Hogar de Mallorca, May 10, 2012

This will be the last posting from Bolivia as I am slightly less than two weeks away from departure home. I look forward to that. I am ready for home and the pleasure of being back in Colorado, to enjoy summer and other pursuits.

But the last three weeks have been educational and to a degree evolutionary. During this time I have presented myself at a home for street boys, removed from abusive, addictive or negligent families. In some cases they return home for weekends or other occasions, but otherwise Mallorca is their home. I started here with preconceptions which nearly ruined it all. Because those perceptions were not initially met, I was bored and disappointed and considered quitting. But, I have “wizened” a bit with experience and demanded of myself to finish the initial week. Things changed when I let go of the preconceptions and accepted what came.

As a result, I have stayed, grown, changed a bit and discovered a few things on the other side, some golden, some not. The boys are better off than might be initially thought. They are well fed, clothed better than many, attend school, receive medical care and are not left alone. They do work for spending money and to support the home. The older ones work mornings in a panaderia (bakery), while others sell bread on the sidewalk in front of the house, or wash windshields in the streets, and also prepare food to sell from the kitchen. All rotate and share responsibilities in the house for a variety of duties related to cooking and cleaning.

Me, I sometimes just sit. But, mostly I tutor, help with homework, get to work in the kitchen (where I have impressed with my chopping skills), assist with art projects, and now conduct English classes for some in the afternoon. When I do these things I am happy.

Very shortly I have gained confidence, friendship and comfort with most. Sometimes it has been like the first sighting of a white man by the indigenous people. I have not traded beads, but I have attracted attention more from my electronic Spanish to English dictionary, or my eyeglasses, or the hair on my arms. Particularly the younger ones ask to borrow the first two, and stroke the latter. These more than anything have been my points of access into their world.

There certainly is a difference here with the boys, independent of the causes that place them here. Each has a degree of defense against the external world that has dealt them a bad hand. Pugilistic arts are frequently exhibited, usually in jest, but sometimes escalating. But, this is not unique to them, as anytime after school hours this demonstration can be seen on the sidewalks. As a disciplinarian it has been hard to do nothing more than stare. Outside of that though, most have, and likely all would in time, opened that hard wall a little. Many now seek attention, enjoy a hug, a bit of playful combat, and other physical and conversational contact, which I gladly provide. This also makes me happy.

Unfortunately verbal communication has been difficult. Most interplay Quechua with Spanish (if spoken at all), speak faster than I can understand, speak low and with incomplete sentences. So, that has made it hard. However, generally it seems to be working. I have even played football (soccer) a few times, which requires little verbal skill. I am not sure they understand how impressed they should be with my talent and level of intensity, despite the age. I am impressed.

There are always favorites. Yet, it is not just for those favorites, but for all that I wonder. What happens after age 18 when they must leave? This country offers so little, there is so little reward for character and hard effort. The country is corrupt. This week alone there have been four strikes, by transportation, by medical doctors and staff, by universities, by government workers. The president, who has no college education, recently stated how glad he was to not attend a university and its irrelevance. This is the mentality that holds power. Of the boys I have enjoyed to any degree to know and understand, not a single one in my opinion lacks possibility, if the country offered any.

So, as I finish my last days, I am thankful from where I came, where I return. But, even there in the states, things are wrong. My experience here will stay with me for some time and will not fade away. It will not allow peace without some effort for change, something beyond a vote and a buying decision. What will it be?

