Musings of a wandering mind: travelblog attempt 2

Another morning in Rurrenabaque

2007-08-10T08:56:00.001-07:00

It's quite a challenge to find b-roll that encapsulates economic growth, sustainable development, land-use planning and much of the the other theoreticaly rhetoric of which my films consist.

So I found myself roaming around "downtown" Rurrenabaque filming random market scenes. All of the sudden a boy is in my camera screen, but with his hands over his face. I look up and see Wilder, one of the kids I met working with the Ecoclubes here. (He refuses to be filmed or photographed, but is quite good-natured about it.)

When he asks what I'm doing I realize I'm not really doing much, and say so. He decides to take me on a tour. I ask why he isn't in school, and he says it is too cold for school. This is a total farce, but I'm not a teacher anymore, so I join in playing hookey.

We hike outside of town and he shows me several trails I hadn't found yet. He is quite the little tour guide and points out various birds and fruits which I probably walk past daily but never noticed. He tells me about pumas and jaguars and takes me to their watering holes. I confirm that they probably wouldn't be out in the morning, right?

We climb up a steep cliff and are looking at these tojo birds when Wilder gets super still.

"We should turn back-- hay chancha de selva."

I aks him to repeat, but I still don't know these words. He turns and starts to book it down the mountain. Confused, I follow.

After some questioning it turns out that he heard wild boars snorting. He explains how they have fierce tusks and chase people and gore them.

Sweet, I hike back in this part of the jungle all the time by myself. Good going Masterson.

Girls Gone Wild

2007-08-08T12:58:00.001-07:00

We were supposed to travel into the jungle with German, one of the leaders of an indigenous community reserve on the eastern side of the river. But after showing up at his office and house for over a week trying to pin down a date, we tired of this process.

Our last attempt to make travel plans with German was something of a disaster. We went to the office around 3pm and found German lying on the brick walkway in the courtyard. His small daughter was jumping around playing, and his wife was standing next to her husband, not seeming to mind that he was curled in the fetal position in front of five other employees. While we were chatting with some guardaparques German woke up and grinned widely at us.

“Chicas! Te amo,” he pointed enthusiastically at myself and Julie, repeating in both Spanish and Mosetene (indigenous language) that he loved us. Then he called over his older daughter and insisted on taking a photo of myself, Julie, his wife, his 3 month-old child and two other daughters. Still lying on the ground, propped up on his elbow now, he is barely able to hold the camera upright, and initially had the lens aimed at himself. We are standing waiting, our arms around each other as if we were best of friends. Ultimately German points the camera at us and manages to depress the button enough for a shaky flash to go off.

“Un otro, un otro,” he insists, unsteadily waving the camera in our direction.

When his daughter manages to regain control of the camera she shows us the pictures. As I am the tallest person in most of Bolivia, it is my head that is cut off in the first picture. In the second one, his wife and baby are squeezed out of the frame.

I find the whole situation both annoying and funny. We were supposed to be leaving for a trip to visit indigenous communities today, but clearly he is in no position to take us. With independence day falling on a Monday, everyone began drinking on Friday, and even today the plaza is littered with remaining make-shift tarp booths, and a handful of karaoke die-hards.

So instead we walk back home, and decide that we will join our friends who are hiking to the ridge behind the ridge outside of town. We throw some water and a camera in our bags, and hop on motorcycles up to the mirador.

The hike starts out rather tamely, we trek through a field and then into the leafy and more shaded jungle, roughly following a creek which we hope leads to the ridge. After less than an hour we are deep in the jungle and having to send scouting missions to attempt to find passage through the undergrowth.

We take turns slicing a narrow trail through the tangle of vines, ferns, serrated leaves which draw blood, and plants that grab your flesh like vicious Velcro.

Hacking with the machete is oddly satisfying, though slow work. Whilst I am slashing away trying to get us out of a particularly dense patch, Roger pulls out his camera and films the destruction, telling me he is going to sell the footage to “Girls Gone Wild.” To each his own fantasy.

After several hours alternating between hacking and passing the dogs up the steep cliffs we are up on a ridge, a saddle really. We climb a tree and can see that this saddle does indeed connect to the rocky ridge we are attempting to summit, but between here and there is thick with undergrowth.

We break for a lunch of chocolate bars, grapefruit and bananas, and then we clear probably another kilometer of trail. Some of the group are tiring, so we decide to head back.

