Aaaahhhh....it feels nice to just write to cyberspace again. It's been awhile. I started school two weeks ago, then got sick last week. And now I'm just chillin, trying to figure out what the heck is gonna go on back at school tomorrow. Lovely, no?
It's a gorgeous day. Sunny, not too hot, windy. I love it.
Yesterday I chilled at a churrasco with Caity, Melissa, and some of their lovely Bolivian friends. I think I have more friends that are their friends, or Emily's friends, than my own. Interesting, no?
And...que mas. Twilight is finally in the Cine. I'm gonna see it finally!!! I'm in serious need of some romance on the screen or in a book. My new verb book is great to study, but it's just not the same as a chick flick. You know what I mean? I miss good, okay, and romantic, literature. Not that I've been lacking for long. And I really ought to be reading Don Quixote for school, but I haven't bought a new dictionary yet.
That's my goal for today: buy a dictionary. I really miss my little yellow dictionary. I have no clue what happened to it, but I loved it dearly, and miss it sorely.
Speaking of sore, I could really use a massage. Wanna gimme one? My back aches. It's probably from that chickenfight in the pool yesterday. I won. Twice. :)
Mmm...it's a good day to be in Bolivia. So I'm gonna go be in Bolivia. Buy a dictionary. Maybe a slushy or icecream.
Love ya muchly,
E
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
*The People on the Bus*
The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round, ‘round and ‘round, ‘round and ‘round. The wheels of the bus should have gone ‘round fairly consistently for seven hours that night.
The people on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down. The people on the bus should have been sleeping, but the majority still went up and down.
The teacher on the bus goes, ‘’Quiet please,’’ ‘’Quiet please,’’ ‘’Quiet please.’’ The teacher on the bus went, ‘’Students! You need to all sit down now and be quiet! We are not the only people on this bus and you aren’t being considerate! And no more bathroom breaks. Go to sleep or just shut up!’’
The Argentineans on the bus get angrier. The hitchhikers on the bus get colder. The wheels on the bus stop.
In the grand tour of Bolivia, we Rotary kids had our fair share of bus rides. The worst was an extended climb through the mountains from the Uyuni Salt Flats to Potosí. It was uncomfortable for various reasons. Physically, none of us were in the best shape (understatement of the century!) Environmental factors, such as the insanely high altitude, did little to help this. Then we had to somehow control our tempers in front of complete strangers. Finally, all of this was taking place between the hours of about three in the afternoon, and three in the morning. All of this made for an unfortunately unforgettable bus ride.
We boarded the bus in Uyuni with relatively high spirits. We had spent the day on the Uyuni Salt Flats, an adventure I’ll never forget. Sadly, our high maturity levels don’t always equal high levels of common sense. Half of us got on that bus with terrible sunburns. Our arms were burned. Our faces were burned. Our necks and backs and hands were burned. Anyone who has ever forgotten their sunscreen knows that when the sun cooks you pink, all you want is an ibuprofen, and plenty of lotion. The later the night got however, the more we had to the layer the woolens over our fried skin, creating an uncomfortable cocoon over baked caterpillars. I managed a kind of sick gratitude to my feverish skin. The excess heat helped me stay warm on the unheated bus. Temperature wasn’t the only physical problem we faced however. Our destination, Potosí, is the highest city in the world, with an elevation of 13,350 feet. Despite the altitude pills, some of us had some pretty bad reactions to the heights. I had a persistent stomach ache, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
Possibly the worst part was that we weren’t alone on the bus. First, there were the rather vocal Argentinean backpackers. These women probably had the short end of the deal, having to ride with fifteen unhappy teenagers through the middle of the night. Even so, their sporadic exclamations did not help the experience for anyone. The hitchhikers annoyed merely by their presence. I feel terrible about this, and know that I ought to be more understanding. It was difficult to be understanding at one in the morning when my friend was pushed into my side by a woman sitting on her arm rest. There was another lady using my duffel bag as a seat in the aisle. Thankfully nothing broke. Farther back, I heard complaints from students whose legs were used as pillows, or who were reluctantly forced to yield corners of blankets to the hitchhikers.
All of this would have been merely another adventure if it followed a reasonable time plan. I can’t even blame our extra five hours on the road on Bolivian travel systems. Our first pit stop pulled us over for several hours. The bus had broken. On the bright side, we still had enough energy then to find a bright side, that meant several hours of unlimited ‘’bathroom’’ use. True, that was just the side of the road, but it made several bladders very happy. After the bus finally clunked to a start again and we had driven for an hour or two, the rains in the mountains slowed us up. The roads weren’t safe, and again we were waiting, freezing.
