Eu no falou Portuguese

Well, I haven't updated in a while, and for this I apologize. Since helping to run a little veggie garden for the street kids in Sucre through a great organization called Nyanta, since journeying to the muggy and indepented-minded city of Santa Cruz, since struggling to get the paperwork to get into Brazil legally, and since taking a 26 hour long train ride through the mosquito-infested jungle...I have finally left Bolivia.

Gone are the luxurious hostels for 3US dollars a night, gone are the four star meals for 2. Gone is the comfort that has become the Spanish language. I am in Brazil.

I crossed the border two days ago and entered the town of Corumba. I stayed there one night, waiting for migration to open, for a bus north, and for my body to recover from the train ride of death (yes, everyone really calls it that). Then I took an airconditioned coach bus in style through the lush Pantanal to the city of Campo Grande. The view of the wetlands of every shade of green imaginable dotted with long-necked birds and framed by billowing grey clouds, was stunning.

Since arriving in Brazil, I have been humbled constantly; when one does not speak the language, one recieves a variety of responses. I am greatful for the people who have been so kind. English speaking Brazilians, Spanish speaking Brazilians, Brazilians who are willing to try to interpret my sign language, have all popped out of the woodwork frequently, and often just at the right moment.

Tonight, I will go to Brasilia, the capital city, where my birth family lives. My plan is to stay there for a few days before I meet them, in order to improve my language skills. I have a long way to go, but I have confidence that when the time is right, what will be will be. By that time my mom and Charles will be there too, and their support will be much appreciated.

Dino Tracks

A long long time ago (over 65.5 million years ago), Sucre was underwater. It was a huge lake, said to be quite pretty (according to the journals of some literate dinosaurs, including this famous author -editor´s note-).
Several species of dinosaurs were there to enjoy it, including sauropods, hadrosaurs, and theropods. They created paths to their favorite watering hole, which were fossilised, thanks to the magama that spewed out of a near-by volcano. Sometime after the extinction of said dinos, the earth transformed considerably (the plates moved, a sea poured into what is now the Andes, and then dried up) and the tracks were buried in a mountainside. When in the 1960s, the mountain was mined for concrete, the tracks were discovered...in a vertical wall of rock!

Being only a few kilometers away from this marvel (one of the longest dino track paths in the world) we just had to check it out. We bought our tickets for the dino-truck (a tourist flatbet truck adorned with plastic dino claws), and rode up the hills of Sucre, waving at pedestrians all the way to the dino park. We had a great guide, were impressed by the giant turquoise wall of criss crossing dino tracks, and took many photos of ourselves with the dino replicas. It was an afternoon well spent.

This trip rocks! (heh.)

After riding away from the flats on top of the land rover, we were brought to some amazing rock structures...

(Condor Rock)

The Salar

Nicole, Lillian and I arrived in the town of Uyuni in anticipation of one of the greatest tours of our lives. We were not dissapointed. The three of us California girls, two Canadian cousins, and one cheeky Brit set off in a Land Rover with our guide, Omar and the cook, Anna for an amazing visual adventure in the surreal south west part of Bolivia.

Day one: The Train Graveyard. The railway of Bolivia should be used more, in my opinion, but alas, the hey day is over, leaving relics of the past for gringos to climb all over.




Next, we rode to the main event, the highest, biggest salt flat in the world, the Salar de Uyuni! It was under about a foot of water (the rainy season just ended), which did not detract from its awesomeness, just changed it a bit.



In the middle of the salar, there is a hotel, made entirely of salt! We ate lunch outside on a little island and tried to look around the hotel, but the owners were rude, so we left.


Please see the next post for more of the adventure...

The Breaking Backbone of the Spanish Empire

Potosi, Bolivia...
Adam, Nicole, Lillian, and I left Sucre for a weekend excursion to the mining city of Potosi. This quiet high altitude city (over 4,000 m) has a tragic history, and, inspite of the city´s growing economy due to the tourist industry, it has a difficult present as well. In many ways it embodies Bolivia in all of its potential and strife.

