Six days until Dad and Brittany come here, to Santa Cruz.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I've been racking my brain somewhat frantically wondering what the heck I'll do with them. Santa Cruz is fairly easy: the quinta, 7 calles, nails, school. Beyond the city gets harder. There's so much to do, and only two weeks to do it in. Some ideas:
*Hiking from the Altiplano to Las Yungas (jungle, baby!!)
*Hanging out on la Isla del Sol, and maybe swinging over to la Isla de la Luna
*Shooooooooopping in La Paz
*Biking down the Most Dangerous Road on Earth
*Horseback riding to the waterfalls around Sucre
*Eating an early dinner in that delicious cafe by the Recoleta at sunset(again, Sucre)
*Doing cartwheels and having insane photoshoots in the Salar de Uyuni
*Checking out the mines in Potosí
*Following the trail of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (waaaay out of the way, but we could call it geneology)
*Oruro for some possible living (talk to my dad about this one. The guide books doesn't give much information on that)
...and the list goes on.
The problem is....how can one fit all of this into two weeks and A. Not be Superman, B. Not be Santa Claus, or C. Not be insane? Which do we choose? Thankfully, while the buses themselves aren't always reliable, the Bolivian bus system is. We have the will, they have the way.
But oooohhhh man, so much to do!!!!!!!!! I didn't even put some of the things I want down....Sorata sounds gorgeous. Canoeing in the Amazon is rather enticing. But how will I fit it all together???? Dad always says, ''It's a puzzle. Figure it out.'' Well, he says that about me loading the dishwasher (which I hate.) Truth be told, Eri ain't so good at puzzles!
Well, enough freaking out for now. I hope this satisfies your desire for a blog, Mom. Maybe I'll put another one up later. Maybe I will right now...Hmmmm....
Monday, June 15, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
*Emily*
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
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
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.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
*Attitude: Finding My Happy*
‘’Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference.’’ I’m going to risk stepping on a few toes by disagreeing with the great Winston Churchill. Attitude is not a little thing; it’s gigantic. It’s the difference between a sunburn, an over-zealously ‘’healthy’’ glow, and a slightly painful lesson. It’s the difference between a boring night stuck at home and a night at home spent catching up on journal entries while munching popcorn. It’s the difference between me last week and me today. It will give my father no end of pleasure to read that statement. I hate admitting it, but his lecture two days ago brought me down to Earth. I wasn’t happy at the time, and at first his little speech made things worse. When he was done, I hung up the phone and cried. I cried for at least a good five minutes. I felt awful, but I washed my face, blew my nose, and got ready for a birthday party I was going to. I pasted on that smile I’ve gotten pretty good at using in times of distress and went to the party, where I gradually cheered up. That was Thursday. Let’s now look at Friday.
I was going to a pool party, and was to meet everyone involved at eight a.m. Despite the previous late night, I dragged myself out of bed, packed a suit and towel, and made it to our meeting spot by 8:05. No one was there, so I walked around the block, enjoying the sunshine. Ten minutes later people began to arrive, but a few quick phone calls verified that not everyone even remembered the activity, so our little group of five set off to drag four more people out of their houses. We walked a great deal, and then crammed onto a sweaty, dirty micro to get to the pool place. None of this bothered me however. My attitude had done a one-eighty since the day before. I played soccer with those kids. I hate soccer, normally, but here I was banging my shins and stubbing my toes in an attempt to get the half-flat ball to our goal. I enjoyed it. Ella Wheeler Wilcox was entirely correct in her statement, ‘’Say you are well, or all is well with you, And God shall hear your words and make them true.’’ My cheerfulness may have started with a fake smile, but somehow in the course of Thursday afternoon it grew into the genuine thing, giving me a beautiful Friday. My host mother said I was ‘’flying’’ in reference to my sunburn and forgotten tennis shoes, but really, my spirit was soaring alongside my head in the clouds.
This is not to say a sunny attitude will automatically evaporate the clouds and plant daisies at your feet. Unfair rules will most likely remain unfair. The underdog might not win. Yesterday’s sunburn will still chafe under any clothes you force upon it. You can really only ask so much of a person. After a point, being human, we snap back. We’re not saints, and our lives aren’t always beautiful, but I’ve learned that we can make things better by how we think, no matter how difficult and painful it might be. It’s like Annette Goodheart said:
’’Just because you're miserable doesn't mean you can't enjoy your life.’’ Life may still be awful, but you can still find humor and the occasional moment of fun in it.
I’m happy today. I’ve been happy all day today. I was happy putting aloe on my poor red back and shoulders. I was happy talking to my family. I was happy going to the store, and happy watching Friends and happy writing this blog. It’s cliché, I know, but I decided to be better on Thursday. I decided that I was going to try harder to be happy, and if I still wasn’t I’d blame my father. Instead, I became happy, and now have to thank him for his awful therapeutic speech that left me with the desire to change. I’ve found my happy. Go find yours. If that’s out of the question, consider changing your attitude, even just to spite me. Maybe you’ll find your happy.