It only takes a few minutes to slide down the dirt/rock slopes that took so long to climb up. Hilda is the first to fall, and skis down the slope on her bum, clawing in the air to grab a root to break her fall. Ultimately we all decide this is the safest method, and squat down so we are sliding on our boots and bums.

A few hours later, back at the house, we call up the motorcycle taxi to bring us up some beers. Some quick showers and we retire to watch the sunset from the balcony, drinking cerveza and chewing coca leaves.

On sugar daddy NGOs

2007-08-07T06:05:00.000-07:00

I came to Bolivia with a preconceived notion of what “development” would look like on the ground. I assumed that anyone associated with an NGO, a conservation organization, or a religious mission would be met with an attitude ranging from curiosity to indifference to angry resistance to “white people’s charity.”

Though the “white man’s burden” attitude is no longer politically correct, now we simply “teach” developing countries our neoclassic economic model, how to “develop” their resources, and what things they should want from life.

Before arriving, I assumed I would encounter a fair amount of people who would take one look at me, learn who I’m working for, and think/say “fuck off gringa, we don’t need your damn help.”

Honestly, I think I would prefer this response.

Instead I’ve found that mayors, community leaders, artisans, logger cooperatives, etc are all begging for “apoyo” [support]. Maybe instead of begging I should say waiting. Passively waiting.

In the variety of interviews that I’ve conducted for the documentaries, no one has failed to mention an amazing list of things they would have done if they had the funds. This, in of itself, I can understand. But it is the passiveness with which it is said that seems so sickening. Everyone points to land disputes or destruction of the environment with resignation, saying that they would do something about it if only the NGOs would stop giving money to the El Tigre community and start giving some money to them.

When I accompanied an NGO in our consortium to some of their “tallers” [workshops] to educate the people about the new land-use planning tool, I was rather shocked to watch the workshops conducted. Rather than asking the people what their priorities were for their land, the NGO workers simply told them: here is where the school will go, here is where you are allowed to farm, here is where you will eat, shit, etc.

But crazier still is that many people are accepting this relationship without questioning.

When I was in Ixiamas a few weeks ago there was a bread strike. Some community leaders had gotten everyone all riled up because the price of bread went up from 4 pieces for 15 cents to 3 pieces for 15 cents. A sizeable crowd followed several angry leaders to the mayor’s office where they filled the large entryway and still more spilled outside into the hot sun.

Bread prices were rising because of some other factors in La Paz, some 400 kilometers away, that are beyond the control of anyone here. I asked some people why they don’t grow wheat, etc here, because the soil is fertile. I didn’t get any good answers, but finally one man explained to me that this region used to grow all its own food, but when the logging fever began they abandoned these practices for quick money. Though the mahogany is now depleted, logging still goes on, but even with that income people still struggle to feed their families. One logger told me he was paid 36 dollars to cut down ONE THOUSAND trees. It took him a month.

* * * * *

Bolivia is a land of contradictions. It is at once a peaceful, harmonious place with kind people, lush nature and simultaneously a poor country, pervaded by duplicitous capitalistic methods and people desperate to better their lives, often according to a Western standard of values.

And who the hell am I to tell them what they should want? I take a strange comfort in knowing that my role here is a journalistic one, and that I am here to listen, rather than to “educate.”

But I’m pissed off. So many people I talk to are purely interested in the chance that I can get them funds from my NGO. Obviously, I have little to no power to influence how USAID or others in the consortium spend their money. So I pity the people who don’t realize this; I pity their childlike dependency on help from the outside. And yet pity is so damn insulting and patronizing.

And that’s the trouble with sugar-daddies. Soon you lose respect for both the pimped-out cash-dispenser and the sycophant receiver. I mean not every john/prostitute relationship can end like “Pretty Woman,” but one would hope that some kind of freedom would be the ultimate goal.

Sunset ride

2007-08-01T07:50:00.000-07:00

Rurrenabaque is a small town. Everyone knows everybody's business as well as the color of their underwear. I can't walk anywhere without running into someone that I know. There is no supermarket, only plaza with stalls of veggies, hanging dead animals, and giants bags of grains and rice. They do have their own grass landing strip complete with a one-room open air building that is the "airport." Thus, so far everywhere I have needed to go I either walk or take a boat.

