The following post is dedicated to Emily, who is leaving me in eight-days, the meanie.
She was seated next to a snack and magazine stand in the Latino section of the Los Angeles international airport. She hunched over the giant black handbag held in her lap and stared resolutely forward. I had no idea where she was going or who she was, but I had had the good luck to have already found one exchange student headed to Santa Cruz, and figured Why not? Maybe she’s another one. I was confident inside my pinned and sequin-belted Rotary blazer. I squared my shoulders and walked over to her corner. At the last moment I chickened and looked at the candy instead. You’re being silly, Erika. I came up with a smooth introduction line. ‘’Do you know where a garbage can is?’’ The figurative ice broke, and we began to talk. Her name was Emily and she was headed to Santa Cruz too, though we were in different Rotary clubs. We and the other three Bolivia-bound exchange students we found in the airport stuck together through until Customs in the Santa Cruz Viru Viru airport. Then we separated and went to live our new lives.
I didn’t see Emily again until a massive exchange student meeting weeks later, then later again in our first round of Spanish classes. We began to hang out after our lessons. I clearly remember the first time she came to my house. We missed homemade cookies desperately, so she brought over a recipe. A small store at the corner of my street holds most of the essentials, so we went to find ingredients for oatmeal cookies. We didn’t succeed in our endeavor, but because I had promised my host mother baked goods (and I have an insatiable sweet tooth) we bought two packages of cookies and arranged them on a plate on the kitchen table. We then crashed in my room and talked for hours. I was amazed to have found a true kindred spirit in that seemingly quiet girl from Washington. We were similar in almost every way, from spiritual views to opinions about boys.
We’ve had adventures together. The most exciting and interesting in my mind took place during a Rotary trip to the small town of Concepción. We were staying in separate hotel rooms, but after talking for awhile outside after a grueling hike, we both decided to go to our rooms and shower. Half way through what should have been a relaxing rinse over my sunburned shoulders, the power went out. There were no windows, and even if there had been, it wouldn’t have helped seeing as it was dark outside. I got out of the shower as quickly as possible because of some irrational fear of electrocution, and left my pitch black room in just my towel. I knew Emily was still in her shower, and probably freaking-out over the dark. I had no idea where her room was, but found it after a minute or two of tip-toeing and talking into doors. We waited out the dark together in our towels, singing and retelling our stories of the trip.
I like to take credit for saving her on occasion, but she’s been the true heroine more often than not. During our January Bolivia trip, almost everyone had some sort of physical problem. We suffered from altitude and fiery curry, and Em was there for us with her bag of every over-the-counter drug known to man. We took to calling her the human pharmacy. She was also there for me when a particularly painful bout of homesickness struck last November. Her remedy included a fantastic banana split, two listening ears, and some reruns of the television series ‘’Scrubs.’’ I felt remarkably better.
Luckily for everyone back home, she’s returning to the States. She’ll get a job, go to college, and live an awesome life. I know she’d like to stay longer, but the tickets are bought and time is racing along, like it has done all too quickly these last nine months. Emily my dear, here’s to you! Thank you for being the greatest of friends, taking me running, and building the Fruebond Sisterhood of Wiley Temptresses. Let’s hang out this weekend.
Love,
Erika
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
*''Cold'' Spell*
Santa Cruz got a taste of winter last week. We woke up under cloudy skies, and huddled under the bed sheet and blankets we had grabbed at three am. We were careful to not let our bare feet touch cold tile floors, and our morning showers were cascades of hot water (as opposed to the normally cool and refreshing). We wore our hair down for the first time in months, because it was the first time in months our necks weren't sticky with sweat. We forsook our school uniform of mini skirts and light cotton button-ups for jeans or sweat pants, sweaters, scarves, and gloves. We bought hot chocolate from the school snack stores instead of soda. We turned off the air conditioners and closed the windows. We wore socks and real pajamas at night. We couldn't see our breath. It was sixty degrees.
