Bloggity blogs

Once upon a time (5 years ago) in a land far, far away (Bolivia), 103 random Americans worked as Peace Corps volunteers until they were evacuated.  Here is a selection of their blogs:

This is twenty seven months Except it wasn't really. Jacky waxes poetic, sometimes in Guarani.

T2Bolivia Who's last post is titled appropriately: "That was 22 months," months filled with vegetables and llamas

Bolivia44 For a sweet perspective on what it's like to be a married couple in the Corps. Erika of Mark-n-Erika has a new blog too. check the sidebar.

La Gringa Allison tells us all about how she drank with international chacarera stars. You may not be jealous but you should be.

Britta's Global Eyes Fantastic photos on this one. Ok, all the blogs have fantastic photos but these are super duper fantastic.

Fun with Tom and Anna Tom and Anna also write about thru-hiking the Appalachian trail to raise money for Heifer International

Anna's Bolivian Journal A different Anna. But just as cool.

Some of us went on to do Peace Corps in other locations. Like Tammy: Peace Corps Take 2: The Gambia

And some did Peace Corps again...and then drove all over South America selling ice cream: Una Buena Crazy

And as a bonus, another married couple blog but reporting from El Salvador: Y Otros Demonios

Basically, I'm cleaning out the sidebar of my blog so that I can add the adventures of my recent cohort of warm and fuzzy development workers and their warm and fuzzy significant others.

Nicanol v Quechanol

My big bad boss asked me recently what sort of differences I had noticed between Nicaragua and Bolivia, especially given that they are the second and third poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere. It seems kind of unfair to compare two countries with such different historical legacies, indigenous heritage, and extent of foreign influence and doubly unfair to compare them after just six weeks.  Keeping in mind that the circumstances in which I live in Nicaragua are different -- with 300x more people, making 6x the money, and with access to about 20x the number of supermarkets -- here are my first impressions.

Overall, Nicaragua seems more developed and more amenable to tourists… more cars, more malls, more people who speak English. There are a crapload (that’s a scientific measurement) of expats for better or for worse. I used to fel that my blue eyes could burn holes into people but I kinda miss being the exotic (if not much-maligned) American. The other super obvious difference is the climate. It is hot here pretty much all of the time. It’s not as bad as I imagined it would be but my hair has not reacted that well.  Just today, a relatively humidity-free day, a colleague commented that my head seemed smaller than usual.

One of the simultaneously fun and frustrating aspects of moving to a new country is learning all the new slang (and curse words).  Bolivian Spanish is just kind of grammatically wrong. For example: once my Quechua profe was trying to describe the difference between two words by saying that one meant “de sueno” and the other “con sueno.” When I couldn’t figure out how that distinction translated to English I asked some non-Bolivian Spanish speaking friends who told me that, in any case, both were incorrect.

During most informal conversations here in Nicaragua I just sit listening wondering what the heck they’re talking about. It’s not for lack of Spanish vocabulary. A country full of poets as national heroes, Nicaragua takes the language to a whole new level; Nicanol is colorful and mumbled, and full of words that are made up. Last week I had a five minute conversation about the word cucuruchu (I think) that basically means “something that sticks up, like the tippity-top of a tree, a cowlick, or a pompom on a hat”.  Other new vocabulary: chavalo = teenager, chunche = thingie, chapa = earring, chiguena = baby, anda … = do you have …?.

Of course the food is a little different here too. Less soup, more cheese. I once bribed a Bolivian friend to go out for pizza with me but if I stay in Nica too long all the delicious salty fried cheese (especially with maduros) is going to lead me to an early death I’m sure. I miss my Camargo figs and peaches and plums though.

And last but not least: the couches are comfier in Nicaragua!

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.

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.

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 fiancée, 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

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.

A Bolivian interlude

Although I left off in the middle of my Spanish vacation (not like I've written more about it) I wanted to share some photos my friend Chela sent me yesterday. She just magically knows when I'm wistfully reminiscing about the simultaneously frustrating and inspiring country of Bolivia and the simultaneously frustrating and inspiring people that inhabit it.

Peace Corps was a constant state of confusion and misunderstanding, and it was in that state that I first met Chela. It all began when my friend Jimmy asked me two questions: "You like kids right?" (yes) "Do you know how to make puppets?" (yes). I didn't have time to wonder about this strange line of questioning when he pulled me out of my house and down the street to introduce me to Pedro and Gloria with, "This is Jelen. She can make puppets." And off he ran to catch a bus as Pedro and Gloria led me to their friend's house as if this was completely expected. (It may have been. As an American I am not completely fluent in the subtle, indirect and often non-verbal communication that happens in other countries. Kind of like in the mid-west.)