I was going to a pool party, and was to meet everyone involved at eight a.m. Despite the previous late night, I dragged myself out of bed, packed a suit and towel, and made it to our meeting spot by 8:05. No one was there, so I walked around the block, enjoying the sunshine. Ten minutes later people began to arrive, but a few quick phone calls verified that not everyone even remembered the activity, so our little group of five set off to drag four more people out of their houses. We walked a great deal, and then crammed onto a sweaty, dirty micro to get to the pool place. None of this bothered me however. My attitude had done a one-eighty since the day before. I played soccer with those kids. I hate soccer, normally, but here I was banging my shins and stubbing my toes in an attempt to get the half-flat ball to our goal. I enjoyed it. Ella Wheeler Wilcox was entirely correct in her statement, ‘’Say you are well, or all is well with you, And God shall hear your words and make them true.’’ My cheerfulness may have started with a fake smile, but somehow in the course of Thursday afternoon it grew into the genuine thing, giving me a beautiful Friday. My host mother said I was ‘’flying’’ in reference to my sunburn and forgotten tennis shoes, but really, my spirit was soaring alongside my head in the clouds.
This is not to say a sunny attitude will automatically evaporate the clouds and plant daisies at your feet. Unfair rules will most likely remain unfair. The underdog might not win. Yesterday’s sunburn will still chafe under any clothes you force upon it. You can really only ask so much of a person. After a point, being human, we snap back. We’re not saints, and our lives aren’t always beautiful, but I’ve learned that we can make things better by how we think, no matter how difficult and painful it might be. It’s like Annette Goodheart said:
’’Just because you're miserable doesn't mean you can't enjoy your life.’’ Life may still be awful, but you can still find humor and the occasional moment of fun in it.
I’m happy today. I’ve been happy all day today. I was happy putting aloe on my poor red back and shoulders. I was happy talking to my family. I was happy going to the store, and happy watching Friends and happy writing this blog. It’s cliché, I know, but I decided to be better on Thursday. I decided that I was going to try harder to be happy, and if I still wasn’t I’d blame my father. Instead, I became happy, and now have to thank him for his awful therapeutic speech that left me with the desire to change. I’ve found my happy. Go find yours. If that’s out of the question, consider changing your attitude, even just to spite me. Maybe you’ll find your happy.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
*The Zoo!*
It was perfect Saturday afternoon. Caity’s real mom was in town from the States, and Melissa knew the microbus that would take us practically to the front gates for only a Boliviano each. We had no excuses to not go to the zoo. We grabbed our cash and cameras and hopped aboard the micro. I for one wasn’t sure what to expect. I had heard good and bad stories of Santa Cruz’s zoo. Many said it is dirty, and the animals are poorly cared for. Others mentioned its size, lack of it really, but didn’t have complaints other than that. I had always pictured elephants and tigers in small cages being poked with soda straws by children and employees alike. It turns out, the zoo was nothing like I expected. In most of it I had a blast, and it appeared like the animals did too. Unfortunately, there were also portions that were depressing. It balanced out, giving me a newfound appreciation for animals.
To start things off light, I’m going to tell a bit about the happy-looking animals. We first saw the birds. Giant cages held parrots, toucans, something called a Harpy Eagle, a large owl, and even a Condor. The toucans were cute, and were dead ringers for the guy on the Fruit Loops box. The Harpy Eagle, owl, and Condor were magnificent, huge, and possessed the tranquility that is unique to birds of prey. I can only imagine how they’d appear in the wild. Even so, the parrots were definitely my favorite of the birds. Brightly-colored, and loud, they quickly caught the eye. One particular breed called, ‘’Hola, hola,’’ as we stopped by their enclosure. I yelled, ‘’Caity, come here!’’ and behind me a parrot quoted, ‘’Caity,’’ in its funny little parrot voice. We loved it. We coerced the parrots to say Erika and Melissa also. As we walked away we heard them talking to some other girls, ‘’Bonita. Mamita.’’ Past the parrots we entered into the bird house, where ironically, I didn’t see many birds. There was however a turtle running wild. I’m not joking, that little guy was speedy! Even better, they had an anteater! It was possible the most bizarre creature I’ve ever seen. I know a trip to the zoo doesn’t exactly count as seeing it wild, but I feel the need to inform the public: that anteater was weird! It had a tail nearly the length of its body, with long black, white and brown hairs hanging down a foot or so. It looked almost feathery. It ran faster than the turtle. Beyond the bird house, our little group enjoyed trying to identify some of the more unusual animals. We also watched pigs and capybaras, llamas and sloths. The sloth is my new favorite animal. Every move it makes is slow and deliberate, but has more flexibility than I could ever pray for. Its face is the picture of calm, and legend has it if you are heartless enough to hold a knife up to it, it will shed tears. In short, the animals that appeared happy made me happy.
