“If you surrender to the wind, you can ride it.”
- Toni Morrison
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November 2009
August 16, 2009
With giant ferns, looks are deceiving. What appear to be tree trunks are actually decomposed plant parts. If you touch one, it feels like dirt rather than wood. This “trunk” made of decayed organic matter protects and supports the palm tree-like fronds that sprout up from the top. Clever and resourceful beings.
Our giant fern cloud forest hiking group of six turned out to be a group of three. Except for the increase in cost, smaller was probably better. After stocking up on food for lunch, we took a cab to a spot where we would begin our hike. The giant fern cloud forest is located in Amboró National Park, a huge park that covers an area where the Andes, Chaco, and Amazon Basin ecosystems converge.
The scenery was new, but it was like the other hikes I’d done on the trip- unexpectedly challenging. Though we were at a lower elevation, we were still relatively high up. My lungs still struggled with the thin air. And it was incredibly muddy. The sun was bright and shining that day, but thick vegetation often didn’t allow many of its rays to poke through and dry up the ground. So I slipped and slided down slopes and tried to hold onto the few plants around that were stable and not prickly.
If I understood him correctly, our guide was a university science professor who led tours in his time off. He had a lot of interesting information about the inhabitants of the forest. We saw only one other group the entire day. Our guide told us he’d led a hike earlier in the summer and came across a group of people who were lost in the forest. They were hiking without a guide. When he found them, they were delirious because of their predicament.
After a muddy struggle, we reached the top of the mountain I wasn’t aware we were climbing. There was yet another panoramic view of beautiful mountainous landscape. We perched on the edge to eat lunch, the most amazing spot to eat our random assortment of snack foods.
Our guide eventually convinced us to leave our prime lunch location so we could walk back down the mountain. We took a different route down that was much quicker and had no slippery slopes.
I went to dinner with the English girl and the two Australian sisters. We all talked about making it an early night to get some rest. But as we walked back to the hostel, someone greeted us with, “Ola,” in a thick German accent. This changed the course of our night.
We soon found ourselves at a club down the street hanging out with a group of German guys. Three of them seemed to be in their twenties. There was one older guy that the rest of them referred to as “Papi”. Papi had clearly gotten his night started early and I’m being generous when I describe him as “boisterous”. These guys were full of crazy stories. When they were out of earshot, the English girl let us know she didn’t believe a word they said. She was probably right.
They left to put Papi to bed and head to another bar. We stayed behind to dance to reggaeton and agreed to meet them wherever they were going next. But we couldn’t find it. We found another happening club where couples were dancing away to style of music similar to salsa.
As we entered the dance floor and moved to our own beats, we literally cleared dance floor. People stopped dancing and sat back to watch us. Maybe they did not want to share the dance floor with people dancing as awfully as we were. Maybe they wanted a free comedy show. “Look at those tourists!”
After a good dance workout we decided to head back to the first club to see what was going on. We danced to a few more reggaeton hits before ending our free tourist spectacle. A truly entertaining night for all parties involved.
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August 15, 2009
Where the hell is that? Why are you going there? These were the questions asked by the confused faces of people I encountered along my trip when I told them I was going to Samaipata. I didn’t have the answers. From what I’d read about it, I sensed that it would a be a gorgeous place with wonderful things to discover. What things, I didn’t know.
I’d made a reservation for a lovely looking little place in Samaipata called Hostal Andoriña. I received a prompt confirmation response and an important piece of information: Constantly remind the bus driver that you’re getting off in Samaipata. I was taking a Sucre to Santa Cruz overnight bus and needed to get off before the final stop. According to the hostel, people who were trying to get to Samaipata often woke up to find themselves all the way in Santa Cruz.
As I boarded my bus, I told the guy who had taken care of the ticket formalities that I was getting off in Samaipata. He looked shocked even though “Samaipata” was written largely and highlighted on my ticket.
Bolivia is home to the notorious “World’s Most Dangerous Road“, but it doesn’t take a traveler long to see that almost every road in Bolivia is dangerous. Steep cliffs, unsurfaced roads, sometimes no road at all, freezing cold temperatures, vehicle breakdowns, running out of gas– these are the realities of overland travel in Bolivia. I’d read that on the World’s Most Dangerous Road, there are dogs spaced out along the beginning waiting for people to offer them food. People believe feeding the dogs will give them good luck on their journeys. Even though this road had no official extreme title, as we pulled away from Sucre, there the dogs were, waiting for their offerings.
