I arrived in Sucre early in the morning via a very cushy overnight bus ride. I mostly slept in my fully reclined seat/bed. It was cheap, comfortable, and saved me the cost of a room for the night – perfect. Like most cities, Sucre’s bus station is not built in the nicest part of town. The station itself is small but clean enough and I felt relatively safe. I didn’t plan to stay in Sucre, just to check it out on my way to Uyuni (said you-knee), so my first order of business was to determine my route and buy my next bus ticket. Several of my fellow travelers have enjoyed Potosi (said Po-tow-see) and that was the most popular bus route to Uyuni so I grabbed a ticket. If you have ever been in a U.S. bus terminal then you must erase this from your mind in order to appreciate the typical South American bus station experience. The signs marking the various operators are all (somewhat elaborately) hand painted on plywood and each agency staffs at least one “advertiser.” Their job, it seems, is basically to stand in front of their booth window yelling out the routes and times that their operator offers – over and over and over and over again. The sound is rhythmic, loud, and annoying. I guess I’ve never mentioned that this is also how the mini vans work on the street – think bus route except with a van that has a sign in the window as to its destinations. The drivers simply wander through the city as their “advertisers” hang out the window hollering the routes and sometimes the cost. It’s actually barely comprehensible to me but for the brave and the locals, it is unbelievably cheap.
Anyway, my bus to Potosi was due to leave in about 7 hours so I ditched my backpack in a storage area at the station and headed out to see what I could see. I started on foot to get a feel for the place and to look for some breakfast. The temperature was noticeably warmer and the women were wearing a summer version of the garb I have previously described. The main differences seem to be in the number of layers, length of their skirts, and the type of hats they wore (see my pic of the lady walking down the street holding a basket). Unfortunately directions around here were a nightmare – 8 blocks was really 12 and so on. Plus it had started to rain so I decided to hop in a cab and head to the main square. Lonely Planet recommended a super cute little café in the square at La Historica Villa de la Plata (The Historic Village of Silver). I had a tortilla which, in Bolivia, is similar to a frittata or a fluffy omelet that is baked in the oven. That and a specialty coffee packed with calorific goodness definitely made up for the rain. Yum!
After breakfast I wandered around the square enjoying the gardens and watching the children chasing the birds in the rain. (Side note: Take time to drink in the little things...there is so much joy in simple pleasures.) The city is really beautiful, especially when compared to most other Bolivian cities. It is certainly much cleaner and more manicured, and it’s actually fairly ornate as well. Once upon a time Sucre was the capital of Bolivia, and it is still the constitutional capital. La Paz seems to have stolen the title at some point - something to do with the silver trade from nearby Potosi drying up - although Sucre is still the seat of government. If you ask me, they got it wrong because Sucre is WAY nicer than La Paz, albeit a bit remote. It’s quaint in all the right ways. For several blocks in every direction surrounding the main square, the buildings are all white washed and finished with terracotta roofs and black wrought iron jewelry. There are lovely balconies, unique hanging signs, picturesque street lamps, and other great details in the door knockers and shutter hardware. Sadly, the spaghetti-like mess that is the electrical wiring is something of an eyesore, but overall I really liked the city.
Sucre is the head of the Roman Catholic Church in Bolivia so there are several lovely cathedrals, as well as loads of museums. I am normally not the museum going type unless they are of the artistic variety; however, I made an exception and decided to check out a couple of the local museums. My main goal was to appease my best friend, Rod, by checking out some historically significant artifacts and whatnot. *shudder* I posted some pics to prove my attendance at La Casa de la Libertad - the title, of course, suggests that it marks the place of Bolivia's liberty. Perhaps that is true -dunno. There were some nifty old military uniforms and some swords and whatnot - and I liked the courtroom, although I can't figure out why there are two hybrid crib/casket looking things complete with carved creepy 300- year-old skull and cross bones in the middle of it. Perhaps the judges where not very forgiving. The coolest thing that I almost learned well enough to share is that Bolivia seems to be a conglomeration of a bunch of regional Indian tribes. That’s about all I can say about that. No worries though, I can almost certainly guarantee that my bestie will fill this in, probably from memory. His brain is chock full of useless trivia-type info like that.
The most interesting museum was definitely the one about Bolivian textile history called Museo de Arte Indigena (Museum of Indigenous Art). Sucre and its surrounding villages are known for producing the finest weaving in the country. My favorite part of the museum was the weaver’s gallery where there are native artists actually demonstrating the weaving process. Kewl. The gallery showed off some of Bolivia’s finest textiles overall. I loved it. Actually, I bought a small piece to honor the weaver I met there – check out my pic! The red and black piece she is working on in the picture is done in the century old Jalq’a style. The style is completely free form so every piece is unique. The master weaver disposes of a lot of potential shapes in favor of those that capture the group’s self-characterization as seen through the eyes of neighboring ethnic groups. Overall the Jalq’a produce pieces that represent an underground world devoid of solar light and dominated not by men but by free and untamed characters, many of which were not adopted into Andean imagery until the Spanish conquest. This part of the tour was obviously translated for me - which was great because I really enjoyed it. The weavings are meant to refer to the unknown. For those of you who knew me in my younger years, you know that I am a decent artist – drawing and painting mostly – when it comes to copying a 2-D image. When it comes to creating something from my own imagination, I got nothin’. I have a deep respect for people who are able to create from their imagination alone.
The rest of the rooms and various displays were dedicated to explaining the materials and dying processes, to breaking down the meanings of the various types of weaving, and to displaying dance costumes and musical instruments that are fundamental to the various cultures they come from. It was all very interesting. There was also an exhibit displaying artifacts from Tiwanaku (between Copacabanna and LaPaz) – it dates back to 700 A.D. I am disappointed that I missed out on these ruins. My Dad said they were amazing. I had to pick between the ruins and Isla del Sol. Oh well, next time. The last exhibit was mostly old bones and skulls and pottery…I wish that sort of thing was more interesting to me but it’s just not.
After the museum booted me out (closing time was just 2:30pm – boo!), I spent my remaining hour in Sucre wandering around town admiring the buildings and observing some of the cultural aspects of daily life. I stopped by a bakery for some local treats (which would have been awesome with hot tea by the way), and wandered through the fresh food markets and specialty areas where I met a shoemaker and a woman selling every manner of hair scrunchie imaginable. I eventually made my way up a hill looking for a view and was fortunate to meet a lovely grandmother type who was entertaining her granddaughter after school. We only talked a few minutes but I just LOVED her warm smile. Then it was time to get back for my bus to Potosi so I asked for directions and headed out. I was a little bit sad that I didn’t have more time in Sucre.
I arrived in Potosi at about midnight after a long bus ride with not so cushy seats. Fortunately the scenery was just stunning. I have included a couple of terrible photos that I took through the window while we were moving just to give you an idea of what the Bolivian countryside looks like because it's fabulous. Since I didn’t really know what my route would be in advance, I also didn’t know where I would be spending the night. Normally this isn’t much of an issue but it proved a little challenging on this night. For starters the bus station is not within walking distance of the main town where the majority of the hostels are located. Thankfully the station is huge by Bolivian standards so I didn’t have any trouble getting a cab. Unfortunately the random hostel that I selected from my Lonely Planet guide was full when I arrived. This is highly annoying at 1:00am. What took annoying to challenging was the SUV full of kids who thought it would be funny to spray me from head to toe with some kind of foam that smelled like oranges. Standing on the side of the road in the cold rain having just exited my taxi after an eight hour bus ride and an overnight the previous evening - I did not think it was funny. I was actually a bit stunned and I am embarrassed to admit that it kind of broke my spirit. The foam was sticky and literally covered every square inch of the front of me. I took a deep breath, wiped the foam out of my eyes, and walked into the hostel with a pouty face trying to hold back my tears. I must have looked like a little girl who had just skinned her knee and was trying not to cry about it – it’s all pretty funny to me now.
The reception clerk first informed me that the foam is just part of the Carnival season in Potosi and that it wasn’t anything to worry about. This lifted my spirits a little until he informed me that they didn’t have any beds available and that their only private room was more than I wanted to spend. Ug. I hoisted my bag back into place and stepped back out into the rain to check out a couple of other places. Most of them were closed for the night so I eventually wandered back to the first place aiming to take the private room. In that time there had been a shift change and the new clerk was happy to offer me their last available bed at a cheap rate. Thank you God! I hit the shower and fell into bed bemoaning my horrible luck. By this point I had already decided to take the first bus out of Potosi…and I did. It was still raining and miserable in the morning so I figured Potosi had it coming. Boy I sure showed that city. *hmpf*
Note: Of course I now realize how childish this reaction was but it took the rear view to see it. I think there is a lesson in not taking oneself too seriously somewhere in this experience.
Miscellaneous thoughts:
I don’t think I ever mentioned Sophie from Wild Rover, my first hostel in LaPaz. She was bartending at the hostel while I was there. Working at hostels is something backpackers can do when their funds are running low. Sometimes it’s just for room and board and sometimes there is a wage. I remember her because she likes to wear funky hats and she’s from Alaska. Anyway, she was on the bus to Sucre with me. It was nice to see her again.
So I have obviously fallen woefully behind in blogging…I blame subpar or completely unavailable Internet for the most part. I realize that I am like 2 months behind but I have 28 pages of blog notes so I figure I will go ahead and catch up. Here goes…
It was a slow morning. I woke up late despite having been passed out for nearly 12 hours. Check out time was at 11 so I sleepily went about the familiar task of re-packing mi mochila (my backpack) and left the hostel around 10:30. My bus was scheduled to leave for Sucre, Bolivia at 7pm so I had several hours at my disposal. I decided to find a nice little café and plop my tired self down for some coffee and blogging. On the morning that we left for the mountain, Craig and I stopped into a café for breakfast. It was close to where we spent the night and I remembered it being very western looking and advertising wi-fi. I set out in the direction where I thought I might find it and much to my surprise, I was right for once! Maybe traveling is improving my navigational skills – stop rolling your eyes in disbelief Dad…it could totally happen!
