Ometepe!

My friends and I have a joke that when we travel together we need a buffer person. Sometime I am the buffer but more often than not I am the one who snaps: “I swear if you prorate the grocery bill based on the quantity you expect us to eat again instead of just splitting it evenly I will rip out your entrails!!!*” (To be fair though, I also do the bulk of the planning.)  So you may not be surprised to learn that the day after my roomie MK and I returned from a long weekend vacation he moved out.

But I get ahead of myself. In the middle of Nicaragua is a lake. Lake Cocibolca!  In the middle of that lake there is an island. Isla Ometepe! In the middle of that island are two volcanoes. Concepcion! Maderas! And that is where we went. Technically I invited myself on MK’s trip. But I acquired the truck, booked the ferry, reserved the hotel… and bristled whenever MK wanted to deviate from my painstaking itinerary.

The shimmering isle of Ometepe. Left is Concepcion. Right is Maderas.

 At work I have a well-deserved reputation for not being able to back in any vehicle straight (I really should practice) so my colleagues were understandably concerned when I requested a truck which I would drive backwards, onto a rocking ferry, to park between other cars. Twice.  They gave me a legal release for MK to sign just in case we plunged into the lake.

But first, I drove through the market on a Saturday morning. This was actually an error in navigation. I gave MK three tasks as co-pilot: to hand me food or drink as requested, to change the radio station when it was God, and to navigate. Nicaragua is not a fan of street signs so I had printed out a Google map to count how many blocks to go before a turn. As we drove into Granada, I handed the printout to MK and said “Ok we just turned east, can you tell me how many blocks I need to go before I turn south again?” to which he responded with confused silence before asking “Which way is south?” So I just turned down a random street and wound up in very heavy foot-, horse-, and bicycle- traffic, driving through the weekend market in an absolutely gigantic pick-up truck… and listening to God music. Recognizing religious rock on the radio is an advanced language skill.

Despite it all we arrived to San Jorge in time for the ferry. The ferry guys evidently have ample experience in inept chelas driving vehicles way too big for them and gave very very explicit directions for backing-up complete with hand motions. For the last bit, they suggested I just put the car in neutral and let them push it the last few millimeters. (This does not mean that I wasn’t a shaking mess when I got out of the car.)

Like. a. boss.

The ferry, Rey de Cocibolca was decked out for Christmas… and the second coming of Sandino. Besides Santa, there was a lot of propaganda.

Sandino and Santa. Together again.

Our first stop off the ferry was lunch. (Of course.) Charco Verde, literally green puddle, is a protected area around a laguna. It also hosts two private beaches, three hotels, and, most importantly, a restaurant serving pretty standard Nica fare. And the coffee was free so MK was happy. I was happy because I got to frolic outside! Managua is a tough city to live in. It’s not super duper walkable and there are few places to people watch, with the exception of the malls. So it is always nice to escape. The reserve has a short trail around the laguna with two spurs to lookout points. Before entering the park I noticed on the map that they had a reforestation project so of course I launched into a thousand nerdy questions about which species they use, have they seen improved water quality, is there a public education component etc nerdy etc**. The man collecting the entry fee ($2) was very enthusiastic and knowledgeable and would probably hire me if I move to the island. I think the hike around the lagoon was a mile tops but there is a gorgeous private beach and plenty of wildlife. In fact, a weird Canadian approached us to announce “Monkeys! I saw monkeys!”

Trees! I saw trees!

The byootiful beach at Charco Verde.

The green puddle in all its glory. 

MK had Ojo de Agua on his itinerary so we headed there next, with the understanding that we could only swim for two and a half hours because I wanted to arrive at the hotel before dark. Ojo de Agua is a natural spring that the ticket-seller assured us would make us look ten years younger, not necessarily now but maybe when we’re 60. At any rate, he promised we would be smoother for only $4. Since I have plenty of blubber, and a surf shirt, I could have swam for days but MK got cold after half an hour (tops) and wanted to continue on or eat again. I am mean and horrible and had the car keys so I just kept swimming around happily and practicing diving (at which I have no discernible skill) until it started to rain. One woman did ask if I was the mother of three little boys who were also diving and also wearing surf shirts and also gringos. Then I joined MK in the restaurant area where neither of us could locate any sort of wait- or cooking-staff. I did however make sparkly eye contact with a guy at the next table a few times so if you were at Ojo de Agua, Ometepe on December 8 let me know. I was at the table with the shivering Swede next to the table with the Spanish diplomat with the boxer. Blue dress with black stripes.