Sadly, not all animals are as chill as the sloth. The leopard, pumas, and foxes looked rather miserable. I can’t say I blame them. Each had a concrete and wire cell the size of my bedroom. Their water bowls were green with algae, and the moss on the floor was worn off in well-paced tracks. It hurt to see, and was hard to comprehend. Why in the world did the pigs have meters and meters of space to root and roll in the mud, but the giant cats were confined to cells? I can only be glad that only a few animals were treated like that, and the rest appeared to be living happy lives.
All in all, the trip was a success. I got to hang out with friends, and look at giant anacondas! I didn’t see these animals in the wild, but it was still really really fun. I suppose I had forgotten what zoos could be like, even small ones like this one. True, is was sad to see the captive cats, but on the whole Saturday’s trip to the zoo added up to an experience that will stay with me.
To start things off light, I’m going to tell a bit about the happy-looking animals. We first saw the birds. Giant cages held parrots, toucans, something called a Harpy Eagle, a large owl, and even a Condor. The toucans were cute, and were dead ringers for the guy on the Fruit Loops box. The Harpy Eagle, owl, and Condor were magnificent, huge, and possessed the tranquility that is unique to birds of prey. I can only imagine how they’d appear in the wild. Even so, the parrots were definitely my favorite of the birds. Brightly-colored, and loud, they quickly caught the eye. One particular breed called, ‘’Hola, hola,’’ as we stopped by their enclosure. I yelled, ‘’Caity, come here!’’ and behind me a parrot quoted, ‘’Caity,’’ in its funny little parrot voice. We loved it. We coerced the parrots to say Erika and Melissa also. As we walked away we heard them talking to some other girls, ‘’Bonita. Mamita.’’ Past the parrots we entered into the bird house, where ironically, I didn’t see many birds. There was however a turtle running wild. I’m not joking, that little guy was speedy! Even better, they had an anteater! It was possible the most bizarre creature I’ve ever seen. I know a trip to the zoo doesn’t exactly count as seeing it wild, but I feel the need to inform the public: that anteater was weird! It had a tail nearly the length of its body, with long black, white and brown hairs hanging down a foot or so. It looked almost feathery. It ran faster than the turtle. Beyond the bird house, our little group enjoyed trying to identify some of the more unusual animals. We also watched pigs and capybaras, llamas and sloths. The sloth is my new favorite animal. Every move it makes is slow and deliberate, but has more flexibility than I could ever pray for. Its face is the picture of calm, and legend has it if you are heartless enough to hold a knife up to it, it will shed tears. In short, the animals that appeared happy made me happy.
Sadly, not all animals are as chill as the sloth. The leopard, pumas, and foxes looked rather miserable. I can’t say I blame them. Each had a concrete and wire cell the size of my bedroom. Their water bowls were green with algae, and the moss on the floor was worn off in well-paced tracks. It hurt to see, and was hard to comprehend. Why in the world did the pigs have meters and meters of space to root and roll in the mud, but the giant cats were confined to cells? I can only be glad that only a few animals were treated like that, and the rest appeared to be living happy lives.
All in all, the trip was a success. I got to hang out with friends, and look at giant anacondas! I didn’t see these animals in the wild, but it was still really really fun. I suppose I had forgotten what zoos could be like, even small ones like this one. True, is was sad to see the captive cats, but on the whole Saturday’s trip to the zoo added up to an experience that will stay with me.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
*Rain me a River*
In an attempt to beef of this blog so I can beef up my English grade, I dug through my journals for inspiration. Ms. Christian said I can use actual entries too, but I've found I'm not ready for the general public to read my innermost thoughts, secrets, and pie recipes. Also, I often get caught up on getting facts onto paper, and the quality of my writing suffers for it. It's probably safe to say that my best entries have come from observing nature when life isn't in the way. My favorites are about rain. Some have been edited slightly, but I didn't change anywords. What you're about to read is as close to my actual journals as you'll ever get. Repititions, excessive punctuation, and the like are how I actually write. Enjoy.
August 28th, 2008
It’s raining! ¡Está lloviendo! After a suffocatingly humid morning, we’ve been blessed with rain! Well, it’s still suffocating, but at least there’s actual visible water. I can blame my damp clothes on precipitation, not perspiration.
September 20th, 2008
I’ve noticed a pattern here. It occurs just about every week. Saturday and Sunday are usually cold, then around Tuesday or Wednesday it warms up to comfortable. Thursday and Fridays are almost always HOT, with Friday being very HUMID also. You go to bed with only a sheet because of the heat and the bizarre desire to ignore the AC, but when you wake up, it’s almost certain to have rained in the night and made everything cold again. It’s like our weather is a sick person, always feeling too hot or too cold so it’s always changing.
November 6th, 2008
There is nothing quite like a 1pm Thunderstorm to boost your mood. Just had to mention that brief, amazing spectacle of nature before going back to school. A quick splattering of raindrops, a few sharp flashes, and rumbles that just get farther and farther away. Beautiful.