Joel was my waiter. He has warm brown eyes and a toothy smile, one of which is framed in gold. In addition to waiting tables he works the front desk at the Radisson Hotel in the afternoons. He was excited, or perhaps proud, to tell me about the view from the top of the hotel. I took Joel up on the cream of asparagus soup he had recommended and paired it with an open-faced tomato and cheese sandwich. I lingered for a few hours eating, drinking coffee, and enjoying sweet sweet Internet. In fact, when Joel brought my bill I ordered a plate of french fries and more coffee just so I could hang out a while longer. I have thoroughly enjoyed every moment of my travels but I must admit that it was nice to sit in a café that felt as though I could have found it in Any Small Town, USA. – well, save the round pronged plugs, llama on the menu, and lack of free drink refills anyway.
Three things happened at the café that I want to tell you about. First, I logged onto Facebook to check in with the goings on of my friends’ lives and my pastor messaged me!!! His timing was completely divine. For one thing, there have only been a handful of times when my wi-fi connection has been strong enough for the messaging feature to work, but technology aside, I was about to burst from my experiences on the mountain and he was the PERFECT person to spill it all to. I mentioned in my last blog that I was just really impressed with God’s faithfulness. Ya’ll, the thing about struggling up that mountain was that it was really hard. Now, it isn’t as if I thought it would be easy. Remember my Australian friend, Mark? He is a 6’4” beast of a man and he said that the climb was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life - so I knew it would be difficult. I chose to do it anyway. It was a step by step, choice after choice kind of experience. I prayed my whole way up and wept from a deep and grateful place when I finally arrived.
I was feeling a lot of things but the one that I was aching to share was the realization of just how much effort I was willing to expend simply because I had been promised a great view from the top. It struck me as odd in light of how much I struggle to be obedient to some of the simple, live-giving, soul-breathing requests of my Father. It wasn’t a heavy feeling – more of a gift. That mountain is God’s glorious creativity manifest in an awesome tangible form. Its beauty is just one of His many gifts to us and it has been there for a very long time patiently waiting to be enjoyed. Obedience is hard but the result is a “mountaintop view” like no other. I know this and yet I still struggle. The lesson of course is that I have to choose it – sometimes over and over again. It was one of those moments in life when you feel like a wayward teenager learning your lesson again for the first time. *Sigh* That brings me to God’s faithfulness. He has placed obedience on my heart many many times over the years and He has watched me enjoy success at times and other times not so much. Amazingly He never gives up on me. He is faithful each and every time I intentionally step closer to Him – patiently waiting to be enjoyed and, I imagine, cheering me on. Always encouraging Kester reminded me that obedience is like that sometimes…a step and a prayer, a step and a prayer…
I also met some folks from IJM or International Justice Mission. I am familiar with the organization because Gateway Church has hosted IJM speakers in the past as part of business and leadership summits, and my best girlfriend, Kelly, has also shared their message with me. They’re a Christian human rights organization that seeks justice for victims of human trafficking and the like. Given that my thoughts on life 2.0 have included the possibility of working for a NGO, it was serendipitous to run into them in such a casual environment where I felt free to ask them about their experiences with the organization. I figure that I give my first and my best to my job (an unavoidable reality) so I would REALLY like to know that what I am doing is directly connected to God’s mission. Who wouldn’t wake up every morning completely certain of that truth if they worked for IJM? I enjoyed chatting with them. The vibe I got from the whole group was engaging and really genuine. Among them was a permanent IJM employee, volunteer, and one other person who may have been some sort of local contact for the project. As I suspected, they all really enjoy working with IJM. Chris, the volunteer, suggested that volunteering would an excellent way to get my foot in the door with the organization and to get a feel for working with or for IJM. I’m a fan of small experiments so I like that idea. Chris also talked about his wife and kiddos back home. He was missing them. :o(Regrettably they didn’t have much time for play in Bolivia so I offered some of my experiences to entice their appetites for next time.
Last but not least, I wanted to tell you about the three Israelis who happened by the café for lunch and sat in the booth across from me – right about the time my french fries showed up. They are a handsome group of guys in their twenties but what really caught my attention was how different they all look. I suppose that I should have expected that to be the case given my basic knowledge of Israel and the fact that it is made up of people from all over, but that little tidbit must live in the part of my memory where historical facts go to die because it really didn’t even occur to me. I thought that Israeli folk would look “Israeli” the way that Bolivians had looked Bolivian…etc. Anyway, they were the first Israelites I’d ever met so I had to ask. Opportunity knocked when they asked for my help translating a conversation with their waitress. Fun - I got to be a translator! After we got their order squared away we made more proper introductions.
Meir, Omer, Yonatan had all recently finished their required tour of duty with the Israeli military and were travelling as is customary after one finishes his/her tour…that and avoiding the barber. The oldest, Yonatan, is just 24. They were quite shocked to hear that I am 32. Their looks of disbelief were poorly concealed and collectively communicated something along the lines of “wow, you’re that old?!” Apparently I look fairly young because I have been getting that reaction a lot on this trip (she types with a big smile on her face). Of course, in fairness, I remember being in my early twenties and thinking 32 sounded really really old too.
Before the guys headed out they asked me if I’d like to join them for the day. Having absolutely no plans and the chance to hang out with three hotties a decade younger than me, the decision was far from difficult. The day was mostly spent shopping which, for those of you who know me, is my third least favorite chore on the planet superseded only by pumping gas and filling out forms. Thankfully Yonatan also hates to shop so he busied himself teaching me how to spot an Israeli instead. I can’t say how well I learned my lesson but we had a good laugh testing out my new skills.
Before I knew it, it was time to head to the bus station and catch my 7pm bus to Sucre. My ultimate destination? Uyuni, Bolivia – home to the largest salt flat in the world (I might be making that part up but if it’s not the biggest, it’s definitely first in line for the title).
Miscellaneous thoughts:
The roadside mile markers are painted on rocks in much of Bolivia. Don’t think professional looking stencil-style painting on large permanent rocks; think partially legible numbers smeared onto small rocks possibly with a kid’s disposable paintbrush. I find this somewhat charming and also quite funny. I also admit wishing I could get off the bus to move the rocks down the road a little. I can’t explain this urge but promise not to do it.
I finally saw a fender bender in Bolivia…amazing. I can’t see how they don’t have them all the time. They are absolutely crazy drivers. Zero concept of lanes and absolutely no driving etiquette to speak of – well, at least none that I recognize as such. Luckily no one was hurt.
You see, when I need someone to process my thoughts and experiences with, the Lord always provides. Amen. I will always chase the adventures that life has for me – I believe that many of them are also what God has for me. I pray I will grow to chase obedience with the same fervor.
A note on sleeping bags…is there anyone out there who can really sleep comfortably with a sleeping bag zipped over their face? I can certainly see the advantage in terms of warmth but I just couldn’t handle breathing in recycled air that was already subpar the first time around. I would say I stared at the ceiling all night but there was no light to speak of after the sun went down, so I couldn't actually see the ceiling. My attention was split between trying to ignore the sensation that I was suffocating and searching the room for somewhere to fix my gaze…
I felt like a little girl on Christmas morning when someone’s alarm finally sounded at midnight. I was completely exhausted but felt certain that anything would be better than another moment in that cocoon of torture. Time to gear up! Since the makers of my snowsuit were decidedly male and quite certain that no woman would ever wear their suit, the pants only have a zipper that is convenient for boy parts. Sigh. This makes for a complicated 25-step process of undressing in order for those with girl parts to answer nature's call. I hoped to avoid all that on the mountain with a morning trip to the outdoor bucket. On the up side, when I went outside the sky was crystal clear and there were a gazillion stars. Incredible – and just the thing to put a big smile in my heart and get me super pumped for the big day!
When I got back inside I started adding layers. I put on my thermals, trekking pants, leg warmers, three pairs of socks, a fleece, my snowsuit, a hat, scarf, and gloves, a pair of inner leather boots and outer waterproof boots, metal crampons (removable spikes for your boots), a helmet with an attached headlamp, a Swiss seat fashioned out of climbing rope, and my pack full of water, chocolate, more gloves, hand warmers, another jacket, and the all important pick axe. Then I toddled over to the dining table for some breakfast. Note: I did not choose the order of my morning – it is all highly prescribed.
We were supposed to be on the trail by 1am but we were about 20 minutes late…no particular reason, just five people (guides included) to prepare I guess. While I waited for everyone to finish, I noticed that I felt pretty good. I was a little light headed but I think that was mostly due to lack of sleep. I went ahead and took a Diamox (altitude sickness med) just in case and then it was time to go! The air, albeit thin, was much more satisfying outside than it had been in the lodge so I breathed in deeply. After a long night of feeling like I couldn't breathe, it was enjoyable at a visceral level. The weather was about as nice as one could hope for and Celestino (Sell-est-eenoh) commented several times about how lucky I was to have missed the weather the previous two weeks – nothing but snow and sleet. Mark, Megan, and Tamara had climbed in that weather and having heard their stories, I really am SO GRATEFUL that the weather was *pleasant*. I was also grateful for Celestino’s advice on what I should wear. Climbing was far more agreeable without the blistering heat that I had experienced the day before.
