Confused Savior

In a taxi ride I clarified
My purpose is not to save anyone
From themselves
But to see how we might save each other
Through open hearts and words
Ama llulla, Ama qilla, Ama suwa
Don´t be a liar, a slouch, or a thief
So says the Incan ¨Hello¨
Come with clean heart
Chúyasunqu
And the weathered doors will open
To the lush courtyards and communities therein

I wonder who really needs help
And what that even looks like
Is it OK to go with no agenda?
Outside of meeting new friends
Swapping stories
Comparing worlds
Listening? Understanding
Realizing how little money can buy
On contentment´s path
We travel just to find its trailhead
Usually where wealth is scarcest
Community is rich
Yet we analyze their problems
As if they were worse than our own
Hatching perfect plans
To solve them
But maybe we can help them
And maybe they can help us
And maybe we are they
And maybe we can save each other

Borderline: Judging a book by its cover

Let me be honest. My first impression of Peru was far from favorable. You see, border crossings are notoriously unpleasant, and the one on the shores of Titicaca was no exception. After 8 hours in transit, I finally reached the dirty, hectic border of Bolivia and Peru. Bolivia had treated me splendidly in most respects, so I expected similar things from Peru. I get to the immigration office on the Peru side. The immigration official takes my passport and stamps in it a 60 day visa - while I thought the visa was 90 days. Upon inquiring politely, the official says, oh actually you can have up to 180 days, but you didn´t ask...So, I asked for more time and he said, sorry, its already in the computer - too late. OK, I thought, being an asshole is a desired qualification for border guards, so I won´t let it stain my perception of Peru.

Next, I went to find a bus to Puno to continue my 20 hour journey from Apa Apa to Cusco. I find one for 7 soles and hop on - strategically choosing an aisle seat for the extra leg room. After I take my seat, women with overstuffed bags of merchandise started searching the bus for every last inch of space to cram their goods. During this time, two passengers began bickering heatedly over who would occupy the front seats.

Sorry, the front seat is taken.
There was no indication of that!
Actually our things are in the rack above your head.
That doesn´t mean anything!

Awkward...I hadn´t seen anything like it in Bolivia, and let me tell you, I´ve seen these scenes a few times in Peru. Anyway, after that figured itself out with the aid of the bus driver, the company proceeded to overbook the bus until the aisle looked like a sardine can - negating any advantage I would have gleaned from my clever seat choice. So, I grumpily assumed the knees-smashed-into-the-seat-in-front-of-me position and awaited our departure. The man in front of me decided to recline. As I repositioned to accommodate this move, my neighbor noticed my silent discomfort and began yelling at the man in front of me and shaking his seat back and forth telling him to think about the comfort of the gringo. The man remained silently indifferent and didn´t say a word, while his wife began defending his honor to the unrelenting woman who continued to use his seat as a rowing machine. I too remained silent, but more from astonishment at this tyrade rather than indifference. Realizing that nothing but ill will would result from this situation, I calmed the woman down by telling her that I was used to such discomfort on Latin American buses on account of my long, beautiful legs. After things had settled, the woman patriotically assured me that all Peruvians weren´t like that man. I secretly hoped they wouldn´t be like her, though later on the ride we had a stimulating conversation about our respective homes and the double edged sword of wealth.

I later took a bus from Puno to Cusco, and what a hellacious ride it was. Due to gastrointestinal maladies, I became a veritable volcano of noxious gases on that bus ride as my guts tied themselves in knots. The 7 hours without a bathroom stop made the ride quite torturous for myself and my neighbors. When we finally arrived in Cusco at 4 AM, I was quite relieved, and grabbed an overpriced taxi to ¨Hostel Slippery¨ (it sounds better in spanish), to surprise Allison - rousing her from her slumber. It was a sleepy, but heartwarming reunion, for which my bum provided a terrible soundtrack. Such were my first few hours in the great country of Peru.

Water FIGHT!

After Potosí and Sucre, I bussed 20 hours or so to arrive at Apa Apa Forest Reserve outside La Paz, which was an utterly heavenly experience after the hubbub of the tourist track and the cities which lay upon it. Apa Apa is the first ´real forest´(meaning something other than eucalyptus) I´ve encountered in Bolivia – partly because I´ve been above 3500 meters most of the time, but also because everything below that altitude, where forest could theoretically exist, has been cut for farmland. Thus, this reserve is an anomaly, and I´m told it is conserved partly because it contains the headwaters of a sizeable river – in fact it contains upwards of 5 headwaters, which provide this precious resource to the surrounding communities. Despite this fact, local farmers have been attempting to take this land from the Portugal family, claiming that they have no land, and that it is arable, so it should not sit idly while their families suffer. I heard this story three times in my time there from two hacienda owners, and once from a caretaker at the reserve, and it is obvious that this struggle has loomed large in the minds of friends and employees of the reserve.