Perspective is required to understand this insanity. Really, the thought of a northerner such as myself freezing at sixty is absurd. We exchange students mourn our loss of cold tolerance. We are from Alaska, Washington, Minnesota, and Michigan. Santa Cruz's ''cold'' spell was nothing, or should have been. We are outdoorsy, and love skiing, ice-skating, and sailing on the frigid days of winter in the States. Now my Bolivian friends laugh at the gringa who was just as cold as them last week. I’ve been here for nine months, so it makes sense that I’ve become accustomed to the heat. When it drops twenty degrees practically overnight, of course I feel it. I’ve thought back to the beginning of the year when there were a couple chilly days here and there. I had laughed at the Bolivians huddling to conserve body heat at recess. Now I’m just like them.
I won't go as far as to say temperature is merely an illusion, but how you think about it does make a difference. The other night I was talking to my dad on the phone and mentioned the weather. I hinted that when he and Brittany visit Bolivia in June, it will be officially winter, and time spent pool-side might be put to better use at the theatre with a sweatshirt. He caught me off-guard with his frank answer: ''Erika, it's forty-three outside right now. Sixty is not cold.'' I thought back to summer in Sitka. Any day a coat is not required is nice. Any day in just a light jacket is warm. Any day in a tee-shirt is ''Pack your swimsuits; we're going to Sandy Beach!'' In comparison, the rules in Santa Cruz are that any day you can wear your hair down is nice. Any day you wear jeans is comfortable. Any day you wear long sleeves or a sweater is chilly. Any day there are actually blankets on your bed is cold. I don't know of anyone back home that doesn't sleep with blankets.
I'm a little bit worried about going home and freezing. It’s a bit daunting to return to a place where I can wear my favorite shorts maybe four times a year. On the flip side, I may have to have a little reunion dress up party with myself and my winter closet. I’m hesitantly thinking forward to frost and snow. What will get me the worst? I have a feeling those sneaky sunny days that come wrapped in cool temperatures will disarm me entirely. I may just be found someday frozen to my deck while attempting to sunbathe. But humans adapt, and I think that soon as I slip on one of my old green sweaters I'll go back to my normal, cold-tolerant self and be able to swim when it's sixty degrees out.
Perspective is required to understand this insanity. Really, the thought of a northerner such as myself freezing at sixty is absurd. We exchange students mourn our loss of cold tolerance. We are from Alaska, Washington, Minnesota, and Michigan. Santa Cruz's ''cold'' spell was nothing, or should have been. We are outdoorsy, and love skiing, ice-skating, and sailing on the frigid days of winter in the States. Now my Bolivian friends laugh at the gringa who was just as cold as them last week. I’ve been here for nine months, so it makes sense that I’ve become accustomed to the heat. When it drops twenty degrees practically overnight, of course I feel it. I’ve thought back to the beginning of the year when there were a couple chilly days here and there. I had laughed at the Bolivians huddling to conserve body heat at recess. Now I’m just like them.
I won't go as far as to say temperature is merely an illusion, but how you think about it does make a difference. The other night I was talking to my dad on the phone and mentioned the weather. I hinted that when he and Brittany visit Bolivia in June, it will be officially winter, and time spent pool-side might be put to better use at the theatre with a sweatshirt. He caught me off-guard with his frank answer: ''Erika, it's forty-three outside right now. Sixty is not cold.'' I thought back to summer in Sitka. Any day a coat is not required is nice. Any day in just a light jacket is warm. Any day in a tee-shirt is ''Pack your swimsuits; we're going to Sandy Beach!'' In comparison, the rules in Santa Cruz are that any day you can wear your hair down is nice. Any day you wear jeans is comfortable. Any day you wear long sleeves or a sweater is chilly. Any day there are actually blankets on your bed is cold. I don't know of anyone back home that doesn't sleep with blankets.
I'm a little bit worried about going home and freezing. It’s a bit daunting to return to a place where I can wear my favorite shorts maybe four times a year. On the flip side, I may have to have a little reunion dress up party with myself and my winter closet. I’m hesitantly thinking forward to frost and snow. What will get me the worst? I have a feeling those sneaky sunny days that come wrapped in cool temperatures will disarm me entirely. I may just be found someday frozen to my deck while attempting to sunbathe. But humans adapt, and I think that soon as I slip on one of my old green sweaters I'll go back to my normal, cold-tolerant self and be able to swim when it's sixty degrees out.
Friday, May 15, 2009
*El Amigo*
To continue with the Sucre adventure, one must know of our lodging. El Amigo is a hostel a few streets away from the center of Sucre, Bolivia. It’s cheap and doesn’t ask many questions, like so many backpackers’ hangouts. It has stories for every floor, bathroom, and bed sheet. In short, living in it for four days was an adventure, exactly what I wanted.