Even with the headlamp, I couldn’t see much except the path in front of me and my guide who led the way. Static scenery + the altitude + lack of sleep = a long morning. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and I counted my steps along the way in order to regulate my breaks and push myself. No fewer than 100 steps between breaks. That might not seem like many steps, but all that gear made it difficult to walk on the concrete in the lodge so sinking into the snow with each step was not an improvement. At first our guides were trying to keep us relatively close together on the mountain. There were two problems with that approach. First, the guys were capable of going faster than I was. Second, as I found out later, their guide was something of a drill sergeant who spent the morning whipping them in Spanish. The translation went something this (and I encourage you to furrow your brow for this part):
A break? Are you quitting on me?! Fine then – quit! Two minutes ladies. TWO minutes!
Impatient stares…
Times up – “NOW! MOVE IT! Or I'm going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of the world! I will motivate you!” (Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, Full Metal Jacket)
This meant that the guys spent the first part of the morning a quarter to a half a mile in front of Celestino and I, which is lucky since I didn’t have to listen to their guide’s barking or, apparently, their girlish weeping. However, it was also unlucky in that they got to break until our headlamps were in view again, and then they took off which meant that I did not get to break. It didn’t take long for that to get old so I just began taking breaks as I needed them.
Unfortunately my frequent breaks for 30 seconds or a minute seemed to cause great concern in Celestino. I wasn’t sure if I had initiated his Guide Alert System or just upset his inner “dude” who wanted to fix it, but it was clear that I needed to explain. And so, in very broken Spanish, I explained that I had been born with deformities and had had 17 surgeries on my feet and legs, two of which were to make my Achilles tendons longer. I told him that going up was difficult because of the pressure on my tendons from the boots. Then I reassured him that I was okay, but that I needed to go at my own pace and break when I needed to. There was a lot of pointing and grunting involved, but he understood and hollered up to the other guide at his next opportunity. I don’t know what he said exactly, but after that, they stopped trying to keep us together – praise God!
And then there was the ice wall….What?!? How does this not qualify as technical climbing skill?! Celestino vomited some instructions at me in Spanish and then up he went. As I stood there dumbfounded, desperately searching for the girl’s tee, I realized that I had barely understood what he said and that I was scared. Seriously, I can’t even do a pull-up so this seemed impossible to me. In looking up, all I could see were several tiny headlamps at the top – more than just the guys. I must have taken longer than I thought to gather my courage because I also heard a few voices telling me to get moving. I took a deep breath, grabbed the rope, and planted my pick axe a couple of feet above me. Then I kicked into the ice one foot at a time and pulled up on the rope. About half way up the wall, my toes had had quite enough of kicking into the ice, and my arms were on fire. I had Kelly’s voice in my head from times when we’ve gone running together and she explained that you just have to push past the moments when you feel your heart may explode. A few more steps and then…I slipped. My heart dropped to my knees where it was caught in route to my toes by the rope I was attached to. I should have been grateful, but mostly I was just miffed that I had to do it again! In all honesty, that ice wall was the most difficult physical accomplishment of my life. Eventually I reached the top and learned that the extra headlamps belonged to the Belgium couple who were turning back due to altitude sickness. Okay, then I was grateful because aside from being tired and sore, I was feeling fine.
As I rested and waited for Celestino to situate his climbing gear, I noticed an intense burning sensation in my fingers. They were just cold, but holy cow did they hurt. I dug into my bag for my hand warmers but I couldn’t get my fingers to cooperate long enough to open the packages. On the heels of that ice wall, I just starred at my hands and teared up. I was grateful when Celestino noticed. He opened my packages for me, put the warmers into my gloves, took his gloves off and put them over mine, and then rubbed my hands until they warmed up. He was so great to me – SO GREAT! I love a man with a good heart and his is made of gold…and a lot of patience.
By that point, visibility was improving and it was very close to sunrise. Celestino asked me whether I wanted to try for the summit. He was a little concerned about the time because of what I mentioned earlier about the sun making for slippery, and therefore more dangerous climbing conditions. I explained that my goal was to climb high enough to watch the sunrise, and not to summit. If you’re a boy then you might find that goal disappointing, if not unacceptable, so let me lay a tired axiom on you to soothe (or perhaps enflame) your irritation. It’s not about the destination friends, it’s about the journey. When our break was up, we got back to it.
About thirty minutes later, around 6:30 in the morning, I stopped for the most stunning view of my life – sunrise over the mountains of Bolivia from 19,030 feet above sea level. The snow was pink and it looked like it was covered in millions of tiny diamonds glinting in the sun. A thick white fog had nestled around the caps of the mountains below, and the sky had become a kaleidoscope of color. It was an incredibly emotional moment for me so if you watch the video, I hope you will pardon my tears. Poor Celestino. Did I mention that he doesn’t speak a single word of English? I tried to reassure him that the tears were good, but it wasn’t until he smiled and hugged me that I was sure he understood.
It’s hard to believe sometimes how fortunate I am, and nothing puts a spotlight on that more than being in a country where the average citizen doesn’t even have enough money to fill a cavity. I had been praying all morning, praising God for the opportunity and chatting with Him about the state of my heart and whatnot, but this moment was a completely different level of gratitude. Friends, my Mom raised my twin sister and I on her own and I spent A LOT of time in wheelchairs growing up. More often than not, I required constant care. When we were older, Sarah used to carry me around when I needed it, even though she was forced to play second fiddle to my illness for a long time. And I grew up really wanting to be like everyone else, despite the obvious fact that I was not like everyone else. Case in point: I was 13 when I had my tendons lengthened. After the surgery, I was to have at least two years of freedom before my next procedure. The casts and physical therapy took about six months before I was walking again, and about six months later I couldn’t wait to go skiing with my girlfriend, Tammy, on the school trip. Well, that ended in disaster after less than an hour on the slopes when some speed-demon clipped my skis and sent me flying. When I landed my left ski had not released and I had torn my newly lengthened Achilles as a result. This would eventually require more surgery to remove the scar tissue that was binding my range of motion… Perhaps unsurprisingly, I grew up with this deep sense that I was very fragile – and, maybe I was.
I tell you all of this because as I looked out over the mountain, I was overcome with gratitude for my family who cared for me and for my very talened doctors. I had this amazing red-headed doc named Dr. Dollinger (and yes, the red hair is an important detail!) who really is the reason that I can walk. Think about that for a moment if you will. And when I was in my late twenties and my feet were really starting to bother me again because of a couple of hotspots I had developed, I was fortunate enough to find Dr. Smoot, who made the pain go away. Since then I have cycled and trekked, and climbed – I AM INCREDIBLY BLESSED. It’s a good thing that words aren’t required for prayer because sometimes we just don’t have any. Instead, I asked God to search my heart and know my love for Him. The joy I felt is not really something I can put into words, I am crying my eyes out now just typing this. I felt so close to the Lord on that mountain. I just crave those moments in my life and it was GOOD…really really GOOD.
I did my best to capture the moment with a video and some pictures, and sweet Celestino offered to take a few pictures of me as well (bummer that he didn’t realize he had to focus the camera first). Then, to my surprise, he told me that we should climb a bit further because he could tell that I had enough energy. He thought I should go for it. I quietly disagreed with him on summiting, but agreed to climb a while longer. We went up another 160 feet and stopped again to take in the rest of the view. The summit was in sight by that point – just 500 feet away. While I felt pretty confident that I could have climbed up another 150 to 300 feet, I’m not sure I could have summited, and I needed to reserve enough energy to climb all the way back down to base camp. My legs were also very sore and I was really dreading facing off with that ice wall again. I reminded him that it wasn’t my goal to summit and told him that I was ready to head back to camp. He looked a little disappointed, but I think it was empathy more than anything.
Climbing down used a whole different set of muscles – my quads. It was MUCH easier and we moved really quickly. Celestino was right; I still had plenty of energy. Regardless, I fell a few times on the way because my legs were being stubborn. I felt clumsy and I simply couldn’t get my feet under me at times. I led on the way down which was good since I was also having trouble keeping my tears at bay – an emotional jambalaya. I was proud of myself and so amazed by the experience overall, and I was a little bit sad too. I thought about how much I wished Diego was with me to experience the moment, and about how much I ache for a life partner in general. I want to live these adventures with someone I can sit beside on our front porch 40 years from now and say, “remember when?” I’ve been struggling with those thoughts a lot on this trip. I’ve been sending up a lot of really basic prayers lately asking God to help me receive what He places in my hands and to let go of what He takes out of them. I really want to shake this cloud that makes me feel as though these experiences are less than they could be. Anyway, I think that may be why being on that glorious mountain SO impressed my spirit with God’s faithfulness.
Daylight made the trip down a whole lot more frightening because I could see how dangerous the mountain actually was. There are huge crevasses everywhere and my path wound through them like a maze. The darkness had been sweet ignorance, but the daylight also revealed magnificent views of icicles dripping down the sides of the cracks in the mountain. I wish I had stopped for more photos of them but my fingers froze instantly every time I took them out of my gloves. And then there was the ice wall. I had the *pleasure* of going down first. The snow was blindingly bright making the path from previous climbers really difficult to see. What was not difficult to see was the crevasse less than 15 feet to my right. It was a very leg dependant exercise which, by that point, was extremely difficult for me. I slipped again on the way down, this time catching myself with my axe and struggling to pull myself up on the rope. I think it was about that time that Celestino stopped me for a photo. I literally laughed out loud and then smiled for the photo and calmly reminded myself that he is a professional with six years of experience on the mountain. I felt better and finished my descent. Celestino followed.