One man I met – Vladimir, a Czech Bolivian and friend of the reserve´s owners – told me about the greed of those who are attempting to claim the land – how they drive nice trucks and already do fine growing coca in the hills. He says the government of Bolivia, like others in Latin America, generally sides with farmers in land disputes. This is reminiscent of the sad history of the Emberá reservation in Panama´s Darien province, which has been steadily whittled down to a mere 7,000 acres from its original 50,000 by illegal logging and farming, a practice which has been encouraged and facilitated by a government sympathetic to farmers instead of conservation.

It is alarming, yet understandable that the farmers do not see watershed conservation as fundamental to their livelihoods. Though I have noticed that most riparian areas are left with a tiny tract of forest where I´ve been, it´s by no means a constant and it may not be enough to avoid droughts in once rainy regions. Victor, an assistant on the reserve, told me that many of the surrounding communities are experiencing this currently, which he attributes to the rampant deforestation. He claims that many of the rain clouds in this area begin above the reserve and travel no further – deterred by the arid air surrounding it. Apparently, various meetings between the reserve owners and the area communities have remedied the unrest and pressure directed at Apa Apa, through educating them about the function of the reserve performs, but communities uninvited to such meetings continue causing headaches. One pueblo, for instance, attempted to siphon an immense portion of the water supply into a holding tank destined for their ¨future use.¨ Ramiro and his crew had to go destroy the infrastructure so that the supply wouldn´t rapidly dissipate, a fate that would threaten the health of the forest and the humans near it.

I hope that it was simply ignorance and not greed or malice that prompted the actions of this pueblo, but who knows? I´m sure water disputes have played a leading role in conflicts in this region – especially in the high and dry Andes. I think ecology should become a primary subject in the schools here if they are to avert more conflicts and understand how human actions can affect climate on a local and global scale. Even if the latter is more controversial, the former is undeniable, and knowledge about it could lead to wise decisions about water conservation and drought avoidance.

This story serves as a microcosm for many of the political battles that have colored Bolivia´s history. The tension between hacendados (European land owners from colonial times) and indigenous farmers has existed since the 16th century. However useful this reserve (which is a 200 year old hacienda) may be at this point, it still is a symbol of a bloody and hurtful past, and is therefore controversial. More on this later...

From here, I headed to Peru on another 20 hour bus adventure to surprise my lady at 4 A.M.

Cerro Rico

Went to the mines in Potosi the other day. You know the mine that made Spain a most formidable colonial force because it was totally full of silver. You know the one that was discovered by a shepherd who got caught up on the mountain because his llama ran away, so he started a fire to keep warm, then woke up the next morning to find a river of molten silver. You know the one that made Potosi the largest city in the world for a time and where 8 million indigenous workers have met their death. Yeah that one. Went to tour it. Rather wild. A devil statue that the Spanish created named Tio stands at the entrance. His erection sits in his hand and a cigarette still smoking sits in his mouth. Coca leaves cover the ground around his seat, saturated with offerings of sugar cane alcohol - 97%! Apparently, the indigenous folks objected to entering the Earth because of its sacred status. So the Spanish told them about Tio (Dios, actually, but ¨d¨ doesn´t exist in their language, so they named him something pronounceable), who would basically ¨do bad things to them¨ if they didn´t work for free. So, to this day miners make offerings of coca, cigarettes and chicha to try to satisfy Tio in order to keep them safe. Doesn´t work too well. Three still die every month in this fragile mountain that has been tunneled through for upwards of 500 years. It´s hellacious work for little to no reward.

A quarter of Potosi´s population still hammers away in the barren mines. They say that the Spanish left the trash after sacking all of the riches (i.e. silver) - the Zinc left is impure and brings little profit. The backbeaking work of hammering away at tiny veins of zince for 12+ hours, then the monumental task of moving that 10 tons from 40 meters below by turning a crank by hand - one potato sack of rubble at a time - then shoveling a ton at a time into a cart whose tracks to the depository rarely acommodate the cart´s wheels. All of this work yields maybe 200 bolivianos ($28) to be split three ways. This is with cooperatives, too. It used to be unpaid work - slavery or indentured servitude - until the 1950s.