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we’ve been told and some choose to believe it
I know they’re wrong wait and see.
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered,
And wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought a lot, and someone believed it,
And look what it’s done so far.
What’s so amazing that keeps us star gazing,
And what do we think we might see,
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under it’s spell,
We know that it’s probably magic,
Have you ever been half asleep,
And have you heard voices?
Yes, I’ve heard them calling my name.
Is it the sweet voice that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it,
It’s something that I’m supposed to be.
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.
(Kermit the Frog)

Sucre, 04/22/12

This weekend was more tranquilo, being dedicated to minimal activity after the very busy weekend before. It was pretty much a walk in the park, literally. Much of the discretionary time was bench sitting, watching people, an easy and enjoyable task. There were the teenagers, joking, laughing, all phones in hand or on the ear. There were the vendors with cheap candy, helado (ice cream), balloons, fresh popcorn and bird seed. There were the curbside car washers, giving wash and wax for about $3, with their buckets of soap and rinse water. There were the families, bringing thier young childre to enjoy the sun, while the youngest feed the pigeons or secitedly chased them around the statute of Antonio Jose Sucre, or they posed for photos atop one of the two lions on either side of the statute. There were the garden crews, digging and replanting below the spread of teh palms and other trees, to maintain the beautiful mixture of green and bright color. There were the lovers, mostly young, but not all, holding hands, hugging kissing. And there were the old friends, reflecting on life, politics, age and the past.

There was the walk through the central market, several streets of virtually everything available for consumption. Certainly there was the market for produce, meat and pan. So many, so much. I wonder what happens at the end of the day, with the unsold. Are there methods to assure that the expiration dates are not exceeded? I proceeded to several vendors selling pirated CDs (they all are), both music and movie, where the price ranges from $1 to $2, wondering if customs will object.

And finished with a rare bar night, cerveza for me, while my younger school friends, from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and Scotland consumed stronger content. Funny how the group all had some degree of allegiance to the Queen. But, I enjoyed the brief break from the spanish. My accent without the latin did get a comment. I have commented before on the enjoyment of the cultural discovery and exploration with fellow travelers from abroad, how different we all are from each other.

We will see how the brief momentary diversion prepares me for the upcoming week, my first as a volunteer in Sucre.

Its like when your making conversation
And you´re trying not to scream
And you´re trying not to tell them
But you don´t care what they mean
And you´re really felling fragile
And you really can´t get home
And you really feel abandoned
But you want to be alone.
Old friends, they shine like diamonds
Old friends, you can always call
Old friends, lord you can´t buy them
You know its old friends after all.

When the house is empty
And the light begins to fade
And there´s nothing to protect you
Except a window shade
Its hard to put your finger on the thing
That scares you most.
And you can´t tell the difference
Between an angel and a ghost.
Old friends, they shine like diamonds
Old friends, you can always call
Old friends, lord you can´t buy them
You know its old friends after all.

(G. Clark)

Uyuni, 04/18/12

I have now reached the halfway point of my adventure, and this weekend provided the most exploration to date. But, before discussion of the five day experience in the SW part of Bolivia, near the frontier of Chile, I will reflect on one observation.

Normally on group tours, such as I just completed, I get the added benefit of meeting fellow travelers from other countries. So, not only do I encounter the local population, but get the added bonus cherry on top of the whipped cream. That taste is deliciosa. Without the added travel expense, less the visual aides, I still feel afterward that I know something about another place, people. My primary observation based on those who travel elsewhere, is that there are not essential differences. I`m not as tolerant as Will Rogers in liking everyone I meet, but I have not yet crossed anyone who wanted to harm or conquer. But, I have not met the political, business leaders.

On this trip I was entertained by three young South Koreans, and a lovely family (madre, padre, young adult son) from Sao Paulo, Brazil. The Korean youngsters were hardly quiet or subdued, as I would have predicted, but very expressive, excited and fun loving. I enjoyed the Brazilian family even more. Their Spanish was perhaps no better than mine, if that, and so much of the communication from them was via Portuguesa. That indeed was a challenge, due to the many differences from Spanish. But, we did communicate. Best of all, after the trip, our enjoyment of each other resulted in exchange of communication data, and an invite to visit, which I am strongly considering.