So a short time later I was sitting in a stranger's living room (Chela's) making a papier mache Jesus head. I soon realized that my new buddies ran Oratorio (defined by Wikipedia as place for at-risk youth to explore their intellectual and spiritual development in the spirit of Don Bosco) and I was welcome to help out. At first I just showed up to meet the kids and drink milk with sugar. Soon I was leading activities and expanding my repertoire of ice-breakers and camp songs....but this time in Spanish. I had plenty of adventures with Gloria, Pedro, Chela, Fatima, and the kidlets who participated. They ranged from the usual --birthday parties, hikes, visits to the sick, and lots of singing-- to the odd --a wake, singing about Jesus in front of 100 high schoolers, and giving vaccinations.

So you can imagine that an update on these kids brightened my day and I'd like to introduce you to them:


This is Vero. She and her brother Jhonny practically lived at my house. We played millions of games of war and she always forgot to take my food scraps home for the pigs. Like a good big sister she teased her little brother constantly but she would beat up anyone else who made fun of him. I hesitate to admit that we hung out so often because their mother was the woman who supported my Oreo habit.


Meet Edson. This is the boy who used to stand outside my house every Sunday at 7AM singing "Ojos de cielo" at the top of his lungs until I stumbled downstairs. Generally I would feed him and we would mosey to the plaza where we would gossip about all the middle school happenings. He was that friend that every Peace Corps volunteer needs: 11 years old, patient, who will explain words to you and try not to laugh when you sound like an idiot.


These are all the kidlets and Fatima. I'm not sure how many I could name now. Please note the non-smiling faces as is typical in a Bolivian foto.


All of the kidlets and Gloria. And yes it was usually all girls. Probably for the best.And to end...one of our favorite activities. The tobogan!

The Care and Maintenance of Your Returned Peace Corps Volunteer

When choosing a returned Peace Corps volunteer for your household remember the following rule of thumb: returned Peace Corps volunteers from Africa are smiling, warm and friendly. Those from Asia are zenlike in their calm and introspective nature. And those from Latin America are revolutionary and reactionary (and often somewhat socialist). Please be supportive of your newly returned volunteer as she readjusts to this new and traumatic situation. Below you will find some useful guidelines and behaviors to expect.

Nutrition: In the beginning, you may notice that your returned Peace Corps volunteer has a compulsion to drink water from all available water fountains. She may also adamantly refuse to drink bottled water, to the point of crying in the grocery store over all the varieties available. Your returned Peace Corps volunteer will most likely want to gorge herself on dairy products (especially ice cream and cheeese!) and Mexican food. You may want to limit her intake. Too much dairy is bad for any newly returned volunteer. Your returned Peace Corps volunteer may have a strong aversion to potatoes or rice. She may insist on putting salt on everything, cutting her salad into small pieces and wiping her utensils clean. Please be patient with her bad table manners until she is re-trained.
After she re-adjusts to her new home your returned Peace Corps volunteer may crave potatoes again or a salad made entirely of tomatoes and onions. She may also bring home exotic foods like api, humintas, and haba tostada. This is normal; you should make a gesture of acceptance.

Behavior: Your returned Peace Corps volunteer may no longer recognize socially acceptable limits to conversation. She may speak inappropriately about bowel movements, digestive problems or sex. Encourage your newly volunteer to talk about these issues with other newly returned volunteers...rather than with her co-workers, neighbors, or parish priest. In addition, it is likely that the large majority of her conversations will contain "when I was in Peace Corps..." or "In Bolivia they..."
When beginning a new relationship with your volunteer, you may notice that she expects to be friends immediately and may be surprisingly gregarious when talking with strangers.
You may notice that your returned Peace Corps volunteer kisses on the cheek as a greeting. Even kisses same sex. For heaven's sake...get over it.
Your returned volunteer may be addicted to telenovelas. This appears to be incurable.She may also be super cheap, be very careful about sun exposure, not go out in the rain, be exasperatingly patient, and take mid-day naps. She may not care about superfluous details.
Your newly returned volunteer might be homesick.