The plight of the indigenous communities here is rather heartbreaking in general. Though an indigenous man was recently elected to his second term of presidency, most accounts I´ve heard suggest that he is a puppet, not truly connected to the people. Typical top-down manipulation, oppressed turns into oppressor type stuff (Freire ref). The disparity between rich and poor is stark. Nice houses in La Paz are fortified with 20 foot walls housing guard stations. Some of the Aymara vendors from the market sleep in the streets - their adobe shacks tended by their young children in the hills. You know the story. It´s just amplified here. I´m trying to figure out how to help. I´ll let people know if I figure it out. To be continued...

motorized roulette

So if there´s one thing I´ve learned in Bolivia, its that the motor vehicles are not trustworthy, but that the drivers are aware of this fact. The first indication was when a bus i was on stopped midway in a pullout. i thought it was just a routine stop, but when the driver asked us to vacate the bus and jacked up the back wheel i knew that wasn´t the case...

the back left wheel spins
as the engine idles
the driver´s feet lay next to the wheel
sometimes a greasy hand
visible beneath the bus
the once well-dressed driver
now in a jumpsuit
my fellow passengers and i sit on a dirty hillside
as cars cruise by
and watch the feet
of the driver
and mechanic
anxiously awaiting the second half
of our journey to the city
it´s probably best that we stopped
though the repair in progress
remains a mystery

this resulted in a refund and waving down another bus to la paz. later, at the salt flats, our driver roman, who had been flying through the bumpy desert sands of the area (i think we won a rally race in the process), put on his jumpsuit (sounds like a superhero gimmick in the making) after spotting a dark oily trail behind the 84 toyota landcruiser (shit, i want one of these puppies). he found that our brake fluid was leaking (parenthetical), but didn´t have a screw to stop the leak. so he cut a little leather chunk off his belt and patched it. thank the good lord, it held for the remainder of the 11 hour drive. but later, the truck stalled on an uphill. he immediately guessed it was the gas filter. took it out, blew in it, gas shot out the other side. put it back in, truck starts, we´re on our way. i love the know-how of drivers in this country. you just don´t get that kinda expertise in AAA country! the trip apparently is tough on the trucks judging by the fact that they have to replace the tires every two months, replace the motor every two years, and the shocks probably every week. i tell you what (hope my parents don´t read this) knowing the unpredictable state of motorized things in this here land isn´t very reassuring when your blazing down a road about 20 ft wide thats essentially on a cliff that would turn you into a panqueque if your brake fluid were to leak a little too much. for now, i will trust the mechanic / bus drivers. hey, all part of the adventure! badawwww!!!

Salt

So I went to the Salar de Uyuni and did a three day tour through the ridiculously amazing landscape. It´s a 12,000 square km salt flat peppered with volcanic islands, but that´s just the first day of the tour. We went upwards of 5000m in altitude during the tour of colorful, stunning mountains and flamingo filled lakes in the following two days. As touristy as it was impressive, I had an unforgettable experience in the 900km jeep ride through the deserts of Southwest Bolivia. Interestingly enough, I bought some batteries for my camera before the tour and they were dead - or at least too weak for camera use. What luck? In a desperate attempt to enshrine the experience in eternity - without a camera! - I wrote some poems:

The first is about the most amazing sunset I´ve ever seen. Holy crap. And the thing is, I see em almost every day. But this one was...different.

SALTY SUNSET
Vicuña footprints drew me uphill
Where vivid lime green shrubs glow in contrast
To the red earth below
A startled egret reveals the stream
Thin ribbon of life
Feeding kidney shaped pools
Bustling with jumpy fish
Invisible amphibians chirp to honor the dropping sun
Backlighting angular ridges
Volcanic progeny cutting into
A flat moonscape
Of the purest white
Negating the horizon
Clouds catch fire
Painting the ruins grapefruit
I sit at the pool´s edge and encounter
This sacred place
Uyuni

TOOTH CHATTER
As the rough road jostles me
The landscape moves me
As high and dry as can be
A land of colored contours
Of rugged invitation
And photo snapping Europeans
Where blue sky meets iron red
Sulfur-stained peaks slice clouds
Zigzag truck tracks converge at overlooks
Of picturesque geology
Soft and Sharp
The volcanoes sleep
While the tourists jump in feigned elation
In front of natural wonders
The flamingos
In contrast
Scour the salt-crutsed laguna
Now are pink dots in the distance
As Roman calmly guides us
Confident in our direction
Gravel surfing in the ruts
Following the billowing dust
Of other tires
Gliding by a hillside of imposing boulders
Surrounded by sand
A dinosaur graveyard?
As bizarrely beautiful as Dali´s imagination
And also his inspiration
Cursing the dead batteries
Sold to me as new
My camera as dormant as surrounding volcanoes
I came to realize
A feeling
Is worth more than a thousand words