As for the trip itself, it started with a nine hour bus trip from Sucre to the SW part of Bolivia, a pueblo named Uyuni. The next morning our group gathered and first visited the Salar de Uyuni, a massive salt flat, reportedly the largest of its kind in the world. At this time of the year, ending the wet season, most parts have standing water of an inch or so. This thin layer of water creates a strange mirror impression. Dozens of other tours spread out over the flat, and as they flew in random directions over the area without restriction of road or signal, it appeared that water bugs were walking on top of an immense pond. Nearby cooperatives will rake off the top layer of salt, shovel ant hill like mounds of the salt, then wait one, two days for the mound to dry, before hauling off the salt for processing. Some of the buildings in Uyuni are constructed of salt blocks. We spent most of the day here on the salar and then proceeded toward the most desolate looking atmosphere I have ever seen.

The area visited has a volcanic history and there are numerous volcanoes, mostly inactive, that rise above. For much of the three days through this area, at the foot of these peaks, lies a gravel like surface, totally devoid of plant life, except a few lichens, and nothing more. From a distant view toward the feet of the peaks, the appearance is that of a massive beach, that extends for kilometers (metric system) rather than yards. The mountains and volcanoes have no vegetation as well, clearing exposing every wrinkle, fold and crevice of their form.

Throughout this landscape are a variety of unusual rock sightings, ghost like, some exposed by erosion, others blasted from afar by ancient volcanic eruption. Once exposed, ages of constant strong winds have carved the most unusual shapes. One area is named Valley of Rocks, thrown and scattered from great distances by ancient explosions. Another area, named Desert of Dali, references the similarity to a Salvidor painting, where isolated rocks are strategically placed intermittently on this flat, plantless, sandy floor, cast shadows providing the only contrast to the backdrop. But, I saw no limp clocks from my vista. The name, however, is appropriate.

Another constant to this lifeless place are constant lagunas. A few have aqua dulce, but most are saline. At these high altitudes in excess of 4,000 kms, they only support tiny micro organisms. This is not a tropical paradise, due to extreme cold, dry and windy conditions, and yet numerous flamingos feed on these tiny organisms, providing a contradiction to the otherwise lifeless environment. They are present everywhere. When the winds blow, as they almost always do, the minerals and microorganisms, are forced to the top, and the uniqueness of each produces a variety of colors on these lagunas, from red to green, black and white. Many lagunas are aptly named the color of their resulting surface sheen. The most unusual, and one of the largest, is named Laguna Colorado (red). I attempted with many photo shots, to capture some image of the bands of red of the surface, the blue of the sky, the white bands of salt deposits, and the pink of the flamingo. Difficult.

The last leg of the trip began at 5:00 AM to drive to a post above 5,000 km (about 17,000 feet) to see geysers at sunrise, against the sunrise, where wind chill was well below zero. Interesting, but very uncomfortable. On this day we continued to see several sites of thermal activity, strange rock formations, numerous volcanoes, and lagunas.

At one such stop over Laguna Verde (green), after a group photo, I lost my camera and its documentation of a month stay in Bolivia. After several miles to a checkpoint between Bolivia and Chile, where we dropped the Koreans to enter Chile, I discovered the loss. Immediately my mental state changed and I had to test my maturity of handling and accepting conditions beyond my control. My state was not positive. I did my best to rationalize, blame, hope, accept. Blame was due to my own carelessness. My greatest worry was to the lingering impact on my attitude, and to my feelings of my trip, the possibility my adventure would leave a very bad taste. But, the tour had to stay on schedule. After possibly 100 miles of further travel toward our return to Uyuni, with the continued thought of my loss, we encountered another tour group, of the dozens in the area. They asked if anyone had lost a camera. Elation. After many many thanks, and a prayer of grace, I had to reflect on my luck as to why, the possibility of such discovery in an area larger than many states, and to whether I had promised in my hopes more than I could give for the return. I am in a better place now.

Its one of those days, you can´t explain
When nothings right or wrong
Too much wine, or not enough
So you just play along.
Theres no rhyme or reason
Ain`t a damn thing you can do
Somedays you write the song
Somedays the song writes you.

