Coca "Chew-In"

On Wednesday, there were hundreds of people on the Plaza Principal in Cochabamba chewing coca leaf. This was part of a nation-wide movement to amend a UN drugs treaty that bans the chewing of coca leaf and treats it on par with heroine and cocaine. The largest "chew-in" was in front of the US Embassy in La Paz.
Chewing coca leaves is an ancient tradition in the Andes. The proposed amendment would still treat coca as a controlled substance, just relieve the ban.
Guess who is stopping Andean countries from amending the ban? The United States: world's largest consumer of cocaine!  The US position is that coca needs to be banned because it is the raw material used for making cocaine, and lifting the ban would weaken the oh-so-important, and oh-so-effective "War on Drugs."
I just have one question: when the US banned the consumption of alcohol, did they also ban eating corn and potatoes?
Watching the US meddle with impunity in the governing and culture of smaller, weaker countries reminds me painfully of their four-star work in Haiti over the past centuries.  This is one of those times that it is really handy socially that most people don't know Alaska is in the United States.

Things I take for Granted

This is a list of things that Latin America makes me miss. These notes are Bolivia-specific, but I have seen this stuff elsewhere, feel free to add your own comments.

*Even sidewalks. Seriously, you need All-Terrain shoes to get around here. In one block, the path with go from dirt, to concrete, to gravel, to cobblestones, and back to concrete.

*Trash Collection. I don't mean that a service needs to come to your house to collect trash, we don't have that in Homer. I just mean "collection", as in gather in a specific area, rather than just strewn around everywhere.

*Good Coffee. Oh, Nescafe, how I hate you.

*Bus Stops. Though hurtling yourself into the street and madly waving your arms when you see the bus you want is fun, I now really appreciate the advantages of scheduled stops.

*Ashtrays. Local motto: "Why use one when the floor's right there?"

*Change for $10 (or equivalent) at businesses.  If you run a store, or a restaurant and only do transactions in cash, it stands to reason that if I make a 18B purchase and only have a 50B bill ($1US=7B), you should be able to give me change. But, I am always wrong about this. And, I always get a look as if I, the customer, have just thrown raw eggs on the front door when I ask for change.

*Hair gel's place in the 80s. I can't say I exactly miss the facial hair of Homer, but I would like to see a guy without half a tub of LA Looks in his hair.

*No marketing via megaphone. The Blues Brothers proved this is effective, but it's really annoying when a guy pushes a cart down the street every morning screaming about fruit through a blown-out drive-thru speaker.

 Post ethno-centric rant, I will clear my conscience by saying that there is a little flower here that I don't know the name of, but the smell is heaven. I would trade the privilege of wearing flip flops everyday combined with that smell for a lot of comforts and conveniences.

They still have food and drink outside your comfort zone

I'm in Cochabamba, which besides being fun to say, is Bolivia's third largest city. I've been here less than a week, but things are coming together. I'm exploring the local markets, meeting lots of people, and, despite everyone's warnings, not getting killed.  I am involved with an organization called Sustainable Bolivia, which provides services for volunteers to multiple local organizations.
My goals here are simple: 1:learn some Spanish, 2: do some good, and, as always, 3:have some fun.
So far, goals 1& 3 are getting the most attention. I am taking Spanish classes every day for two hours. It feels like what I would imagine waterboarding to be. But that's not enough torture; to stretch even farther outside my comfort zone, I decided to live with a host family. I now have a Bolivian "mom," "brother," "sister," and 3-year-old "niece."  I may not learn Spanish, but no one can say I didn't try. I am improving bit by bit, but in the last week, I threatened to hit a busdriver (note to self: "pAgar"='to pay'; "pEgar"=to hit); and, when my 'brother' asked if I was married, I answered, "A little bit" (note to self: "casada"=married; "cansada"=tired).

The toughest thing about living with the host family is the food. Bolivians eat a lot-- five meals a day. And, it is marginally rude to not eat what they have given you. Well, my family feeds me as if I am in training as a sumo wrestler. When I slow down, the mom encourages me: "Comi! Comi!" I feel like Cool Hand Luke, just not as cool.
This week I am supposed to start work with Habitat for Humanity, which will fulfill goal number two and hopefully give me the chance to dodge out on a few meals.

In interest of  goal three, I took off yesterday to explore one of the surrounding villages. The advantage of being a minority foreigner in a friendly country is that people include you in their parties like you are honored guests, rather than backpackers scarfing free alcohol. On the cobbled streets of Tarata, I heard loud music playing behind a closed door.  For some reason, I thought I had every right to open that door and stick my head in. Apparently, I did. The senior citizens in the courtyard beyond waved me in, shared the 'Chicha' (a fermented corn drink) they were drinking, handed me a handkerchief, and asked me to dance with them. It was someone's 50th anniversary and they were all too glad we joined the party. Luckily, they weren't serving any food.

