Monday, July 30, 2012

Phoenicopterus versus Calliophis in Ficus


One day, O called me and said that if she didn’t escape from Santa Cruz she would throw herself in front of the next passing micro (bus). I tried to convince her that that was a very bad idea because medical care here is substandard and even if she did happen to die immediately it would be all over the news and not in the tasteful glossed-over American way but showing her bloodied dead body lying in the road while some women wail tearfully about what a good person she was and the theme music from Titanic swells in the background. When that failed (perhaps O hasn’t seen the Bolivian news yet) I agreed to accompany her to El Jardin de las Delicias, some waterfalls about an hour out of town.

Of course, given her spontaneity we instead wound up in Buena Vista, about three hours out of town where we walked about aimlessly unable to find the good coffee place, the parks office, or the hostel we had chosen. We resigned ourselves to eat cheese empanadas and walk to the marsh to birdwatch when after coming very close to being attacked by a large dog we accidentally located the parks office. You see, we were on the border of Amboro National Park. There we talked with a park guard who said he could have his son take us on his motorcycle to an ecovillage, likely arriving before dark if of course the river wasn’t too too flooded, where we could stay the night and go hiking the next day before having to return to the city and work.  In a split second O had agreed and we suddenly found ourselves hugging teenaged biker boys riding into the sunset. (I’m not really exaggerating.) The journey took about two hours in which we had to dismount from our bikes and cross rivers about ten times. Since I expected that we would be at a waterfall all day I was wearing sandals; for once poor wardrobe planning worked out. We arrived at a pasture in the dark to find another teenaged boy waiting to walk us the rest of the way (about 3km according to a sign I spied).

The road was very very muddy and I lagged behind O and Franklin, as his name turned out to be, who both walk at superhuman speeds. It soon got too dark to even see them but luckily I had a flashlight. Because I am still a neurotic Bolivian traveler, I always have a flashlight, toilet paper, crackers, a towel, and at least a liter of water. O did not have any of this; nor did she bring a change of undies. Soon we encountered a woman on a horse who also accompanied us. At this point my sandal choice no longer seemed wise as I had mud squishing between my toes and no traction. At one point I just tipped over and fell into a large mud puddle making some interesting noises on both the way down and the way back up. Something akin to aaaaaaaaaaahshiiiitsqueeeeelch.

We finally arrived to camp and were met with dinner and tea. Dinner was the same thing I ate every morning in the campo: rice, meat, and potatoes all mixed together in a bowl…except infinitely better because it also had tomato sauce. We learned a bit about the village and how it fits within a nationwide network of community tourism locales, set the schedule for the next day, washed our feet, and went to bed.  I wish I had written down some of the stuff our host and guide Dalmiro (D) said because not only was he intelligent and enthusiastic about his work but he was also very funny in an understated Bolivian sort of way. I also wish I had taken a photo of him because he reminded me of someone that I haven’t been able to figure out and maybe you readers could have helped me out.

That night, despite being in the campo my phone rang (it was the guy who’s stalking me even though I told him I have a boyfriend whom I based loosely on the ex-BBT, A, and Wolverine) and I was so confused because my bed was facing the wrong way. Also I had a dream about giant insects and howling monkeys…probably because there were bats in our cabin and the monkeys outside were howling.

We woke up at about 6:30 to walk to the marsh to birdwatch. Neither O and I are really birdwatchers but we played along at being silent-sitter-ers with binoculars. D regaled us with a story about why flamingos have red legs that are always in water, a story I was super proud to be able to repeat to my friends later in understandable Spanish. As it turns out all the animals went to a party. Here D expounded at length about several details like the invitations, the seating configuration, and the dances performed with the only relevant details being that the flamingos had painted their legs in red and white and black and were quite flamboyant dancers and that the snakes got super drunk super quick. The drunken snakes determined that the flamingos were wearing snake skins, got super heated, and bit the flamingos who in an effort to keep their fevers down and legs from swelling stuck them in Lake Poopo in Oruro. (I don’t know if the flamingos in Florida went to a different party or just retired there.) On the way back to breakfast we stopped at an almond tree where D told us that sometimes worms lived in the nuts and you could eat them and they too tasted like almonds. I’m not sure why you would eat the worms instead of the nut but I did anyway much to O’s shock and horror. 
Besides grubs, breakfast was a delicious yucca and cheese fritter (sonso), oranges, and tea made of cedron.

Being fortified we then set off on the “interpretative trail.” D told us all about the ajo tree which you can use to cure a snake bite, as a mosquito repellant, or an opposite sex repellant.  We saw some tiger tracks (and heard the story of the tiger caught by the Mennonites who I later visited in the zoo. The tiger, not the Mennonites), some giant armadillo tracks, and several interesting trees about which I asked an appropriate amount of questions. We ran into a trail of biting ants and since we could not circumvent them because a tree had fallen on the alternate path we rolled up our pant legs and ran through them. I got bitten about four times on each foot which immediately began to swell but it was ok because we had arrived at the river. Again I was faced with the dilemma of “how appropriate is it to strip down to my undies?” We did it anyway and neared the edge. O stuck a toe in and reported that it was cold but knowing that I would never get in if I tested the water first I just jumped right in, much to O’s shock and horror. We swam for approximately ten minutes before our appendages went numb. When I came out I noticed D putting away his binoculars. I wonder if he was observing the lovely gringa fauna because I was later told that Bolivian women, no matter how tight their clothing or how short their skirts, never jump into rivers in their undies.



(This actually falls into the category of things I wish A had told me earlier. Things like: don’t wear that gold chain. Someone will steal it off you on the micro; Don’t swim in only your undies. It is not culturally appropriate; You have marker on your face. )

We returned the way we came braving the ants and arriving at home base to a delicious meal of lentils and rice and beet salad. It annoyed me a little that O insisted on choking down her beets even though she hates them and I love them and would have gladly taken them off her hands. After packing up our things we arranged to return to town on horseback and by taxi which turned out to be infinitely cheaper and significantly more uncomfortable. It was a little awkward because Franklin walked with us instead of riding and due to this and the fact that I am not really a good rider our voyage took about as long as if we had just walked instead. I am proud that I didn’t fall off my horse dismounting when we arrived because not only had my ass gone numb but I also really really had to pee. After a quick potty break we arrived in Buena Vista (freezing cold due to two hours of inactivity and wet underwear) and caught a bus to Santa Cruz. Technically we caught a bus to a town about an hour outside of Santa Cruz where we had to wait for a shared taxi. 