All in all, the hike to high camp was the easiest part of my day and I arrived just two hours later at 8:30. I was exhausted, but not from climbing as much as the lack of sleep. Celestino gave me a big hug and made me some hot tea. Then I went up to the loft and tried to rest while I waited for the guys. As tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. It was cold and noisy and all I could think about was getting on my way to base camp. Craig and Eric showed up about an hour later. They had climbed as high as they could safely go, about 500 feet higher. They wanted to summit but the guide wouldn’t let them because the conditions at the top made it too dangerous. Maybe it’s just as well because the last part was apparently very difficult for them. They told me that they had basically passed out on the snow for power naps here and there and that they were both feeling the altitude as well. I was anxious to get going because I could feel myself really fading, but they needed to rest. I passed the time talking with the other climbers and writing on the wall. The picture didn’t come out very well, but my note says:
February 23 – 2011
After 17 operations on my feet and legs, I made it to 5,080 meters. You can do it. Praise God for Dr. Beth Dollinger and Dr. Brannan Smoot – you have immeasurably changed my life!
Danyelle Price
Austin, TX
USA
After a while the guys came around and we got moving. We were the last to head down to base camp. I was completely spent by that point and my legs felt like jell-o. To make matters worse, the route had begun to melt from the sun. It was very steep and very slippery. We all fell a couple of times before stopping to put our crampons back on and get our ice picks back out. Unfortunately, I continued to fall even with my crampons. It was also really hard on my knees. I didn’t remember the first day being so difficult. That last bit to base camp seemed to go on forever. I had to break frequently. It's hard when you can only depend on yourself but you have nothing left. Near the end of the trek, I passed Claire. She had opted for a different tour that meant she started climbing a day later than we did. She was so excited about her first day of climbing. I told her not to look at me because it would be discouraging and she had every reason to be excited. When I finally reached base camp I took off my boots and my ankles and feet swelled immediately. Bummer. It was 2pm. We didn’t waste any time gathering our gear and getting in the car for the transfer back to La Paz. I slept the whole way.
And that was about it. We arrived at the tour office, picked up our t-shirts, thanked Celestino profusely, and headed to the hostel to get our packs. The guys checked in, but I decided to head out in search of a private room with a hot shower – a nice spot to rest and recover. I ended up at the hostel right next door. Craig and Eric went out to celebrate the climb and Eric’s last night. He had an early morning flight back to reality. I thought I would join them, but I spent the next 12 hours in a coma instead.
Video Links:
Sunrise Take 1:
Sunrise Take 2:
Celestino:
Miscellaneous thoughts:
I waited for the sunset at the mirador in La Paz and also at Isla del Sol, but the skies were grey and dreary. Delayed gratification - the sunrise was a particularly special gift.
I had a cheerleader during the last quarter mile to high camp. The English woman had been watching for me and when she spotted me in the distance, she stood outside and cheered me on :o) That was so nice of her. I know she was feeling awful from having burned her eyes climbing without glasses on the first day and the altitude sickness wasn't helping. I really wish I could remember her name.
Random thought – I was thinking of my time in wheelchairs and it made me remember that the mall security guards in Bogota were all in wheelchairs. There were a lot of them. It was odd.
I woke up at 7:15am and my emotions were all over the place. I was excited and nervous and somewhat glad that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. We hurried to get ourselves ready in order to give us time to gather our last minute supplies (water, chocolate, and batteries) and still get to the tour agency in time to be fitted for gear before our 9am departure. Eric had lent me a small pack that zipped off his main pack and converted to a proper backpack with a hip-strap and all. We grabbed water from the hostel and chocolate from one of the local tiendas. Unfortunately I seem to have left my headlamp in Copacabana, unknowingly of course and probably just by accident on my part. It seems odd that someone would steal a headlamp. It’s a bummer though because it was a gift especially for this trip from a good friend of mine. Perhaps that was why I found myself particularly bothered that I had lost it. Anyway, Eric and I were both planning to rent headlamps from the tour company so we needed batteries which we also located at one of the street stalls.
After getting ourselves sorted at the tour agency, I left around 9:15am with Claire and guys followed shortly after us. Claire is an Australian who was also heading to the mountain. We mostly exchanged nervous energy on the 2 ½ hour ride to Huayna Potosi. In Bolivia you are never really very prepared for a tour. Asking questions is futile. Tour agency representatives are trained not to tell you that they don’t know the answer to your questions so asking for more information than they have on their script typically produces inaccurate BS that is really more frustrating than it is helpful. You kind of just have to hold your breath and jump in!
We passed a beautiful old cemetery just before we reached base camp. And yes, the location of the cemetery freaked me out, but I still asked the driver to stop so we could get a closer look. The gravesites look a lot like little stone doghouses (which I mean in the least offensive way possible). Some of them have metal crosses that extend up from the peak of the roof and almost all of them have a covered space for loved ones to leave flowers and light candles and whatnot. The sky had opened up just outside La Paz so the roads were mostly mud by the time we neared base camp. Naturally the car wasn’t able to make it all the way up to camp so our trek started a bit early as Claire and I finished the transfer on foot…in the snow and slush without waterproof anything. Just to add insult to injury, let’s count this the fourth time on my trip that I REALLY wished I had waterproofed my dang shoes!
Upon arrival we had lunch and then geared up for the first day of our two day climb. We realized pretty quickly that we would be carrying far more than what would fit into our backpacks. Apparently a “small backpack” is at least 50 liters in Bolivian speak, and since my main pack is only 60 liters, it was obvious that we had an unfortunate misunderstanding on our hands. I might have realized this issue had I been given my gear at the agency, but the tour guides carry all the gear to base camp in a giant tote so we didn’t actually know what we would be carrying until we got to base camp. Sigh. We end up strapping loads of stuff to the outside of our packs and scrounging for plastic bags to protect our rented sleeping bags from getting soaked. Did I mention that it was sleeting and hailing outside?
Celestino was to be our guide the first day. He is 40 years old and does this trek a couple of times a week – with a full tank of propane in hand. Wow. Ridiculous. The trek up to high camp at 5,200 meters (17,060 feet) went largely unappreciated by me because despite the freezing cold miserable weather, I was boiling up to the point of feeling as though I might pass out at any moment. The woman at the tour agency had advised me to wear 3 layers on the bottom and 5 on the top (again, it really is best not to ask questions). Well, I was only wearing four layers on top but I can be a bit of a heater sometimes and I eventually had to stop and strip off almost all of my top layers. Honestly, I think being too hot was my biggest hurdle on the first day. The gear I was wearing was heavy and restrictive, the boots were extremely uncomfortable on my surgically lengthened Achilles tendons, and I felt very out of breath due to the altitude, but all that was secondary to the fact that my core body temperature was absolutely raging. I felt sluggish and a little bit defeated. The guys took off so I mostly hiked alone wishing I had a cheerleader by my side. The last part of the climb was extremely steep and I arrived at high camp uncertain about whether I would attempt the summit the next day.
Celestino was a machine. We arrived and he immediately set about the task of heating water for us for mate tea with coca leaves, which is said to help with adjusting to the altitude. Actually, it helped a lot to just take a break, cool off, and sip some tea. High camp was a very basic little stone house with a loft for sleeping and a dining hall on the main floor. There was a single light in the dining hall and no heat to speak of. The walls were covered in scribbles from previous climbers – a mixture of encouraging words, territorial “X was here” comments, and some unfortunately descriptive comments about the difficulty of day two. The bathroom facilities consisted of an outhouse with two buckets…yup…not kidding. One of the two buckets was fitted with a toilet seat so that was something.
I met an English woman in the loft who had already decided not to climb in the morning and a couple from Belgium that was undecided. Apparently they were all feeling quite sick. I took a moment to stop my internal whining and be grateful for the fact that my body seemed to be handling the altitude just fine. The thing is that the whole experience is quite shocking to the system. For me it was mainly a temperature issue – I went from being hotter than I have ever been in my life to being absolutely freezing, and it was very hard to breathe which is just a strange sensation. But as I sat in my gratefulness it only took about 30 seconds for me to redefine my day completely. I thought about the sound of the ice breaking off that I had mistaken for thunder on my way up the mountain, and about how beautiful the giant ice-cycles were on the roof of high camp. Then my thoughts drifted to the views which were intermittently obscured by the fog and clouds, but still all together AMAZING. What was I thinking – of course I was going to climb the next day! I thought of my girlfriend, Stephanie Martin, who I knew would have said it was time to make my own sunshine! And so I did…
It was also about that time that dinner was ready. Eric, Craig, and I enjoyed some hot soup, spaghetti, and more hot tea and then we gathered round our guide to get the low down on day two. As it turned out, I was going to have Celestino all to myself for the second day. This was a huge relief since I also found out that I was going to be tied to him all day. Given the pace of the guys the first day, I am so grateful that they had their own guide. The basic plan was that we would go to bed right after dinner (about 6pm) and wake up at about midnight to grab some breakfast and gear up for day two. The guides explained that we needed to be on the mountain as early as possible because if we intended to summit, which the guys did, then it was imperative that we be close by sunrise or risk the added danger of slippery ice as it began to melt under the heat of the sun.
Okay, so time for bed...during the day….in a room full of noisy sleeping bags….and people gasping for breath…with no heat in the freezing cold….tormented by the anticipation of day two. Midnight honestly could not come soon enough.
Pictures:
There were two women (in flipping skirts!) that collected the entrance fee for the mountain - see the picture of them under the blue tarp. What was truly confusing was that there is a perfectly insulated building about 30 feet from where they stand under that stupid tarp. I asked Celestino why they didn't use the building but I didn't understand his answer.
Eric is the one with darker hair and Craig has an orange bandanna on.
Eric, Craig, and I had a typical carb-o-licious Bolivian breakfast at our hostel’s restaurant whilst staring out the large picture windows at lots and lots of rain. I kicked myself yet again for not taking the 20 minutes it would have taken to waterproof my shoes before I left. Ug. Diego must have stressed the importance of that task to me at least a dozen times. Sigh. Since I had decided to take the guys up on their offer to climb Huayna Potosi together, we needed to head back to the mainland in time to organize an addition to their tour. This meant that we were going to get wet. So we all added a waterproof layer and headed out. Thankfully the rain let up some and we didn’t get all that wet.