The first hour of the drive was fantastic as we rounded the corners of uninhabited mountains and the setting sun illuminated the sky with gorgeous shades of the rainbow. As the sun and the paved road vanished, the drive became a little more sketchy, but not nearly as bad as I imagined. The times that made me nervous where when we found ourselves moving backwards around a bend on a steep cliff. Sometimes the road was too narrow for two vehicles to pass each other which made it necessary to backtrack until a wide enough portion of the road was reached.
We made one stop in a town that was in the middle of celebration. Firecrackers lit up the sky, a great surprise after a drive that was increasingly uncomfortable and monotonous. At this stop, I reminded the driver and co. that I was getting off in Samaipata. One of the guys looked annoyed that I was telling him again. But I was determined to not wake up two hours past my destination.
I chatted with the French group I’d hung out with in Sucre and said goodbye because I knew it would probably be the last opportunity to do so. They were several rows behind me and I’d be getting off the bus before them. We were at the stop for a long time and we all got back on when we heard the driver start the engine. As we drove away, a few people chased after the bus and hopped on. The very real risk of getting left behind when your bus stops is yet another dangerous aspect of Bolivian bus travel.
The journey was about 13 hours. I had a great spot in the front row with ample leg room, but a chair that refused to stay reclined. After hours of tossing and turning in my gravity defying chair, I opened my eyes to look at the time. It was just before 6am and if I’d calculated right, we were due to arrive in Samaipata.
I knocked on the door to remind the driver once again that I was getting off in Samaipata. Whaddya know, it was a completely different driver and crew. They had no clue that someone was getting off the bus early “Oh, Samaipata?!” I was so glad I got up when I did, because we arrived in Samaipata about 10 minutes later. My broken chair was a blessing in disguise.
At the hostel, I rang the night bell several times before someone answered. I was surprised when a young American girl answered the door. She took my to my room where I immediately went to bed. In the late morning I woke up to sounds of people chatting outside my window.
In the courtyard I found what I didn’t know I was looking for—a traveler community. It was more than the usual coming of age backpacking holidayers; a motley mix of people was scattered about. There were youthful travelers and others with graying hair. Some were flighty, some cantankerous, some effervescent. But regardless of background or personality, you could tell these were all people with an insatiable curiosity about the world. People who felt the urge to move deep in their bones.
There were no barriers in this peculiar community of travelers, and it wasn’t long before I knew a bit about each person there. A Scottish couple, two Australian sisters, a girl from England and I agreed that some or all of us would go on a hike through a giant fern forest nearby the next day.
I peeled myself away from the fascinating assortment of people at the hostel and went into town. In the center of town, there was a main square full of random sculptures and absolutely nothing going on. At the height of tourist season, it was far from the “major tourist destination” my guidebook described it as. I loved it there. In this sleepy town I felt I was somewhere new and different while simultaneously feeling at home.
I bumped into the Scottish couple and they helped me negotiate a price for a cab to the El Fuerte ruins. Not much is known about the unique ruins of El Fuerte and I didn’t didn’t know what I’d find there which made the experience more appealing to me. Taking a cab is the quick way to get to the ruins, but you can also take a challenging uphill walk. On my way, I passed by the Australian sisters trudging up the mountain and hoped they didn’t see me taking the easy way up while they struggled.
At the top of the mountain where the ruins are, there was a fantastic view of the area. It is amazing how much of Bolivia is so pristine and untouched. The unruliness of the land has likely saved a lot of it from being destroyed. I reveled in the beautiful views and the mysterious El Fuerte and enjoyed a quiet walk around…
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“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
- Anaïs Nin
This week I became a published writer. A reworked version of my blog entry “5 Travel Memoirs by Women” is now up on Matador Goods. Check it out here.
