and the stale, institutional smell of mass produced food, it was quite a nice place, especially by Bolivian standards. The saddest part, as in nursing homes worldwide, is having to live surrounded by so much death and dying.

Before we left, she led us into a room with a single large table and chairs in the center, artwork on the walls. There, she treated us to bottles of ginger ale and wafers.

I asked Oscar if she was always this energetic.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s always been very efficient and full of energy. She puts everything she has into her work at the nursing home and is always coming up with new ideas.”

I asked Sofia whether the church had any difficult finding priests and nuns these days.

“Yes,” she said. “The majority of priests now from thieves and drug addicts who come for assistance to a center run by the church. And while they are there God calls to them. They have a harder time finding nuns now.”



Yesterday I finally had my first guests over, inviting ten colleagues over for an international lunch. I asked some colleagues what time I should put on the invitation if I wanted them to arrive at 2. 1:30, they said.

At 1:35, the first person appeared. Another came at 1:45. Shortly after 2, a few more came. Then came a phone call. Two people said they were just about to leave their house and would be there in ten minutes. They arrived at 2:50.

We had people from Argentina, Germany, the US, as well as different areas of Bolivia, and everyone brought something from their region of origin. So we ended up with quite a feast. We started out with a meatball and leek soup, made by a German, together with chanca de pollo, a wonderful Bolivian soup made with rice, potatoes, chicken and beans. The chanca was my favorite of all the contributions. We followed that with a diced apple and celery salary, something similar to a Caesar salad, a European arrugula salad and a form of Chinese wontons I’d never seen before. Ariana made the star dish, a Cochabamban speciality called fritanga. It’s made from fried pork, potatoes, and potatoes that are dehydrated on house roofs for a month. For dessert, we had canned fruit in a sweet yogurt sauce and from the States – brownies and chocolate chip cookies.

Most stayed until the evening and we all had a nice time. It was several hours of good Spanish practice for me, and I was glad to have finally shown a little hospitality. I haven’t been integrating as well into Bolivian society as I’d like to, and as I usually do elsewhere. The societal stratification is definitely a factor. But more importantly is that some things have been going in life that haven’t left me with the time or energy to do much beyond work and whatever I need to take care of personally. So if my colleagues are to be my main social network here in Santa Cruz, so be it. I may lose out on exposure to a wider variety of backgrounds and experiences among the general population. But they are intelligent and interesting people who can teach me much about the life and culture. As well as cook a mean almuerzo!

New York and Santa Cruz

I spent several days in the US. As usual during my periodic visits, most of my time was taken up by various appointments, buying things, catching up with mail and administrative matters, and maintaining contact with friends and family.

The highlight of the trip was the two nights Jim and I spent on the Hudson River Valley. We stayed at the River Hill Bed and Breakfast, a beautiful Victorian home located on a bluff with a prime view of the river. We could see it both from the settee in our bedroom as well as from the wraparound porch, where we sipped English tea and juice.

We headed into New Paltz, a small college town, to try some Thai food and to see Knocked Up (a very funny film). We twice visited the local dairy barn. And best of all, we spent an afternoon hiking at Minnewaska State Park. The entire area is full of cliffs, which provide a beautiful backdrop, as well as heaven for avid climbers. We followed a path without much elevation, but which took us into isolated, brilliantly green woods for several hours. Eventually, we reached a remote lake, a lonely mirror of blue amidst the wilderness. We were treated to beautiful views from cliffside perches, enjoyed the carpet of fluorescent green ferns that lined parts of the trail, and were treated to sightings of birds, rabbit, and even a close-up of a cottontail deer.

When I returned to Santa Cruz, it was freezing and I had to adjust to the reality of it being winter here. Returning home after the all night flight, I changed into sweats and a sweater and climbed into bed under my comforter. My alarm clock thermometer said it was 16 degrees Celsius in the room.

Warmer weather had since returned with a comfortable sunshine and periodic breezes. Everyone is waiting for the next cold spell, which can arrive any day and last anywhere from a few days to a week. It makes it hard to figure out how to dress here and I’ve gotten better at layering.

I can’t say I’ve done too much exciting since I’ve been back, mainly focusing on my work. I did attend a jazz concert at the French-German cultural center one evening. The band was led by an American from Missouri, who has been living in Bolivia since 1991. During that time, he has held a variety of arts-related positions. It seemed a bit out of place, to see Bolivians playing jazz. In the same way it’s strange to see the local Indian youth playing violins, cellos and operatic music in the Chiquitano churches. But it’s as beautiful as it is strange and I enjoyed it.

I’ll share a couple of things from the local paper, El Deber, that I find interesting:

60-70% (it’s either 60 or 70, but I threw out the paper before cutting out the article) of all Bolivians girls aged 13 to 16 have been victims of sexual abuse or assault. And in this in a country where they don’t have a right to get an abortion.

Since January of this year, in the city of Santa Cruz alone, there have been 1,593 registered auto accidents, of which 512 were caused by drunk drivers. Just last weekend (from Friday through Sunday) there were 81 accidents and at least 6 deaths, with 51 (63%) of the accidents caused by drunk drivers.

Santa Cruz now has at least 1,5 million residents.

Santa Cruz has the highest average salaries in Bolivia, followed by Cochabamba, Sucre and La Paz. The average salary in Santa Cruz is 2,406 bolivianos, or $306. I think this may be inflated by the high income disparities though. I’d like to know what the median is.

I just finished an interesting and well-written book, Whispering in the Giant’s Ear by William Powers, which recounts his two years working on an environmental project in this region. He gives a good overview of the events that led to Evo Morales becoming the first Indian President in South America. I also learned how important road blockages were to his eventual victory and I can now see that the current government would not actively prevent people from blocking the roads, given their own use of that method. The book speaks of the distinction between the camba (eastern, more Europeanized) and collya (native Indian, from inland areas of Bolivia) cultures. I appreciated the insights he gave into the collyas. Santa Cruz is the camba center and I think the opinions I hear come predominantly from the camba perspective.

Overall, I’m feeling more comfortable in Santa Cruz. I was without a cell phone for a week and had to take taxis off street. After almost three months, nothing terrible has happened, besides the street robbery by children. This is allowing me to lower my guard a little, to feel a little more comfortable.

Mark is coming to visit for the first time next weekend. I have only three days to introduce him to Bolivia, but I’m excited nonetheless.