¡Que fantastico! I thought I had gotten a special 5 minute storm, but Oh-No! Just as we got to the school, the heavens were unleashed and buckets and barrels and casks of water dropped down on us. And hey, it was the last day of classes, so several Bolivians and I ran around in the blessed wet, until the Headmistress started yelling at us. Something about us being seniors now, or something to that effect.
December 10th, 2008
The heavens are dropping down fat, heavy water bombs of rain. The air smells hot and wet and very much alive. It's the kind of rain that makes you inhale more deeply in an attempt to get more of it inside you without drowning.
December 11th, 2008
…then it started to rain so I went outside and danced in it, and that was great, but I think the water broke one of my earbuds…
…I texted until almost 2am, all the while I was sitting outside watching the rain. I didn’t start to get chilly till the very end.
December 13th, 2008
I just participated in a fun little family-frenzy activity. Today started out cool, then got very hot, then very humid, then the heavens opened all over the drying laundry. Aida, Carola, Edu, and I ran outside and pulled it all off the lines as fast as we could. I love rain.
December 22nd, 2008
Está lloviendo. Había relampago, y yo puedo oyer mucho thunder ahora. Estaré triste cuando el estacion de lluvia termina. Es mi favorito estacion acá. No en Sitka, pero aquí es perfecto.
Translation: It’s raining. There was lightening, and I can hear a lot of thunder now. I’ll be sad when the rainy season finishes. It’s my favorite season here. Not in Sitka, but here it’s perfect.
December 25h, 2008
I’m sitting out on the patio of the resort, passing what is, I’m quite sure, my most unusual Christmas. Perhaps in an attempt to make the lack of snow more bearable, Santa Cruz was blessed with a soft rain and a temperature that, while by no means cool, is at least not too warm to wear my hair down.
January 29th, 2009
…Sometime after I fell asleep, it began to rain a deliciously rhythmic rain that made the humidity bearable and my sleep, well, fun. I had some rockin’ dreams.
February 7th, 2009
I started reading sometime around midnight. It had been a muggy, cloudy evening. Rain started up, and thunder rumbled now and then, so I slipped on sweat shorts and my Fireweed jacket and leaned against my door outside until the mosquitoes drove me back to my bed. It was there, on my bed, with Christmas lights and rain in the background, and a book featuring Fork, WA (a small town that is, incredibly, rainier than Sitka,) that I felt so completely at home.
…And then with thunder grand enough to set off car alarms (or some weird beeping, whirly sound) I fell in love.
March 9th, 2009
It’s started raining and thundering and, as ever, it’s spectacular.
…It’s absolutely dumping at the moment. The splashes are misting my legs. If I didn’t have to go back to school I’d go dance in it.
…Now the lawn’s flooding and the roof gutter pipe is gushing water, shooting it out like the pipes at the top of a waterslide. The laundry’s swaying slightly on the line, dripping. If I watch, I can actually see the water rise over the grass. One little lime on the baby lime tree is stooping so low on its branch that it’s nearly touching the water. I’m still being misted. Snails are appearing. They love this.
Why did watering Mom’s bathroom aloe vera plant kill it? Our aloe’s experiencing a high pressure shower and will be fine tomorrow.
There is now a visible current in front of me, and at least a good quarter of the yard is submerged.
I want some rubber boots to wear to school with my uniform. Xtra-Tuffs would rock
I wonder where the snails go when it’s dry out.
It seems the only place it’s cool in Santa Cruz is the sky. This water’s cold!
Now I have to get ready to go back to school. And still it rains. Joy, peace, love.
August 28th, 2008
It’s raining! ¡Está lloviendo! After a suffocatingly humid morning, we’ve been blessed with rain! Well, it’s still suffocating, but at least there’s actual visible water. I can blame my damp clothes on precipitation, not perspiration.
September 20th, 2008
I’ve noticed a pattern here. It occurs just about every week. Saturday and Sunday are usually cold, then around Tuesday or Wednesday it warms up to comfortable. Thursday and Fridays are almost always HOT, with Friday being very HUMID also. You go to bed with only a sheet because of the heat and the bizarre desire to ignore the AC, but when you wake up, it’s almost certain to have rained in the night and made everything cold again. It’s like our weather is a sick person, always feeling too hot or too cold so it’s always changing.
November 6th, 2008
There is nothing quite like a 1pm Thunderstorm to boost your mood. Just had to mention that brief, amazing spectacle of nature before going back to school. A quick splattering of raindrops, a few sharp flashes, and rumbles that just get farther and farther away. Beautiful.
¡Que fantastico! I thought I had gotten a special 5 minute storm, but Oh-No! Just as we got to the school, the heavens were unleashed and buckets and barrels and casks of water dropped down on us. And hey, it was the last day of classes, so several Bolivians and I ran around in the blessed wet, until the Headmistress started yelling at us. Something about us being seniors now, or something to that effect.