There is no rhyme and reason to transportation in Bolivia so every time a shared taxi arrived everyone would make a mad dash for it, pushing and shoving and piling on top of each other. Unfortunately O and I share the non-pushy characteristics but in a strange chain of events we ran into an English speaking Bolivian couple who in their skill at shoving and trampling saved two seats for us….and so we arrived safely to our respective houses.

On the journey I shared with O that I am trying to be more spontaneous and she admitted to wanting to be better at planning and thinking things through. We will either be a good team or we will destroy each other. I’ll keep you posted.

Anecdote: True but unreliable

Like my father before me, I often take notes about things that amuse me and like my father before me, I share them even if they are likely only interesting to me. No worries siblings, they do not deal with roadkill, the yard, or advertising slogans, but are vignettes of my life here.

Every day that I work at the Natural History Museum we eat at “Jardin de Pollos” which translates to either Chicken’s Garden or Garden of Chickens. I have pictured it both ways. The former I imagine to be a Willy-Wonka-esque paradise of Technicolor grass with cartoon chicken frolicking about. The latter is composed of flowers made of chicken fingers and trees with legs and wings for leaves.  I suppose you have to be there…in my head. (I also pass “Cheers: the sexy bar and drivethru” every day. I’ll leave that one to you.)

Chicken features in another recent incident. Before leaving for Bolivia I was commiserating with my girls about the weight we expected to gain over the summer, as a natural side effect of a diet composed entirely of potatoes and rice. They estimated that I would gain about five pounds. When I shared this information with my colleagues at the museum, they maintained that I had instead lost 3 kilos and bet me a chicken dinner. Then we set off on a three day odyssey to find a pharmacy with a working scale. As it turns out I did lose weight! (But not a full 3 kilos and therefore still winning the bet.) I blame the loss on two recent incidents of gastrointestinal distress (two! I no longer have a stomach of steel!) and ridiculous levels of mate consumption.

Wait! Gastrointestinal distress provides another segue!  But I’m afraid I’ve given away the punchline. While in the campo we only had access to one comfortable chair which we referred to lovingly as “el sillon del poder” or the lounge chair of power. When I went to visit A’s family he carried with him a bag which turned out to conceal… a new toilet seat!  I then took to calling my morning ablutions “reposing on the lounge chair of power” to no one’s amusement.  I just hope he didn’t bring the seat because he thought that I couldn’t manage the wobbly toilet-esque structure in the outhouse. Although, truth be told, I almost fell off of it twice.

In every international multilingual situation there is always a fair share of misunderstanding and idiomatic confusion. My friends in Camargo told me once, “We love hanging out with you Lenni. We have to explain everything!” This is unfortunately true. A in his infinite patience just sighs and says, “Fine. With drawings.” which has led to some still mutually incomprehensible games of Pictionary.

This is not unique to me, or even to conversations in Spanish. O (my fellow intern) has engaged in several interesting conversations lately, one with me and one with her French tango partner. First me. An exact transcript follows:
Me: Want a banana?
O: oooo. I like bananas.
Me: Everyone likes bananas.
O: No. Some people hate bananas.
Me: Also true.
O: Good conversation.
And regarding Bernard:

He kept speaking to me in French and I wasn’t sure what to do. Do I respond in English? Spanish? Or with grunts and exaggerated nodding?



So O. I think the only things that you need to know about her are that she walks ridiculously fast, is almost pathologically spontaneous, and very demanding in her purchases. The other day we hit about four markets trying to find a notebook that is spiral, hard covered, without a naked soap star, and with lines instead of graph paper. You may not think this is a tall order to fill…but you would be wrong. We did not meet with success. However, I was heartened to find that I am not the only super-specific-shopper. In fact, the other day I went to the market to find a pair of jeans that are dark, with pockets that open, and no rips or rhinestones. I settled for green jeans with front pockets that don’t open but back ones that do and teeny tiny rhinestones on the butt. We can’t have everything but we can still be content. In fact, on this same shopping trip I passed a beggar eating a gigantic piece of cake. He looked up at me and gave me the most beautiful smile.

The End.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

When I am in a stressful situation, particularly in a foreign country, I develop little treats for myself: a plate of nachos, a stupid movie, several spoonfuls of nutella. I tend to place a ridiculous amount of importance on them as if they will make all life’s little problems and annoyances go away which makes me overreact when even they don’t go as planned. I have taken to creating ridiculous little scenarios to help me manage my expectations. “Ok Lenni. What will you do if you can’t open the jar of salsa? You will not cry. You will ask for help or you will just make ramen for the fourth night in a row. And if the movie skips? It’s not the end of the world.”

So the other day on the fourth of July, since my girls went to see where Che died and I had to stay at home, I undertook a project to take pictures of the little things in my apartment that make me happy. 

This is chai made the real way with boiled milk! Nummy! (Ok not the real real way because I'm using a tea bag and there are several ants floating in it but you get the idea. Nummy! Even the ants!)

My landlady juryrigged this nightlight for me. She's so sweet! There are rocks in the bottle so it doesn't fall over and set my books on fire. So far so good!

I'm happy about having a clean floor but that was difficult to convey in photos. Perhaps I could have taken a picture of my reflection in the sparkling and gleaming floors? My happiness only lasted a few days because on Saturday O showed up at my apartment with a living room set (and his mother) that he wants to store in my apartment and the movers tracked a lot of dirt in. At least he didn't leave his mother.


 The trip to A's house resulted in my sudden possession of about 40 pounds of mandarins. The ridiculousness of such a quantity still make me giggle. I will never be at risk for ricketts again! Yummy Vitamin C-y goodness!


My landlandy has a washing machine! It is super awesome and super quiet and you can even choose the water level you wish! Also it felt somehow badass to be doing my laundry at night under a full moon. I did not feel the need to take a photo of the rainstorm later that night though.



HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!!

In which they go fishing!

Tuesday. By now our ragtag team of tree measurers and hole diggers is a well-oiled machine, working with precision and grace….so that we can finish early and go fishing. We have also taken to skipping lunch and relying on a chewing a certain green leaf to keep us unhungry yet energetic. Although this means that dinners are huuuge because they are a combined lunch and dinner so that Dona E gets paid for both meals. No tricking her. So on Tuesday evening we head down to the river (Me, A, Don B, Don S, Don V and Roger) with our fishing lines and guts for bait. Don B takes A and Don S and I across the river in his dugout canoe (no joke) to a good deep spot before checking his own nets. I actually do know how to fish and am pretty darn good at it but I have never fished without a pole and the guys just generally assume that as a gringa and a girl I am completely ignorant and I’m tired enough to let them think that because I do not stake my integrity or my personal identity on my ability to fish. So Don S tells me “If it pulls, let me know” and we arrive at a system where he does all the work and I get all the credit. In this manner I catch three fish in quick succession. A catches one too and Roger across the river is super proud of his teeny tiny catfish. All I get to eat for the next two days is fish.