Before heading out we explored the trail on the south part of the island that leads down to the ruins. To be perfectly honest, they weren’t all that impressive to me. They mostly looked as I imagined they would – a series of stone rooms with trapezoidal shaped doors of typical Incan design. I suppose the most surprising thing was that there were a lot of offerings – mostly cigarettes – left in what was most likely used as an altar. The ruins were smallish so it didn’t take long to finish checking them out. I didn’t take many photos because I forgot my camera battery charger in Copacabana and I was almost out of juice. Besides, I prefer the beauty of the lake and the incredible terraced landscape. I cannot imagine how many hours of labor it must have taken the Incans to construct the terraces, and I'm pretty amazed at how well they serve their purpose even today. As you can see from the pictures, there is no shortage of green around these parts so the terracing is obviously an effective agricultural technique for retaining ground water. Given that the ruins are near a dock, we decided to try our luck with a private transfer back to Yampupata. We lucked out and found a boatman who was heading that way and offered to take us for cheap cheap! He was also kind enough to let us borrow his cell phone to call the tour agency. I was proud of myself for being able to ask for all of this in Spanish, and even more so because he understood me the first time I asked! :o)
A short while later we arrived in the little port in Yampupata aboard our double decker boat. The weather had cleared up some so we opted for the sun deck up top (it's a really nice little port – check out the photo). With the sun on our faces, we decided to walk back to Copacabana so we set out north toward Sicuani. We met a few children along the way and a couple of villagers – everyone was very pleasant. By the time we reached Sicuani we were all ready for lunch, but there weren’t any restaurants around. The problem was that we had quite a lot of walking ahead of us and we weren’t going to be passing any more heavily populated towns for some time, which I knew from my taxi ride the previous day. There were a few people working in one of the fields along the shore so I hollered to them and asked if there was someplace we could get a bite to eat. They motioned toward a house just behind us so we wandered over and met its owners, Pausto (Powustoh) and Estiquina (Es-tee-keenah). Estiquina had just made a big batch of quinoa soup and promptly prepared three bowls for us as we gathered around their make-shift dining table in their courtyard. People, this was not a restaurant! I was blown away by their hospitality. And, incidentally, it was the absolute best tasting soup I had in Bolivia. When we asked for the cost, they said it was their pleasure to offer us lunch and that there was no cost. What?! When we pressed, she said we could leave a tip if we liked (which we did!).
We sat with them for an hour or so talking about where we were from and where we had been in our travels. Pausto has visited a few places in the States so he was particularly keen on chatting about the places he had been. They also shared that a few women from the U.S. had been staying with their family for about three months teaching the children in the community how to speak English out of a small room in their home. We so enjoyed our time with them that before we knew it we were running dangerously close to not making it back to Copacabana in time for the last bus to La Paz. Eric suggested that we see about calling a cab and Pausto was happy to oblige. He called Estiquina’s brother who arrived about 15 minutes later in a cab for a very reasonable price. Perfect! Just before we headed out Estiquina let me snap a quick picture of her. She was knitting a new sweater at the table where we were eating. She blushed when she saw the photo on my camera – I LOVED her!
When we arrived in Copacabana we quickly bought tickets to La Paz and set out in separate directions to grab our packs from our respective hostels. Unfortunately it was raining again, but more of an irritating sprinkle really. Anyway, I super-duper wish I had packed a rain cover for my pack. Instead, I asked the receptionist for a large trash bag which I fashioned onto my pack to deter the rain. Then I loved on my two little feline furballs and said my goodbyes before dashing back down to the square to catch the bus.
When we arrived in La Paz we checked into Eric and Craig’s favorite little dive hostel…a bit gross but very cheap. We dropped our bags and headed out for dinner at really nice little restaurant called Hotel Rosario. It was the first place I had seen in Bolivia with a legitimate salad bar. I can hardly believe how much I crave veggies these days so I was really excited about the salad bar. Eric tried to get me to try llama but I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry but they are just too cute. Is there a term for people who only eat ugly animals? I don’t have any problems with cows or chickens but the llamas are all dressed up and adorable…couldn’t do it.
After dinner we went straight back to the hostel to grab showers and prepare for the climb in the morning. All I knew was that I needed a small backpack, chocolate, and water – well, that and the fact that I had none of these items. Wahooo ---- adventure!
I awoke at 7am to the sounds of Sunday in Copacabana. The chiming of church bells and soothing resonance of chanting reaches every corner of the city by loud speaker. The chanting was positively musical. I hopped out of bed and flung open my quaint little hinged window so I could take it all in. I wondered briefly whether the residents take this morning pleasure for granted. Perhaps some do, but then again, I share a meal with my house church every Sunday evening and I can honestly say that I always look forward to that time. I hope the people of Copacabana feel the same way because I can’t imagine a more enjoyable way to start a Sunday. A morning message was also broadcast. I didn’t understand every word but overall it seemed to be a blessing over the city and an announcement of a benediction that was to take place at 10am – I know, how lovely right?!
Unfortunately I would have to miss the morning events because my taxi was due at 8am. Instead I packed up my bag and dropped it off at the reception desk where they had agreed to keep it for me until I returned from Isla del Sol. Then I enjoyed some fresh bread and my hard earned honey for breakfast, along with a piping hot cup of tea and a little white kitten curled up in my lap. My cabbie, Isidro, arrived right on time. During our brief introductions, I learned that Isidro doesn’t speak a single word of English. This, I thought, will be interesting. Nevertheless, I hopped in and we took off for Sampaya.
As it turned out, Isidro was very enthusiastic about showing me his city and he slowed his Spanish down enough for me to understand about 85% of his descriptions. I thoroughly enjoyed finally getting to really practice my Spanish and I have to say that I was really impressed with my progress. I asked him a lot of questions which he understood and answered in a manner that I could understand as well. In the moments when we struggled, we used our hands and twice I relied on my nicely honed Pictionary skills (thank you Mom and Sarah!) to draw my questions. For example, I wanted to ask about how the people tend to their animals when they roam free without fences but I simply did not have the vocabulary. After several broken verbal attempts failed, it was my picture of a fence, which he first mistook for railroad ties, that finally conveyed my question. Apparently the people herd their animals like sheep. They roam free by day and are penned up at night for sleeping. Considering all the language obstacles on this trip, my time with Isidro was a highly encouraging vote of confidence in the Spanish department – YES!
He also told me about all the flowers and plants along the way and pointed out, for instance, that Bolivia is a big producer of quinoa. Since I happen to live with a darling who has very unusual food habits, I actually eat quinoa back home fairly often. She calls it a super food and she will be elated to hear that Bolivia agrees (I miss you, Dana - and all your quirky food ways!). They put it in soups, mix it with spices and veggies, and even add it to deserts. I like it best in their soups. Quinoa isn’t very colorful but we also passed countless fields of incredibly vivid flowers – hot pink and bright yellow, orange, and lavender. Given the crazy climate here, it seems strange to me that flowers can even survive let alone thrive they way that they do. Isidro said they are mainly harvested for the various benedictions or for personal use in worship. We also passed the ring where the annual bull fights take place (don’t be sad – they don’t fight to the death), Isla Flotante Playa Blanca (Floating White Beach Island), Gruta de Lourdes in the community of Hanchaca (which is some sort of place for worshiping alone), a delightfully fragrant Eucalyptus forest, and the communities of Sicuani and Titicachi (check out the trout farms in the pics).
We arrived about an hour and a half later, after carefully navigating the mud soaked roads. Sampaya is like a set out of old Hollywood depicting a make-believe village meant to evoke feelings of days gone by when life was a whole lot simpler. The foreground is full of stone houses, the oldest of which have no windows. They are built with mud mortar and thatched roofs on a lovely green terraced landscape. Amazing views of Lake Titicaca and Isla de Luna (Island of the Moon) make up the background, and the soundtrack completes the allure of this charming little place – birds singing their little hearts out, sheep making their sheep sound, and the demands of an ornery cow in the distance. Isidro explained that Isla de Luna is home to just 10-15 families these days as well as some kind of Incan nunnery that was built to house chosen virgins who would dedicate their lives to the sun and the moon starting at around eight years old.
Leaving Isidro behind, I took off into town. I couldn’t wait to meet the Aymara people that call this community home. Mostly, however, I met a pig and some sheep. Isidro later informed me that the entire community makes its way to Copacabana on Sundays to buy and sell goods. I count myself lucky to have met a curious young woman with a shy smile who was peeking out her front gate at me, and a sweet man in his sixties who was carrying a bundle of wood from near the lake back up to his home. In our brief exchange I apologized for my Spanish, told him how beautiful his home was, and asked about the wood he was carrying. Through a largely toothless smile, he told me in very simple Spanish that the people in his community are Aymara and speak their native language, and that the wood was for his kitchen. He looked out on the lake and agreed that Sampaya is beautiful and then asked me about my travels – the usual questions about how long I planned to travel and where I planned to go. He also seemed particularly interested or perhaps concerned that I was “sola” (alone). Before we parted I asked if I could take his picture, but he was disinclined and motioned again at the lake for my picture. Moments later he was on his way. I enjoyed this little town so much. There is something intrinsically attractive about living a simple life…
When I got back to the cab, I found Isidro waxing the hood of his car. While he finished I asked him about a sign I had seen that said that Evo Morales had ordered that the town be protected as a historical landmark. Given the disrepair of the sign, I wondered whether it had any real meaning. Isidro seemed genuinely grateful for Morales and explained that he also built the small hotel at the edge of the village overlooking the lake. That makes me wonder whether Mr. President has ulterior motives but, having no idea how to say (or draw) “ulterior” or “motives” in Spanish, I just smiled and we were on our way to Yampupata where I was to board my boat to Isla del Sol.