The hostel at first sight didn’t impress, at least not in the best of ways. Past the heavy wooden door there is a metal gate. The woman at the front desk let us past the gate. While she and Sarah worked out room details, I examined the front room. It offered a TV, several couches and a coffee table, and a public computer for two Bolivianos an hour. A list of computer rules balanced on top of the monitor. My favorite read, ‘’Warning. Watching porn may cause blind.’’ Sarah asked me a question in English as a gringo walked in the room. He directed Sarah’s question to the woman in English, then I translated it into Spanish. The man looked slightly shocked. The front desk lady ignored him and took us to our room. On the way we passed a large kitchen and a small open courtyard. She led us up some stairs. The railings were painted bright rainbow colors. She unlocked our holly-graffitied door with an old fashioned key, the kind that is little more than a stick with a metal hook on the end. We dropped our bags gratefully.
To have a room is a blessing. We looked at it that way in order to avoid depression. It was a large room at least, with a high ceiling and skylight I soon loved. The bed was badly bowed in the middle, but the blankets looked warm and the sheets were clean. We settled in. I decided that I liked the room, though I hated the lack of a mirror and any sort of decoration. Perhaps, I hoped, there will be a mirror in the shared bathroom. I went to check it out.
It didn’t have a mirror. It didn’t have electricity, and the sink leaked. Oh dear…
Thank heaven there was another bathroom! Not only did this one have a mirror and electricity, it also had hot water! What a relief to wash off that bus ride. I wasn’t as fond of its lack of toilet paper, but had become accustomed to carrying a roll when traveling.
After we were comfortable and clean, we both went down to the front room. Sarah used the computer, and I watched CNN for news of the swine flu. I also talked to the guy at front desk. He’s only a few years older than me and studies in the university. Sarah and I used those facts to our advantage when we wanted to go out that that night. Hostel rule states that its doors are locked after eleven pm, but our new friend assured us he’d be studying until three in the morning, so if we came home late it’d be fine.
Before we went out, I learned the truth about El Amigo. It’s not the rooms or relatively cheap internet, and it’s not the free breakfast of bread, jam, and coffee. It’s the people. They’re all wandering, and most are pretty open as to why. There was the thirty-year-old recently laid-off dentist, who one day woke up and hopped a plane to South America. He was friendly, and offered me a beer, which I declined. Then there were the Israelis who spoke Hebrew, English, and Spanish, and begged us to go to a rave with them. I spoke briefly to an Australian with dreds. I never actually talked with one couple, but I saw the woman give her boyfriend a haircut in the open courtyard. We greeted everyone in the hostel in Spanish, until one party revealed their English skills, and we could switch. For two days I exchanged pleasantries with a Swede before finding out he spoke English. Then I saw the Israelis pick up their backpacks and leave; then Sarah and I packed up our backpacks and left.
El Amigo did turn out to be a friend, despite my first impressions. It has character. I wouldn’t suggest it to just anyone. Every minute there was an adventure, from the lack of mirrors, to the shower drain that didn’t deserve the name. To those who crave adventure, and don’t mind the loss of a few niceties, El Amigo is the best of friends.
The hostel at first sight didn’t impress, at least not in the best of ways. Past the heavy wooden door there is a metal gate. The woman at the front desk let us past the gate. While she and Sarah worked out room details, I examined the front room. It offered a TV, several couches and a coffee table, and a public computer for two Bolivianos an hour. A list of computer rules balanced on top of the monitor. My favorite read, ‘’Warning. Watching porn may cause blind.’’ Sarah asked me a question in English as a gringo walked in the room. He directed Sarah’s question to the woman in English, then I translated it into Spanish. The man looked slightly shocked. The front desk lady ignored him and took us to our room. On the way we passed a large kitchen and a small open courtyard. She led us up some stairs. The railings were painted bright rainbow colors. She unlocked our holly-graffitied door with an old fashioned key, the kind that is little more than a stick with a metal hook on the end. We dropped our bags gratefully.