I have noticed by this point that both A and Don S and sometimes the other guys have started saying “ok.” This makes me flashback to Peace Corps when my counterpart prohibited the word because it wasn’t Spanish. I maintained that everyone understood what it meant but was forced to use “esta bien” or “de acuerdo.” So I feel guiltily pleased about this small cultural imperialism. Don S, by the way is only about 18 years old (20 tops) but he is out of school and has bought a few hectares of land so he just has to survive military service and get married. As such he gets the honorific Don although he’s basically just a kid. He has been our ally through the week, commiserating about the amount of drunkenness and commenting on which of our crew are now single because of it.

It is not my intention to make everyone sound like a drunk but there really is no other way to amuse oneself. I would drink all the time too….well, no I would save my money to pay for my children’s education and to build an outhouse like women do. Generally alcohol consumption occurs within certain strict cultural norms but at levels that your average American might see as excessive. Check out this New Yorker article on the drinking habits of the Camba, photojournalists Dado Galdieri's project K’ajj: Tradition and Ethanolism in the Andes, and/or the WHO report on substance abuse (which really doesn't reveal anything. sorry. so much for my hard hitting journalistic investigation)


Wednesday. Pay day! Post-work, we settle up accounts. This requires more math than I think necessary. The day laborers can choose if they want all their money and the responsibility to settle up with Dona E for the food they ate or we will settle for them.  Either way they get paid surprisingly little for a week of work. I am not naiive enough to be surprised when everyone goes into town to get drunk, including Don S.
At lunch, Dona E tells us that the school will be closed on Thursday for the Aymara New Year and so the professor will not be available to drive us into town. We will have to stay in Yumao forever! So A and I spend all afternoon walking around the community trying to find someone to give us a ride into town on Thursday. We are not met with success. I am surprisingly more resigned to this fate than A. It is finally warm out so I figure I can spend all day swimming and fishing. I do however refuse to eat one more plate of rice and so skip dinner.  

The next morning (Thursday! Last day!) we take everything out of our tent so that we can later repack it neatly and head to breakfast where Dona E tells us that there will indeed be school….ack!  All of our stuff is strewn about the school room! Data sheets! Clinometers! Socks and undies! We also realize that we have neglected to take any photos of me in the field so that morning between fretting about our belongings, playing angry birds, and watching hogs being killed (real pigs, not pigs being pelted by angry cartoon birds) we stage a few photos of me measuring things. I am unfortunately wearing sandals and no one else is in the pictures so you can tell something fishy is going on but it was a diversion.

And then in a truly anticlimactic manner we pack our stuff, dump it in the professor’s pickup, and drive to the highway to wait for a passing taxi. The only excitement on the road is that I cannot find an open bathroom and our taxi driver runs out of gas. And I buy bananas which are super delicious.  On Friday, I have in my head that I will take the day off of work but A informs me that we have a meeting at the office and we have to take our samples to the natural history museum. We also wind up going out for pizza and a party with some colleagues before he invites me to his parent’s for the weekend to celebrate San Juan because evidently we are having a bit of separation anxiety but that’s a boring story for another day.

Sunday, July 01, 2012

In which they escape!

Sunday. I am brought quesillo which makes me cheerful. The guys bring puro to work. A and I sit around playing angry birds but nothing else of note happens (besides work of course).

Monday. It has been decided that I will finish work fast and go into town (about an hour away) to make copies, buy gas, and call my parents. I know that I won’t actually call my parents because they will ask if I am having fun and I will ramble on about how my days alternate between being hungry, being stuffed, walking uphill, sliding downhill, measuring stuff, and sitting around. I may even mention our drunk guide, admit to having a bit of a crush on A (although I’m fairly certain it’s Stockholm syndrome-esque), and start to cry.
Anyhoo, we all finish early enough so that Don B and Don S can bring A and I into town. I know that I have truly turned Bolivian when instead of checking my email or finding a quiet place to read I go visit Dona V and Don J, the host parents of a fellow Peace Corps volunteer. We sit and chat and sip mate and eat cheese and no one gets drunk and it is perfectly delightful. We talk at length about the insects that could kill me in the campo, Che Guevarra (this is where his last stand was), Erika (the PCV) and her fiancĆ©e, and how I am ridiculously single. At one point V and J’s son gets very close to me, tells me that I have perfect eyebrows, and asks if I tweeze. His mother tells me that he has suffered a blow to the head and isn’t quite right but I agree….my eyebrows are indeed perfect.

On the walk back I call the ex-BBT because I promised I would provide proof of life. He also asks if I’ve called my parents but I explain how it could be a long conversation because everything has happened to which he responds, “You got married?” This cracks me up for some reason.

We set out in the dark and stormy night (I am not exaggerating. It was raining.) stopping only to buy gas, fix the headlights, borrow a sweatshirt from a cousin, and buy some booze. We arrive back at the ranch and A falls asleep right away so I take the opportunity to dance around the room while listening to my ipod and finishing up my work.

In which Lenni cuts herself with a machete and her first thought is not tetanus but “oh crap! That’s my favorite finger!”

Friday. You’ve seen those photos with a whole family riding a motorcycle while also carrying three chickens and thirty kilos of rice? This is our research team. Three people per moto carrying machetes, metric tape, and at least three liters of chicha. Today we pile onto the moto because it a 3km walk to our plot and I am a notoriously slow uphill walker. (I am a notoriously slower downhill walker.) The day is long, the bugs are abundant, the weather is hot, and we don’t finish measuring the plot because there are soooo many trees.
That night everyone and their mother come to dinner (actually no women). The community is on the Rio Grande and as such hosts sportfishermen from the city. I can’t help but think that they are a bad influence, offering cigarettes and booze to their guides. Post pressing plants and weighing dirt, A and I also head down to the river. It is cloudy and moonless and no stars are in sight but it is super nice just to be wet. I am not sure of the proper protocol on river bathing in six inches of water. Is it ok to strip to my undies? Is my headlamp waterproof? How do I get all the shampoo out of my hair? I strip. It is. I don’t really. Unfortunately the walk back is through a foot of sand and I drop my wet clothes so all things considered we are just as dirty as before but more content. In fact, it is the first night that I don’t dream in Spanish or about measuring trees.