Ojo de Agua. Not the best picture, I know.

Note: As I was diving to the bottom of Ojo de Agua I noticed that the ground was covered in tarps in many places which were held down with rocks or bags of rocks. I wondered if perhaps we had been duped and were in a pool made to look all nature-y and youth-bringing.

Then we moved on. If Ometepe Island is a snowman, our hotel was a little below the snowman’s right hip.  Pretty much everything from the snowman’s bellybutton on is unpaved. It was quite the drive. My arms got a great workout from both clutching the vibrating steering wheel and frequently changing gears from second to first. I actually think that my future colleagues should be tested on that kind of driving ability. On my test we drove to the mall. Although I do that far more often then go to the field at the moment I imagine that navigating bumpy, unpaved, huge muddy holes will be more useful  long-term in the development line of work.

We arrived at Finca Mystica, which was actually a bunch of cob cabins. (Check it), where I immediately staked out the bookshelves and crashed into a hammock until dinner. I also had a nice long conversation with one of the hotel staff about pretty much everything: what I do, Bolivia, coca, indigenous peoples, dogs, Spanish vocabulary (for example how I use the word monkey to mean teenager a la Bolivia), and how I handled the drive. The proprietors at the Finca were away (having a baby!) but everything was handled beautifully, the food was ridiculously yummy, the setting gorgeous, and the beds super comfy. I mean, even the dorm had full-sized beds with American sheets. And there were so many cute touches like chotchkes and fabric covering the exposed plumbing and stuff.

The byootiful view

Our cob house

I think MK crashed around 8 and I made it until 10:00.

Next up: we hike to a waterfall. That’s it. That’s all we did.

*True story.
**The answers to my questions were poponjoche, jobo, guacima, etc; they don’t have the resources to study that; and yes

NaNoWriMo!

This year, I decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month. Decided is putting it strongly. Especially since I had no plot ideas, little time, and absolutely no experience writing anything longer than thirty pages. In fact, I had a reputation in graduate school for consistently missing the page-number requirements. In my attempt to write 50,000 words in one month I have spectacularly exceeded my inability to meet page limits. Is that like a triple negative? I'm trying to tell you that I was met with failure. Here is my "novel":

It was dark and cold in the refrigerator, appropriate conditions one supposes for the inside of such an appliance.  But not quiet, the cheese sandwich reflected sullenly. It was instead quite chittery chattery; arguments arose among the always fighting eggs, the kale was droning on and on about some sort of health care policy, the milk hummed contentedly to itself. “If only he had finished eating me”, muttered the cheese sandwich. “I could have achieved my full potential, spinning through his gastrointestinal tract, powering his every move. But no, that selfish overfed bastard left me on the table to rot.”

“Technically,” the cucumber interrupted self-importantly, “Refrigerators consist of a thermally insulated compartment and a heat pump to transfer heat from the inside of the fridge to its external environment so it’s cool as me in here and toasty warm out there. Lower temperatures in a confined volume lowers the reproduction rate of bacteria thereby reducing the rate of spoilage and waste. So Mr. Sandwich, looks like you’ll be around for a while.”

“Shut it,” snapped the sandwich. He viewed himself as a victim. The cheese sandwich was a casualty of E-bay, consumerism, hoarding, food waste – whichever of the modern-day, first world plagues you feel like naming.

The whole situation caused him to doubt his self-worth. If he had been spaghetti perhaps? Orange juice, sour patch kids? Those all seemed like they could cause a pretty nasty ulcer. All of that acid and sugar. But the singer was young and peppy. Surely he could handle it without having to face the nasty spectre of an eroded duodenum.

Suddenly the light turned on as the refrigerator door opened. Silence reigned among the foodstuffs as they listened to Patricia telling the story again.

 “No, I’m telling you it’s totally true. He came into the restaurant with whatshername, y’know, that actress from that High School movie and they were all snuggling.”

 “But why would he come into a diner?”