To have a room is a blessing. We looked at it that way in order to avoid depression. It was a large room at least, with a high ceiling and skylight I soon loved. The bed was badly bowed in the middle, but the blankets looked warm and the sheets were clean. We settled in. I decided that I liked the room, though I hated the lack of a mirror and any sort of decoration. Perhaps, I hoped, there will be a mirror in the shared bathroom. I went to check it out.
It didn’t have a mirror. It didn’t have electricity, and the sink leaked. Oh dear…
Thank heaven there was another bathroom! Not only did this one have a mirror and electricity, it also had hot water! What a relief to wash off that bus ride. I wasn’t as fond of its lack of toilet paper, but had become accustomed to carrying a roll when traveling.
After we were comfortable and clean, we both went down to the front room. Sarah used the computer, and I watched CNN for news of the swine flu. I also talked to the guy at front desk. He’s only a few years older than me and studies in the university. Sarah and I used those facts to our advantage when we wanted to go out that that night. Hostel rule states that its doors are locked after eleven pm, but our new friend assured us he’d be studying until three in the morning, so if we came home late it’d be fine.
Before we went out, I learned the truth about El Amigo. It’s not the rooms or relatively cheap internet, and it’s not the free breakfast of bread, jam, and coffee. It’s the people. They’re all wandering, and most are pretty open as to why. There was the thirty-year-old recently laid-off dentist, who one day woke up and hopped a plane to South America. He was friendly, and offered me a beer, which I declined. Then there were the Israelis who spoke Hebrew, English, and Spanish, and begged us to go to a rave with them. I spoke briefly to an Australian with dreds. I never actually talked with one couple, but I saw the woman give her boyfriend a haircut in the open courtyard. We greeted everyone in the hostel in Spanish, until one party revealed their English skills, and we could switch. For two days I exchanged pleasantries with a Swede before finding out he spoke English. Then I saw the Israelis pick up their backpacks and leave; then Sarah and I packed up our backpacks and left.
El Amigo did turn out to be a friend, despite my first impressions. It has character. I wouldn’t suggest it to just anyone. Every minute there was an adventure, from the lack of mirrors, to the shower drain that didn’t deserve the name. To those who crave adventure, and don’t mind the loss of a few niceties, El Amigo is the best of friends.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
*The Trust*
He smiled down at her. She laughed and kissed him. ‘’Does this mean we can change our Facebook status to ‘’In a Relationship?’’ he asked.
‘’Maybe,’’ she said.
This true conversation was recently held between a friend and her boy toy after weeks of being, as our favorite internet site calls it, ‘’In an Open Relationship.’’ Ten years ago if someone mentioned Facebook, one would think to look for it under the author’s last name in the local library. Five years ago the ideal pickup line was still, ‘’’Can I have your number?’’ not ‘’Can I add you on Facebook?’’ Now however, relationships are made and broken all on ‘’Face.’’
Facebook’s home page presents you with updates on your friends. You are immediately made aware if anyone has uploaded photos, written a note, or, of course, changed their relationship status. Due to the rapid speed of internet nowadays, a certain level of trust must be put in our fellow users to tell the truth. It’s a world where a tidbit of information can be copied, pasted, and sent to hundreds in under five seconds. Hence, whatever is put up had better be accurate, or the whole world will be confused. I learned this the hard way.
Last summer, as a joke only, a good male friend and I announced on Facebook that we were ‘’In a Relationship.’’ We were curious as to what would happen, and the results more than satisfied. In less than twenty-four hours, I had received several public messages on my ‘’wall’’ and a few other private messages in my inbox. The comments varied from shock to congratulations. There was one, from my boss no less, asking who the heck the boy was. Oh how I laughed! My friend and I kept up the charade for several days by writing ridiculously sappy posts on each others’ ‘’wall.’’ We mutually ended the relationship after friends began to wander into our places of employment to beg for romantic details. I was also questioned by several church leaders; obviously things had gone too far.
For me, it was a relief to discover that my new Bolivian friends also used Facebook. I’ve been able to keep up on school events and parties through mass messages sent to all of the girls in my grade. I’ve also been able, through Facebook Chat, to improve my Spanish on some occasions, and improve my chat-speech on others. (This is not necessarily a good thing.) But that aside, do they keep the Facebook trust on the Relationship Status better than we do? I interviewed a couple classmates to find out.
Q: Would you ever change your status if your real-life status had not changed?