However, yesterday I went to visit a friend who is house-sitting up on the ridge outside of town. As it was less than an hour to sunset I decided to take a taxi (70 cents) rather than do the 30-minute walk. Hardly anyone owns a car here, and all the taxis are motorcycles. Etiquette dictates that you sit on the back of the motorcycle, not touching the driver, and you hold on to the bars on either side of the seat. Frequently, the women ride side-saddle, often with their arms full of groceries; I have no idea how they stay on, it really defies the laws of physics. The roads here are rocky dirt or cobblestone (well, literally, stones lined up in the dirt) and the ride is not that smooth. Yet I have seen motorcycles carrying up to four people.

So, these things I knew. I walked down the main street looking around for a dude on a bike. About 20 seconds later a guy turned round the corner and I sort of lifted my hand in the air a bit. He pulled over and I asked to be taken to the "mirador" which is the viewpoint outside of town.

I climbed on the bike and we took off for the mirador. We chat a bit: where are you from? what are you doing in Rurre? where are you staying? I tell him about my boyfriend back in the United States, you know, the usual conversation between local and extranjera. I practice my core strengthening when we turn the corners, seeing if I can stay on and centered without holding on.

We get to the top of the ridge and go to the last house. A man comes out, curious about the arriving gringa. Apparently this is not my friend's house. I explain the directions I was given again: it is the last house at the end of the road and there are two very mean dogs who live there.

"Ah, yes that house," he says when he hears about the mean dogs. He points down the hill to the "highway," which is a rocky, half-eroded dirt road snaking down the backside of the ridge.

We take off again, weaving down the grassy edge of the road where there are the fewest rocks, but also the highest possibility of loosing traction and falling off the hill. I envision a variety of jumping-escape strategies and shift my weight to the left.

Soon two large, aggressive dogs come bolting out and bark ferocisouly at our motorcycle. Teresa, a woman I met here working on her doctoral thesis, comes out and tames the hounds. I thank my driver and pay him the standard fee. He says that it was enchanting to meet me (a common phrase) and that I am very beautiful (also commonly said to foreigners).

Thinking nothing of it, I go inside. A bit later I mentioned that the road was a bit scary, and Teresa starts explaining that certain of the moto-taxis vehicles are better than others.

"Wait, there are specific motorcycles that are taxis?" I ask.

"Yeah, of course, they have taxi license plates," Teresa explains,"how did you get here?"

Oops. It turns out that I just flagged down some random guy riding around town and asked for a ride. Good thing I was super-vague about where I was living when he asked three times.

By the time I leave the sun has set and I decide to walk home, rather than attempt to distinguish which motorcycles are taxis as they go whizzing by in the dark. After about ten minutes of walking I've descended from the ridge and am back on the main road. Some kid that looks about 15 years old pulls up and says he'll take me to town.

I do a quick mental debate: stay on darkened road in unknown part of town or ride with some kid who is going to tell all his buddies about his gringa girlfriend.

I climb on the back and soon we are buzzing through the cool night air. We have the same conversation, except this time I don't understand the question: "Tiene un chico?" Eventually I realize he is asking if I have a boyfriend.

So I tell him that I live near the plaza and direct him to my friend's bar. He won't take any money for the ride, so I go into the bar to chat with the owners until he leaves.

Today, in the light, I have examined the motorcycles. I don't know what this taxi license plate business is about, they all look the same to me. I think I'll stick to walking.

Out, out damn spot!

2007-07-25T08:14:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-07-20T12:01:00.001-07:00

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

2007-07-17T14:57:00.001-07:00

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

2007-07-16T09:08:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-07-05T09:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-07-03T09:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Bienvenidos a la Selva

2007-06-23T11:24:00.000-07:00

Wake up at 6am for trip to Parque Carasco. Only the Americans and the organizer are on time, the rest trickle in around 6:30. Soon we're crammed into taxis and headed toward the park. It is still dark out, yet our driver is blasting reggatone, which is basically Latin music from Central America with a heavy bass beat and repetitive lyrics, usually including words like: 'mi corazon,' 'baby,' and 'no puedo vivir sin tigo.'

Short delay when are cab gets a flat tire-- too many heavy Americans. We roll over to the Gomería and a guy opens the garage door from the inside, sending chickens scattering in the early morning light.