Saturday. I have survived almost a week. As a reward I get to stay at home base and make numbered placards which, although somewhat awkward because Dona E talks less than I do, is a nice break. So I hang out cutting metal, hammering numbers, chatting with five year old Vero, eating mandarins, and watching birds fornicate. I can’t say that I’ve always wondered how birds do it but I never really knew how it operated. Call me enlightened. Also on the bird topic, the ducks here don’t quack. They sound like someone whispering. Is this normal? Is quacking a myth?

At one point I ask Vero where she goes when she has to go to the bathroom. This is a touchy subject that I never know how to broach. The day before I asked Dona E where the bathroom was and she and her husband just looked at each other and he answered “Anywhere is ok. We don’t have a bathroom.” That doesn’t really surprise me but I suppose I was wondering if they had an appropriate spot, away from the house. Anyone with experience in this, know how to ask this question? Anyway Vero said “go past the jichituriki tree and just a little further down the hill.” (This is exactly how foresters give directions!)

The only low point of the day was when Don B comes back drunk (he has skipped out measuring trees for the day too) and interrogates me again. I notice that as he gets progressively more intoxicated he unbuttons another button on his shirt. This is a pretty good gauge of how long I will have to endure questions about why I wear glasses and my relationship with Arnold Schwarzenegger. It’s a three button day so I also get the speech about how air has no borders. Also I get several hundred mariwui bites. They are the Bolivian equivalent of black flies only with less bleeding and more swelling. Vero helpfully points out each one.

I find out that later that while I was gone Don R was plotting how to get me to stay in the community forever. He says that he will catch fish for me every day but A explains that I am somewhat more high maintenance and require chocolate and cookies. (I would prefer fresh fruit and cheese but you get the idea.) He must have gotten discouraged because he stops coming to work after this.

Fall down/bug bite count: I’ve given up counting

In which they bring chicha to work or in which Lenni starts to break just a little

Wednesday. V leaves at about five in the morning for the city and I am left alone (ah peace) to prepare for the field. I am so proud that I remember everything but this feeling is quickly squashed as I run into Don V and Don Br on the road. They have brought my breakfast (eggs and yucca and an entire liter of chamomile with an entire cup of sugar. I know it was this much sugar because it was in the same cup I drank out of.) As it turns out, I am running late. By the time we have walked to the plot, set up our gear, and fertilized a few trees, A has arrived…bearing Oreos! I could have kissed him. (For those unaware, Oreos were my Peace Corps crack. By the end of my service I had a two pack a day habit.) We finish up the plot pretty quickly and head across the road to set up another.

At this point we have settled on an experimental design of two .25ha plots every 2.5km at a distance of 300m from the road. This results in having to climb straight up a 300m incline. The guys are impressed that I make it, joking that I should bring a flag to leave at the summit, but are less impressed when I can’t get down. A and I return to the school to work (weighing soil and plants and stuff) in complete silence. Not a word. I am not sure if this is good or not.



Thursday. I woke up to find my eyes all swollen. I don’t have a mirror but A confirms that I’m looking a little Asian. As I’m packing A hands me not only oreos but an apple! And a packet of api! This makes me feel inexplicably sad and I start to cry. A doesn’t notice and if he does he attributes it to my puffy face. It’s been interesting what I think about when left to my own devices. On day 2 it was “Oh my god. I am going to dies childless and alone!” On day 3: “Boy I’d love to just sit around and watch a few episodes of Bones.” Day 4: “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?”

Anyway that day we decide to give our legs a rest and do a flat plot closer to home. Unfortunately there are very few large trees so it is very difficult to find a place to pee without blinding everyone with my bright white ass. This has become my every day concern. Pack stuff, choke down wild pig breakfast, set up plot, find place to pee. My low point of each day happens around lunch time when it’s hottest, I am faced with yet another plate of squooshy noodles and the little tiny bees are flocking around my head. They don’t bite or sting they just bother.

That night I wet wipe bathe and wash my hair because it no longer moves on its own. I also eat my apple and it’s the best one I have ever had.

Bug bite count: elevated due to unfortunately too-short pants.

In which we get a taste of what can go wrong

Monday. Fish for breakfast! Yummy! We pretty much measure trees all day. Evidently Bolivians don’t believe in fancy tools to measure height so everything is guesstimated. I don’t doubt their accuracy to the half meter but I wonder how those other missing decimals will skew our results. Mid-day A has to leave for another job to come back on Wednesday so V and I continue. That evening we return to the schoolhouse to find that it is locked. We spend some time scavenging around, looking for where keys might be left but we have to head back to Dona E’s house. Not ten meters down the road we run into her husband coming home from dropping off A and it is fairly obvious that he is drunk. We try to explain the situation but are unavoidably detained and subjected to his repetition of certain facts: Air does not have borders, why should we? We are like brother and sister and he cares for me. He and his wife have 5 or 6 or 7 children, etc etc. V is of little help getting him back on track but Don B finally leaves to return with the keys at which point we are once more regaled with speeches. Development workers take note! His community is upset about the lack of continuity in project supervisors. They feel dumped! Of course they won’t cut down the trees because 1) it’s against the law (?) and 2) you can’t farm on the mountains so why would they clear them. At about 10pm (on a moonless night) Don G glides into the schoolyard in the darkness to try and rescue us. I’m not sure where he has come from or how he did it without a flashlight but he finally wrangles Don B back to his house and we are left to go to bed only to be woken up at 2am by someone else, also drunk, who wants to work with us. Ah conservation. Ah the campo.

Tuesday. On Tuesday we begin to work with Don R who is slightly deaf and perhaps not too bright and the type who instead of asking us to repeat ourselves just does what he thinks we might be saying. The other workers from the community delight in torturing him and their first act is to show him how we mark the trees, by spray painting him at breast height. The day passes remarkably unremarkably until dinner when Don V spills an entire 5 liter jug on Don R.  In the middle of the night I spend a bit more time than average in the outhouse and return to find that V is putting on his boots on the point of coming to look for me. How chivalrous!

Fall down count: 3
Bug bite count: bugs really like antibacterial gel!

In which they are delayed

My primary preparation for 12 days in the super campo was to search high and low for Nutella and/or peanut butter. This, I know from previous experience, is of prime importance so I braved the rain and mud to head to the supermarket. Nutella was unlocatable and the clerks at IC Norte (of which there are many) were surprised by my incredulity. I mean, the building has an Apple store, a Radio Shack and at least two fro-yo places. It is obviously the height of westernization. Why wouldn’t they have Nutella? My other preparations include purchasing a tent and practicing setting up said tent. Anyhoo, once packed, I try to convince a taxista to take me to the office but he refuses citing the fact there is too much traffic. This is in fact true: as it happens the entire stretch of road between my apartment and the office is under construction and by “under construction” I mean that it is closed because they have dug up the road and it is one giant mud pit for 20 blocks or so.