A1: Probably not. Are you out of your mind?
A2: No, I don’t like to lie.
Those were the words of two fairly average Cruceña school girls, aged sixteen and seventeen. Now for one of my male classmates:
Q: Would you ever change your status on Face if it hadn’t really changed?
A: Maybe. As a joke.
Q: How long do you have to be with a girl to change your status?
A: I dunno. A month?
The Facebook trust appears to be intact in Bolivia, much more so that it is in the States. Here at least, the kids I know don’t marry their ninth grade drama partner like we’re so fond of doing at home, gender preferences being forgotten.
All in all, Facebook is a great thing. It’s like a constantly updated billboard on all our lives, and for most information that’s great. We love to share. For those of us who don’t, we hide our status, then no one knows, and we’re just a little bit mysterious.
‘’Maybe,’’ she said.
This true conversation was recently held between a friend and her boy toy after weeks of being, as our favorite internet site calls it, ‘’In an Open Relationship.’’ Ten years ago if someone mentioned Facebook, one would think to look for it under the author’s last name in the local library. Five years ago the ideal pickup line was still, ‘’’Can I have your number?’’ not ‘’Can I add you on Facebook?’’ Now however, relationships are made and broken all on ‘’Face.’’
Facebook’s home page presents you with updates on your friends. You are immediately made aware if anyone has uploaded photos, written a note, or, of course, changed their relationship status. Due to the rapid speed of internet nowadays, a certain level of trust must be put in our fellow users to tell the truth. It’s a world where a tidbit of information can be copied, pasted, and sent to hundreds in under five seconds. Hence, whatever is put up had better be accurate, or the whole world will be confused. I learned this the hard way.
Last summer, as a joke only, a good male friend and I announced on Facebook that we were ‘’In a Relationship.’’ We were curious as to what would happen, and the results more than satisfied. In less than twenty-four hours, I had received several public messages on my ‘’wall’’ and a few other private messages in my inbox. The comments varied from shock to congratulations. There was one, from my boss no less, asking who the heck the boy was. Oh how I laughed! My friend and I kept up the charade for several days by writing ridiculously sappy posts on each others’ ‘’wall.’’ We mutually ended the relationship after friends began to wander into our places of employment to beg for romantic details. I was also questioned by several church leaders; obviously things had gone too far.
For me, it was a relief to discover that my new Bolivian friends also used Facebook. I’ve been able to keep up on school events and parties through mass messages sent to all of the girls in my grade. I’ve also been able, through Facebook Chat, to improve my Spanish on some occasions, and improve my chat-speech on others. (This is not necessarily a good thing.) But that aside, do they keep the Facebook trust on the Relationship Status better than we do? I interviewed a couple classmates to find out.
Q: Would you ever change your status if your real-life status had not changed?
A1: Probably not. Are you out of your mind?
A2: No, I don’t like to lie.
Those were the words of two fairly average Cruceña school girls, aged sixteen and seventeen. Now for one of my male classmates:
Q: Would you ever change your status on Face if it hadn’t really changed?
A: Maybe. As a joke.
Q: How long do you have to be with a girl to change your status?
A: I dunno. A month?
The Facebook trust appears to be intact in Bolivia, much more so that it is in the States. Here at least, the kids I know don’t marry their ninth grade drama partner like we’re so fond of doing at home, gender preferences being forgotten.
All in all, Facebook is a great thing. It’s like a constantly updated billboard on all our lives, and for most information that’s great. We love to share. For those of us who don’t, we hide our status, then no one knows, and we’re just a little bit mysterious.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
*Pit Stops*
The following is an excerpt from my pretty little blue journal, regarding a recent trip to Sucre. Let me warn you now, it does mention bathrooms and their contents rather frequently. A ''rebound'' exchange student once told me that exchange students become very comfortable talking about any bodily functions in public. This is the proof of it.
We made it! After an eighteen tour bus ride we are here in Sucre, fairly alone and on our own. The freedom is exciting, invigorating, and a tad bit scary. I love it.
The bus ride wasn’t half bad either. Part of this was because of the incredibly positive moods of both Sarah and I. We boarded our semi-cama, con DVD y baño flota* to discover that it lacked the baño. Even so, chairs that reclined and a TV present were good signs.