Air pumped into tire, we're off again. The taxi speeds off on this narrow road through the jungle, passing people sitting outside their homes, and beeping at dogs, chickens, and people transporting unwieldly loads on bikes.

We cross several small rivers and finally arrive at a small station which is apparently the guardaparque office. We are told about the guacharos [oilbirds] and orchids for which the park is famous. We start the hike by crossing the river in this platform-contraption strung up on cables. The locals just sling a rope loop over the cable and hand-over-hand across the river.

Our guide seems to be about 15 years old, but he is knowledgeable and friendly, and he complimented my Spanish, so he must be a good person. It's dark under the leafy layers of vegetation, but the light filtering in is gorgeous. We do catch a glimpse of the infamous guacharos, they scream like mad-felines. We also check out a cave full of vampire bats. It's pretty cool to see them hanging up there on the ceiling like rats in scratchy-1970s polyester. Our presence freaked them out, so I spent most of the time in the cave covering my head with my shirt to avoid getting rabies as they flapped around.

Bus-ride to Villa Tunari

2007-06-23T10:49:00.000-07:00

12 hour bus ride from La Paz to Villa Tunari: 25 environmental and development NGO administrators, myself, four other interns and a handful of locals board the bus at 5:30pm. it feels like an adult field trip.

as luck would have it, julie [another intern] and I got the seats in the back near the bathroom. but the good news is that the smell of feet is less strong in the back. they only over-booked this trip by two, and one of the cholitas hauls her flourescent bags next to my seat and plops down in the aisle. after eating some kind of soup with spaghetti out of a plastic baggie, she lies down on the floor to go to sleep.

soon it is dark. the bus is not exactly airtight, and there is no heating, so its quite frigid. once out of la paz, we are on the abandoned altiplano. there is nothing for miles and the road snakes alternatively through mountains and high plains. i'm glad it's dark so i can't see the road drop off the edge of the mountain without a guardrail. at times the road is so high all i can see out the window are the stars, and it feels oddly like we are flying through the sky.

around midnight they open the "solo urinar" bathroom (which was locked for unknown reasons). about half the bus takes advantage of this, sporting headlamps to make sure they don't miss the toilet.

at 2am we are stopped by the DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration) who pull various passengers off the bus to inspect their bags. it turns out that only males are suspect, and only those with large bags. females smuggling small amounts of drugs are apparently not worthy of prosecution. we turn up clean and continue on our way.

5:30 am arrive at hotel in Villa Tunari. its is hot and muggy and I can breathe fully again. so strange. in the dark the leafy, umbrella-like vegetation looks like something from Fraggle Rock. we all go to sleep in our various rooms until the conference begins at 10am.

La Paz

2007-06-19T12:55:00.000-07:00

2007-06-17T13:19:00.000-07:00

Some observations:

1. Men take care of kids here. Everywhere there are fathers walking or grocery shopping with their kids, all sweet and affectionate. Take note American men.

2. In La Paz, stoplights are merely suggestions. Beeping of the horn is considered adequate warning.

3. Employees in grocery stores are actually paid to approach people and try to sell products. You may be thinking: that is normal, we have taste tests in the US. Well, not quite. This one chica comes up to me while I’m browsing the cereal section and displays a bag of “instant” rice. She holds it up to me and explains its various merits, ie that it cooks in ten minutes and is 'muy riquisimo.' It seems that the idea is that I should now buy this bag of dried rice simply because she held it under my nose. Additionally, the 'Friends' theme song was playing during this encounter. Surreal.

4. Cholitas (women who dress in traditional indigenous garb even in the city) are actually pretty decent business women. They often sit on the side of the street selling
a. limes,
b. calls on their cell phones,
c. saltenas (yummy pastries filled with various things)

WORD ON THE STREET: apparently there is such a thing as Cholita wrestling— an organized sport with rules, and the cholitas actually wrestle wearing their traditional dresses and bowler hats. This is what I am told.

5. Some women who beg on the side of the street, particularly older women, actually rent children from other women so that they get more pity money. Very entrepreneruing.

