Out, out damn spot!

Back to Ixiamas, the last capitalistic outpost 120 kilometers down a long dirt road going nowhere. We are here to conduct another taller (workshop) to inform people about the land-use planning documents blah blah blah. My role is to film the event, and, with the magic of movie-making, turn it into a thrilling, informative film documentation.

As Fabiana is in a meeting with the mayor, I’m given the car and the driver for the afternoon. I remember passing a logging and cutting station a ways down the road to El Tigre so I request to be taken there.

Clemente pulls the truck to a stop outside the gate to the giant sawmill whose front yard is littered with piles of tree trunks some 3-4 feet in diameter. There is a driveway entering into the fenced-off premise with a giant sign reading “Entrance Prohibited.” Parked outside, I climb onto the roof of the truck and set up the camera tripod. I film some shots of the piles of logs, some giant piles being burned, men sending logs shooting through some giant buzzing machine.

Then I take the camera and tripod, climb down from the roof, and tell Clemente to wait for me, I’ll be right back. Clemente tries to tell me that the sign says entrance prohibited, but I tell him not to worry.

At the gate a man wearing a Yankees baseball cap stands up from his rocking chair when I approach. I attempt to smile charmingly and innocently, but I’m really not good at it. Fortunately this turns out to be unnecessary. I bust out my classic intro speech:

“Hi, I’m a graduate student and I’m working on a documentary. I was wondering if I could speak to someone who works here to ask some questions about logging.”

NEVER mention the words “ENVIRONMENT” OR “CONSERVATION” when trying to interview loggers. Atleast not in the first ten minutes.

He lets me into the complex and points to the “office,” a tiny shack behind machinery. Inside, two men are seated behind desks, the only other item in the room being a poster of a bikini-clad blonde purring at the camera. There must be a shortage of pin-ups in the country because the mayor of El Tigre has the same calendar in his office.

So I give my little speech again, hamming it up a bit by adding that I’m really interested in learning how a sawmill works. He agrees to an interview in fifteen minutes and lets me loose on the premise to film.

I wander over to the giant buzzing machinery and film the destruction of 200+ year-old trees. Then it appears for the first time: the “clean heads” message, flashing insistently in red on the camera screen. Damn you camera. Why do you fail me?!

Later I return to the office to interview the manager. He talks the party line. Everyone blames the illegal wood-cutters for killing the forest and not cutting sustainably. But strangely, no one will admit to buying these illegal logs.

I exit the asadero to the chorus of workmen’s whistles (I’m sure I look very sexy in a giant red raincoat). Once in the truck I mess with the camera but it is fucked. The image is totally streaked and un-usable. Clemente, who was napping behind the wheel, wakes up and asks enthusiastically in his puppy-dog chirping mannerism: “Salio?”

I explain resignedly how the camera isn’t working. Damn dust. Damn humidity. Now I am stuck in Ixiamas for three days with a taller to film and no working camera. After I explain three times that we can’t go to the next community because the camera is working Clemente changes his tack of questioning.

After a pensive moment Clemente shrieks: “Aire!” and gestures at the camera. He decides that we should clean out the dust by using air. I reflect on this and agree that it is worth a shot. He wants to go to a mechanic’s shop and use a tire pump, but I suggest a peluqueria to find a hairdryer.

Talking with Clemente at times is like trying to reason with a deaf-child. He zooms off down the road and back into town. Then he pulls up to a guy on the street fixing his motorbike and asks him for air. I try to explain that we can’t use this air, it is too harsh, but he is on a mission. Anyway, there is no electricity in town during the day (to conserve the town’s one generator) so nothing would work anyway.

I receive a lot of strange looks when I ask around for a hair-dryer, and feel obligated to explain that it isn’t for my materialistic desires to beautify myself (I am proudly sporting jungle-fro) but for my camera. Finally I find a small house that cuts hair. The man inside indeed has a hairdryer, but tells me that the electricity won’t be on until 6pm.

The story only gets longer from here. It evolves to involve: a bicycle-tire pump, a bread protest which shuts down the mayor’s office, a small man who claims to work with cameras, drinkable rubbing alcohol and a pig.

But the end result is that the camera still has dust in it.

And this was a week ago. Now I am back in the office in Rurrenabaque. I went to the local TV stations (they show the WORST telenovelas I have ever seen) begging for a head cleaning-tape but not only do they not have any, there is nowhere in town that does. Pancho (boss-man in La Paz) said he would buy me a tape when the civil strike ended and stores re-opened.