PARTY WAGON
The drunken brit dances exuberantly
Half-time visible in the blinking headlamps
She loses control
And crashes in the sand
Her friends chuckle indifferently

Gerardo

Went on a walk yesterday to the peninsula jutting out from Copacabana - where most gringos don´t venture - and thought about things. It seems to me that I needed some perspective on why the hell I´m here. Sure, it´s a fascinating landscape culturally and geographically, but that doesn´t necessarily mean that it will be an amazing trip, unless I really think about what I want from it. Anyway, the walk was good - I cleared my mind and wrote some things down. Interestingly, I had written that I wanted to interact with locals, but only if they seemed to want to talk to me. I find the people here rather aloof in this regard, and have found initiating these interactions somewhat challenging. So as I walked back along the shores of Titicaca from the temporary haven on the peninsula to the trash strewn waterfront of a post-Semana Santa Copacabana, I encountered a local guy who was fiddling with something on a bike and had two dogs around him. I gave him the usual Buenas Tardes and flashed him a smile, as is my custom with locals, and to my surprise, he responded in Aymara, the local dialect. I don´t remember his words, but he was saying How are you? When I gave him a puzzled look back as I pulled my headphone out (Nina Simone´s Greatest Hits - goes well with the landscape), he switched to Spanish and informed me of his previous Aymara phrase. For the proceeding hour, he accompanied me along the dirt road - walking his bike - teaching me Aymara phrases and interviewing me about my life, then telling me about his. He asked how much it cost me to come here. I didn´t have the heart to tell him - he can´t afford the $1.50 bus trip to La Paz to see his wife and daughter. I diplomatically dodged his query, but told him I thought it was important for us privileged folks to see how others lived, so that we might gain some perspective. We parted ways. I walked back to my hotel on the hill, he rode his bike back to his farm on another hill. The sun set over Titicaca.

Tiptoe Traveling

Is it possible to travel as a relatively affluent person in the developing the world without causing a negative impact? You know all that talk about exploitation, oppression, globalization that is often spoken of in the same breath as tourism. In fact, ironically enough (as a ¨tourist¨), I´ve often commented on tourism´s role in creating boom and bust local economies, fueling the unfair treatment of locals in touristy areas, and have observed blatant dehumanization of the host country´s citizens in tourist mentalities. Bolivia is a very impoverished country by many measures, so it has brought this tourism dynamic to my attention quite strikingly. I´ve thought about tourism´s impact often because I have the travel bug and truly come alive when I encounter people from very different regions and worldviews. Nevertheless, I have this nagging feeling that I´m doing something wrong when I travel in places that have identified themselves as tourist attractions or in places that rarely see a white face, but are seemingly eager to please me, (maybe) because I look like a large dollar bill to them. Of course, it appears that many of the locals view tourism - especially eco- and volun-tourism - as the panacea for poverty (at least in beautiful, relatively ¨pristine¨ regions) and the detrimental aspects of tourism. Obviously, this is the story I get from the locals with whom I interact, and thus my sample is small and likely quite biased because I probably met them in the context of doing something eco-touristy. We, as the privileged class, must acknowledge this desire of the local people and the success many areas have had with such projects, and not decide for ourselves that tourism is wrong because we think it is. This is an oft-neglected, yet integral process, if we intend to enact international development responsibly.

I´ve had many varied experiences in the developing world now, mostly Central America, that demonstrated to me the negative and positive potential for intercultural exchange - especially between two financially disparate cultures. Primarily, I saw how flowing thousands of dollars into a small rural village for a do-gooder scholarship and library fund could cause a controversy among the residents, even with the purest of intentions. Since then, I´ve been much more careful about my financial charity and have thought long and hard about how I can most effectively act as a global citizen and ambassador of my country. I´ve come to the conclusion (far from final) that the best I can do if I intend to spend time in the developing world, is to treat the people like people. This is the problem I see most amongst tourists - not seeking conversations, experience, or interactions with anyone but other tourists - which I believe can cause inadvertent negative impacts on the host country. Mainly, I think it perpetuates the segregation of the classes and emphasizes the untouchable status of the wealthy tourists. Conversely, if I show through my words and actions that I am interested in the people whose place I am visiting, I am demonstrating solidarity with the people there - at least a little bit - and am thus taking a small step towards a more egalitarian world. I have come to acknowledge that having no impact is impossible, so all I can do is attempt to lessen my negative impact and show that I do not view the local people as lesser than me in any sense. I´m sure I am not entirely effective in actualizing this ideal, but it is the energy I try to exude. To be continued.