The ride to Yumani at the south end of the island, Pilko Kaina, was an enjoyable 45 minutes or so and a large totora boat docked just up the beach immediately caught my eye. I had yet to see one up close so I was pretty excited to go check it out. That might be why I was particularly irritated with the man who approached me for 5 Bolivianos before I had even stepped off the dock. I knew about the community’s ingreso (admission fee) for visiting the island, but it doesn’t take long for all these little fees to get really annoying. Sigh. Pay. Smile. With my receipt in hand, I wandered toward the boat until I reached a fence made from the metal skeleton of an old mattress. One of the owners was within shouting distance so I asked if I could pass through his property to see the boat and he welcomed me in. The boat is every bit as cool as you would think. The owner was preparing the boat to sail but he stopped long enough to talk with me and offered to take my picture.
Then I headed back toward and up the Escalera del Inca (Inca Staircase) which is also commonly known at Las Mil Gradas (the 1,000 steps), although I’m not sure why since there were only 200-ish steps. The base of the staircase is flanked by statues that represent Mallku Kapac and Mama Ocllo, the Incan “Adam and Eve.” According to Incan legend, Lake Titicaca is the site of the creation story. Following a massive flood, the god Viracocha arose from the lake, created the world, and ordered Inti (the sun) and Mama Kilya (the moon) and the stars to rise. Then he went to Tiwanaku (a bad-apple set of ruins that I unfortunately didn’t have time to visit) where he created the first human beings from stone. After bringing them to life, Viracocha commanded them to go to Isla del Sol and procreate.
Back to the steps – they wind up the side of the mountain to the natural spring fed Fuente del Inca (Incan Fountain). Spanish lore called the site an eternal fountain of youth. There are three streams that, for the Incas, represent their national motto: Ama Sua, Ama Llulla, Ama Khella which means Don’t Steal, Don’t Lie, and Don’t be Lazy. When I reached the fountain there was a young mother gathering water for the laundry that she washed just a few steps up the path and a three or four year old little girl cooling her face, and perhaps just playing, with the water from the last stream – it was the only one her little arms could reach. So cute!
I continued up the side of the mountain through a residential labyrinth (I can attest to at least three dead ends) to the top where I hoped to stay for the night. I must have passed 25 hostels and hotels along the way – a touristy spot to be sure and with good reason. The island boasts the best views of the lake available as well as fantastic trekking along lush green terraces to Inca ruins like those of the Incan Palace, Palacio del Inca (there are something like 80 different ruins on the island dating back to the 15th century). By the time I finally checked into my room, I was starved so I headed out to the restaurant next door for their set lunch – trout, rice, and potatoes. The young woman who served me was also the chef and, perhaps, the owner of the restaurant given that she was the only person working – unless you count the baby that she carried on her back. Impressive.
I stayed at a pretty hostel called Intinkala (the place of the sun) where I ran into a really fun Dutch couple, Katarine and Jon, that I had previously met mountain biking. An Argentine named Tomas also wandered in looking for lodging and joined my conversation with Eric and Craig, a couple of twenty-somethings from New York who were hanging out on the porch above my room. We all chatted for quite a while about our travels and a little about our lives and I invited them to join me for dinner – pizza and beer. Over dinner Craig and Eric talked about their plans to climb Huayna Potosi, the same mountain that Mark, Megan and Tamara had talked about. I explained that some of my previous traveling companions had climbed up to about 5,800 meters and that they had described the experience as incredibly challenging but worth every step. In fact, I was so taken by the snippets they had shared with me that I had considered giving it a shot myself. But mountain climbing just isn’t the sort of thing I would do alone so I had put the thought to rest until the guys invited me to join them. They had already located and paid a tour guide so adding me would be a cinch. My initial response was that I probably wasn’t physically capable of making a climb like that, but they said that technical climbing skills were not required and encouraged me to come along. I thanked them both for the invitation and said I would definitely think about it.
Miscellaneous thoughts:
Argentine men are a lot more direct and forward than I am accustomed to. That will take some getting used to when I get to Argentina.
I think some of the cab drivers in Bolivia own the cars they drive because they can be pretty unique. Some have decals and whatnot that decorate the outside and all of them seem to have these fantastic dashboard covers on the inside. I wish I could remember what Isidro said they were called. They’re made of various kinds of funky velour-like or furry fabric and trimmed in a tasseled fringe – Isidro’s is grey fur with gold tassels. The drivers pay a good deal of attention to ensuring that they are properly positioned on the dashboard at all times. Hilarious.
There are no cars on the island – it is almost earily quiet.
In addition to being a sacred lake, Titicaca is also known as the highest lake in terms of altitude – 12,600-ish feet above sea level.
There doesn’t seem to be any particular issue with the mixing of Catholicism with indigenous rituals and customs that clearly fall into the realms of animism and polymorphism. I wonder how the Vatican handles this aspect of the church…I guess I had always thought Catholicism was rather more rigid than that. I also really wonder what the particular beliefs about Christ are for these folk. Side note: I totally learned about animism and polymorphism in my World Religions class last year – one of my most interesting and, apparently, useful courses in school.
Mortgages basically don’t exist in Bolivia so it’s common to see buildings mid-construction since they build as they can afford to. I actually think this is a pretty cool concept, except for the random building supplies that are pretty much everywhere and the fact that a fairly nice place is commonly seen directly beside a dump or a long-term construction zone. Apparently there is also some kind of tax rule that says that residents don’t have to pay property tax on unfinished buildings. Subsequently, the outside of some of these properties is purposely left unfinished or really ugly in order to avoid taxes…I wonder if that means they are really nice inside.
A lot of the buildings here are constructed with six-celled hallow red bricks that actually look really fragile. From what I can observe they appear to be filled with mortar during the construction process.
After a filling breakfast with a delicious view from the adorable La Cupula restaurant, I decided to spend my day trekking up to El Calvario (The Calvary), visiting the ginormous cathedral called Our Lady of Copacabana at the center of town, and making plans for a trip to Sampaya and Isla del Sol (Island of the Sun) the following morning. After arranging for a driver to take me to Sampaya and then on to Yumani in the morning (ps, my Spanish is totally improving), I headed out for El Calvario – with dry shoes (yay!). It was kind of fun because I could see the crosses that marked my final destination from my hostel’s courtyard (see pic). On the way up I passed a couple of little boys playing in the cobblestone street. They were sliding down the curbs on flattened plastic bottles, giggling and belly laughing the whole way. I LOVE the sound of a child belly laughing. Ahhh…the makings of a GREAT day!
When I reached the beginning of the hike, I was a little saddened by all of the trash and graffiti everywhere, but it was still beautiful. There were llama, pigs, some kind of deer looking animal, and birds along the way. I also passed a lot of metal plaques of varying size, color, and formality that were permanently affixed to random boulders along the way. The plaques were basically thanksgiving – some were poetic and others were very straightforward. They had family names and years engraved or embossed on them as well. I have seen the very same thing in several of the churches I have visited – directed toward various Saints. It brings me joy to read the plaques and think about the time and expense these families went to in order to pay homage to their faith.
Copacabana’s Calvary is also called Huaca which is a Quenchua word that means sacred place. While climbing to the top you pass the 14 stations of the Via Crusis (Path of the Cross), and a square full of ceremonial tables that Andean priests use to bless and perfume objects, and where they perform healing rituals for the sick. At least one of the aforementioned involves the use of firecrackers….the kind that sound like a gun fight to unsuspecting ears. I probably looked pretty foolish hiding behind that rock… I crack myself up sometimes.
The hilltop of El Calvario has been paved with concrete and surrounded by a short stone wall. The views of the Island of the Sun, Bay of Titicachi, and the Chani community are stunning! I had such a clear day that I could even see the Peruvian side of the lake. I spent a good deal of my time just starring – the calm and reflective water, the fantastic clouds (I love clouds), the lush green mountains. The stone wall has hallows here and there where people light candles and pray for everything from fortune to love. I lit a few candles myself and yes, the red one is for love – what, a girl can hope! As an aside, the young girls who sell the candles were intensely curious over the colors I purchased – they giggled collectively (so cute!) when I reached for the red one and looked very concerned when I picked up three black ones. Black is for the healing of family and friends – I prayed for my Dad’s quality of life during his latest bout with cancer, for my Mom’s back pain to ease up, and for my twin’s general health. There are also eight devotional stations positioned atop the hill. They are made primarily of stone and the first seven are topped with a cross and a label that is carved just below it. The labels read I-VII Dolor, respectively. The word dolor literally means pain. I would use it to describe a headache for instance. I know that Spanish is a very indirect language so I’m sure it has a different meaning in this context but it was lost on me. The first seven stations also house images of Jesus’ Calvary and the final station is the fanciest and most colorful with a beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary. There were several bunches of fresh flowers at her feet. It’s not for the religious aspects of this place, but I feel really close to God here. There is something that is just magical about being in a place where you can witness the glory of God’s creation. I think that’s why I love being in the mountains – it’s Jesus crack.
On my way to the cathedral I stopped off in the markets to buy some snacks for my trip to Isla del Sol in the morning. I have eaten more bread on this trip than I care to admit – it’s cheap so most of the hostels and restaurants serve it in excess. I didn’t mind when I had peanut butter but Bolivia seems unaware of the existence of peanut butter so I have none. I went in search of honey instead. Naturally I didn’t know the word for honey so when the store owner asked me what I was looking for, I was reduced to swirling my finger in the air while making a buzzing sound. If you’re wondering whether they laughed at me, they did. I laughed at me. I looked ridiculous and I’m terrible at sound effects. I’ve always wondered how it is that most little boys can always seem to make the perfect machine gun sound before they can even tie their shoes, but I struggle to imitate a bee. Sigh. Of course my buzzing display was repeated a few times before I was successful. BUT I WAS SUCCESSFUL! :o) I like honey, which by the way is called miel (mee-ill) in Spanish.