Communication: Your newly returned Peace Corps volunteer will not be proficient in English. She will speak a strange mixture of languages, use an overwhelming amount of acronyms like PCMO, RPCV and STI, profess to "not know it in English," and may insist on referring to you as che.

Be loyal and patient with your faithful companion, the returned Peace Corps volunteer.

Doctores punto com

In Bolivia people get sick. (duh?) As such, they have developed wide ranging wit and wisdom inherent to folk medicine. If you suffer from intestinal parasites, stys, cracking joints or rashes among other ailments, please continue reading and you may find a cure!

• Got hiccups? Don't worry. You're growing.
• Intestinal parasites? Eat a piece of cheese and chase it with a shot of your favorite alcohol. As it happens, bichitos can't get enough of cheese. They'll swarm to it and then be killed by the booze. Not a bad way to go if you ask me.
• A sty? Or chalazion? Or whatever the heck they're called...eye pimple? Put a pair of dirty underwear on it.
• Gall bladder problems are a result of RAGE. (much like zombie-ism)
• UTI? You forgot to bundle your kidneys! (Don't ask. I'm not entirely sure how that works)
• Don't look at something you shouldn't. You'll get pink eye.
• Coke cures diarrhea. How's that for product placement?
• Beer, on the other hand, cures sore throats, hangovers and all sorts of social phobias.
• If you stand on something cold, you'll get arthritis. (Don't worry, beer will loosen those old joints up!)
• If you sit on something hot, you'll get a stomachache.
• Rashes can be caused by an unclean stomach. (I actually heard this from a medical professional.) However, hives can be cured by wearing clothing of the opposite sex.
• Sinning results in knee pain...or is it the atonement?
• and finally, semen is a phenomenal anti-wrinkle agent.

All better?

The evacuation aftermath

• The Washington Post published a front page article on PCVs returning to Bolivia.
  
  Highlights the deep connection we volunteers have with our community and our adoptive country...and the commitment some have to get the job done. I will probably regret forever that I couldn't finish what I started. But I will celebrate those who did.

• The Democracy Center's take on Dismembering the Peace Corps.

the wonderful world of journalism

While in Peru I was interviewed by a journalist. Unfortunately, I feel that I was misrepresented. Below is a copy of his article and the response that I sent him. (I replaced my full name with Lenni as always)

-----------

Former volunteers upset over suspension of Peace Corps' Bolivia program

It took Lenni the better part of two years to win the trust of the people of Camargo, a farming town of 5,000 in southeastern Bolivia. The mayor agreed to partially fund the Peace Corps volunteer's proposal to have children plant fruit trees on main avenues. Lenni, 27, was about to be interviewed by a local TV crew when she got the call: The Peace Corps was pulling all 113 of its volunteers out of Bolivia. "I just started crying. I was like, I don't want to go!" recalled Lenni, a native of Monroe, N.Y., as she sat in a cafe in Lima, Peru. She is among more than 70 volunteers who quit the Corps rather than start over in a different country.

The hasty pullout came directly on the heels of Bolivian President Evo Morales' Sept. 10 expulsion of the U.S. ambassador for allegedly inciting opposition protests. Lenni was among disappointed volunteers who believe their government overreacted, hurting U.S. interests with the blanket withdrawal. True, some parts of Bolivia were dangerously unstable, but most volunteers felt no security threat, several told The Associated Press.

"Peace Corps, unfortunately, has become another weapon in the U.S. diplomatic arsenal," said Sarah Nourse, 27, of Mechanicsville, Md., another volunteer who opted out. Nourse had been developing trash management projects in a small town in the eastern state of Santa Cruz, the center of opposition to the leftist Morales. She questioned the wisdom of depriving Bolivians of a rare firsthand opportunity to weigh Morales' anti-U.S. rhetoric against real Americans.

The top U.S. diplomat for Latin America, Thomas Shannon, told The Associated Press that security was the only reason behind the "saddening" pullout. "We don't politicize the Peace Corps," he said. "Remember, the Bolivians on at least two occasions that I'm aware of said that they thought the Peace Corps was part of a larger intelligence network that they thought we had constructed in Bolivia. Those kind of statements we find very worrisome," Shannon said.

In fact, a U.S. Embassy security officer suggested to a group of Peace Corps volunteers during a briefing last year that they report any sightings of Venezuelan or Cuban activists. After the incident was publicized, the embassy said the officer had not been authorized to make such a request and he left the country.