 “I dunno. Maybe he was slumming it. Or hiding from the press.”

“And he ordered that cheese sandwich?”

“Yes!” she squealed. “And I snagged it. I’m gonna sell it on Ebay or something. Or maybe I can get some of his DNA off the sandwich and clone him. How cool would that be? A Justin Bieber clone?”

“You don’t know anything about raising babies. Especially not some weird teenaged music star baby.” She paused. “Wait. When you clone something are they born again? Or is it more like budding or spores or parthenowhatever?

Despite years between her and high school biology, and a not particularly diligent mindset, Jamie could still remember the slide full of Daphnia: translucent microscopic penguins full of eggs and with wildly waving antennae. “More graceful than those creepy sea monkeys”, she muttered under her breath.

“What? Do you want grape juice or milk? It’s all I’ve got with the kids around.”

“Grape juice, please.”

Patricia grabbed the grape juice, which shot a look brimming with hatred at the milk who swung by smugly, and somewhat vacantly, in the door as it closed. They were returned to darkness.

“Did you know that the optimal range for perishable food storage is 37 to 41 °F?” the cucumber continued. “That’s 3 to 5 °C for you Sir Maple Syrup and you Miss Kiwi and you...”

“We got it!“ the food yelled shutting him up for the moment.

Dear Mack at Travelocity,

I’m sorry I cried on the phone with you.

I thought it would just be a quick phone call. I could rebook my flight while cooking dinner. It was 6:30 and I had just gotten back from the gym. I put water on to boil and dialed. Via Skype. From Nicaragua.

I was put on hold almost immediately. I chuckled as I remembered how awful Travelocity’s hold music is.

First I spoke with Steve. I just made his name up. I’m pretty sure Steve did too. He asked me my name. Dear Steve, Americans do not say “Please me with your name?” It made me giggle. I flashed to an image of myself whispering “lenni. lennnnnni. lenni.” into his cute, brown, head-setted ear.

We got down to business. The Travelocity kind. Not the pleasing kind. I explained that I had cancelled a flight and now wanted to use the credit. I told him I wanted to find the cheapest flight within a range of dates. I gave him the cancellation number and my email address. He told me that he couldn’t hear me because there was an echo.

Fair enough Steve. I live in an airy Central American palace. I walked outside, facing ants of all different sizes and propensities towards biting. I braved mosquitoes and dengue for you Steve. I repeated myself.

Evidently my request was impossible. He asked what time I wanted to fly on the 23^rd of December. I asked again if it was possible to investigate a range of options. Y’know, like they do on YOUR WEBSITE. No. I asked Steve if perhaps it would help if I searched the American Airlines website for the cheapest option. He said yes and hung up. Oh Steve.

I called back and spoke with Dan. Again, not his real name. Dan sounded so much like Steve that I wondered if it was a cruel joke. I wondered every time he put me back on hold. The water on the stove boiled down to the pot. I turned off the gas. My computer flashed a battery warning. Finally I told Dan exactly what flight I wanted to be on, we booked it successfully (I think), he transferred me to billing…and I was put on hold. For forty minutes.

My neighbors looked out their window to see what the horrible noise was.

Had I been rude? Was this some sort of karmic punishment? I went a little nuts from the hold music. I hung up.

I dialed again. I put water back on the stove, faithful that this time all would work out. I plugged in my computer. I spoke with Vikram. (I may as well make up good names.)  I put noodles in the water and told him exactly what flights I wanted. I told him that the hold music was awful and he made every effort to keep me on the line. Vikram was my buddy. He transferred me to billing.

And Mack, you answered. You asked if I could please you with my name. You asked how you could help me. I thought you would have known. But no, you asked for my booking number and inquired after my flight dates. And that’s when I started to cry. “I already diiid all this,” I plaintively whined. But you were a specialist. We had to start over.

I gave you my booking number. You told me I was missing a number. (No Mack. YOU missed a number.) I repeated it. It was no longer in the system. I spelled my email for you. Several times. N as in Nancy. N as in Nincompoop. N as in Never use Travelocity again. You found me, “Ok a flight on Delta airlines from Los Angeles to Las Vegas in September?” Noooo. “Armstems at aol dot com?” Nooo.