I finally arrive to find that we have postponed departure and that I will be going to the field with Aquilino (A) instead of Ivan (V). I am not sure I’d rather spend 12 days in the woods with: V has worked with me from the beginning and he is somewhat older and more experienced. However, he is somewhat bossy and has that uniquely Latin need for music at all times- even when I’m trying to sleep. A is much calmer and quieter and more precise. He also appears to be able to read my mind which is good because when he does talk it is way too fast for me to understand. He is also cute in a kind of big-headed Bolivian sort of way which worries me because I don’t want to spend two unshowered weeks with someone I find even remotely cute, even if it is only in a big-headed Bolivian sort of way.

Saturday. I am supposed to meet the guys to buy supplies but it seems that they have taken my advice that they will be gringo-priced if I come with and they don’t call until later to tell me to meet them at the office at 2 to head to the bus terminal from there. I have a full backpack with a tent and a thermarest strapped to it and A shows up with one of those carry-on roller suitcases. I feel like a complete douchebag of the consumerist American variety (not for the last time on this adventure I assure you). But I was a Girl Scout, I am a woman, and as my wise sister said “One man’s tent is another man’s sheet strung over a rope” so I think it best to be prepared. (Pro tip: bring mouthwash and floss instead of a toothbrush and toothpaste; it doesn’t require clean water and if things get really bad you can theoretically get drunk on the mouthwash.) Also, everyone has told me that it will be really frikkin’ cold where we are going. I doubt it but I respect the whims of Bolivian weather and pack plenty of sweaters. Anyhoo we pile six people into a station wagon and head off to Gutierrez. I make the guys buy a full case of water because they have only bought 8 liters for 12 days. V tries to convince me that I can drink river water….but no. We arrive in Yumao, set up our camping gear in the school house, and I rediscover that spiders’ eyes glow in the dark and that my pee stream arcs way to the right. The last two, as you may have guessed, happen in our luxurious outhouse which is packed with spiders, packed I tell you! (In fact, one night I refuse to pee because there is a huge spider way too close to my backside, huge I tell you!)

Sunday. That morning we go to eat breakfast at the mburumbicha’s house (Dona E). She is basically the equivalent of the mayor in this community of twenty families…but with less paperwork probably. It is fairly obvious that she has never cooked for a gringa before so I avoid all vegetables and drinking water. I think she might be offended but I’m pretty sure I can’t explain parasites and stomach flora so I choose gastrointestinal security over cultural sensitivity. Walking from breakfast to the river and then back to the school A asks me if I’ve ever eaten wild boar (no) and if I think it will make me sick (no). He then reveals that that was the mystery meat in this morning’s breakfast.

We sit through a ridiculously long meeting on sportfishing, are introduced, and try to explain why the heck we’ll be wandering around the community measuring trees (and dirt, and logs, and stuff). No one wants to volunteer to help. We offer money. Still little interest. The mburumbicha’s husband offers to be our guide and we’ll have to beg more to help later. We spend the rest of the morning hammering numbered plaques to hang on the trees. I take the opportunity to introduce the guys to peanut butter. They quickly realize its curative power but it is unlikely that we will be hungry again on this trip. That afternoon we walk to our first study plot. Our experimental design is pretty flawed (ie we don’t have one) so we just walk down a trail until we find intact forest and start to measure and mark transects. Since I have never done this before and I am very bad at following directions in Spanish, I have some problems. Perhaps it’s not Spanish but Bolivian Spanish. I do not find statements like “more up” and “more down” helpful in guiding me in a flat area.

We have survived a full day!

Fall down count: 1


Bug bite count: 7

Thursday, June 28, 2012

On the way to rainbows and butterflies

Day five: As a group we have decided to stay in town to interview some people. Unfortunately nobody told the group measuring trees that we weren’t going with them so there is some confusion and, I think, hurt feelings. First we investigate what has happened to last year’s group mango dryers. A severe problem in Haiti is malnutrition. Wouldn’t it be sweet if they had fruit and veggies year round? The dryers are around but not in use, not even the one in the HTRIP manager’s backyard. We talk with the American mechanic at the hospital who has decided to hire half of his recently-fired staff to build mango dryers and sell the product in the market. If they don’t turn a profit in a week, they are fired. This plan has several flaws: it is mango season so why in heck would someone buy a dried one; men do not sell things in the market; the dried mangos aren’t quite dry enough and therefore don’t store well.  Anyhoo, this guy is a character. A veritable genius (Carnegie Mellon robotics anyone?) who refuses to learn Kreyol he nevertheless imparts several insights on the culture:

“Haitians spend the most money on death, school, charcoal, and cooking oil in that order.”

“To figure out the culture here is like trying to psychoanalyze a teenager.”

“The strong survive. The weak die.”

Later that day we interview one of the technicians and realize that we have failed to explain ourselves when he finally asks us who they heck are we.  Oops. The interviews are enlightening. Most of the technicians believe that HTRIP is doing great work and has the interest of the Haitian people in mind. They are generally optimistic and constructive suggestions for future success. On the whole, problems cited are logistical. I hope that as we have provided a forum bring these ideas to the surface…where they will stay and be used.

Day 6: One day we head up to a community whose name I forget but we refer to it as “beyond Barbe,” Barbe being the furthest community that HTRIP is working in. My knees hurt so while the others hike the last few kilometers I endure the bumpiest ride to man. At one point I actually jump out of the jeep because it seems preferable to hobble than jolt. I have a strange crisis at one point. There is a teeny tiny market (ie four women selling tiny sandwich bags of noodles) along the road. Ross stops to buy a bag which prompts me to wonder if in his well-intentioned way of spending money he has just bought someone else’s very needed noodles. I mean these women probably don’t get new supplies very often. I don’t say anything. In “Beyond Barbe” we meet with the community to explain what HTRIP is and how it works. (Or rather we watch the meeting take place.) The way that the program works is that 30 people have to commit to participate the first year and that each year a new 30 will be trained in tree planting techniques. Coming from Bolivia, the least densely populated country in the Western Hemisphere, to Haiti, the most densely populated country, I keep finding myself thinking, “But where will they find 30 people all the way out here?” But there are people everywhere, even where it appears that only goats go. Additionally this land is steep and rocky and completely unsuitable for agriculture…but people plant on the stark hills. We are told that people arrive at the hospital with injuries caused by “falling out of their fields” and I can see how this happens. On the way back down I opt for the jeep once again and share a bench with the boniest man ever. He is so sharp that I wouldn’t be surprised if I have lasting damage.