Searching for a melody, to sing my soul asleep
Reaching for some harmony, down inside of me
Somedays you know just how it goes
Somedays you have no clue
Somedays you write the song
Somedays the song writes you.
(G.Clark)

Sucre 4/09/12

Had a bit of a jumpy week. There initially was a financial scare, but fortunately it can be resolved after my return. For a few days, the anxiety level challenged the Andean peaks. But, sometimes I am taken care of by the trust of others, and so all is well. So, finished upbeat with Pascua, the Easter weekend.

Good Friday evening I actually walked in a procession. I have observed others, but this was the first for me to walk within the crowd. I was never in a marching band, nor served in the military. I did march a few times in the 60´s antiwar protests. Plus, there have been numerous 10K, half and full marathon runs, but these have no similarity. With the protest marches there is some uniformity of committment, but chants, shouts, raised clinched fists and waving signs, just do not quite relate. Obvioulsy a more somber and less reactive flow of humanity stepped beside, behind and around the wooden carved images of Christ and Mary carried on the shoulders through the streets.

Crowd counting is not a skill set, but I have departed a few UT football games. I would say the numbers within the procession, along the streets and those awaiting anxiously in the plaza compared to the exodus of stadium exits. Considering the city is not much more than two hundred thousand, that makes a pretty good size participation.

I generally was beside the marching band that trailed the end of the procession. That way my steps generally matched the beat of the bass drum. I suppose the thoughts, emotions of each believer, shoulder to shoulder, tightly packed, varied. But, there were evident many who were certainly attached and sensitive to the moment, the scene and its representation , while others perhaps were fulfilling implied obligations of faith. For me, well I was curious to the impact of being near, yet open to the possibility of exposure, to what might happen if I let my self participate in the possibility.

Saturday, I left the house early to climb a nearby feature, maybe a little less than a 2,000 foot climb. Along the cobbled path are marked stages in memory of the last 13 stages of Christ´s life. I have seen similar marked walkways, the most impressive in Bogota. But, this was the longest, ending with a tall sculpture of Christ at the summit, overlooking the city, with a marvelous 360 degree view. Even with my early arrival at top, a number of others were, mostly Quechua, were there. Many created small rock altars against the foundation. Many had created small fires for these structures, imploring pardon or begging assistance. The typical mix of Christian and Quechua was visible. Several were passing around bottles of alcohol. Before each sip a few drops were poured on the ground for Pachamana, mother earth, under the outspread arms of Christ above.

Coming weekend is first bus trip.

If I could have the world and all it owns
A thousand kingdoms, a thousand thrones,
If all the earth were mine to hold
With wealth my only goal
I would spend my gold on selfish things
Without the love that your light brings.
Just a little bit more is all I´d need
Till life was torn from me.
I´d rather be in the palm of your hand
Though rich or poor I may be
Fate can see right through the circumstance
Sees the forest in spite of the trees
Your grace provides for me.
(Cox Family)

Sucre, April 4, 2012

There have been few adventures this week. Visits to museums, observance of marches, lines of school students. As I write this I am on a park bench in the central plaza. There is a march, for what, against what, I do not know. Even with the fireworks that always accompany these marches, the park visitors do not even flinch, nor even bother to look, I assume because such events are so common to be near boredom. Most marches circle the plaza, halt traffic, but rarely are accompanied by police presence. This issue seems to be about protest of government proposal to require greater hours for doctors without commensurate pay change.

Not all marches are political demonstrations, some for celebration, others for promotion or recognition. This Easter may provide additional viewings. And, there are the lines of students crowding the sidewalks, dressed in their blue or red uniform, depending on the school of choice.