I gave you specific flight times and flight numbers. You kept forgetting about the flying to/from NY part. “ok Managua to Miami.” Nooo. “Ok departing flight Managua to Miami to NY. Returning flight Miami to Managua.” Nooo.

We got it straightened out and you gave me the price. I cried again. A flight to NY is not worth $900. The American Airlines website said that it was about half that. Mack, you had the wrong date. Honest mistake. We tried again.

You told me I had $150 in credit left over. You told me that to get the voucher I would have to pay $29.50 to have it mailed and $70 for something or other. I asked, casually, if that money would be taken out of the voucher, leaving me with only $50.50. You said that that was impossible. I had to charge the $29.50 on my card. I asked, innocently, if I was essentially paying for my own money. You didn’t understand me.

My noodles turned to mush. You said you’d send me the voucher. You had the wrong address. When I gave you the correct one you asked if I lived in LaGuardia NY or JFK NY. That was funny.

Sorry I cried on the phone with you. But you can see where I was coming from, right?

Love,

Lenni

So family, I will be in NY from 23 December to 1 January. I expect bagels, Chinese food, and root beer. (They have a handle on pizza here.)

Beeeeez!

Although a picture is worth a thousand words, I already posted most of my photos on Facebook with commentary and don’t want to retype everything. One quick story remains untold, however. This weekend I escaped Managua to go to Leon, colonial city of a thousand churches in the Northwest of the country. I arrived cheerful to be alive (the highway is only two lanes so everyone passes each other at every legal although not necessarily safe opportunity which makes things interesting) and ready to explore. About five minutes from my hostel, I was taking pictures of the main basilica when I felt something fly into my foot. I noted that it was stuck between my toes and then registered some pain. I scooped the offending large, black, fuzzy bug out of my sandal and gimped over to a bench to discover that there was still something in my big toe. I wasn’t swelling but I asked a family where the nearest pharmacy was so I could get some tweezers or something.  (I’m sure the lovely family from Leon is telling their own story about a weird limping gringa who took her shoe off in the middle of the street.)

In the pharmacy, I recounted my story and a college-aged girl who was also buying something immediately bent down and took off my shoe. She asked the woman at the counter for a stool, some anaesthetic and a tweezer. At this point, I started to stammer out a “who are you and why are you touching my sweaty feet?” The pharmacist, in the meantime, was making it absolutely clear that I would be the one paying for all these supplies. Anyhoo, my savior who turned out to be a nursing student removed the stinger, bandaged me up, and left. I didn’t even have time to invite her for a juice. The pharmacist thought it was an Africanized bee and the nursing student said a hornet. I think it was an ordinary bee, y’know, cuz I didn’t die or get swarmed.

The funny part, besides the efficient counter-side service, is that I didn’t know how to say stinger so I basically told these ladies that a bee had left its backside in my toe. (It’s aguijon just in case).

Post-pharmacist I went to get lunch and I told the waitress about my ordeal and she brought me dessert first because I deserved it.

Also on this trip I discovered dragon-fruit ice cream. And most everything in Leon was closed.

The scene of the crime

My lunch spot: Los Picharditos.

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!

Adventures in driving

Upon being hired, I was told that I would need to learn to drive a stick shift. This did not worry me as my entire family can drive stick, I had once driven hay rides (on an ancient tractor with two gear shifts), and I took a crash stick-shift course before going to Bolivia... just in case. Of course that was seven years ago. So I called a friend with a car ideal for learning on (ie old) and set out. By set out, I mean we lurched around a parking lot for an hour. 

I then went home for a family gathering and made my brother and then my brother-in-law take me around town. My brother-in-law is from India and learned stick shift by just buying one and lurching off the lot. A brilliant metallurgic engineer, I would not point to driving skill as his top quality. (See here for a related anecdote.) But with a minimal amount of yelling and a couple of stalls, everyone survived. And we stopped for really good Mexican food. I was all set to borrow my Dad’s car and just drive it back to New Haven, learning as I went. My Mom nixed this idea citing her own nerve-wracking learning experience and, while I hesitate to admit it, she was probably right. But then...I broke my ankle. And could not drive (or walk really) at. all.