As we pulled into Potosí five hours behind schedule, I shrugged. It was the only outward expression I had energy enough for, though inside I was jumping up and down and screaming the Hallelujah chorus. I gratefully dumped my duffel, released from its position of hitchhiker seat, and got into the shower. It hurt too much to wash my sunburned face, and my hair was too tangled to work shampoo or conditioner through it, so I dried off and gratefully, and gingerly, climbed under my layers of thick wool blankets. Our guide Shirley had graciously given us the option of skipping breakfast, so long as we were dressed and ready for the next day’s adventure by ten a.m. It, too, involved a bus ride, though not quite so terrible as this one. I don’t think it could’ve been.
The people on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down. The people on the bus should have been sleeping, but the majority still went up and down.
The teacher on the bus goes, ‘’Quiet please,’’ ‘’Quiet please,’’ ‘’Quiet please.’’ The teacher on the bus went, ‘’Students! You need to all sit down now and be quiet! We are not the only people on this bus and you aren’t being considerate! And no more bathroom breaks. Go to sleep or just shut up!’’
The Argentineans on the bus get angrier. The hitchhikers on the bus get colder. The wheels on the bus stop.
In the grand tour of Bolivia, we Rotary kids had our fair share of bus rides. The worst was an extended climb through the mountains from the Uyuni Salt Flats to Potosí. It was uncomfortable for various reasons. Physically, none of us were in the best shape (understatement of the century!) Environmental factors, such as the insanely high altitude, did little to help this. Then we had to somehow control our tempers in front of complete strangers. Finally, all of this was taking place between the hours of about three in the afternoon, and three in the morning. All of this made for an unfortunately unforgettable bus ride.
We boarded the bus in Uyuni with relatively high spirits. We had spent the day on the Uyuni Salt Flats, an adventure I’ll never forget. Sadly, our high maturity levels don’t always equal high levels of common sense. Half of us got on that bus with terrible sunburns. Our arms were burned. Our faces were burned. Our necks and backs and hands were burned. Anyone who has ever forgotten their sunscreen knows that when the sun cooks you pink, all you want is an ibuprofen, and plenty of lotion. The later the night got however, the more we had to the layer the woolens over our fried skin, creating an uncomfortable cocoon over baked caterpillars. I managed a kind of sick gratitude to my feverish skin. The excess heat helped me stay warm on the unheated bus. Temperature wasn’t the only physical problem we faced however. Our destination, Potosí, is the highest city in the world, with an elevation of 13,350 feet. Despite the altitude pills, some of us had some pretty bad reactions to the heights. I had a persistent stomach ache, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
Possibly the worst part was that we weren’t alone on the bus. First, there were the rather vocal Argentinean backpackers. These women probably had the short end of the deal, having to ride with fifteen unhappy teenagers through the middle of the night. Even so, their sporadic exclamations did not help the experience for anyone. The hitchhikers annoyed merely by their presence. I feel terrible about this, and know that I ought to be more understanding. It was difficult to be understanding at one in the morning when my friend was pushed into my side by a woman sitting on her arm rest. There was another lady using my duffel bag as a seat in the aisle. Thankfully nothing broke. Farther back, I heard complaints from students whose legs were used as pillows, or who were reluctantly forced to yield corners of blankets to the hitchhikers.
All of this would have been merely another adventure if it followed a reasonable time plan. I can’t even blame our extra five hours on the road on Bolivian travel systems. Our first pit stop pulled us over for several hours. The bus had broken. On the bright side, we still had enough energy then to find a bright side, that meant several hours of unlimited ‘’bathroom’’ use. True, that was just the side of the road, but it made several bladders very happy. After the bus finally clunked to a start again and we had driven for an hour or two, the rains in the mountains slowed us up. The roads weren’t safe, and again we were waiting, freezing.
As we pulled into Potosí five hours behind schedule, I shrugged. It was the only outward expression I had energy enough for, though inside I was jumping up and down and screaming the Hallelujah chorus. I gratefully dumped my duffel, released from its position of hitchhiker seat, and got into the shower. It hurt too much to wash my sunburned face, and my hair was too tangled to work shampoo or conditioner through it, so I dried off and gratefully, and gingerly, climbed under my layers of thick wool blankets. Our guide Shirley had graciously given us the option of skipping breakfast, so long as we were dressed and ready for the next day’s adventure by ten a.m. It, too, involved a bus ride, though not quite so terrible as this one. I don’t think it could’ve been.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
*My Time Zone*
Do you remember? No matter where you lived on the island, it was five (or fifteen) minutes farther than I expected it to be. That is to say, I was always five (or fifteen) minutes late. I was late to church, to your birthday party, to my birthday party, to that meeting, to a rehearsal. I took too long to get showered, get dressed, or get changed. Occasionally I blamed my bike or my parents or my sister. A time or two, traffic held me up, or the line for a sandwich, or road construction. Usually, however, it was my fault. I admit it. You worked with it, and usually forgave me. In time, you learned to give me an earlier arrival date to accommodate for my tardiness. I hated being late, but had no power over myself to change my habits. I am a creature of habit after all. Now, my friends, I am issuing a warning: my problem has not been resolved by my time in the South. No, I’m afraid to announce I have become a victim to Bolivia time.