If you had been alive in the late 1600s, you would have known about Potosi. It was one of the richest and most populated cities in the world. In fact, the word ¨potosi¨ was used as a synonym for weath. In the mid 1500s silver was found in the hill, now called Cerro Rico (rich hill) that towers 800 meters over the city. The Spanish found out about the silver and immediately claimed the hill in the name of King Carlos V. The Spanish enslaved the indigenous people to mine the hill, (later using African slaves when the natives died) set up refineries, and sent the finished silver to Spain. Thousands of natives and Africans perished in the harsh working conditions, while the mercury used in the refining process contaminated the river. Meanwhile, the Spanish monarchy became more and more wealthy. By the late 1600s, Potosi had grown from a mining village into a city of 200,000 inhabitants, with over 80 churches and a mint.


In the 19th century the city took several blows, including the decrease of silver within the hill and a period of looting during the struggle for independence from Spain. During that time, all of the city´s wealth was taken to Europe. Its economy improved when tin replaced silver, but fell again in the 1980s with the crash in tin prices.

Today, miners still work the hill. Machines have replaced the hand picks of the past, and miners work on their own free will, but conditions are still very unhealthy. Miners usually only live until about 40 years old because of prolonged exposure to the dust, toxins (such as asbestos), and extreme temperatures within the mines. Until about four years ago, children still worked in the mines.

We went on a tour of a mine, into the depths of Cerro Rico. No one was working, because it was a Sunday, but we got an idea of the working conditions. It was a bit scary crawling through the dark and dusty tunnels, watching out for holes and trying not to breathe too deeply. It was also fascinating to see the veins of silver and zinc glinting in the light of our headlamps.



Nicole and I visited a museum in which silver is still smithed. We saw the tools the artisans used in the 1600s through the 1800s to turn the unrefined silver into a work of art. The process of separating the silver from the impurities was especially hazardous. For example, the silver had to be heated with mercury, which of course releases noxious gases. In the early days, the heat was supplied by an oven fueled by a fire that women had to keep burning by constantly blowing into tubes. (Later billows were used). The process of molding the silver and creating the designs on it was painstaking, but much nicer. Our guide let us try our hands at tapping tiny designs in some silver.
We also saw some replicas of some of the luxurious items that were sent to Spain, such as crowns, soup bowls, silverware, and dowery boxes.

Carnaval, Ururo, Bolivia

¡Ponchillos, ponchillos! On every street corner, someone was selling plastic rain ponchos. Yes, technically it is still the rainy season, but it did not rain a drop the entire week of Carnaval. Yet the ponchos were essential. Why? Carnaval in Bolivia not only means ornate costumes worn by dancers from a variety of Bolivian traditions, it means war.

This is a photo of Nicole dressed to leave the hostel.
Notice her poncho, sunglasses, and super-soaker 500. She is prepared to be hit with water balloons, sprayed with water pistols, and foamed in the face, by children and adults alike. Even if one dressed defensively like this, there was no guarantee of dryness. People were ruthless in their attacks, and were not above breaking waterballoons down the backs of other people’s shirts, or spraying foam in the mouth of someone trying to eat a bite of food. The only real way to survive was to join in.

Other than constantly being on the defensive for three days, and having my money stolen after being foamed in the face, Carnival in Ururu was great. First of all, we met some really interesting travelers to watch the parade with. Secondly, the parade itself was a neat cultural experience. The dancing and costumes told a lot about the history and current culture of Bolivia.

Its the little things in life

Every 24th of January in La Paz, Bolivia, the people flood the streets in the name of hope and little things. It is known as the holiday of miniatures, or more formally, the festival of Alasita. Paceños (people of La Paz), partake in a city-wide ritual of buying and selling miniature representations of aspects of their lives, with the hope that fortune will smile on these things in the upcoming year. The story goes that on this day, the god of abundance, Ekeko, (who comes from the pre-Incan Tiwanaku culture)arrives in La Paz to grant the wishes of the citizens. At the vast Alasita market, which stretches literally all over the city, one can buy a plethora of small things, including miniature cars, houses, dollar bills, animals, babies, food, passports, wedding certificates, diplomas, or job contracts. Then people line up for hours outside of any church to have the items blessed.

I joined the masses and couldn´t resist getting myself a mini job contract in hopes of obtaining meaningful employment upon my return to the states. After some wandering and marveling at the mini world laid out on folding tables, I tried to capture some of the action on film. But a crowd yearning for prosperity is a ruthless one, and I was buffeted around to the point of feeling like a ping-pong ball. I was forced to retreat into my favorite cafe to read the paper.