Staying on base this week gave me time to visit museums of anthropology, art, ecclesiastical and even one on the history of masks. In a way all bind together. That common link is mysticism. All seem to represent some portrayal of belief system in the power and substance of non-scientific. Neither a pro nor con statement, it is simply an observation of the strength of belief, whether it be the numerous rituals of the catholic presence or the centuries old polydeity worship of the Incan or Aymaran descendents. I previously wrote of the witch market in La Paz. Natural remedies are common. I recently listened to the conversation between my home doctor father, his sister and Leo, the cholita of the house. Sister could not sleep, so Leo provided suggestion of some natural remedy, which also required some ritual involving a cross. The medical doctor seemed to have no problem with the recommendation, with questions following on where to purchase.

The anthropology museum was fairly interesting, showing development of tools, ceramics, textiles as well as mummies to display the preparation of dead for the afterlife. Thankfully Incan royalty is no longer present, for all servants and the favorite wives of the king would be buried with him after his death.

The mask museum was amusing. All had the beauty of hand made craft, some more advanced and colorful than others. The largest and most colorful and detailed were bigger than me. What a weight to carry to communicate to the spirits via dance, to attract spiritual help or to dispel the evil. Alas, photos no permiten, so my best was from the anthropology museum.

With my professor of the week, much of the discussion was about the central importance of the mystical in Bolivia. Some of the indigeneous believe their president is a reincarnation of Incan deity. Talk about the power of incumbency. An intesting story in the news is a Christ sculpture in Cochabamba shedding tears of blood this Semana Santa. Supposedly verified by scientific teams.

One final excursion was with my professor who showed me a side street, cobbled, next to a convent. As the story goes, a woman was rejected by the convent due to unwed pregnancy. In despair she killed baby and self and subsquently haunted the street. To ward off the evil an outdoor exorcism was conducted. So, as part of that ritual, human bones were placed in cross fashion in the street, in several locations along its length. Quite an eerie scene.

Sucre, 3/27/12

I have now been in Sucre just over one week, attended class, gained some familiarity with the city and have been included in family activities. This adjustment has progressed smoothly and I am well pleased.

The city is somewhat smaller than I expected, but that is not a negative. It is easy enough to walk to most areas, except for the newer areas on the growing edges. Colonial style architecture is present in the central areas, and per code the inner structures are painted white, and tiled red on the roof. No surprise, many churches rise above the barrios. The consistency and uniformity of style presents a coordinated and agreeable picture, without conflicting image.

The central plaza and park draws a crowd to sit on the benches in the shaded cover, to watch the children chase the pigeons, read the paper or talk to friends. There is another slightly larger park, Park de Bolivar, not to far away, but for some reason attracts fewer people, other than the young lovers. The vendors in both do a reasonable trade, as eating is certainly a part of the lifestyle. One new appearance were rows of foosball tables. I am not sure if there is a challenge system, but all tables were occupado. The game lives on.

As noted, vendors are almost on every street of any commercial presence. Generally streets specialize, with certain similar goods found on the same streets, and other streets offering different wares. I needed sunglasses for the intense sun at this higher altitude. I found a pair of Ray Ban, metal frames, for about six dollars. Hey, that is what the tag said!

Visits so far have been to the cemetary, a beautifully shaded and flowering garden among the mausoleums for the haves, and the graves for the have nots. The city lies in a valley, so another walk took me to a Mirado overlooking the red roofs below.

My family has been wonderful. In eight days of home stay I have been included in one birthday, the celebration of Dia de Padre (father´s day) and this Saturday attended a family gathering at the Hacienda of family friends. Alas, I failed to carry my camera. For anyone who has seen an episode of some novella on Univision, you may imagine the scene. There was a beautiful large spanish home, complete with swimming pool, squaking parrot, tortuga on the lawn, outside covered kitchen and patio, overlooking a river below. Among the activities we gathered apples, limes, peaches, and tangerines from the orchard. Surrounding all were fields of corn, papa and alfa.