December 10th, 2008
The heavens are dropping down fat, heavy water bombs of rain. The air smells hot and wet and very much alive. It's the kind of rain that makes you inhale more deeply in an attempt to get more of it inside you without drowning.
December 11th, 2008
…then it started to rain so I went outside and danced in it, and that was great, but I think the water broke one of my earbuds…
…I texted until almost 2am, all the while I was sitting outside watching the rain. I didn’t start to get chilly till the very end.
December 13th, 2008
I just participated in a fun little family-frenzy activity. Today started out cool, then got very hot, then very humid, then the heavens opened all over the drying laundry. Aida, Carola, Edu, and I ran outside and pulled it all off the lines as fast as we could. I love rain.
December 22nd, 2008
Está lloviendo. Había relampago, y yo puedo oyer mucho thunder ahora. Estaré triste cuando el estacion de lluvia termina. Es mi favorito estacion acá. No en Sitka, pero aquí es perfecto.
Translation: It’s raining. There was lightening, and I can hear a lot of thunder now. I’ll be sad when the rainy season finishes. It’s my favorite season here. Not in Sitka, but here it’s perfect.
December 25h, 2008
I’m sitting out on the patio of the resort, passing what is, I’m quite sure, my most unusual Christmas. Perhaps in an attempt to make the lack of snow more bearable, Santa Cruz was blessed with a soft rain and a temperature that, while by no means cool, is at least not too warm to wear my hair down.
January 29th, 2009
…Sometime after I fell asleep, it began to rain a deliciously rhythmic rain that made the humidity bearable and my sleep, well, fun. I had some rockin’ dreams.
February 7th, 2009
I started reading sometime around midnight. It had been a muggy, cloudy evening. Rain started up, and thunder rumbled now and then, so I slipped on sweat shorts and my Fireweed jacket and leaned against my door outside until the mosquitoes drove me back to my bed. It was there, on my bed, with Christmas lights and rain in the background, and a book featuring Fork, WA (a small town that is, incredibly, rainier than Sitka,) that I felt so completely at home.
…And then with thunder grand enough to set off car alarms (or some weird beeping, whirly sound) I fell in love.
March 9th, 2009
It’s started raining and thundering and, as ever, it’s spectacular.
…It’s absolutely dumping at the moment. The splashes are misting my legs. If I didn’t have to go back to school I’d go dance in it.
…Now the lawn’s flooding and the roof gutter pipe is gushing water, shooting it out like the pipes at the top of a waterslide. The laundry’s swaying slightly on the line, dripping. If I watch, I can actually see the water rise over the grass. One little lime on the baby lime tree is stooping so low on its branch that it’s nearly touching the water. I’m still being misted. Snails are appearing. They love this.
Why did watering Mom’s bathroom aloe vera plant kill it? Our aloe’s experiencing a high pressure shower and will be fine tomorrow.
There is now a visible current in front of me, and at least a good quarter of the yard is submerged.
I want some rubber boots to wear to school with my uniform. Xtra-Tuffs would rock
I wonder where the snails go when it’s dry out.
It seems the only place it’s cool in Santa Cruz is the sky. This water’s cold!
Now I have to get ready to go back to school. And still it rains. Joy, peace, love.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Español Miércoles
Hola. Estoy en la clase de computadoras, pero porque nadie está aca (todo están mirar una exposicion de Leonardo DaVinci pero Olesya y yo.) asi que podemos usar internet.
Hoy hay mucho frio y un poca lluvia. Es diferente. Casi llevé mangas largas, pero en lugar de ese trajé la chompita del promo.
Ahora juego en el internet...especialmente en Facebook.
Arrghh. No sé que debo decir. No dormí mucho anoche...estaba escribiendo hasta tarde--medianoche no más. Probablemente creerías mi diario es aburrido. No sé. Solo, cuando estoy aburrida, escribo. A veces por paginas y paginas y más paginas. Espero que, un día, cuando no puedo recordar nada de la vida, puedo leerlos y recordar Bolivia y mi vida aca.
Ahora en el cole, todos piden cuando voy a salir. Cuando digo julio, están sorpendido que no voy a terminar el año aca. No voy a ir al viaje del Promo a Cancún. No voy a ir a ''Prom.'' Y voy a regresarme? No sé. Sí, quiero volver algún lugar en tiempo (esta es una pelicula, jajaja) pero no sé cuando. ¡Tengo que ir a la universidad, pero primero tengo que terminar mi año Promo en Alaska! En la universidad quiero estudiar español. Si hago este, podría a viajar, ¿pero a Bolivia? Entonces, sí, quiero volver. Además, quiero viajar a otros lugares. Lo haré. Y después aprender español perfectamente voy a aprender otra idioma. ¿Japonesa? ¿Italiano? ¿Portugues? No sé.
Hoy hay mucho frio y un poca lluvia. Es diferente. Casi llevé mangas largas, pero en lugar de ese trajé la chompita del promo.