6. Llama fetuses are good luck. Please email me if you would like me to purchase one for you.

IN OTHER NEWS:

I did my first video interview last week. We interviewed the director of the Bolivia office of OPS [Organizacion Panamerican de Salud]. He was very nice, and let us set everything up in his office. I moved all his furniture around and put a fake plant in the background. All very classy. Yet once he began talking on camera it was all foreign to me. Lots of Spanish jargon about “gestion” y “buenas practices” and other buzz words. I sort of tuned out. He could have been talking about how they chop down as many trees as possible and I was just smiling and nodding. Not looking forward to editing that…

After a conference in Cochabamba (cocalero region) I will be heading to Santa Cruz where I’ll be filming the various projects that the NGOs there are working on. Still a bit fuzzy on the details. Things I do know about Santa Cruz: the region has:
- soy agriculture,
- cattle ranching [erosion problems],
- vaqueros [more specifically, the men were described to me as narco-cowboys],
-oil money, and
- former Jesuit missions.

2007-06-10T12:16:00.000-07:00

Hola mis amigos! Estoy en La Paz!

So it turns out that I flew in on a holiday, something to do with Christ, though it seems just an excuse to party. Anyhow, I caught a taxi into La Paz, I´m staying at the Pact Bolivia landscapes apartment in La Zona Sur, which seems to be a more posh neighborhood.

The city is stunning-- riding down from the airport on the rim of the valley I had a full view of the city, houses spilling down the sides of the canyon. There´s basically only one road out, which I´m told is frequently blocked by violent protesters, etc. Though since the election of the first indigenous president, Evo Morales, people have been trying to give the guy a chance because he´s supporting indigenous rights. And, being a former coca grower (cocalero), he supports the industry, and attempts to clarify the dinstinction between using the plants for coca tea and for cocaine. Coca tea just tastes like seaweed to me, and I certainly didn´t get no buzz.

So, orientation begins on Monday, and then I´ll learn which project I´m assigned to. They´re putting us in male-female pairs, which seems a good idea for safety. I was exploring El Prado (downtown area) alone the other day and I experienced the disgusting tourist-theft ploy. So, someone spits on you, and this is supposed to distract you from guarding your valuables. So I´m wiping the shit off my ear when I feel this hand take my camera out of its little bag. Instinctively I turn toward the person, who turns out to be a middle aged woman wearing a ragged grey t-shirt and pants, and I scold her indignantly:¨Senorita, es lo mio. Damelo!¨ She reveals my little silver camera from where she had hid it underneath a crumpled plastic bag. I snatch it back and walk away, and she just sort of takes a few steps in the other direction, confused. I suppose having been a high school teacher comes in handy sometimes. Good thing no weapons were involved.

Otherwise, things in the city have been tame. I´m getting used to Bolivian spanish, though I find the women difficult to understand. So far everyone has been quite kind, though getting a straight answer out of anyone is mammoth task. I use the survey approach: I ask five people the same question (AKA where can I buy a plug adaptor?) and then I take the mathematical average of their responses and follow that advice. People don´t say take a right or left here, instead they just say go up or down (it is in a canyon, after all), but this vague directionaly advice can prove confusing to a newcomer like myself. Actually, finding a plug required asking at least ten different people in various storefronts complete with hanging wires, strange metal pieces and other electrical gear. In the end, I found the right adaptor by coincidence, I saw it hanging in the open window of a closet-sized ferrateria (sp?) operation.

I hope you all are well-- I would love to hear how everyone´s summers are going if you get a chance. I´ll try to give another update when I get my assignment, and before I head off for el campo.
Besos,
kath

2007-05-08T19:31:00.000-07:00

The premise: flying to Bolivia to work on a US AID project. June 7- August 15-- will be placed in unknown location in county-- could be swampy tropics with toucans and alligators or Andes highlands with vast expanses of greenery and guanaco (they are like llamas).

The job, as I understand it: making mini-educative documentaries on "environmentally sustainable practices" going on in Bolivia.
Step 1: find people not causing deforestation and massive toxic mining. This should be easy as generally it is US companies doing this dirty work.
Step 2: film said people. be sure to get lots of cooperation, sunshine, smiles, etc on camera. maybe some old people and kids. multi-generational really tugs at the heartstrings.
Step 3: interview some peeps explaining how they are living sustainably. follow them through their daily routines with camera.
Step 4: edit this footage into a coherent, motivating piece of work that inspires communities to adopt the amazing practices of their fellow citizens.
Step 5: arrange viewings of aforementioned movies in local communities. find someone to translate from spanish into local tongues?