So I arrived to Managua, city of a thousand traffic circles, without having mastered the manual transmission. Two weeks in, my colleague took me for a driving test in a diesel truck. The official evaluation was that I had trouble with hills and did not understand how traffic circles work but with a week of supervised driving I should be all set. What I didn’t realize that driving a light car would be totally different. Jeeps, like I practiced on in the States, and trucks (particularly diesel) are very forgiving. On the Yaris (a lovely Toyota specimen), however, the point between sitting still on purpose (for example, at a stoplight) and sitting still by accident (stalling) is very very fine. I was very lucky to have two CouchSurfers staying with me, one of whom was also learning to drive stick and could empathize when I would arrive home and need to cry before doing anything else.

I stalled all around Managua until finally my colleague told me that I would need to get remedial lessons. Evidently because we have a car with official plates it is very bad form to be driving poorly. He said that someone could mention it to the police or even the government and it could come back to hurt the agency. Well color me penitent. Enter Douglas (pronounced Doog-las) of La Escuela de Manejo Llave de Progreso. One of the first things he asked me was if we would have trouble communicating to which I responded with a resounding, “What?”

Our first lesson was unremarkable except for the fact that we drove around the city for two hours with the windows down. A colleague had just finished telling me that driving with the windows down was a surefire route to getting mugged... in addition to sunburned. I arrived at work having sweat through my clothes, with one conspicuously red shoulder, and, luckily, my wallet intact. The second lesson was on Saturday morning so I asked to drive to El Malecon, which google translate tells me means jetty but I don’t know what jetty means in English. Anyhoo, we drove to the shores of Lake Managua where the old city center was. Think of your average small town and you can imagine the village green or plaza with its church and municipal buildings. In a city that area would probably be the “downtown.” Managua was no different. The Malecon houses the National Cathedral, the People’s House, and the National Museum. However, it is not the bustling center of activity that one might expect. In 1972, a huge earthquake destroyed 90% of the city and killed more than 19,000 people (sez Wikipedia). The city was rebuilt haphazardly and largely sprawling away from the center. The cathedral, while still standing, is a shell of a building scarred by gunfire. Efforts have been made to revitalize the area with a new waterfront and government buildings but it is largely empty of people and cars... except newbie drivers and their instructors. There were lots of those. We waved to Daniel Ortega and then continued on our merry way to tour the rest of the lakes in town, one of which was used as a spot to “disappear” political dissidents and revolutionaries.

The next morning Dooglas suggested that I drive as if I know Managua and he’d correct me if I got lost...that lasted all of five minutes. He quizzes me on which highways and rotundas we took to get to a certain place and I always get it wrong. In fact when I asked for a progress assessment he said he is not concerned about my driving skills but by the fact that I never have any idea of where we’re going. Guys, have you seen a map of Managua?

Anyhoo, I was supposed to blindly find my way to the markets. I wanted to see where I could buy fresh and cheap veggies because the grocery store is a little ridiculous and not very fun. So an hour later, I was explaining to Dooglas the concept of “Baptism by fire” as I backed up the wrong way through narrow market stalls to avoid being squashed by a bus.

I asked Dooglas if he didn’t find his job stressful and he answered that he really enjoyed it. However, I did notice that after our first lesson he brought a Bible. Maybe I should try that...cuz I sweat right through all my clothes and feel an intense need for a drink post-lessons. Three more hours of lessons to go!

Vivita y coleando

Survived first week in Nicaragua! Highlights include several spectacular thunder storms, the CRS driver trying to teach me how to get to work and back by taking a different way each time (so not helpful initially), my first gallo pinto, indio viejo, chicha, cerveza victoria and a very misquided crema de queso, being grilled about my marital status, physical therapy with little old ladies (which I don't have the vocabulary for), making sense of some screwy data (just like my summer research!), discovering that I can stream my favorite old telenovelas (like Victoria) on Netflix, and getting yet another t-shirt with a tree on it at the chocolate forum.

I am currently working on a few backlogged stories like my bus-riding adventures in New Haven (no one let me sit! and they were dealing drugs! and the bus driver stopped to yell at all of us!), and the world as seen by a sandwich half-eaten by Justin Bieber. In the meantime check out Matthew and Melissa's adventures as they drive from Guatemala to Peru. They hung out at my house for a week and made spectacular lasagna and apple cake despite a blackout and small flood in my living room.

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.