Next I headed to Our Lady of Copacabana. This massive cathedral totally dominates the town, which is good for me because it makes it especially easy to locate. One thing that I find confusing is the fact that the church is obviously the most expensive real estate in town but it’s surrounded by beggars. I don’t think this is the picture of church that Jesus had in mind. Actually, it was such a turn off to me that I didn’t stay long. Apparently the cathedral is the site of a semi-annual pilgrimage for Bolivians, many of whom make the trek from La Paz on foot. It houses a sculpture of the Black Virgin of the Candelaria. Sadly my Spanish is not good enough to have these kinds of conversations so I really can’t tell you much more. I snapped a couple of photos inside before I saw a sign asking me not to take photos, and you can see the golden clad altar dripping with paintings and statues in one of them. The Black Virgin is the statue at the top in the center. She’s not actually black. ?
The front of the church is a bustling little hub where street vendors sell every manner of religious trinket and lots of flowers. Copacabana routinely celebrates benedictions for everything from their cars to the city itself. It’s fun to see because the ritual involves dressing cars with banners and beautiful fresh flowers that are artfully arranged and strung into garlands. It also involves dousing the cars with 96% alcohol, and sometimes cerveza! I think the thing I most liked about watching the people participate is just how joyful they seemed. In general Bolivians don’t smile much so I really enjoyed being surrounded by a bunch of happy people.
I think it was around this point that the sky opened up. Rain and hail – what?!? This country’s climate is confused. I have had snow and tropical heat in the same day and now the beautiful sky had turned to freezing cold. Ug. I ran for cover in an Internet café and when the weather let up long enough, I high tailed it back up the mountain to my retreat where I stayed for the night.
Miscellaneous thoughts:
Bolivia doesn’t seem to have any kind of organized public trash collection. I kind of wonder why this isn’t an obvious and pressing need.
Mindy Wong – the yellow flower pic is for you! It’s a dahlia – they grow wild here. I regret not putting my hand or something in the photo because the point was to show you that they are the size of dinner plates! So stunning. Xxoo – miss you!
I slept hard and woke up early to get to the bus station for my ticket to Copacabana, a city situated on the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca. Despite the early hour, the Friday street markets were glorious just as my Lonely Planet travel guide had promised. Although I didn’t have time to wander through the markets, I rolled down my taxi window and took in as much as I could. This might have been the only time in my life that I will ever be truly grateful for morning rush hour traffic. There was street after street of the most beautiful and colorful fresh produce and flowers – the scent was incredible! One of the vendors caught my smile and smiled herself as she watched me inhale deeply. Oddly enough, the woman across from her was less impressed with my smile and threw a small bunch of flowers at my taxi instead. Her neighbor laughed again at the puzzled grin on my face – maybe not the reaction my assailant meant to incite. I think she thought I was taking her photo when I was actually just grabbing a couple of quick snapshots of the market. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Bolivian women don’t like to play cover girl for westerners. That’s why I always ask before taking someone’s photo – well, unless I can do it in hyper zoom mode and can be assured that they don’t know I have them in my sites…
Unfortunately, my shoes were still drenched from my mountain biking adventure so I was wearing my flip flops despite the rainy cold weather. This reminded me of why I could never call New York home again. I just wasn’t made for the cold – it brings out every whiney, sniveling, miserable molecule in me. I was glad to sit down on the bus, put on some dry socks and zonk out. On our way to Copacabana we had to get off the bus so that it could be transferred across the lake. I was pretty sure that I misunderstood them when they told me this in Spanish so I was a little shocked when I saw the bus floating across the lake on a colorful wooden platform (with my backpack on board), and relieved when it made it to the other side. Meanwhile, we all paid a small fee and took a ferry across. Everything in Bolivia cost something…one Boliviano ($0.15) to use a public bathroom, a small tax before you board a bus, etc. While waiting to board the ferry I saw a couple of young llamas all decked out on the lawn – they were seriously cute.
On the other side of the lake, we all boarded our bus again and were on our way. When I arrived in Copacabana it was drizzling and cold. I was in rain gear but without proper shoes, I was cold and really just a whiney little baby about it. Oh well, I guess we all have bad days. I tried to make the best of it wandering around the city, checking out the markets, and looking for a spot to have lunch. In Bolivia certain restaurants serve set lunch menus called almuerzos (which also means lunch in Spanish) where you get soup, an entrée, and your choice of coffee, tea, or dessert for just 15 Bolivianos or about $2.15. I asked a local to recommend a good little place and I was pleased with his choice. It was also a nice way to wait out the rain before looking for a place to crash for the night. I had hoped to stay in a hostel, Las Olas (The Waves), that Dan had recommended, but I received word from them the night before that they expected to be full and that I should check with them sometime after 2pm in person after I arrived. Sadly, they were in fact full. I was disappointed because this particular hostel was designed by an artist and Dan said that it was a real treat to stay there. Bummer. Well, what I really wanted was a great view of the lake. Las Olas is positioned on top of one of the mountains overlooking the lake and since I was already up there, I decided to try my luck at La Cupula (named for its three white architectural domes), the beautiful little hostel beside Las Olas. Somehow they had a room just for me even though I didn’t have a reservation! And according to some of the guidebooks, La Cupula is also the best restaurant in town – serious selling point for the foodie in me. I didn’t waste any time getting settled into my lovely little private room with a private bathroom and a space heater! I still can’t believe my luck with this place – a hot and private shower, a place to dry my shoes, fantastic food, and a beautiful little courtyard with a gorgeous view of the lake all for just $14 a night. Yes! Mood improving….
I immediately positioned my shoes in front of the space heater and turned it on full blast. While I waited for my shoes to dry, I rambled down to the shared kitchen to make myself some hot tea because I was having a little trouble shaking off the cold. And what do you suppose I found in the adjoining lounge area??! – two precious little kittens! It was as if God was giving me a hug and telling me to buck up. I have been missing my babies so much so some cuddle time with these little ones was the perfect remedy for my shivers and my mood. :o)
I took it easy for the rest of the day. I loved on my new friends, did some trip planning, some writing, and took in the views of the lake. Bolivia is such a beautiful country – I have never seen mountains and lakes like this. Yes, the cities are crowded and dirty, and the roads are largely unpaved, but the mountains are untouched and so inspiring. If you like mountains, get thee to Bolivia! I would love to come back for a long trek and several days of camping in the mountains near Coroico. Any takers? That might be the biggest bummer of travelling alone. It’s just not smart to go gallivanting off into the woods when you’re by yourself. When I get to Tierra del Fuego there is a 5 day trek called the W that I hope to do, but my odds are not very good. I would have to find a trustworthy someone in short order after I arrive or I won’t have time. Oh well, another time…
Back to Copacabana - for dinner I had a really nice curry chicken dish in the restaurant that has definitely earned its reputation. I was tempted to lick the plate! Hey Mom – the salad had shaved beats on it and I totally ate them. I know you’re proud;o)
Miscellaneous thoughts:
This part of Bolivia is well known for its totora (reed) boats – they are made entirely from dried reed and,once upon a time, they were the only mode of transportation across the lake. I LOVE that they are still making and using them today!
Bolivians are really short on average. At 5’3” I am a bit taller than most of the women and several of the men. So why are the shower heads in all the hostels like 7’ up on the wall?
In Costa Rica it’s possible to pay significantly more for about the same quality when it comes to lodging so, for the most part, I let price dictate my choice. In Bolivia, paying just a little more can make a sizable difference in quality.
Check out the pic of the town where we stopped to float across the lake – there was a long row of trees on the top of the mountain. I have no idea why and my Spanish is not good enough to ask the locals. More incentive to continue practicing!
Our tour guide picked us up around 8:30 which gave us plenty of time to grab some breakfast and rehash exactly what to expect with Tamara at least three times – poor and patient (!) girl! When we booked the tour we were told that there were two other girls booked and that there would be a maximum of 9 people in our group so we figured that maybe we lucked out with a girl-heavy group! Um, no. As is the case with tourism in Bolivia, one should always expect to be lied to. That is to say that there were 24 men in all and 5 women, including me. Normally these would be favorable odds and you wouldn’t hear a peep out of me, but when I’m about to go “thundering” down a mountain, the last thing that makes me feel safe is a giant pool of testosterone aching to show each other up on a road known for having taken more lives each year than any other road in the world. Sigh. I was glad when Mark, Megan, and I decided to hang back and ride well in the back of the pack.
As you can see from the pictures, it was foggy, rainy, and VERY cold at the top of the mountain in the Altiplano at about 15,000 feet above sea level. This was more than a little off-putting since, as many of you know, I tend to be a fair weather cyclist. I really don’t like to ride if it’s more than about 80 or less than about 50 – so when I used the “facilities” next to a pile of snow, I was concerned. But Tamara had assured me (at least three times) that it would warm up. You actually start the ride on the new paved road for maybe an hour or so. Once I got the hang of my bike, I was tucked and ready to fly…so fun to go downhill the whole time! We stopped a few times for some mandatory group bunching and by the second or third stop, the fog had lifted and the views were ABSOLUTELY STUNNING, PEOPLE! I was a little worried after all those beaches that I may have to change my ways and become a sun-worshipping sand dweller. *Psha* Lest you think you have a convert on your hands, I am most definitely still a mountains chick.