Don't Cry for me Argentina... I'll see you somewhere soon

I've left Argentina, so I'd better tell you what I thought, as being in a new place takes you by the feet and shakes you upside down trying to get the old place out. At least that's how it seems sometimes. Someplaces are harder to shake out than others: Like that place you call 'home', or the places of 'firsts', or where you were when your brother threw a lit sparkler in your hair... but I digress.

I was only in Argentina for 3 weeks, so really I only know that it is HUGE and 3 weeks is not enough. My poor American geography is showing, but I just had no idea how big Argentina was. I went on multiple 20 hour bus rides and didn't cover a third of the country. Granted, I am counting some breakdown time in one of those buses just to give myself extra credit hours.

I'm impressed that a country in our continually globalized world can hold the hours that Argentina does. These people do not negotiate on their siestas. And, they eat dinner at 11 at night-- as a family-- kids and all. And, it seems to work. As long as you get used to the idea that everything will be closed between 1 and 5pm. It makes the days seem long, but also nice and slow.

Speaking of 'closed' that is the word I use to describe Mendoza. I spent two long weekends there, and many things also remain closed on the weekends. What would Americans do if they couldn't work or shop on the weekends? Argentinians go to the park and have picnics. Or play in the local creek or aqueduct ditch. We went horseback riding.

The closed-ness of Mendoza was probably accentuated for me, as I went there expecting a Napa Valley experience in the Malbec mecca.  Argentinian wineries just don't work that way. You call and make a reservation. Then you show up and go on an hour long tour. Then they give you a taste (maybe two) of their most basic wines. Then you spend an hour driving around looking for the next winery. Walking or biking from tasting table to tasting table being assaulted by a waterfall of wonderful vintages is logistically not an option. And, after you have had one hour-long winery tour conducted in your third language, you've had enough. The Malbecs and the Torrentes here are great, but wine bars or restaurants are the place to have them.

Roadtripping through the Central Andes and the desert was spectacular, as I've mentioned. Then I spent my last week in the country in Salta, far in the Northwest. Salta is a beautiful, european-esque city and home to a active and fun couchsurfing population. Couchsurfing has pretty much replaced hostelling for me: not only do you get to meet other travelers, but you get to meet locals as well, and you don't have to get bedbugs in the process.


 I wanted to see Patagonia, but haven't yet. From Mendoza, which is kind of in the middle, I had to choose: go North or South? I chose the North road. Another traveler I met asked, "well can't you go back and go 'South' after seeing Salta, and places 'North'? Technically, the answer is 'yes', but I have learned that "way leads on to way" and once we choose a direction, we may never find that particular fork in the road again.

Through the couchsurfers in Salta and the vineyards in Mendoza, I was taken on a triumphant parade of what this late-night meat-eating, early-morning drinking country has to offer. These people eat a lot of meat. Delicious Asados (BBQs). It is not uncommon for a dinner plate to just have a large slab of meat on it, and nothing else. Nothing else until you eat that slab of meat and they put another one down to replace it. And with that meat comes a fast running salt shaker. This is a salty place. Or sweet. Dulche de Leche (a caramel-like spread) steps into any meal where salt might not apply. I didn't ever have meat and dulche de leche together, but, like I said, I was only there 3 weeks.


P.S. I got that yellow fever shot. Out of a 85 degree box, in a run-down government building in Salta. The Bolivian immigration officials didn't even ask to see the stamp. I haven't died yet though.

Speaking of Scavenger Hunts and Charades...

In beautiful Salta, Argentina, where everything is decorated with llamas, and somehow, those llamas look really nice.