Tape was purchased and sent to the airline Amazonas to be shipped. However, due to intensive rain storms which show no signs of letting up, no flights are arriving in Rurrenabaque for the foreseeable future. The runways are grass. When grass gets soggy planes cannot land.

Thus I wait.

Fighting or foreplay?

So this past weekend was a holiday in the La Paz province (just across the river from us). Though in reality this past "weekend" turned into town partying beginning last Friday and stretching until Weds of this week.

Point being, on Sunday we decided to cross the river and check out the local doings. We traveled with our neighbors, the owners of the Pachamama bar, with the intention of seeing the rodeo bull-riding event. Upon arriving at the arena we learned that the bull-riding was cancelled because they couldn't find any bulls. Which is ridiculous as they are roaming around everywhere. Welcome to Bolivia.

Anyhow, we were informed there was a cockfight going on in some guy's backyard. And since we had come seeking blood, we figured this could be a decent substitute. We found the house and about half the town gathered around a circular patch of dirt, ringed off with sticks and a tarp. People were seated stadium-style on planks propped on stumps of varying heights. Nailed to a tree was a sign reading "Se sirve pollo" [we serve chicken], which we could only assume meant the losers served up on a plate.

Despite getting some wierd looks for being the only gringos present, we bought some cheap beer from a lady's cooler and joined the crowd.

About an hour later they brought out two roosters from individual chicken-wire cages. They wear knife-like spurs taped to their heels to better stab their competitors. The one with green tape was shaking nervously and his feathers looked drenched in sweat. The betting began. Money was thrown around and collected.

Finally they put the two competitors in the ring. They strutted around a bit and started pecking at each other with their beaks. Both of them already looked pretty haggled, their heads plucked clean of feathers. The fighting continued, but really, to an outsider, it was something of a toss-up whether it was fighting or foreplay. They spent half the time locked in a full body frontal chicken embrace.

This went on for some time without either chicken seeming to waiver too much. At one point people began betting on the green chicken, who had pinned the one with white tape for a few moments.

Eventually we decided to leave. It seemed a very slow way to get dinner. [Did I mention that I've become vegetarian?]

Just as we were leaving there were racous cheers from the crowd. The green one had won. BUT, we were shocked to see both roosters emerge from the ring in their owners' arms.

It turns out that all the rooster has to do to win is knock the other rooster out flat OR make the other rooster scream. So, apparently that squawk that we heard meant victory for old green-heels.

Scenes from Rurrenabaque and beyond

Dusk in our neighborhood in Rurre.











Our truck ride from Tahua to Ixiamas.













El Rio Beni in the morning, and the barge we crossed on.








Boats on the river.

Donde no hay turistas

Just returned from four day camping adventure into obscure jungle communities. One of the documentaries I'm "contracted" to create is about this government diagonistic and planning tool called PMOT, or Plan Municipal de Ordanemiento Territorial. Basically, Conservation International (a very cool NGO I'm working with) is working with local municipal governments to assess the land from both a socioeconomic and environmental perspective to try to plan development and control it in a sustainable way. Though it sounds like a lot of bureaucratic bullshit, the people actually respect the ideas, and they want the input of biologists on how to best both use and conserve the land.

So, little gringa intern with her hand-held camera gets to tag along on these crazy trips into the jungle with Fabiana, the Conservation International Communications director who runs the workshops.

We loaded up the truck, a Toyota Land-Cruiser complete with 4 wheel drive and steel-cable winch, with our backpacks and luxury items that are difficult to find in the jungle, such as water and toilet paper. We drive down to the docks (by which I mean the area where the dirt road stops because it reaches the water, there are no docks to speak of) and drive the car onto this floating barge via two large planks which the men move around depending on the width of the car. Once on the other side we get onto the "highway" which is a dirt road skirting the Madidi mountains. It is wide enough for two-way traffic, but I have been on this road over five times and never passed another car; I've only seen motorcycles, bicyclists with rifles and machetes, and the occasional logging truck hauling ancient trees into the world of commercialism.

After about three hours of bouncing around in the back of the truck we pull off the main "highway" onto a smaller dirt road with giant vats of sucking mud. We only get truly stuck once, but sadly we didn't need to use the winch. We travel down this road for an hour and a half, the only signs of people being a logger's camp (ten beds pitched under a cheap blue tarp) and a few wooden houses with thatched roofs. We finally arrived at Tahua, a small community of 50 families, and Fabiana went to tell the community leader that we would be returning on Friday to hold a PMOT workshop.