Day 7: We sit in on a staff meeting. The staff good naturedly correct the American manager’s Kreyol. He handles it gracefully. I know that this week has been stressful. Suddenly 20 nosy graduate students have descended on his town to question the project as a whole and perhaps even his management. I can see how as a young buck faced by Yalies who appear to have more experience he could feel intimidated. We try our darndest to encourage him to apply at FES and remind him that our work has not been on the same large scale as his. Anyhoo at the staff meeting the technicians are encouraged to try chaya, a spinach-like plant that is grown as an ornamental in Haiti but which is superduper nutritious (and yummy!) They also pass around a bag of dried mangoes, completely independent of our nagging about the mango dryer sitting around in the tree nursery!

Day 8: Not only does it rain but also there is a blockade between out hotel and the hospital and HTRIP offices so we just hang out in the hotel. The next day (9!) we are encouraged to escape and so we plan a trip to a local waterfall. This is the only day that my knees and/or ankles do not hurt and I am assured that the hike is only 20 minutes. It turns out to be about an hour and a half so we swim for about a half an hour and head back. It was not the most phenomenally planned outing ever. We had been threatening a talent show for days so that night it was brought to fruition. Somehow we contracted a brass band to play for a bit and then acts included juggling, expanding stomachs, acapella (your very own Loggerythms), and other feats of daring and strength. The dancing begins soon after but as a swollen party pooper I go to bed early.
being talented

the waterfall!
we are easily amused
Day 9: The next morning we leave pretty darn early for the airport where the passport control tells me that I am too pretty to have a damaged passport. You spill one bottle of water and you’re nagged about it for ten years. We are told that all flights out are delayed but we are industrious graduate students. We watch a Bollywood film, pass around an old People magazine, play “guess which Asian persuasion,” and host a finger puppet dance video (after which we are chastised for being too loud). ..and then we fly home.

Postscript: At home I am lamenting the lack of food in my refrigerator when Nara stops by with beer and ice cream.
Postscripter: I find out I have Lyme disease. Hence all of the ridiculous swelling and soreness.
Postscriptest: And Haiti becomes rainbows and butterflies in my memories.

Of oranges, and walking, and sand.

Day three: Since it is the weekend we have two sort of holiday jaunts planned (it is spring break after all). I think both trips are designed to inspire us and/or show us the true realities of development. On Saturday we first head to the local market to interview people about charcoal and timber prices. The women who sell charcoal all tell us that they have walked three days from the mountains to get to the market. Given that the market is twice weekly I am incredulous. It seems that the woman just want to show how hard they work so we will pay higher prices. Two interesting linguistic things happen. First one of my companions and I lose the group. We try to ask where the other white people are to no response. I can only imagine that the Haitians were thinking “You’re right in front of me you idiot!” Later we try to buy an orange just to practice our Kreyol and haggling. My buddy speaks French so between the two of us we were doing ok but are stymied by explaining the exchange rate. At this point the fruit seller’s son comes up. He has worked in the Dominican Republic and speaks a little Spanish so we (eventually. in front of a gathering crowd of onlookers) negotiate the purchase of a few oranges at a fair price…..which turn out to be the super sour kind that you only use for making juice. No matter, we are still proud of ourselves.

From the market we head to TiFa’s sustainable farm/hotel/conference center. TiFa is a Haitian agronomist who pretends not to speak English and specializes in easily adoptable technologies.  We go on a 15 minute hike across the river (which we are later told likely hosts cholera) to see his fish farm, poultry and exotic birds operation and banana plantation. The fish are carp and tilapia. Carp grow large before reproducing but tilapia must be separated before they procreate in great number. As such, we learn how to sex fish, a skill I will be sure to put on my resume. The birds, ranging from chickens, geese, ducks and Guinea hens to peacocks and parrots, also reproduce continuously as TiFa puts their eggs under criollo hens to be incubated.  The peacocks cost thousands!

 We have a delicious lunch of okra, pickle, eggplant, roast goat, and a salad that looks to me like it can only bring death in that it is tomato and lettuce swimming in a puddle of water. I have been conditioned by Peace Corps to avoid such threats but I am reassured by the fact that TiFa actually has his own water purification plant. Reverse osmosis in the house! Once we are all stuffed and barely waddling we are brought on a “one hour” hike to see some original HTRIP plots designed to see the effects of species compositions and some of TiFa’s own trees. TiFa’s trees have actually been recently burned. Luckily the paths threading through the land have acted as a fire break. Throughout the long and sunny uphill walk we see women walking up with huge baskets on their head. I find it interesting that all of them step off the road to avoid walking between us even though we have left room. For the second time that day a small crowd gathers to see what the heck the “blonds” are up to. Even though we were at least a half an hour late and we could see the bus TiFa makes us walk even further. We later learn that he wonders why we always seem to be in such a hurry.

On one of the paths is a gourd filled with a few coins. One of the interns bends down to pick them up and is fairly tackled by the HTRIP program manager.  Evidently it serves as an offering to the gods and this poor intern came very close to being cursed. Throughout the week he recounts all the bad things that have been happening to him; he blames the gourd.

That evening we head to the hospital director’s house for drinks and casual conversation like real live grownups. The entryway is an old aquaduct that a Haitian tells us is from Columbus’s time although it is actually much more recent. The house is big and beautiful and designed by one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s protĆ©gĆ©’s to be hurricane and earthquake proof: the roof is on rollers, the windows are slatted and the supports are concrete. We are treated to a small speech on the artistic stylings of Wright and also his personal proclivities before retiring to bed.

Day four: On Sunday two of us try to go to church. However it is the first time ever that Haiti has instituted daylight savings time so we find ourselves standing in the dark waiting for our escort in vain. We go back to bed before heading to the beach with looks like the entire international aid population of Haiti. The parking lot is packed with Red Crescent, UNICEF, UNDP, and USAID jeeps and the beach is crawling with Uruguayan and Brazilian peacekeepers. I am shocked by the steep entry fee of $20, the food prices on par with NY, and the lack of Haitian staff (most are actually Dominican). We swim out to an inflatable trampoline and I would have floated all day if Papa Gordon wasn’t more worried than I was about me getting a sunburn. On the bus ride home we drive through two parades and one wake….and we are theoretically refreshed for a week of work.