You may ask, what is Bolivian time? It’s not like Mountain Standard Time, Atlantic Daylight Time, Christmas time, or lunch time. It isn’t a set hour before or after another country or area. It’s not even official. You’ll never find printed in an governmental Bolivia fact book, ‘’Start getting ready when the party begins. Arrive an hour and a half later.’’ But that’s what it is. For all social purposes, later is generally better. Let’s look at some pretty common examples.
A friend’s birthday invitation said five o’clock. I arrived about a half hour late, and joined two other guests on the birthday girl’s bed as she got dressed and put on makeup. Guests arrived steadily for the next three hours. I’d say the majority of the people arrived between seven and eight pm. By nine pm, my host mother was ready to pick me up, and we hadn’t even begun to sing ‘’Happy Birthday.’’ That is Bolivia time.
I used to be part of a folk dance group in my school. One day our rehearsal was scheduled to start at two o’clock. I went out for salteñas with some friends at a quarter to two. Ten minutes later I expressed my concern, because being late for rehearsal (in the States, at least) is a crime second worse to nothing but murder. They laughed at me. They laughed and told me that no one would show up until two thirty. We played around and ate our salteñas, and took our own sweet time doing so. When we arrived at the rehearsal at two thirty, we were some of the first kids there. Close to an hour later, our instructor showed up. That is Bolivia time.
Thankfully, there are some exceptions to Bolivian time. If you fail to acknowledge these exceptions, the consequences can be pretty interesting. You should make sure to be on time to school, church, the airport, and anywhere with Shirley. I’ll quickly explain. The one time I was late to school, I was without my friends, so I didn’t know my schedule. I had to go ask the English aide where the heck I was to go. When I’m late to church, there’s no place to sit. Pretty simple. The airport should be obvious. It’s interesting though: the planes are always late. Why can’t the people be too? Shirley was the guide on the monster trip of Bolivia. She’s really good at lecturing, and enjoys it. If you don’t want to get chewed out nearly to the point of insanity, don’t be late. Besides those few examples, everything is on Bolivian time.
I’m coming home next July, and I’m really curious as to what will happen to me. Will I be later than I usually was? Will I overcompensate and be ridiculously early? I suppose things could stay as they were, but with all of the changes I’m experiencing in Bolivia, I doubt that. No, I’m fairly certain that until I can be retrained, Bolivia time will be with me wherever I am.
You may ask, what is Bolivian time? It’s not like Mountain Standard Time, Atlantic Daylight Time, Christmas time, or lunch time. It isn’t a set hour before or after another country or area. It’s not even official. You’ll never find printed in an governmental Bolivia fact book, ‘’Start getting ready when the party begins. Arrive an hour and a half later.’’ But that’s what it is. For all social purposes, later is generally better. Let’s look at some pretty common examples.
A friend’s birthday invitation said five o’clock. I arrived about a half hour late, and joined two other guests on the birthday girl’s bed as she got dressed and put on makeup. Guests arrived steadily for the next three hours. I’d say the majority of the people arrived between seven and eight pm. By nine pm, my host mother was ready to pick me up, and we hadn’t even begun to sing ‘’Happy Birthday.’’ That is Bolivia time.
I used to be part of a folk dance group in my school. One day our rehearsal was scheduled to start at two o’clock. I went out for salteñas with some friends at a quarter to two. Ten minutes later I expressed my concern, because being late for rehearsal (in the States, at least) is a crime second worse to nothing but murder. They laughed at me. They laughed and told me that no one would show up until two thirty. We played around and ate our salteñas, and took our own sweet time doing so. When we arrived at the rehearsal at two thirty, we were some of the first kids there. Close to an hour later, our instructor showed up. That is Bolivia time.
Thankfully, there are some exceptions to Bolivian time. If you fail to acknowledge these exceptions, the consequences can be pretty interesting. You should make sure to be on time to school, church, the airport, and anywhere with Shirley. I’ll quickly explain. The one time I was late to school, I was without my friends, so I didn’t know my schedule. I had to go ask the English aide where the heck I was to go. When I’m late to church, there’s no place to sit. Pretty simple. The airport should be obvious. It’s interesting though: the planes are always late. Why can’t the people be too? Shirley was the guide on the monster trip of Bolivia. She’s really good at lecturing, and enjoys it. If you don’t want to get chewed out nearly to the point of insanity, don’t be late. Besides those few examples, everything is on Bolivian time.
I’m coming home next July, and I’m really curious as to what will happen to me. Will I be later than I usually was? Will I overcompensate and be ridiculously early? I suppose things could stay as they were, but with all of the changes I’m experiencing in Bolivia, I doubt that. No, I’m fairly certain that until I can be retrained, Bolivia time will be with me wherever I am.
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