We talked for the first four hours or so of the trip. Sarah had provided dinner: two tuna sandwiches and a bag of gummy Lifesavers. There was also a two liter bottle of Mineragua, but we only allowed ourselves a few swallows each, not knowing the bathroom situation.
That turned out to be very wise, seeing as said situation was fairly awful.
About three hours into the trip we pulled into Samaipata for a dinner and bathroom break. Already having a delicious tuna sandwich in my stomach, I skipped dinner, but did go to the bathroom. It was terrible. The toilets didn’t flush for one. Also, the ladies in line kept yelling for all to hurry up. Believe me; I was not trying to extend my stay in that stall. The men had it easier; they had a room with a long trough—communal urinal? There was a sink for hand washing, but back on the bus I dug out my hand sanitizer. It’s impossible to feel truly clean after using a roadside bathroom in Bolivia, though that may be true for all roadside bathrooms.
Back on the road, exhaustion took over. I would’ve fallen asleep immediately, but the TV was set up and soon Marley and Me (in Spanish of course) was playing. The noises of the road drowned out almost all dialogue, but I had seen it a couple months before at the cine with Mary so could guess at most of the lines. Unfortunately, several large road bumps made the DVD skip to the point where it didn’t work anymore. A man came out of the front of the bus and fiddled with the DVD player. When he was done, Marley and Me had been replaced with Good Luck Chuck and a viler and more disgusting film I have never seen. I learned rather quickly to turn my head away from the many, many sex scenes. I’m glad I couldn’t hear the dialogue. Thankfully, around eleven o’clock the TV screen abruptly went dark.
After that, Sarah and I switched iPods, then drifted in and out of sleep for hours. In my completely irrational mostly-asleep brain, I thought the woman across from me was trying to steal my camera. She kept leaning down towards the aisle, probably to do something completely normal, like adjust her shoe. I thought she was reaching for my backpack, so first I picked it up to make sure my camera was still there, then hooked my leg through its strap and fell asleep again.
Around one in the morning we stopped for another bathroom break. I left Sarah with the gear and walked outside. I followed the line of fellow bus passengers around the corner to an empty road. They all proceeded to squat in the grass. I looked for a spot, and upon finding one, changed my mind. I hate squatting. What if I were to miss and hit my jeans or shoes?. I didn’t really need to go. I got back on the bus and resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t be anywhere near a real toilet for at least another five hours.
I fell back asleep, and actually slept for several hours before waking to find us in mountains very different from the ones we had left. The road was white; the cliff walls were white with layers that implied depth of…something. The trees and bushes (they’re practically the same thing) were white with softer lines. I nudged Sarah awake. She looked at me bleary-eyed. I said, ‘’Sarah, look outside!’’
‘’What?’’
‘’It’s white and fluffy. What’s white and fluffy and lives in the mountains?’’ She stared at me. I answered my own question. ‘’Snow.’’
She looked outside, said, ‘’Oh, snow,’’ and fell back asleep.
I stayed awake, watching the snow until it abruptly disappeared. I blinked, and squinted, and stared, but the snow didn’t reappear. I now blame it on lights on the rocks and sleep in my eyes.
Well, I finally slept until the next bathroom break—was it at five or six am? I didn’t bother getting off then because I doubted the existence of a toilet, or even a hole in the ground (not being time to dig my own.) We slept more, though Sarah was woken by the girl sitting behind her, pounding her headrest and repeating, ‘’Choquita, choquita.*’’ So much for a please!
We finally arrived in Sucre at eleven am. I guarded the bag while Sarah used the bathroom, then she guarded so I could go. It wass so wonderful. Haha, eighteen hours with only one bathroom break. I felt much better afterwards.
*Some phrases just don't work as well in English as Spanish, but for those of you who don't speak both, here are some explanations:
semi-cama, con DVD y baño flota: semi-bed, with DVD and bathroom bus
Choquita: blondie. I'm fairly sure the word ''choco(a)'' comes from the verb ''chocar''--to crash. A choco(a) is a person with light, or blonde hair. That makes it sort of a dumb-blonde nickname, though is often used affectionately.
We made it! After an eighteen tour bus ride we are here in Sucre, fairly alone and on our own. The freedom is exciting, invigorating, and a tad bit scary. I love it.