Ahora juego en el internet...especialmente en Facebook.
Arrghh. No sé que debo decir. No dormí mucho anoche...estaba escribiendo hasta tarde--medianoche no más. Probablemente creerías mi diario es aburrido. No sé. Solo, cuando estoy aburrida, escribo. A veces por paginas y paginas y más paginas. Espero que, un día, cuando no puedo recordar nada de la vida, puedo leerlos y recordar Bolivia y mi vida aca.
Ahora en el cole, todos piden cuando voy a salir. Cuando digo julio, están sorpendido que no voy a terminar el año aca. No voy a ir al viaje del Promo a Cancún. No voy a ir a ''Prom.'' Y voy a regresarme? No sé. Sí, quiero volver algún lugar en tiempo (esta es una pelicula, jajaja) pero no sé cuando. ¡Tengo que ir a la universidad, pero primero tengo que terminar mi año Promo en Alaska! En la universidad quiero estudiar español. Si hago este, podría a viajar, ¿pero a Bolivia? Entonces, sí, quiero volver. Además, quiero viajar a otros lugares. Lo haré. Y después aprender español perfectamente voy a aprender otra idioma. ¿Japonesa? ¿Italiano? ¿Portugues? No sé.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
RANT, and my shoes
Ooh. I'm upset. I'm really really freakin' real upset. Yes, upset enough to purposely use improper grammer. Why? Because for the last, what is it now? 5, I think, days I've been without Facebook. I don't get it!!! I wanna get on Facebook and I can't. Even all of those proxies I memorized Freshmen and Sophomore year don't work. It's driving me crazy.
Oh yeah, and the city's under seige. Not really. But all of the businesses are closed down so everyone can go home and eradicate mosquito (aka dengue) breeding grounds (any stagnant water.) I'm at a loss as to what to do, and I haven't had my drug (Facebook, jaja) in ages.
Sooo....what I would have told you on FB if I had FB:
Mom, Dad: Thank you!!! I got two packages, yesterday and the day before yesterday. I'm using the Spanish work book, a couple pages a day. And I ate my Valentine's candy already. :D Thanks for everything. I love it!!!!!
Brittany: I've been thinking, are you going to practice any Spanish for when you come down? I'm reallly reallllly looking forward to translating everything for you and feeling really smart. Super excited babe.
My dear various friends: I've had little moments when I've wanted to write you here and there. The problem is, now I don't remember them. But I still love you all.
I guess in reality, maybe I should cut down on all of those little notes. But I really don't think they hurt. I really missing reading bits of Dad's book though, and finding out when people's birthdays are.
So, díme: why isn't it working?
Here's a quick, funny story for ya: I went to Beni in January. My shoes went with me, but they liked it so much they stayed there. I didn't even know they were gone till the other week when I needed them for gym class. You really can't do gym in peep-toed heels. They were wonderful shoes. I'd had them forever, but they stayed strong till the end. They were there for me on various hikes. They'd gotten stuck in mud. They proudly and shamelessly modeled hot pink laces given from Ms. Wilson. They rocked out at various dances. They were with me riding horses, and riding bikes. They got drenched from rain, melted snow, and stuff I'd rather not think about. They traveled through most of Bolivia with me, and in the end, chose Bení to be their final resting place.
And it's now that I realize my shoes. Let them be free and happy and very muddy in Bení.
And please let me find some new ones soon so I can participate in gym class and workout more comfortably at home.
Woah, what a freakish blog I have. But I love it, like you. Feel lucky.
Besos
Oh yeah, and the city's under seige. Not really. But all of the businesses are closed down so everyone can go home and eradicate mosquito (aka dengue) breeding grounds (any stagnant water.) I'm at a loss as to what to do, and I haven't had my drug (Facebook, jaja) in ages.
Sooo....what I would have told you on FB if I had FB:
Mom, Dad: Thank you!!! I got two packages, yesterday and the day before yesterday. I'm using the Spanish work book, a couple pages a day. And I ate my Valentine's candy already. :D Thanks for everything. I love it!!!!!
Brittany: I've been thinking, are you going to practice any Spanish for when you come down? I'm reallly reallllly looking forward to translating everything for you and feeling really smart. Super excited babe.
My dear various friends: I've had little moments when I've wanted to write you here and there. The problem is, now I don't remember them. But I still love you all.
I guess in reality, maybe I should cut down on all of those little notes. But I really don't think they hurt. I really missing reading bits of Dad's book though, and finding out when people's birthdays are.
So, díme: why isn't it working?
Here's a quick, funny story for ya: I went to Beni in January. My shoes went with me, but they liked it so much they stayed there. I didn't even know they were gone till the other week when I needed them for gym class. You really can't do gym in peep-toed heels. They were wonderful shoes. I'd had them forever, but they stayed strong till the end. They were there for me on various hikes. They'd gotten stuck in mud. They proudly and shamelessly modeled hot pink laces given from Ms. Wilson. They rocked out at various dances. They were with me riding horses, and riding bikes. They got drenched from rain, melted snow, and stuff I'd rather not think about. They traveled through most of Bolivia with me, and in the end, chose Bení to be their final resting place.