Argentina is nice and all, but pretty much everyone knows where it is. This is one of the reasons I recently bought a ticket to Bolivia.
Only after making the purchase, did I bother to look at visa requirements. Thanks to what, I am sure, is stupid US policy, I need one. I looked up the location of the Bolivian embassy in Salta. It is listed at Avenida San Martin 124. I found Ave. San Martin 128 and I found Ave. San Martin 122, but 124 must be located in the same place as the train platform for Hogwarts.
I also need proof of a yellow fever vaccination. During siesta, I contemplated faking the vaccination stamp in my documents. But then I logically recalled that Tarzan's Jane died of yellow fever. I think. So I got out of my bed to see what I could do.
Most people wouldn't get up from a nap in a country where they have a severe language handicap, and barely have a clue about the government, let alone the healthcare system, and decide to go get a yellow fever shot. 'Most people' are probably on to something.
It's a good thing I spent Christmas playing Cranium with my family, as I was a dead ringer for "I need a Yellow Fever vaccination" charades at multiple pharmacies and at a clinic.  I struggled with directions, because "derecho" is 'straight' and "derecha" is 'right,' and I think we can agree that those are cruelly similar words.
Eventually, I found my way to a hospital, avoided the "Emergencia" door (this is not that, Thank God), and re-performed my perfected charade at an "Informacia" desk. (Most people would have had the first pharmacist write it down, but then, we're back to 'most people.')  The information woman must have sensed my 'derecho/a' handicap, because she took my arm and led me down the hall.
This was the only hospital I've even been in that smelled overwhelmingly like diesel fuel. Once I was being led down the final hall to the needle, I started getting nervous about the shot. I blame this on Anna, who has been instilling a fear of sharp objects in me since the first high school blood drive. I regretted my siesta-time snack of crackers, because I suddenly wanted to throw them up.
Informacia Lady deposited me in front of a door that read "VACUNAR," knocked twice, and left me there.
I leaned against the wall next to the door and let my stomach twist itself around my nerves. I flexed my biceps to fend off needles. I know you are thinking: "Steph! You are an EMT!" I am. I have taught classes on inserting naso-pharangeal airways. But, here is my next confession: even typing the words "naso-pharangeal" kind of makes me want to throw up.
I waited for the Vacunar door to open. I shifted my weight and looked at the white tile wall I was leaning on.  It was smeared with dried blood. I moved to the middle of the hallway and tried not to touch anything. I paced nervously, but didn't want to stray to far from the door, so I pivoted and paced with just one foot. This spinning didn't help the nausea.
A girl who was really hurt, and clearly in a lot of pain limped down the hall. She looked at me sympathetically. I probably looked like I was about to cry. I realized that this spinning around maneuver was not very cool, so I stopped and looked at the door, which was in the same state of closed. Of the 89 words on the door (I counted while I was trying to stand still), I understood 5 of them, not counting the "and"s and the "the"s.  I tried opening the door. It didn't budge.
A line began forming behind me and the people asked me how long I had been waiting. Mercifully, I understood this question. However, I am still struggling with the difference between 'fourteen' and 'forty,' so I settled on replying 'a half hour,' which was in the neighborhood just shy of true.
After waiting an hour, and successfully not vomiting, I turned and walked out.
On the steps of the hospital, I put my head down and caught my breath. I straightened up and promised my inner child that no one was going to put a needle in her arm today. I also promised her ice cream. I walked down the steps and promptly got lost.
I eventually found a cafe and ordered "helado sabor americano," because I wanted to know what American-flavored ice cream would taste like. It's vanilla. My inner child was disappointed.

Cultural Decorum

At our final stop, in the Mendocino winery-laden village of Maipu, Susy and I somehow got our hands on an educational reference book: Argentinian Customs and Culture.
One piece of advice that someone bothered to type up and print in this book is: 'It is rude for a foreignor to criticize Argentinian government or politics. Let Argentinians talk about their own government problems, do not offer your opinion.'
We laughed. Duh. Of course that is rude. Everyone knows you shouldn't discuss politics or religion with strangers, but then I paused...
It seems that everywhere I have ever traveled, people have offered their opinion on American politics as soon as they hear my accent. For the past two years I have been fielding non-stop inquiries on Sarah Palin. Can someone please put in a book that this taboo also applies to Americans?
Currently, I am skating by on the fact that a lot of people don't know that Alaska is part of the USA, or whether Alaskans speak English or German (the only thing I have demonstrated with any competency is that Alaskans probably don't speak Spanish).

"Palm to Palm is Holy Palmer's Kiss" -Shakespeare

Central Andes/ Argentine Sierras:

Mendoza-Punta del Inca-Uspallata-Valle de Calingasta-San José de Jáchal-Rodeo-San Augustín de Valle Fértil-San Juan

I have hiked into the Grand Canyon, I have been wowed by Capitol Reef, Bryce, Arches and the dry spots in Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona. I have stood on a precipice at Zion and might still swear it was the most spectacular vantage point in the world.  I have seen the so-called “Big Sky” that is immortalized by A.B. Guthrie. 

Australia’s Uluru and Olgas are amazing, as are the hundreds of miles of surrounding desert and rock formations through which I have fought flies and chased camels.

In the last week, I have driven thousands of kilometers through Central Argentina. The terrain changes every 50 kilometers. Every color of the rainbow paints the scenery. A Cineplex worth of popcorn clouds fill the sky as far as I can see; the carpet is red and white sand, as soft and fine as silk. And the rocks…  rocks, rocks, rocks… mountains of them, piles of them, weird balancing acts of them. So much vast landscape you know that only God has touched each and every piece.  This desert makes the American Southwest and the Australian Outback look like the places that God practiced on while he was getting ready to make Argentina.

 

I have a confession to make. Ever since reading Into Thin Air I have judged climbers fairly critically. I have mostly viewed the activity as self-serving and foolish. This week, I changed my mind. I found a desire to reach out and be a part of this beautiful landscape. I realized that every time you touch a far-flung stone, out-of-reach of anyone else, it is being palm to palm with the Creator. 