Currently, 2,174 of the Peace Corps' 8,079 worldwide volunteers work in Latin America and the Caribbean. They are based in 21 countries in the region. Honduras and Nicaragua have the largest presence with 194 volunteers each. They are followed by:
The Dominican Republic: 193
Paraguay: 187
Guatemala: 184
El Salvador: 175
Panama: 174
Peru: 168
Ecuador: 155.

-----------

Dear -------,

Thank you for sending me the article. I'd like to make it clear that I feel that my comments were misconstrued and that the article was negative in its portrayal of volunteers, Peace Corps as an organization and Bolivia.

I regret the use of the word "quit" in the following sentence; "She is among more than 70 volunteers who quit the Corps rather than start over in a different country." Peace Corps volunteers in this situation are officially regarded as having completed their service in good standing; the opportunity to continue service in another country is optional.

A smaller issue, but equally upsetting was the portrayal of my project. Although it sounds nice that "The mayor agreed to partially fund the Peace Corps volunteer's proposal to have children plant fruit trees on main avenues" it was not accurate. The project was to be funded through Peace Corps Partnership and the fruit trees were to be planted in an individual school.

I understand that it is too late to make any changes to the article or remove my name but I wanted to have the opportunity to express my disappointment.

-------------

I should also add that I don't feel that Peace Corps's decision was an overreaction as stated in the article. They warned us that if political rhetoric increased, we would have to leave. It was unfortunate that it happened and that we had to leave our projects and friends. Also, I can't believe that he kept my quote as "I was like..." I mean, like, really, like, edit it out dude. And I wasn't there two years. And I didn't live in southeastern Bolivia. And Peace Corps wasn't quoted even after giving a statement. Anyhoo, after my comments, the reporter had the opportunity to make some minor changes.

Chau a Bolivia

It has taken a surprisingly long time to start writing this newest chapter of “Lenni’s Adventure.” As you may know, Peace Corps has been evacuated from Bolivia. After a week in Peru taking care of the plentiful and ever-present paperwork inherent to government jobs, we were set free to move on with our lives…to travel, to join Peace Corps in other countries or to face the terrifying prospect of job hunting.

But first, a history lesson:
Bolivia is roughly divided between East and West. In the western area, composed mostly of agriculturally unproductive high lands and mines, live the “kollas.” “Kolla is the original name for the fierce Aymara-speaking tribe that inhabited the land before the Incas came. The Incas, by the way, are the predecessors of the Quechua people who also continue to live in the West of the country. The eastern area is populated by “cambas” who generally appear to be of European or mixed descent. They rely highly on profits from gas, soy and cattle. Although there is a large division between rich and poor people throughout Bolivia, the wealth base is skewed heavily to the provinces in the east. (I’m not even going to get into debt relief programs and foreign aid.) Divisions between the indigenous populations of the western half of the country and the wealthier independence-seeking states in the east have existed for centuries and continue into the 21st.

In 2005, Evo Morales was elected as the country’s first indigenous president and soon began to lead efforts to give more resources and opportunities to the indigenous people. Unfortunately, many of Morales’ programs and policies resulted in alienating and angering the middle and upper classes. He has met huge opposition from the eastern states, who are now demanding economic independence and the control of their own gas revenues. Not necessarily a bad thing (this is how American states work too) it was presented in political propaganda as the refusal of the white elite to help the poorer (and darker) indigenous.

Bolivia survived several large political events lately without violence: elections to create autonomous states, the election of governors, a vote to revoke (or not) those same governors and the president himself, and the somewhat unlawfully drafting of a new constitution. However, the political situation in Bolivia has become increasingly tense over the past few months. Roadblocks have become a constant, restricting travel and causing shortages of food and gas in many communities across the country. In addition, several protests over gas revenue and their distribution have become violent.

As you all know, the United States is heavily invested in the future of Bolivia. It has forgiven their debt, taken an active role in the “War on Drugs” and provided 120 enthusiastic young people to do on-the-ground development work. (Side note: I’m not a fan of war on drugs but it’s a huge and un-ignorable factor in this history lesson.) This intervention has led to heightened suspicion of Americans’ motives, particularly among the higher ranks of Bolivian government, accusations of spying and just general tension. Last week Evo Morales informed US Ambassador Phil Goldberg that he was no longer welcome in Bolivia and asked him to leave immediately. Hugo Chavez, president of Venezuela and ally of Morales, followed suit and sent Venezuela’s ambassador home, too. The US reacted similarly, ejecting both countries ambassadors to the US.