And it's now that I realize my shoes. Let them be free and happy and very muddy in Bení.
And please let me find some new ones soon so I can participate in gym class and workout more comfortably at home.
Woah, what a freakish blog I have. But I love it, like you. Feel lucky.
Besos
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
*Letters, Sentences, Stamps: MAIL!*
I’m having an awful day. I didn’t understand any of my classes, I’m not getting along with my host family, and my school shoes give me blisters. The worst part is the day’s only half over. Mama picks my brother and me up from school and we go home to eat lunch. I put on my plastic flip-flops then go join the family at the table. There’s no salad. This sucks. I say ‘’provecho’’ as soon as I’ve forced down half a plate of rice and chicken, and stand up. Then I see it. There on the counter is a large white envelope. It’s completely beaten up along the edges and has post office stamps dating back to weeks before. It’s addressed to me. Suddenly my terrible day is awesome, musical worthy. I sing and dance a little as I tear open the top of the envelope and find home.
This isn’t based on one specific memory. I’m not lonely or sad, and today was pretty fantastic. There is one thing that will always be able to brighten a day in Bolivia however, no matter how perfect it may already be. It’s the mail. A letter from home guarantees a half hour of pure joy every time I read it. Care packages have been the reason for several exchange student get-together. ‘’Here, eat a Milky Way!’’ ‘’Look what this lady from church sent me!’’ ‘’Hey, I got pirate tattoos. Want one?’’ The first time I received reading material (Thank you!) I holed myself up in my room and read half the book, wrote in my journal about it, then finished it. There is really nothing like getting a tangible reminder that people love and remember you, especially considering the distance that reminder travels.
I have in front of me a Christmas card I received this year. The envelope is smudged and the edges are slightly dented and bent. I don’t know when it left Alaska, but it was stamped in Seattle, Washington on the twentieth of December, 2008. For the next nineteen days my brave little Christmas card traveled the world. I have no idea where it went, or why it decided to take a two and a half week vacation. I did not give it permission to travel farther than Bolivia! Wherever it may have gone, it arrived in my country on the eighth of January, 2009. Four days later it moseyed on over to Santa Cruz and I got a very merry Christmas wish on the twelfth of January, only twenty-three days after my little card passed through Seattle. What took it so long? Did it see the Egyptian pyramids? Did it try surfing in Australia (with a dry suit of course)? Really, what path did it take?
Earlier in 2008 I received a different card. I can’t tell you when it left Alaska or the United States, but I do have questions about its broken curfew. If I were in Santa Cruz for three days without coming or calling home, I would be sent back to Alaska faster than a Bolivian could eat a salteña. Lucky for it, I would never send mail back, even though it was stamped upon arrival in Santa Cruz on November seventh, then stamped again in Santa Cruz on November tenth. It took less time for it to travel from La Paz to Santa Cruz than it did for it to hang out in Santa Cruz, maybe drinking some mate.
Despite my griping over the time it takes for me to finally get it, I really love mail. I love getting it, opening it, reading it, tasting it (a particularly memorable bag of smoke salmon) and composing mental replies. On occasion I even write back. True, mail is slow, expensive, and unreliable. In the modern world, there isn’t much time or space to sit down and put thoughts on paper and send them to someone else. I love emails, I love text messages, and I really love Facebook, but I love letters too. There’s something practically therapeutic about putting down worries and joys onto paper, sending them far away, then being reminded of them weeks later. It’s also fun spreading a conversation over the course of months. It doesn’t make much sense, but its fun all the same. If life doesn’t catch up to me when I go home, I may even continue writing letters. They’re a reminder of a simpler time, and they can make a day go from awful, to awesome in an instant.
And thank you Pam. I featured two of your cards in this piece. :)
This isn’t based on one specific memory. I’m not lonely or sad, and today was pretty fantastic. There is one thing that will always be able to brighten a day in Bolivia however, no matter how perfect it may already be. It’s the mail. A letter from home guarantees a half hour of pure joy every time I read it. Care packages have been the reason for several exchange student get-together. ‘’Here, eat a Milky Way!’’ ‘’Look what this lady from church sent me!’’ ‘’Hey, I got pirate tattoos. Want one?’’ The first time I received reading material (Thank you!) I holed myself up in my room and read half the book, wrote in my journal about it, then finished it. There is really nothing like getting a tangible reminder that people love and remember you, especially considering the distance that reminder travels.