I set off to either find an outhouse or a place to pee where my ass won't be bit by scary flies that spread flesh-eating bacteria (endemic to the area). Along my way I'm approached by the community members, who, upon learning I work for Conservation International, immediately begin asking me for clean water and perhaps a doctor for the community. When I explain that we'll be returning to do a workshop about conservation and development plans on Friday, I suddenly realize that I really have no idea what the point of these PMOT workshops is, despite knowing all the NGO lingo, and having interviewed several people about this PMOT thing. But my lack of clarity doesn't seem to bother the people, and as I soon learn, any excuse for a gathering is good enough. (I swear, they love to do "tallers" [workshops] for everything here.)

After some gifts of grapefruit and some other fruit with a green brown husk and specific eating instructions, we pile back in truck to return to the "highway." We eventually arrive in Ixiamas (pop 3,000), which seems a booming metropolis after our drive through misty green jungle nothingness. We go to the store, which is really a woman's house with the front room full of bags of rice, corn, quinoa, stacks of eggs, some crackers and miscellanous items, and the pricier things like yogurt (unrefridgerated) and mediocre (we later discovered) cookies.

We purchase 100 pieces of bread, which the woman meticulously counts out of a giant garbage bag, some rice, carrots, some Bolivian cheese (rather tasteless and salty), lentils and coca leaves and cigarettes to bring to the communities.

The next morning we're up at 6am. On the road after bread and coffee for breakfast (we turned down the grizzled-meat-still-clinging-to-cow-vertebrae and rice option). We are headed to El Tigre, a community of 80 families and 4 single people, all of whom are immigrants from Potosi, a region in the altiplano (high abandoned Andes).

Clemente, the driver, figures out that the thing I have been waving around is a video camera, and when I explain what a video camera does he becomes the most enthusiastic supporter. He is constantly waving his arms at things out the window and telling me to film them. Even though he grew up in the jungle he is more excited about spotting fauna than I am; he slams on the breaks and gestures violently at the little dark brown monkeys swinging and screeching overhead, saying "Film them, film them!" in spanish.

At this point the truck is carrying fifteen passengers-- we picked up eleven people who wanted a ride to various small communities along the dirt road. So I crawl out over four people, including one cholita holding a chicken, and then wiggle through the window and out onto the dirt road, all in order to get a better close-up shot of the monkeys. The two guys who are riding on the grill on the roof have the best view of all.

It turns out that Fabiana has never been to El Tigre before. Her last attempt to visit was during the rainy season and the roads were flooded. This trip, however, the rivers are lower, and we are able to cross them relatively easily, the water only reaching about three feet up the side of the truck. So we have to stop several times to ask people if we've passed El Tigre since no one knows where it is. It turns out that El Tigre is at the end of the road and you cannot go any deeper into the jungle except on foot.

The instant we show up in El Tigre word gets out that the freak show is in town. Everyone comes up to peer at our truck and stare at the gringas (myself and Julie, the other intern). We set up our tents in the one-room schoolhouse, which is really little more than a cement floor with a roof. The little kids line up outside to watch.

We spread the word that we are holding a taller later in the evening, and then everyone crawls into their tents to nap. I decide to hike into the jungle to try to find some loggers to interview.

more on adventures in the jungle to come...

Are you the baby-faced mayor?

We had arranged to interview the mayor the previous day. Our 9am appointment was penciled into a day plannar by the secretary seated at a small desk in the cement foyer of the open-air buildilng.

We began the waiting process at 8:45am. For those of you who have ever tried to do anything in an official capacity in Latin America, you know what I mean. I should make a documentary about all the things I've done while waiting for a meeting or an interview or even for the lady who sold me water to find change for my ten Bs (about a dollar).

Point being, we were sitting outside the mayor's office, watching all kinds of people file in and out, dogs scratching themselves, people drive by carrying ladders on their motorcycles, etc. After about a half hour it dawned on us that perhaps we had already seen the mayor, and hadn't recognized him because in reality we have no idea what he looks like. Rodrigo, our housemate and a biologist contracted by our NGO, informed us in a serious tone that although the mayor may have a childlike face, he was a man to be taken seriously.

Eventually we were let into to a small yellow room, concrete walls, a central desk, some shelves with papers, and a outdoor-strength spotlight aimed at the mayor's chair. He doesn't really look baby-faced, though perhaps young. Greetings and kisses all around. We chat briefly and are told to come back later when he is ready for an interview.