The black boogers of a dusty nation


Day one: orientation. Post breakfast we were regaled with presentations from hospital staff including a particularly long one from the director of the hospital and a not long enough one from the program manager of the Haiti Tree Reintroduction Project (HTRIP). We were then given a tour of the hospital, the prosthetics lab and the community services building including the tree nursery. I am not a too huge fan of hospitals and it felt particularly awkward to be tromping around one that only caters to the seriously ill. The prosthetics lab was fascinating. It was explained to us that after the earthquake resources could not be distributed well in Port au Prince so the clinic and lab was set up in Deschappelles by the Hangar company. Not only can the prosthetics be made in a few hours but they also funded and designed the “Haiti knee” built especially for the hilly terrain of the country.

Wall art in the hospital

The cashier

tree nursery!


Day two: much walking. I woke up on day two with both ankles swollen and a sore knee. Despite this, we hiked up to a community called Sous Dupon to see one of the original HTRIP plots and basically interrogate the technicians and property owners. We were told that it was about an hour walk but it quickly became clear that Haitian time doesn’t nearly approximate Greenwich mean time. (In fact, the true calculation is: HT = 2GMT + 7 minutes.) The soil of Haiti has been severely degraded and in many places all that remains is the limestone base so this means that the dirt roads are a blinding white.

The demonstration plot was terraced and protected by live fencing and the trees were in good condition. However, other plots had noticeably lower tree survival with no move towards replanting. It seemed like the farmers were discouraged because without fencing the goats ate all the trees. What can you do?


I was particularly impressed by Ruth the intern. She had a real rapport with all the technicians and was able to translate and phrase our question in a culturally appropriate way. There were certain concepts that we struggled to convey in Kreyol, particularly money and time. In trying to quantify the money lost in exchanging food plots for tree plots, we asked, “If you planted one field full of pigeon peas, for how much could you sell the pigeon peas?” and the answer was generally “Who the heck would only plant one crop?” We also tried to ask more basic questions like what was their income and what did they sell to earn money and were they earning more or less now. We were generally met with “I don’t know” until Ruth asked “How you pay school fees?” So our brief attempt at a socioeconomic study of reforestation projects met with a bit of a roadblock. It would be very important to have someone very familiar with the language and culture design the questions if you wanted to get real answers.

Later that afternoon heading back into town we saw two huge trees. The technicians explained to us that these marked boundaries between landowners but now hold voodoo spirits that prevent the tree from being cut down. In fact, if you tried to cut them down, your hatchet would be swallowed and you might be killed. It was possible to communicate with the spirits through the trees, leaving offerings and such. One technician then said he didn’t believe this because he was Catholic. Haiti, like Bolivia actually, is a fascinating example of syncretism, where Catholicism (or whatever dominant religion) is adapted to feature aspects of the native religion and people who go to church and call themselves catholics might also make offerings to voodoo spirits.

That evening we went to the pool and played sharks and sardines (although what self-respecting shark eats sardines). The notes I took in my journal include the phrase “the black boogers of a dusty nation.” I shan’t expand but I will leave you with that image.

Tuesday, June 05, 2012

Haiti: of swollen ankles and border crossings

On Thursday March 7 I woke from a vivid malaria-meds-induced dream at 4:45am to find that I had somehow hurt my ankle and also forgotten to pack undies or socks. I hobbled around throwing things in my duffel and set out to meet the rest of the class. Our flight was at 10 but Papa Gordon, as we dubbed our professor for his good natured and fatherly concern, was worried that we would encounter traffic or other unseen barriers like flooding, tornadoes and/or aliens between New Haven and NYC. We didn’t. We arrived bright and shiny to have about 4 hours to kill in the airport. I spent it well, having a Skype interview with a Bolivian NGO for whom I am now working. The flight was normal (I was squooshed in the middle) although there was a palpable excitement among the Haitians to be returning to their beloved country. I’ve never encountered anything quite like it.

We were warned that the airport would be complete chaos and indeed it was. Upon landing we were shepherded to a bus packed to the gills and driven to the terminal where we were greeted by a brass band. Despite having memorized the Kreyol answers to “Vacation or business? How many days? Where are you staying” I forgot them and the customs officer just waved me through. I then set out to find my luggage and was somewhat nervous when I couldn’t. However, before leaving New Haven we had tied pink ribbons to all our luggage and some enterprising young Haitian had gathered it…including some suitcases that although adorned with ribbons were not actually from our group. In a country with such few opportunities and high unemployment, people work however they can; I’m sure we each could have had three men carry our baggage out to our waiting bus. On the bus I was super excited to see our fellow students who had arrived earlier or traveled through the Dominican Republic especially Narita, my partner in crime, who had one of those border crossing stories that become cocktail party favorites. If we grad students had cocktail parties she could spin a yarn involving a stolen cement truck, a blockade, three people and luggage on a motorcycle, and arguing and bribing her way into Haiti.

The bus reminded me a bit of Harry Potter’s Knight Bus. Careening around the streets of Port au Prince, passing slower moving vehicles (or attempting to), with 23 backseat drivers the bus headed north to Deschappelles’s Kay Haiti  where we dined upon the spiciest rice and beans known to man and free beer. Wafting through the air were the familiar smells of burning garbage and dust. (Dust by the way is classified by many Peace Corps volunteers as the fifth food group and I think it has a very distinctive smell that I associate with dry often-developing countries but I wonder if Arizona smells similar.)
















By this point both my ankles are swollen which I attribute to serious water retention issues.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Haiti

On coming back from Haiti, my response to everyone's query of "How was it?"was "Intense." It wasn't just me though; other classmates on the same trip also used "intense" to describe their experience. In my case, I think this reflects the fact that I still haven't quite processed the country and our work there even after two and a half months.

As part of a class on sustainable development, forestry and public health, we went to Haiti to work on short-term discrete projects in coordination with Hopital Albert Schweitzer in the community of Deschappelles. According to their very own website, "HĆ“pital Albert Schweitzer Haiti (HAS) serves as a referral hospital for more than 345,000 impoverished people in the Artibonite Valley of central Haiti. In addition, HAS provides community-based primary medical care and development programs. An integrated rural health system, HAS is a model for health care facilities in developing countries around the world." Interestingly it was also founded by the Mellon family (yes those Mellons). In 1956, Larry Mellon and his family opened the doors to the hospital in an abandoned Standard Fruit banana plantation.  They named it after Albert Schweitzer who "considered his work as a medical missionary in Africa to be his response to Jesus' call to become "fishers of men" but also as a small recompense for the historic guilt of European colonizers" (or so Wikipedia says). During the whole trip I struggled with these ideas of development theory and neocolonialism and the very specific and painful history of Haiti in regards to these issues so the funding, location, and naming of the hospital just added a whole new layer of irony to this discomfort.