Death road, which is properly called Yungas Road, is 40-ish miles in length, about 10 feet wide, and doesn’t have any real guardrails or anything despite massive drop offs at nearly every turn. Early on it was the only connection between the capital and the town of Coroico situated at the base of the Amazon jungle about 4,000 feet down. I imagine it was due to the morning rain that the entire mountain seemed to be weeping for the rest of the afternoon. My God, how richly you have blessed us with your creation. There are streams all over the place and I swear that I saw not less than 25 waterfalls. At the start of the unpaved road Megan and I accidentally took a wrong turn and went a bit out of the way on a really scary and really rocky road that we weren’t meant to ride on. To get back on track we had to ride through a little river and our shoes got soaked. Ug. At first I was really irritated with myself when I figured out that we had gone the wrong way because I only have one pair of shoes with me. But we ended up getting to ride under a waterfall later in the ride, and even through another stream as well so we were just meant to get drenched. Everywhere you looked there was water just sort of rolling off of the greenery. Everything smelled, looked, and felt so – fresh. Well okay, everything except my soggy sneakers and mud covered tush, but who could care! The scenery was so lush and several sections of the road were lined with the most brilliant orange flowers I have ever seen – maybe because of how they popped against the bright green backdrop. I really wish I had had my camera with me :o(
In addition God’s dramatic handiwork, I also saw two houses and several crosses and other memorials all along the road marking the locations of fatal accidents. Many of them are well tended and even had fresh flowers on them. I felt sad when I passed them but there was also something strangely beautiful about many of them – old stone or wooden crosses with a lovely patina of moss and wild flowers for instance. Mark and I stopped to take photos of a few of them. I was glad that he ignored the instructions to leave our cameras behind. Nearly all the pictures that I have included are either his or they are from the guides who took our pictures for us. I realize it’s for our own safety but it wasn’t as if I was going to try to snap a photo while negotiating a cliff. But then again, I’m sure they get their fair share of adrenalin junkies that have a different barometer for common sense. Case in point, several of the young guys brought along a small bottle of 96% alcohol and dared one of our guides to drink it before riding down. My request for a sober guide went completely unnoticed as he downed the bottle fraternity style, surrounded by his antagonistic cheerleaders…boys.
Mark, Megan, and I also stopped half way down or so when we reached the spot where he had his accident. Actually, I don’t think I mentioned that. Mark had attempted this tour a couple of weeks or so before but he was only able to go about half way because he accidentally jammed his front tire against a rock, wiped out, and knocked himself out in the process. I know this because I removed the stitches from his chin the morning after we met. Anyway, we stopped where he fell so we could take a few reenactment pics. Not far from there the stack of boys riding ahead slowed way down to ride around a three bike pile up. Everyone was okay and for some reason they insisted on riding entirely too close to each other in their efforts to jockey for front runner so it was hard to feel bad for them. When we reached the bottom, we filled up this tiny little bar with just a couple of picnic tables to share some beer and our experiences. What a ride! I really wanted to go again :o)
When the last glass was dry we all piled into our vans and went to a small hostel in Coroico. Although we started in the snow, I now found myself in the tropical rainforest - seriously. The guide had promised a swimming pool while we waited for lunch and I was really looking forward to it! Sadly, the pool was an unnatural looking opaque green. I suited up but I couldn’t bring myself to dive in – the eeeww factor was too high. Lunch didn’t take long though so I simply relaxed with my face turned to the sun and my legs dangling in the *ahem* water. During lunch I noticed that I was being eaten alive by these tiny little insects that I didn’t even feel biting me. Apparently Amazonian insects laugh in the face of 80% deet filled repellant – wow. The only reason I noticed them is because I already had about 20 bites and they take a small chunk of skin when they bite you so you bleed immediately. Hmmm, I thought…now would have been a good time to have been taking my malaria meds. But given that Malarone requires forethought, I climbed into the van instead hoping to encourage the earliest departure possible.
Perhaps my scheme worked because we were on our way about 20 minutes later. It took FOREVER to get back because the weather was just awful. I don’t think we drove more than 10 miles per hour for most of the trip back. We were mostly passed out in the van but I had an early morning bus to Copacabana and I desperately wanted to shower so the obstacle was unfortunate…snivel snivel. Eventually we arrived at our hostel and piled out. I went to the tour agency to collect my snazzy t-shirt and pictures, and then Mark, Megan, and I went to great little international restaurant for dinner. I enjoyed a delicious Indonesian dish at our little table beside a bank of windows with the glow of candle light and the sounds of a local band emanating from downstairs. It was perfect.
When I returned home from my walk in La Paz, I met my new roommates, Mark, Megan (blonde), and Tamara (brunette), from Australia. They had just arrived from climbing up a mountain so they were pretty wiped out but we managed to chat a little before bed. The next morning we headed out together to buy our bus tickets for later in the week, mine for Copacabana and theirs for a rather painful 30+ hour ride to Peru. Afterwards we took off to book a tour for the next morning – El Camino de la Muerte (the road of death) by mountain bike. Mark had asked me if I’d like to join him and Megan and I’m so glad he did. I don’t think I would have done it alone. It’s basically a bike ride down an old road that winds through the mountains a couple of hours outside La Paz, but I’ve never been on a mountain bike so I was a little nervous. I mean, it is called the death road which isn’t exactly reassuring.
After getting all fitted with gear, signing my life away in Spanish, and paying for the tour, I headed to the Witches Market for some shopping with the gals. Apparently its name comes from the fact that, in addition to tourist souvenirs, it’s the place for all things weird – like llama fetuses (see pic - eeew). Most of the country is kind of a tailored version of Catholic in that they mix their faith with indigenous practices. I didn’t have the stomach to inquire about what they do with the llama fetuses…moving on…
The market is lively and colorful. It winds up and down in several different directions with both permanent stores and temporary street setups. Incidentally, the street setups are transported to their location each day in blankets on the backs of their owners, stools and all. Impressive. Bolivian women work HARD and Bolivians in general continue performing what Americans would consider hard labor until there are quite old. The vendors sell everything from sweaters, scarves, gloves, leg warmers, hats, and shawls made from llama or alpaca wool to weavings, leather handbags, and finger puppets. Most of the stores have a very similar selection and the people are neither anxious to help you nor to hassle you. Bolivia’s markets are an important part of their lifestyle. They don’t have malls or supermarkets like those that you and I know. Everything is sold in these street markets. In addition to the Witches Market, there is a black market and a blue market that sells shoes and clothes and household items, as well as produce and flower markets here and there and everywhere. There are even these highly specialized mobile stores – kind of like carts – that sell things like electronics or convenience items. Picture a highly paired down version of your average corner store selection except that instead of being located on a corner, you might encounter as many as five on a single block. They mostly sell sugary sweet snacks and drinks – this may explain why most Bolivians are missing several teeth.
After wandering through the market we all headed to meet Mark at an English pub for a soccer match – Arsenal vs. Barcelona. Megan and Mark were kind enough to fill me in on the basics of the game over beer and a late lunch. It was a lot of fun! The pub had excellent French fries and Megan had a deep fried Mar’s bar with vanilla ice cream – too much yum in one dish. Much to Mark’s dismay, Arsenal pulled it out in the end. Actually, I blame Mark because when Barcelona was up through most of the game, he was quite cocky about it so, naturally, they were destined to lose in the end.
When we were finished pouring salt on Mark's wounded spirit, we headed to the mirador (look out) with Max (the red head) for a 360 view of the city. Max and I hung out for the sun to set. Armed with our cameras, we were ready and hoping for the whole crayon box but it was too cloudy so the sunset was a non-event. However, it was worth it to watch the city light up at night. The rest of my evening was made of preparations for the death road tour, rest, and writing. Tamara had already done the death road tour so she was kind enough to coach me and Megan on what to wear, etc. They don’t prepare you much for anything in Bolivia so I was grateful for her tips.
Miscellaneous thoughts:
There are a lot of police in Bolivia...a lot.
The snow covered mountain you see in the background is the one that Megan, Mark, and Tamara had just finished climbing when I met them - WOW!
Again with the look of the traditional looking woman round these parts. They aren’t very individual in their appearance. They don’t wear jewelry or makeup and most of them wear their very long black hair parted down the middle and braided (by the way, Australians call these plaits and the “i” is silent). I guess I noticed this mainly because I saw a woman with a lovely broach on one day and it really stood out to me because of how unadorned the other women are. The hair thing caught my attention because there are a confusing number of hair salons in La Paz. I mean, the women don’t cut their hair…I don’t get it.
I’m not sure if it is just the difference in our race or if it’s the hard work or what, but the people in Bolivia don’t age very well. They tend to look a lot older than they are.
It's amazing to me how packed the hillsides are in this city. SInce I am generally ignorant to world affairs, can anyone tell me whether they have landslides here like ALL the time? If they don't, I just really cannot fathom how that is possible.
Hola! As a new blogger I cannot promise I will be a very entertaining read, but I'm backpacking solo across South America so I thought I should have a place to jot down moments of potential genius. Since I'm sure to be a bit loney along the way, I am glad to share my insights, experiences, and misadventures with my e-friends here...
So a few repeat updates as to new habits I hope to develop over the next four months are:
1. Spending time with the Lord every morning. I used to do this well and I was richly blessed by it. I hope to get back to letting Him order my days.
2. Flossing -- either I need to develop this habit or accept dentures now and cross it off my to-do list. Wish me luck.
3. Learn to speak Spanish fluently -- encouragement needed.
Hola! As a new blogger I cannot promise I will be a very entertaining read, but I'm backpacking solo across South America so I thought I should have a place to jot down moments of potential genius. Since I'm sure to be a bit loney along the way, I am glad to share my insights, experiences, and misadventures with my e-friends here...