I have in front of me a Christmas card I received this year. The envelope is smudged and the edges are slightly dented and bent. I don’t know when it left Alaska, but it was stamped in Seattle, Washington on the twentieth of December, 2008. For the next nineteen days my brave little Christmas card traveled the world. I have no idea where it went, or why it decided to take a two and a half week vacation. I did not give it permission to travel farther than Bolivia! Wherever it may have gone, it arrived in my country on the eighth of January, 2009. Four days later it moseyed on over to Santa Cruz and I got a very merry Christmas wish on the twelfth of January, only twenty-three days after my little card passed through Seattle. What took it so long? Did it see the Egyptian pyramids? Did it try surfing in Australia (with a dry suit of course)? Really, what path did it take?
Earlier in 2008 I received a different card. I can’t tell you when it left Alaska or the United States, but I do have questions about its broken curfew. If I were in Santa Cruz for three days without coming or calling home, I would be sent back to Alaska faster than a Bolivian could eat a salteña. Lucky for it, I would never send mail back, even though it was stamped upon arrival in Santa Cruz on November seventh, then stamped again in Santa Cruz on November tenth. It took less time for it to travel from La Paz to Santa Cruz than it did for it to hang out in Santa Cruz, maybe drinking some mate.
Despite my griping over the time it takes for me to finally get it, I really love mail. I love getting it, opening it, reading it, tasting it (a particularly memorable bag of smoke salmon) and composing mental replies. On occasion I even write back. True, mail is slow, expensive, and unreliable. In the modern world, there isn’t much time or space to sit down and put thoughts on paper and send them to someone else. I love emails, I love text messages, and I really love Facebook, but I love letters too. There’s something practically therapeutic about putting down worries and joys onto paper, sending them far away, then being reminded of them weeks later. It’s also fun spreading a conversation over the course of months. It doesn’t make much sense, but its fun all the same. If life doesn’t catch up to me when I go home, I may even continue writing letters. They’re a reminder of a simpler time, and they can make a day go from awful, to awesome in an instant.
And thank you Pam. I featured two of your cards in this piece. :)
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Ramble, Bramble
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
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
*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.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Back-To-School Special! *
Back to school sales. Patent leather Mary Janes and matching hair barrettes. Dragonflies zipping through the trees at sunset. The smell of crayons and freshly sharpened pencils. What do you associate with the back-to-school season? I admit, as a child, walking the halls of my elementary school before classes began gave me a thrill. I loved shopping for new outfits with my grandmother, I loved the first few days of introductions and rules, and I loved to chase the leaves that fell from the giant trees at recess. I was certifiable nerd, and proud of it. The end of summer was bittersweet; I’d miss the freedom, but looked forward to another year of learning.
I’ve changed a little since age eight, (most people have) but I never expected that back-to-school would feel like this. I’ve been nervous, I’ve been excited, and I’ve even outright dreaded the return, but never have I been so…calm about it. In the next week or two I’ll be starting the first third of my senior year, yet no strong emotion grips me. This may be because of the time difference. I’m not talking about the five measly hours between Bolivia and Alaska. This is much different. This is almost seven months different. This is almost seven months, a hemisphere, and a language different. That’s right, I’m about to start my senior year—in Bolivia.
I’m curious as to what the next six months will bring. I’m returning to the school of my junior, well, I can’t say year, since it was only two and a half months. In those two and a half months, people learned quite a bit about me. You might even say I had a reputation. Of not speaking Spanish… Before summer vacation began, my literature teacher leaned toward me and annunciated in crisp, overly-precise Spanish, ‘’Maybe you can read some books in Spanish this summer, so you can come back and do real work.’’ (Translated for your benefit.) I followed her instructions, and expect to finish Harry Potter y la Piedra Filosofal before the weekend. Despite my growing vocabulary, however, my Spanish is far from fluent. I know I’ve improved, but I don’t know if it’s enough to be a real member of class. If only Bolivians had a habit of repeating everything loudly and clearly!
I’ve changed a little since age eight, (most people have) but I never expected that back-to-school would feel like this. I’ve been nervous, I’ve been excited, and I’ve even outright dreaded the return, but never have I been so…calm about it. In the next week or two I’ll be starting the first third of my senior year, yet no strong emotion grips me. This may be because of the time difference. I’m not talking about the five measly hours between Bolivia and Alaska. This is much different. This is almost seven months different. This is almost seven months, a hemisphere, and a language different. That’s right, I’m about to start my senior year—in Bolivia.
I’m curious as to what the next six months will bring. I’m returning to the school of my junior, well, I can’t say year, since it was only two and a half months. In those two and a half months, people learned quite a bit about me. You might even say I had a reputation. Of not speaking Spanish… Before summer vacation began, my literature teacher leaned toward me and annunciated in crisp, overly-precise Spanish, ‘’Maybe you can read some books in Spanish this summer, so you can come back and do real work.’’ (Translated for your benefit.) I followed her instructions, and expect to finish Harry Potter y la Piedra Filosofal before the weekend. Despite my growing vocabulary, however, my Spanish is far from fluent. I know I’ve improved, but I don’t know if it’s enough to be a real member of class. If only Bolivians had a habit of repeating everything loudly and clearly!
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