Having some free time to wander I found a shady spot over the river, to observe the countryside, the hills beyond, including a passing train in the distance returning to Sucre. I watched two young boys swordfighting with cane poles, while the four cows they were tending grazed on the banks of the river on the other side. A small waterfall was visible slightly up river. What a peaceful spot, for observation, contemplation, meditation, and review. I later offered to buy a vacated casita nearby, but was told I was welcome anytime, and needed no purchase. It certainly was a place of peace.

The gathering itself was entertaining. These latin groupings of family and friends always bring excited and interactive conversation. I could not understand even half, but just being a part of the animated discussions made the afternoon and evening a top memory for such an early entrant on my travel. Add the food and pisco sours and Bolivian wine ( try Kohlberg if you can find it) and the memory intensifies. I look forward hopefully to more in the weeks to come.

Still you argue for an option
Still you angle for your case
Like you would ignore a burning bush
If it blew up in your face
Now we scheme about the future
And we dream about the past
When just a simple reaching out
Might build a bridge that lasts.
J.Hiatt

Bolivia, 2012, La Paz

I have literally exhausted my second and last day in La Paz. The city lies between mountain rises, and itself stretches out and up at about 12,000 feet. My hotel seems to rest at a point that requires uphill climb regardless of the direction I explore. With the altitude and the climbing I welcome bedtime.

The city is full of humanity. Sidewalk vendors are so plentiful one almost is required to squirm between crawling vehicles in the street to make progress forward. There are stores as well , but they only provide a walled backdrop to the scenes of sidewalk vendors on stage front and center. There are vendor sections which seem to specialize. There are several spots for clothes of all sorts, leather jackets, jeans, tailored shirts. The most colorful market of course is the food market. Here virtually all the stalls of fruit, vegetable, flour, grain, animal, are operated by ´cholitas´, ladies of Quechua or Aymara descent, who continue to wear cultural dress, including bowler hats. They are so beautiful, not only their physical appearance, but because of the nobility of a quiet and inner strength that needs nor desires external attention to justify their import. So different from the me, me, me of Americans.

Another peculiar area nearby is the mercado de las brujas, market of witches. No, there are no broomsticks and long pointy black hats. This is an area that sells herbal remedies and items for good luck or to ward off the evil ones. One item is the dried fetus of llama, which if planted in the cornerstone of a newly built house will bring good luck. I imagine a long delay at customs if I were to try to get one of these into the states. By the number of fetuses in the market I believe the llama population must be near endangerment.

I try on these visits to oberve similarity and difference between countries. It is too early to observe the differences, but similarities are apparent. There is the common market and sidewalk vendor, there is the crazy traffic and method of transport, there are the fireworks for any type of religious event or other fiesta and there are the demonstrations (I have seen two in two days). And, there are the children. There are babies and infants everywhere. I am always captured by their round faces and dark-eyed gazes as the parents carry or pull them forward. Here the children do not appear to be demanding of attention or of things. Oh, they get attention, lovingly, and while young the children are never far from reach. But, one rarely hears cries and I am not remembering any instance of tantrum, which is pretty contant at the stores in the states, not just at Walmart, either. I don´t know why, but it is another distinct difference than of American observance.

So much, too much, in this city for my senses. Interesting amusement, with tourist memories to keep. Yet, I arrive with a bit of anxiety and doubt not experienced before. It has nothing to do with Bolivia, which will be as wonderful as the others visited. But I wonder if I may have finally taken on too much. Observing and responding to how this all evolves will be an additional education for me. One day at a time. Next stop, my true destination, is Sucre.

We got our feet on the wire,
Talking about flying
Maybe we´re diving in over our heads
Scared of what I´m feeling
Staring at the ceiling, here tonight.

Come on and lay down these alms
All our best defenses
We`re taking our chances here on the run
If fear is the anchor, time is a stranger
Love isn´t borrowed, we are promised tomorrow.

We´ll never be ready
If we keep waiting for the perfect time to come
Hold me steady, we´ll never be ready
Where we don´t know, though we can´t see
Just walk on down the road with me
Hold me steady, never be ready.
(M. Kearney)