I hesitate to discuss this too too much because this is a public forum, as a white Yalie visiting Haiti I most definitely fell into this paradigm of voluntourism, and we were invited guests of the hospital. Despite any personal philosophical conflict that I may have, the hospital does wonderful work in the community. They have a prosthetics clinic that designed a knee specifically for the hilly Haitian terrain, they support community health workers and staff rural clinics, build wells and most importantly (to me) plant trees!

My small part in this work was to observe the reforestation program, interview stakeholders (technicians, staff, community members) and help the administration evaluate their program, its goals and their progress towards those goals.  So here comes ten days of walking, talking, sweating, eating, waiting, and wondering why the hell my ankles are swollen...

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Things I still love, hate, and am amused by in Bolivia.

Once upon a time I wrote a list about all the things I loved and hated and was amused by in Bolivia. Upon my recent return I was struck by things I had forgotten about, never wrote about, or was glad to see still exasperated me. I wrote the list on the back of a receipt but the waiter took it.

So #1 is receipts. I had forgotten that everything requires a receipt. Bolivians put their name and tax id so that later they can pay sales tax. I can only imagine the accounting required for such a system. Do you have to save your receipts for an entire year? I already forgot to save my boarding passes for research funding! Or are the restaurants responsible for collating all this data? They can't even serve me an overpriced Huari in under a half an hour!
2. Tight pants. For some reason, despite living in NYC where Latinos abound, I forgot about the importance of tight pants and hair gel. I'm staying in a hostel for now so I went out to dinner with a Brasileno staying there. After I noted that I was underdressed, he mentioned that women can't even enter a club in Sao Paulo without significant surgery. (He was commiserating so I'm pretty sure I'm not offended.)
3. During the same outing I commented wistfully, "There's never any pepper in this country."
4. Mokochinchi! OMG I am super excited about dehydrated peaches soaked in water with at least a kilo of sugar! All street foods really! And soup!
5. But I forgot how gross the rice is. And that there is nothing vegetarian.
6. The constant need for spare change. Boy do I miss metro cards....and  public transportation in general because
7. I forgot how confusing the micros are, and how personal space and courtesy do not exist on them. Yesterday I was basically told to push my way through to the door (by people I was pushing through).
8. And although it rains almost every day everyone seems surprised and no one has an umbrella.

So anyway I'm back in the Oblivs, working with an organization to measure carbon stocks in a Guarani community that is struggling to make money off of sportfishing and which may eventually be flooded by dam construction rendering all my work moot. I've already lost one of my favorite earrings, my Spanish is back at a level of "suck," and my heels aren't high enough but I still find myself smiling broadly to back in this weird and wonderful country.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Inspiration

I send you out now, to share yourself with the world
May its promise and complexity set your mind ablaze
May you hold fast to what your life has taught you
May you question everything
And when you have changed the world,
And the world has changed you,
May you return again, to this place,
And share what you have learned with us.

—Rev. Kelly Weisman Asprooth-Jackson, "I Send You Out"

Thursday, April 12, 2012

the last of Costa Rica

I do apologize for the delay. A few weeks ago I went to do laundry but I didn't have enough money for two loads. So I went home to get more quarters. And then I completely forgot about the second load, leaving my laundry bag in the basement until two weeks later when I was wondering where my favorite jeans had escaped to. I hope this anecdote has served to give you a taste of my ridiculous spaciness and inherent procrastination...and that you'll forgive me!

The lovely A has informed me, indignantly I might add, that I neglected to mention her miraculous, time-consuming and tasty pancake making. One morning at the eco-village we made pancakes out of whole grain flour, camote flour, sugar, powdered milk, oatmeal, and the kitchen sink. I kid you not, each flapjack took about 20 minutes. Worth every minute in deliciousness.

In our last episode, A, L and I (me) had been shut out of their hotel in Montezuma and exiled in the no horse town of Cabo Blanco. After an evening of complaining they woke to the knowledge that they had their own private beach and pool and full use of the hotel kitchen so they spent the first day exploring, swimming, reading and sleeping. Then they went back to using the first person.

One of the hard to navigate aspects of a group vacation is the financial situation. I am of the school of thought that we'll split the bill when easy on the waitstaff and otherwise settle up throughout the days. I do not pay too too much attention to the nitty gritty cents and change. L on the other hand is very into the nitty gritty. At first she kept a running tally of our expenditures. Then we created a pool and each of us put $20 in each day. Then we argued over every purchase at the grocery store, prorating costs based on who we thought would eat the majority of the cabbage (L) or bananas (A) or eggs (me).  I threw a monkey wrench into the process multiple times. After discovering that the taxis' meters continue to run after it's stopped I started paying immediately without considering who owed whom money. And being too impatient to do math while waiting on line in the grocery store I often paid the whole bill myself. I am a very bad socialist.

So while in Cabo Blanco we went to the nature reserve where on the two hour walk to the beach we nerded out with the tree guide book.














Then we spent an hour on the beach eating tomato, avocado and cheese sandwiches (our go-to meal) and lounging in various states of undress: L went whole-hog full sun in her teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, polka-dot bikini, A stayed fully dressed (with long sleeves!) in the shade and I bridged the gap.


After two days of beach lounging in Cabo Blanco and cooking bizarre meals like cabbage with pineapple and french toast with honey we headed into Montezuma proper to party for a day before heading back to San Jose and home. Spur of the moment we packed up and hitched into town to find a room in a kinda creepy hostel with teeny tiny ant-filled rooms. Dumping our bags we took off to the local waterfall. I paddled around in a swimming hole while L hiked waaaaay up the rocks and A went to get a haircut. I think this pretty well demonstrates our relative sense of adventure. We finally had a super delicious meal in a restaurant and then went out drinking and dancing. L shut the place DOWN and I held my own I suppose. 

The next day, L went surfing and A and I shopped for my traditional vacation pair of earrings. L made me take a picture of our weird leftover breakfast complete with fresh coconut. I was distressed to learn that if I am stranded on a desert island I will not be able to survive on coconut because I am in fact allergic to it.
And then? We hopped on a bus, the ferry, the same bus over again and a taxi then another taxi and a plane aaaall the way home. We spent the last of our communal money pot on a small package of chocolate covered hazelnuts (there was an odd number which caused no small amount of stress.) Then we had one last tomato-avocado-cheese sandwich and ate all of our leftover fruit so we wouldn't get hauled away by customs.

I am pleased to say that we are still talking to each other.

Whidbey Island New Years Eve bash

On the morning of our New Years Eve visit to Whidbey Island, my friend texted, “Are you sure you still want to go? It’s going to rain.” But ...