So I lug the camera and gear back outside. An small old man in the plaza wanders over and expresses interest in being interviewed. We set up a morning meeting with him. Why not?

Back to the mayor's office. Back to sitting our our bench. Eventually the secretary lets us into the office again and I set up the camera and microphones. We turn on the spotlight clamped onto the wall to let some light into the basement-like office. Roger asks the questions. The mayor answers. It's is all very pansy-like, we aren't exactly grilling him since our film is for the NGO which supports this planning process for development. This is really more of a puff piece.

Roger's last question is about what inspired the mayor to care about conservation, in addition to the economic success of the region. I zoom in on his face for this one. He leans back and says there are two kinds of learning: from school and from one's family. His father, who never wanted him to go into politics, always thought that one day this could be a great city. His father had great hopes for the city, that it would be a place to make Bolivia proud. And then, inexplicably, he begins to cry. I didn't realize it at first, because I thought he had something in his throat. But, silently, he was crying.

We felt terrible. I turned off the camera. We sat there awkwardly. After a few moments he explained that his father had passed away (atleast five years ago) in an accident. It was so strange that our innocent questioning had revealed the human side of the elusive mayor. We talked a bit more about growing up and family-- stories always sound more romantic in Spanish. When we parted ways it was with a good deal of respect for the baby-faced mayor.

Aca estamos.

Well, last Wednesday I packed my bags for Santa Cruz-- which I like to think of as the Texas of Bolivia: oil rich, narco-cowboys, trying to secede from the union, etc. Upon arriving in the office I soon learned that despite earlier assurances (ie. that morning) that would be leaving on a 5pm bus to the eastern part of the country, instead they were going to send me to Rurrenabaque, situated northwest of La Paz in the Amazon basin.

Other than having planned for going to Santa Cruz and established connections with many NGOs there, I am pretty excited to be going to the mystical jungle.

Friday afternoon, after a late-dinner celebration followed by a long night of puking and pooing my guts out (bacteria, not alcohol), I lug my 90 pounds of camping and camera gear down to the street to hail a cab. After passing through airport security where they examined my laptop but ignored my knife and external hard-drive, we spill out onto the tarmac to board the 19 passenger, 2 propeller engine Cessna. I take some footage of the rusted plane graveyard a few hundred yards from our plane until the security man forces me to board. The plane is so small I have to crouch and shimmy down the center aisle. Good news is that all seats are window seats. Bad news is that this plane is the same brand as went down in the crash that inspired the movie "Alive." Luckily I don't know this until afterwards, however, as we are flying over the Andes I am reminded of that movie.

The plane takes off down the runway, rattling and wobbling from side to side. An Irish girl across from me is gripping her seat and praying, which I find oddly reassuring. Then we are airborn, though the air here is so thin it feels like we are held aloft by threads. The city of La Paz spreads out below us, and soon we pass over the jagged, teeth-like peaks of the Andes.
The cabin is not pressurized, and though we are not that high above the mountains, we started at 12,000 feet, so we must be fairly high.

I film my companions and the pilot in our tiny aircraft, and attempt to get some wiggly footage of the Andes yawning below. Then of course I have a panic-attack/vision of the footage being found ten years later after we spiral downwards into the craggy Andes to disappear forever.

The Andes give way to low jungle and wide brown rivers. We are descending. The airway is a strip of green grass with wild pigs ambling on the far end. A few bumps and we are grounded.


Crammed into a Jeep, we take off for town, gawking the whole way at the leafy green vegetation, squawking parrots, and misty mountains. Roger, one of the interns, doesn't fit in the Jeep so he takes a moto taxi (rides on some guy's motorcycle, no touching). By the time we arrive at Pachamama, the local bar right next to our house, Roger is standing there drinking a beer and taking in the views. We don't really know which house is ours, and we have no key, so we decide to have drinks at the bar. We make a mountainous pile of our gear and share beers all around. This is the first anything my stomach has seen since the gut-wrenching illness of the night before, but all's well in paradise.

Eventually Rodrigo, the biologist consultant living in the house, finds us. It's a small town, and word travels fast that the gringo interns are here. Stuff is dragged to our house, a simple three roomed place with white tile, two bathrooms, a stovetop, and a overgrown backyard (which I later "trim" with a machete). Including Rodrigo there are six of us, two bedrooms and five mattresses. I set up my tent inside the house since there is no way to hang a mosquito net from the high ceilings. Home sweet home.