The bus ride wasn’t half bad either. Part of this was because of the incredibly positive moods of both Sarah and I. We boarded our semi-cama, con DVD y baño flota* to discover that it lacked the baño. Even so, chairs that reclined and a TV present were good signs.
We talked for the first four hours or so of the trip. Sarah had provided dinner: two tuna sandwiches and a bag of gummy Lifesavers. There was also a two liter bottle of Mineragua, but we only allowed ourselves a few swallows each, not knowing the bathroom situation.
That turned out to be very wise, seeing as said situation was fairly awful.
About three hours into the trip we pulled into Samaipata for a dinner and bathroom break. Already having a delicious tuna sandwich in my stomach, I skipped dinner, but did go to the bathroom. It was terrible. The toilets didn’t flush for one. Also, the ladies in line kept yelling for all to hurry up. Believe me; I was not trying to extend my stay in that stall. The men had it easier; they had a room with a long trough—communal urinal? There was a sink for hand washing, but back on the bus I dug out my hand sanitizer. It’s impossible to feel truly clean after using a roadside bathroom in Bolivia, though that may be true for all roadside bathrooms.
Back on the road, exhaustion took over. I would’ve fallen asleep immediately, but the TV was set up and soon Marley and Me (in Spanish of course) was playing. The noises of the road drowned out almost all dialogue, but I had seen it a couple months before at the cine with Mary so could guess at most of the lines. Unfortunately, several large road bumps made the DVD skip to the point where it didn’t work anymore. A man came out of the front of the bus and fiddled with the DVD player. When he was done, Marley and Me had been replaced with Good Luck Chuck and a viler and more disgusting film I have never seen. I learned rather quickly to turn my head away from the many, many sex scenes. I’m glad I couldn’t hear the dialogue. Thankfully, around eleven o’clock the TV screen abruptly went dark.
After that, Sarah and I switched iPods, then drifted in and out of sleep for hours. In my completely irrational mostly-asleep brain, I thought the woman across from me was trying to steal my camera. She kept leaning down towards the aisle, probably to do something completely normal, like adjust her shoe. I thought she was reaching for my backpack, so first I picked it up to make sure my camera was still there, then hooked my leg through its strap and fell asleep again.
Around one in the morning we stopped for another bathroom break. I left Sarah with the gear and walked outside. I followed the line of fellow bus passengers around the corner to an empty road. They all proceeded to squat in the grass. I looked for a spot, and upon finding one, changed my mind. I hate squatting. What if I were to miss and hit my jeans or shoes?. I didn’t really need to go. I got back on the bus and resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t be anywhere near a real toilet for at least another five hours.
I fell back asleep, and actually slept for several hours before waking to find us in mountains very different from the ones we had left. The road was white; the cliff walls were white with layers that implied depth of…something. The trees and bushes (they’re practically the same thing) were white with softer lines. I nudged Sarah awake. She looked at me bleary-eyed. I said, ‘’Sarah, look outside!’’
‘’What?’’
‘’It’s white and fluffy. What’s white and fluffy and lives in the mountains?’’ She stared at me. I answered my own question. ‘’Snow.’’
She looked outside, said, ‘’Oh, snow,’’ and fell back asleep.
I stayed awake, watching the snow until it abruptly disappeared. I blinked, and squinted, and stared, but the snow didn’t reappear. I now blame it on lights on the rocks and sleep in my eyes.
Well, I finally slept until the next bathroom break—was it at five or six am? I didn’t bother getting off then because I doubted the existence of a toilet, or even a hole in the ground (not being time to dig my own.) We slept more, though Sarah was woken by the girl sitting behind her, pounding her headrest and repeating, ‘’Choquita, choquita.*’’ So much for a please!
We finally arrived in Sucre at eleven am. I guarded the bag while Sarah used the bathroom, then she guarded so I could go. It wass so wonderful. Haha, eighteen hours with only one bathroom break. I felt much better afterwards.
*Some phrases just don't work as well in English as Spanish, but for those of you who don't speak both, here are some explanations:
semi-cama, con DVD y baño flota: semi-bed, with DVD and bathroom bus
Choquita: blondie. I'm fairly sure the word ''choco(a)'' comes from the verb ''chocar''--to crash. A choco(a) is a person with light, or blonde hair. That makes it sort of a dumb-blonde nickname, though is often used affectionately.
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