My packing list:
sunscreen. tent. computer. external hard drive. lots of books (please email me your recommendations). spanish dictionary. malaria drugs (the only legal trip left). passport. underwear. sandals. soap. leatherman. water filter. more tba.

wanna hear the official lingo? it's here.

2006-10-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

Cell Phones.

I.

Damn you and your 0 missed calls.

Despite desperate punching of buttons

no messages vibrate in my hand.

II.

Gone are the glorious days of the land line

when the phone rang furiously all the

while I was away

and the shy young pursuants,

too timid and overwhelmed by my charm,

hung up without leaving a message.

III.

Cingular has single-handedly slashed

my mind's romantic construction

of courtship where imagination

prevailed over knowledge

IV.
Now I sit, chained to this phone

unable to squash the glimmer

of possibility of a technological failure

hoping beyond hopes that misalignment

of some distant satellite has caused

your message to fail to register

V.
Slipping the phone into my pocket

for my short walk to pick up my mail

I wonder if maybe-- just maybe--

it's me, not you.

2006-10-20T20:27:00.000-07:00

So I got a job. It turns out it is as easy as walking in the door and asking. I'm currently a full-time student and part-time caterer. Yes, I am paid to wear a sort of penguin outfit and smile at rich people who say things like: "Sweetie, can you bring me some ice tea with less ice in it?"

Yes, the outfit. Well, I wear black pants, black socks, black shoes, a white button-up with a clip on bowtie. I'm allowed to wear earrings (one per ear) that are smaller than a quarter. This rule has been broken already with a lovely turquoise pair called "dazzling" by on of the line cooks.
I wanted comfy shoes, so I bought a black pair with a white rubber sole, whose whiteness sort of glows about 1 inch around the bottom of the shoe. Ghetto-style, I took a bit of permanent black marker to it-- now they are all black shoes. Two-tone, but all black.

As for other exciting moments, I've been lurking in courtrooms after a class assignment to cover a court case. It's rather crazy how mundane deciding the fates of people's lives has become to the judges and lawyers who work there. I sat in on an abuse case where a man beat his wife with a lead pipe, but tried to lessen the charges by claiming he beat her with a plunger (apparently a less lethal weapon would be a shorter prison term).

2006-09-06T20:15:00.000-07:00

Full Moon and You're Not Here

Useless moon,
too beautiful to waste.
But you, my Cinderella,
have the midnight curfew,
a son waiting to be picked up from his den meeting,
and the fractured marriage weighing on your head
like a crown of thorns.

Oh my beauty,
it's not polite
to keep me waiting.
To send me reeling into a spiral
and then to say good night.

I smoke a cigar,
play a tango,
gulp my gin and tonic.

Goddamn you.

Full moon and you're not here.
I take off the silk slip,
the silver bangles.

You're in love with my mind.

But sometimes, sweetheart,
a woman needs a man
who loves her ass.

By Sandra Cisneros

2006-09-06T20:01:00.000-07:00

Wow. Is that really chocolate cheesecake?

2006-09-06T19:06:00.000-07:00

Bad writing is like a cheap drink. You don't know if you should finish it on economic principle or dump it out to save your body the high fructose syrup poisoning. But success in writing, or so I'm told, comes from practice and perserverence. Thus, this blog. The good, the bad, and the "no one is reading this anyway."

As far as I can tell, a blog is a carefully constructed diary, meant to appear witty and impromptu, which others can follow and judge. The act of writing, of committing something to the page (albeit electronic) implies the hope that somehow, somewhere, sometime, that slip of paper will be found, the words taken in. The chance to reach another mind. Secretly, we all crave the validation.

I firmly believe that it takes a sort of arrogance to be a writer. To believe that my string of words will somehow influence another, speak to a trembling heart or reaffirm the secret desires of a likeminded soul. To sell your words like a blockbuster, all guns blazing. But interwoven in this capicity for blustering cheekiness lurks an insecurity, a fear of failure, or worse, or mediocrity.

Thus I find myself. But rather than hide in the shadows whilst I polish and perfect, I'll post these drafts, these meandering murmurs. But before I get too high-handed, I should confess that the main objective of this blog will be to communicate my daily experiences and reflections. Thus this blog will mainly be of interest to a select following, such as mom and dad. But a budding writer cannot be too picky with his or her target audience. Readership is readership and must be duly noted.

Until next time my weary travellers...