Language Problems

The Spanish speaking world needs to get together. I have recently discovered that in Argentina (and in Uruguay, for that matter) the "LL" that Spanish speakers love to sprinkle generously through their words does not make the same sound as it does in the rest of the Spanish-speaking world. I learned in Mexico that when you see 2 'L's, you make a 'y' sound. Why? I don't know. That's the way it is. But not here.
Here, you make a "j" sound, as in "'J'ust a minute, I have to relearn how to pronounce this word."

Let's say you make the "y" sound, like I do. Do people realize it's just a different dialect and give you the benefit of the doubt? NO. They look at you like you are a Martian.
I know this Martian look well, as I have been getting it a lot lately. Another situation I can't get comfortable with involves restaurants. It is popular here to not have menus. They don't even have a chalkboard with specials. The waitress just comes to your table and asks what you want.
You say, 'I don't know, what do you have?' and she says, 'whatever you want.'
Really? Mac & Cheese and a Peanut Butter sandwich? No. Now, if I had enough cultural experience to have any idea what would be on a normal Argentine menu, this wouldn't be so difficult. But, I can't even make the correct sounds when the letters arrive on my tongue, so I stare blankly at the waitress, shrug my shoulders, and point vaguely at another table. She brings whatever they serve Martians in this country.

Feliz Año Nuevo!

In Mendoza, Argentina with Susy:

The owner of the inn we are staying at invited us to join his big family party for New Years. We accepted. The rest of his family canceled. We had one of the best steaks I have ever eaten and all the Malbec we could drink with this guy and his parents (who live with him). We arrived at 10:30pm, which was way too early for dinner, so we were having a glass of wine and he says, 'it's kind of odd that both my parents live with me, because they are divorced.'  We rang in 2011 at a small table on a porch while a violent thunderstorm raged outside. The language barrier, for once, helped make things less awkward: since we couldn't talk much, it made the fact that two adults at the table were intentionally ignoring each other a little less obvious. A little.

After dashing in and out of the rain to watch over an hour of fireworks, we went to "Willy's Bar" at about 1:30am with Toto, our host. The bar was so far from being set up that it was basically closed.

Outside of Discovery Channel nature shows, I have never before realized the NEED for time-lapse photography. Nothing could have better captured our New Years Eve.  If only we had been appropriately equipped, you would get to watch something like this:

1:35am: Toto got us 'Fernet' & coke... the local drink, which smells and tastes like Coke mixed with Ricola cough drops. The bartender has a fauxhawk and a spiked belt barely holding his jeans above his thighs.

1:37am: A tumbleweed rolls through the echoing red and black painted room accompanied by complete silence.

1:47am: We watched the DJ move all his equipment inside, which included moving, and breaking the feet off of, a pool table. 

1:53am: Two girls arrive. Short hair, parted asymmetrically.  Short, flowered dresses: eighties print.

2:13am: More hipsters trickle in. Average age is 22, but there are some older lecherous boyfriends. Girls are in short skirts and short boots and loads of perfume. Boys are in truckee hats and tight jeans.

2:24: We talk about how old we are.

2:28am: It stops raining. 
2:34am: The DJ moves all his equipment back to a tent outside.
2:46am: 8 hipsters, two with mullets and one with silver pants, fall asleep on a white leather couch, waiting for the party to start.
2:48am: Fauxhawk bartender opens up his laptop and plays Michael Jackson's extended version of "Thriller."  We dance... just like they do on the video.
2:53am: Toto asks if I'm on Facebook. I say, "What's 'Facebook'?" I have had enough Fernet to think this is the funniest joke of the night. 
3:01am: A guy walks in a red t-shirt and Dick Tracy hat. He's with two girls in striped shirts they stole from the set of "Growing Pains".
3:24am: The DJ finally starts playing in his outdoor tent. He starts with breakbeats (Susy is shocked) and works his way into "Indigenous techno".
3:38am: There are two pairs of silver pants on the mud dance floor. 
3:46am:The stars above the "danceyard" are bright. Toto points out a 'special Argentine' constellation of "a shopping cart". It's Orion's belt.
3:53am: There is a line at the gate to get in and the bouncers are charging admission. 
4:14am: the danceyard is full. We are among the best dancers there, a rank accomplished with minimal foot and arm movement.
4:18am: There is a deep crowd around the bar, clamoring for Fernet and Coke. 
4:35am: We tell Toto we want to leave. He is appalled. 'Things are just getting started!'
4:38am: The three of us leave the hipsters to their dance moves and climb into Toto's 1966 Ford pickup truck.
4:57am: We laugh ourselves to sleep, visions of mullets dancing in our heads.