This is when I started to freak out. Every night, my neighbors and I would get together for coffee and the news. Politically liberal and educated, we often spent that hour yelling at the television and getting angry at the one-sided political commentary. We actually had a game to see who could watch the news long enough without changing to a different (news) channel. It seemed that no one knew exactly what they were fighting for as violence increased in the provinces of Tarija, Pando and Santa Cruz. Economic autonomy? Distribution of revenue? Racism? Just plain being paid to protest?

Generally, Bolivians are a “take-to-the-street” type of people. This is there way of being heard and achieving change. Blockades and protests are frequent but generally don’t last too long. This time it just felt different. I should specify that effects were not really felt in my town. There was no chicken and less gas but there was no violence or anti-American sentiment.

September 11th I woke up in my typical anniversary funk. I was trying to avoid televisions for fear of seeing any twin tower images. I had a bad day anyway. When I went to my counterpart agency, to verify that they had paid for my radio and television shows, I overheard a conversation assuring my Peace Corps boss that yes there was a landing strip in a nearby town and no there were no blockades between the main office and me. Instead of dwelling on this obvious reference to a possible evacuation I went to the radio station to schedule my shows…where I learned that the student presenters had never shown up and the manager had accidentally been given the money for the TV shows too. I went back to the agency and from there to the TV station to straighten things out. I was being asked to give a brief interview for the local news when my phone rang. Could I please leave for Cochabamba that night? Peace Corps wanted all volunteers in one place. Reading between the lines I begged for an extra day to prepare and burst into tears. (Never got to do that interview.)

Compared to many other volunteers, my evacuation experience was a piece of cake. Some friends came over for a goodbye fried chicken and tea and I had time to warn several profes of my disappearance and pack my things and requisite underwear; in a rare turn of events it was all clean. I had the luck to travel to Cochabamba with my bestest Peace Corps buddy the incomparable Juice and there were no blockades or violence or anything interesting (besides llamas) between my destination and me.

In Cocha we learned that we would be evacuated to Peru and before boarding the plane we found out that the program in Bolivia was suspended indefinitely. Through this experience I have decided… that when someone is puking that they should be babied like a 5-year old. Their hair should be held, their back should be rubbed, and someone should tell them (as they are airlifted in a military transport to Peru) that the bag that they are puking in has a hole in it and they are actually vomiting all over their last pair of clean pants which will be seen by several Marines, 112 Peace Corps volunteers and the American Chief of Mission in Peru. Yes I vomited all over myself. Apparently crying for days, a bacterial parting gift and air transport in a C130 don’t combine for a positive travel experience.

But good friends, a beautiful country, smiling children, a friendly people, and the opportunity to make a dent in the world did combine for a positive Peace Corps experience, one that I will remember for years…and which will cause me to regale you with uninteresting and oftentimes inappropriate diarrhea, llama, fish head soup, or mistranslation stories.

Thanks for reading.

Travel = Glamour

The past month or so have been kind of slow. I finally quit English classes and must say that my overall health greatly improved as a result. The schools were on vacation for a month because 1) it's winter 2) the teachers were on strike and 3) there was an election and they wanted everyone to go on vacation and not vote. I packed up and headed to Stephanie's site for a weekend which turned into a week's stay. I helped her out a bit in her library and we celebrated Dia de San Juan with salchichas (hot dogs), canela (cinnamon tea spiked with liquor), chispitas (sparklers), and fogatas (bonfires). I went into the city for the 4th but no one was around so I tooled around being touristy for once, checking out the churches and markets. My city routine generally involves eating. I eat bread and hot cocoa in the hotel and then head to the market for api (purple corn drink), pastels (fried cheese pastries), and a liquado (milk shake). Then up to the church for saltenas (baked meat pastry), the café for apple pie and the pizza place for dinner.

My neighbors and I have been trying to be more neighborly so we celebrated el Dia de la Amistad (Friendship day) by having a hot dog dinner complete with gift exchange. I got a stuffed rabbit that giggles when you squeeze it. Oh boy.