When the Matador Goods Editor, Lola Akinmade, sent me a message saying my piece was up, a felt happy and… weird. As much as I’ve always loved expressing myself through various forms of art, putting myself out there has been a huge obstacle for me. Of course, like many other people who struggle with the same issue, a fear of failure (and maybe success as well) keeps me from pursuing creative feats. But I’m dismantling the wall of fear, brick by brick. This year has been a good year for taking small steps to achieve bigger things. After all,
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
- Lao-Tzu
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August 13, 2009
In Sucre, tucked into beautiful buildings are often even more beautiful courtyards. In my search for breakfast, enticed by a sign advertising salteñas, I walked through a lobby into a flowery hidden oasis, pulsating with energy and happiness. Salteñas, somewhat similar to empanadas, are a typical mid-morning snack for Bolivians. I’d arrived during the rush. Large groups of college students sat at tables joking and laughing. At other tables were families of three generations engaged in jovial conversations. While the salteña resembles an empanada, the first bite will show you that it is not. As I bit into mine, hot juice from the pastry dribbled down my chin and onto my shirt. I looked around sheepishly to see if anyone else had this problem. Everyone else was eating their salteñas gracefully with skills acquired over time.
After breakfast, I found a bank with a Western Union near my hostel. I went right up to the counter where the teller was incredibly friendly and took complete care of resolving my monetary issues. While he was in the process, I turned around and saw that there was an extremely long line. Had I cut in front of everyone?! Or was the Western Union teller separate? But there were no angry glares from the people waiting and the transaction was quick. I had enough money to make it through the rest of my trip. My backpack was still heavy, but I was no longer carrying the extra burden of worry.
After purchasing a ticket for Samaipata the next day, I headed up a hill to a wonderful lookout point called La Recoleta. There, I could see the entire city and mountains that surround them. Below whitewashed arches covered with graffiti was a lovely restaurant with outdoor seating and a view.
The restaurant was overrun with people speaking with an accent I hadn’t heard in awhile. Americans! It’s funny how jarring your own accent can sound when it suddenly returns to your ears en masse. Besides a couple I talked to briefly on the bus the previous day, I hadn’t met any Americans since I’d crossed the border into Bolivia two weeks before. Experiencing a bit of culture shock, I took a seat away from the group to peacefully enjoy my lunch and the gorgeous city below.
I went to the Museum and Textiles and Ethnography, which was indeed “not boring” as the travel agent I’d bought the bus ticket earlier from had described. After seeing all of the textiles, I was delighted when I walked into a room full of Bolivian music and festival history. Andean music is melancholy with subtle undertones of joy. It is incredibly well-suited for the land. I sat at a listening station and heard songs that sent sound-waves of elation through me. The voices were uninhibited and often out of tune. People sung with the kind of abandon reserved for those whose minds haven’t been filled with ideas of what music should be. As a vocalist with perhaps too much classical music education, I reveled in these passionate voices.
I thought back to the sadness I’d felt when driving through remote villages in the cold desert. Life is undoubtedly hard in those environments, but perhaps music, color, and frequent celebration bring a little beauty to such places.
In the early evening, I reunited with the French group I was staying with. We went up to the roof of the hostel to watch the sunset over the city. They shared both my love at first sight with Sucre and my surprise at how how few tourists there were in the city. Maybe people don’t go there because there is not much to “do” there, it’s more of a place to just be. Many backpackers stay on the path that takes you straight up and down western Bolivia that will lead you in and out of Peru or Chile. But if you’re willing to deal with crappy transportation, Bolivia has much more to offer.
The next morning, after seeing yet another daily Bolivian Independence Day parade, I found a market near the hostel with help from my French companions. A courtyard full of fruit! Fresh produce had been hard to come by in high altitude Bolivia, an inhospitable environment for most plants. But Sucre, at a lower elevation, is where a transition to a warmer, more tropical climate begins. I wanted pineapple and strawberries and passion fruit, but bought several oranges and apples, the most practical option for the long drive to Samaipata.
Before meeting up with the French group to head over to the bus station, I had a late lunch in a restaurant overlooking Sucre’s main square. The square was like a condensed version of Sucre, aesthetically pleasing, joyful and full of life. The places I love most on my travels are not the ones full of sights and monuments; they are the ones full of character and wonderful people. Sucre has maintained an old-fashioned sense of human interaction while clearly looking forward. The city and its people radiate warmth and beauty. I’d wanted to reclaim the joy that had been lost over the previous few days of my journey, and in Sucre, I found it again.
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