Last weekend was the Festival of patron St. Santiago. The festivities were kicked off on Thursday night with a procession through town. Each school made a float representing the saint. Friday was a Mass and yet another procession. Saturday and Sunday was a Santa Anita or sita which is basically a carnival with gambling games and miniature toys. For example you can buy miniature money if you want more in the coming year, or mini bags of flour, or gas tanks, or mini clothing. There were barbecue stands and the standard wine vendors. And that's about it so I leave you with this tome:

The general stereotyped Peace Corps Volunteer is a dirty hippie trying to distance him- or herself from all the unsavory aspects of life in the United States (poverty, foreign policy, racism etc.) by, perhaps ironically, trying to present a positive face of the US in other countries. But there comes a time in every PCV's service when they recognize how truly splendiferous the US is. I mean where else can you find such a wonderful interstate highway system complete with well-stocked, generally clean rest areas?

The main means of long-distance transportation here in Bolivia is bus. Please take a moment to recall all those reasons why you don't travel by Greyhound. Now don't get me wrong. These buses aren't rickety old yellow school buses handed down by other developing nations. (Those are reserved for intra-city travel and are repainted in a stunning variety of colors.....

...see?)

Flotas, as they are called here, are instead rickety old Greyhounds (sometimes also painted brilliantly). The only difference between US buses and Bolivian flotas are minor. Flotas don't have bathrooms, animals are more-or-less allowed, the schedule is oddly limited, the roads are often unpaved and narrow, clinging to the sides of mountains, and the drivers often bring their wives along. This, by the way, is a good sign. If the wife rides shot gun there's very little chance of plunging off a cliff. Although your chofer will want to show off a little he won't want to kill anyone.

Let's discuss:
Bathrooms – some buses have established stops where there is a restaurant or public bathroom. (Oh there are so many places this narrative could go!) The bus from Tarija northwards, for example, pretty much always stops in Iscayachi which as the locals joke means "between two cold places" and is described by the resident volunteer as "like a Wild West town on the moon." For 50 centavos you get a wad of pink tp and your very own stall. Sometimes there's running water. Sometimes not. Sometimes there's a toilet. Sometimes not. On the Inca trail I encountered a flushing hole in the ground. Unlike the Colombian high schooler in the next stall, I thought it was neat-o-keen especially compared to the Peace Corps training center which has dark unlockable outhouses with wood blocks where your feet should go but which in my personal experience are not a very accurate guide. (I evidently must assume a wide left-leaning stance.)
Often there is no bathroom or it's locked or the TP lady is on lunch break. In this case people drop trou pretty much anywhere. There seems to be no effort to find a comfy spot….unless you're my work counterpart who searched for twenty minutes for an appropriate tree to water. I don't have any particular horror stories but on my most recent trip to Tarija I had to water a tree so badly that I had to ask the bus driver to stop just for me. As my friend Oscar says, "Anything's better than the Potosi bus terminal" which, by the way, is the highest in the world and has indeed been patronized by yours truly. How's that for distinction?

Animalitos—to be honest, the only times animals have been on my bus were when I was carrying one. I brought my kitten to the city once. Unfortunately we were sitting in the way back wedged next to a cholita wearing a traditional skirt with its hundred traditional underskirts and covered in a thousand layers of blankets. Neither the cholita nor Maní enjoyed the ride. I once saw a woman in the bus terminal with a couple of lambs in her bag and several times have passed minibuses with flocks of sheep strapped on top. Those sheep looked friggin terrified.

Schedule—for some reason, all the buses to a particular destination leave at once. For example, all the buses going through my town to Tarija leave at 6AM or 10PM. The theory is that if one bus breaks down there will be four other buses to help out. The last bus however is screwed. Asi es la vida.

Road conditions—There is a reason the volunteers in my region are flown everywhere instead of being made to take the bus. Roads in the Tarija area are unpaved, narrow, and curvy and generally have a lovely view over a cliff. In fact, the road to Entre Rios is so curvy that buses only leave at night so that oncoming traffic is easier to see (headlights). I cross through at least one river to get to the city, more during rainy season. However, I can count the times I thought I would die on one hand, and two of those times were in private vehicles and one of those times I asked the driver to go slower and when he didn't I puked all over his car. Take that!

Bus travel also involves the en route movie, temperature fluctuations, chatty and/or smelly seat-mates, drug checks, and the possibility of getting kicked off because the company has overbooked seats. I've seen Terminator at least thirty times. (My personal favorite is "Killer Sheep.") I've frozen. I've baked. And I've had hour long conversations about armadillos. Isn't travel glamorous?

Glossary
Asi es la vida: Such is life. C'est la vie.
Centavos: cents. Bills are known as Bolivianos.
Chofer: driver
Cholita: woman who wears traditional clothing
Drop trou: drop trousers or to remove your pants to urinate, defecate or fornicate.
Flota: bus
PCV: Peace Corps Volunteer

The hills are alive...

...with the sounds of Bolivia

So I´ve been thinking about all those weird Bolivian things that I already take for granted...like burros and pigs walking down the street. Or buying everything I own on the street. Or eating soup with every single lunch. So today´s episode will be "The Sounds of Bolivia"

There are of course the semi-typical village sounds of church bells ringing in a non-harmonious manner at LEAST an hour before the 7AM mass, the premilitary kids chanting in the streets (and now the real military sent here to guard the newly nationalized telephone system), and all variety of school noises and those produced by obnoxious kidlets. Also (how could I forget?) the school band that practices every night until 10 or 11PM. Their repertoire includes "The ants go marching two by two" which is apparently some manner of Bolivian fight song. They have no concept of tuning and although I do not have perfect pitch I often find it very painful to listen.

Some punks making noise.

Less-expected noises include the garbage whistle, the gas horn, the news, and whistling. Every week the trash truck comes through and one of the two guys riding blows a whistle to signal to all the houswives, servants and yours truly to come running out to throw their garbage on the truck. It used to be fun (because what little girl doesn´t fantasize about being a garbage woman when she grows up) but now I miss people to pick up my trash when I´m not there.
I may never have mentioned that ovens/stoves are supplied with propane gas tanks. I probably didn´t because I didn´t want anyone to worry that I´ll explode...as I worried when my landlord held a lit match to the tank to see if there were any leaks. "I´ll just wait out here ok?," I yelled from the patio. Or that time that some (male) friends lit a fire under the tank to "loosen" the small amount of gas left. Anyway there is a gas truck that comes by honking "GAS!" like an overgrown water buffalo. You bring your tank outside, pay, and get a full tank to lug back to your kitchen. This may be the only reason that the Peace Corps application asks if you can comfortably lift 40 lbs, a question to which my doctor answered "sometimes" because she didn´t want me to be disqualified.
Whistling. It seems that Bolivians (meaning high school-age males) have their very own language of whistles. These are not the typical "Hey there hot stuff!" whistles but are more like calling cards. "Hey! It´s Juan! Come downstairs" or "Jaime is here." I was told that by the end of my service I would know when someone was whistling for me and who it was but I think it´s a boy thing (like making machine gun noises.)
Sometimes if there is a special event, another noise enters the mix. We have a taxi especially rigged with loudspeakers. Someone sits in the back yelling the announcements about the upcoming circus or basketball tournament.

So Thursday was Corpus Christi. I missed the typical procession and Mass to go out to the campo, hike around, and take some GPS data. Sometimes I´m not sure if people are messing with me here...like that time that my host mom told me that my host-bro had accidently hung the previous volunteer´s cat. So this time I wasn´t sure of the truth when I got into the car to leave town and was told not to worry because our driver also drives race cars. Unfortunately this race car driver had spilled a bottle of vinegar in the car and between the speed, curves, and smell...I DIDN´T puke! As it turned out the hike was a side trip because out driver wanted to go to Potosí to look for these two guys who may or may not be selling their 50s era trucks. We wound up way out where I had a stereotypical (and before then unexperienced) Peace Corps experience...the one where a bunch of little kids run up to touch you and then run away giggling. Finally the brave ones started to ask a bunch of questions like who´s my mom, who´s my uncle, where do I live, do I speak Spanish. I am often asked, after I´ve been conversing for ten minutes, if I speak Spanish...generally by drunk people.

We finally left, checked out an old church where community members had done amateur excavations (AAGGGH!), and hiked up the cliffs to check out some caves (more like big rocks balanced on little rocks), prehistoric art and the local Inca trails. We also tried several joke allergy remedies like throwing rocks from the cliff into the river, licking large piles of dirt, and breathing deeply...didn´t work.

Sunday was an auto race...through our narrow village streets. We have one newly lame dog and my racecar driver friend crashed into a wall about ten feet from where I was standing. I left when then this really weird drunk guy decided to stand outside of the store I was in yelling (loosely translated) "Blondie! I just wanta drink with you! I know you´re not married! Come here damn it blondie!" Got to say...ruined my day.

Monday was the anniversary of the state and there was a "parade" with the typically horrible school bands. Then I went with some friends to eat barbecue and play cacho (dice). Tuesday was Mother´s day! This means that the kids here haven´t had school for the past three school days.