So there we are, all six of us lined up one after another holding on to each other for dear life while the swollen muddy river rages around us trying to swallow us and shoot us down the rapids below. Angelo and Adam are yelling “everyone hold on! DO NOT LET GO!” Our two guides are wide-eyed and making the sign of the cross (which is not at all reassuring), and it occurs to me that getting stranded in the Amazon and missing our big Christmas re-entry is something that would only happen to us. At this point however we’re less concerned with missing the holidays and more concerned with missing the rest of our lives.
After traveling for almost 7 months, Angelo and I have covered a lot of ground and are happy to be ending our odyssey in Bolivia, native land of his mom and home to many aunts, uncles, cousins and his grandma Raquel. My brother Adam is coming from Boulder to join us for this last leg and I am thrilled to have him as my fellow gringo wingman to chat with when the Spanish is over our heads (usually right after the words “Hola. Como sta?”). This is the land of piping hot empanadas, salteneas, silpancho and fried cheese. Angelo is so happy he could cry. This is the comfort food of his childhood and so at least gastronomically speaking, it’s good to be home. It’s wonderful to be surrounded and spoiled by family.
La Paz is the world’s highest capital city at 13,000 ft. and leaves you breathless not only because there is no oxygen here but also because when you arrive in the city, it’s like arriving on the moon. The city sits in a massive arid crater surrounded by towering mountains. Much the reverse of many U.S. and European cities, the wealthier areas of the city sit in the bottom of the basin and the poorest most poverty-stricken area, El Alto is perched above the city with sweeping views.
Bolivia has been described as a beggar sleeping in a golden bed. This country is not only rich in natural resources like oil and natural gas but they also grow sugarcane, cotton, soybeans, rice, avocados, mangos, lemons, oranges, bananas, coffee and 500 million dollars worth of coca per year. At any given time one third of the workforce here has been dependent on the coca industry. Over the past 25 years the U.S has spent over 1.2 billion dollars on coca eradication in Bolivia, which unfortunately has led to an increase in crime and violence.
Evidence of this violence is apparent in the main square, Plaza Murillo, where some of the buildings are still bullet-ridden, a constant reminder of the precarious state of this country. As of 2003, Bolivia had endured 192 changes in government in its 178 years as a republic. One coup after another, revolutions, failed elections, labor disputes, monetary devaluation and a small minority of European descendants ruling the 70% of indigenous people, not to mention a corrupt government with an economy which relies massively on the illegal coca industry has made stability in this country elusive.
In the1500’s the vast Incan empire stretched beyond the borders of Peru through Ecuador, Chile, Columbia, Argentina and of course, Bolivia. In 1531 the Francisco Pizarro and his fellow conquistadors arrived conquering all and funding their extravagant monarchy with the gold, silver and sweat of the indigenous people working in the Potosi mines of Bolivia, among other places. This history of oppression, prejudice and tyranny has created a legacy of anger and mistrust which is why people were so excited two years ago when they elected Evo Morales, the first indigenous president in the history of Bolivia.
Many people, rich and poor hoped that he could bridge the gap and create a peaceful environment that everyone could find a place in. Extremely warm, charismatic and well spoken, despite no education past a junior high level, Evo is a former a coca farmer that understands the plight of his people. Unfortunately, as we found out when we were there, he has turned out to be an incredibly polarizing figure. He is promoting his own brand of socialism (some even say communism) in which there is talk of the re-distribution of property and wealth. Naturally, he is extremely popular with the poorer Indians and extremely unpopular with the richer people and urban centers like Santa Cruz. Everyone agrees he has done some good things like keeping Bolivia’s oil money in Bolivia but he is also worrying a lot of people with his close ties to Venezuela’s anti-American and pro-communist Chavez. I hope for the sake of the Bolivian people that this regime is not just another train destined to come off the rails leaving the people yet again with no forward progress.
La Paz is incredibly colorful any time of year, with the indigenous women still wearing the outfits they wore when the conquistadores came in the mid 1500’s. Their endless layers of bright petticoats, skirts, aprons and coats are often topped with striped fabric that they use as bags to carry vegetables, pots or babies. The Cholas (Indian women) also wear tiny bowler hats perched on their heads, which crack me up and make me think they are always getting ready to do a skit or a Groucho Marx routine. And this time of year, the ordinarily colorful city assumes an even more vibrant feel with the bustling Christmas markets. Throughout the crowded alleys, amidst the hanging tinsel and lights there are plastic Santas singing Feliz Navidad and nativity sets which include freakishly large baby Jesuses with changeable outfits covered with glitter and sequins. The Holy family with Liberace as stylist. Excellent!
And in perfect parallel just a few streets away, the Harry-Potter version of the Christmas market is just as bustling. Here at the Mercado de Hechiceria or Witches’ market, you can buy every trinket, bauble, powder, liquid, candle or llama fetus needed for the magic rituals performed for different occasions. It is believed that if the llama fetuses are buried under construction sites as an offering to Pachamama, Mother Earth, she will bring prosperity and luck. Although most of the country claims to be Catholic, the lack of clergymen in rural areas has led to an eccentric mix of Christianity with the Incan belief systems.
Even if we didn’t have such wonderful, generous family here I would recommend La Paz to anyone. Vibrant and dizzyingly dense, this is cratered metropolis is close to the mystical Lake Titicaca and the “Most Dangerous Road In The World” which leads you through the jagged Andes to the Jungas. This is a place that truly takes your breath away.
SANTA CRUZ
In a short one-hour plane ride from freezing cold La Paz you get to Santa Cruz, which is tropical and hot. It’s the equivalent of going from Pike’s Peak to the Everglades in under an hour. Weird. This is where the other half of Angelo’s Bolivian family is. Here, modern conveniences like carwashes, microwaves, lattes and landscaping stand in stark contrast to well, every place else in Bolivia. This Boca-Ratonish city is where the money is. Santa Cruz is famous (or infamous) throughout the world for two things, its illustrious drug history and it’s tie to Che Guevera. It was right near this city where Che was caught in 1967.
CHE GUEVERA
Otherwise known as “that guy on every damn T-shirt in the world” for those of who you have not seen motorcycle diaries, Che was a an Argentinian doctor who decided his calling was to bring about a worldwide socialist revolution. Che believed that only violent revolution could create an equal society. He worked in Guatemala and Mexico and eventually became Castro’s right hand man, encouraging Fidel to join up with other Communist nations. He then decided to take his cause to Africa but was bitterly disappointed when he learned he would not have Castro’s support. After the failure of his African endeavor, he headed to Bolivia where he tried to rally the people and inspire them to social rebellion. His efforts however, were met with opposition and not even the local communist leader would take up his cause. Soon after that he was caught by the Bolivian Army and the CIA and executed. He was buried underneath an airstrip in Vallegrande until 1997 when the government exhumed his body and sent it back to Cuba for burial.
After having done a fair bit of traveling I would say that the most famous icon in the world might be of Che in his beret. People in Morocco, India, Japan, Russia and Tanzania have his face stenciled on their shirts. He represents the underdog, equality and revolution. But while his Robin Hood political ideologies are celebrated around the world on sweat pants, lunch boxes and coffee mugs, it is probably worth mentioning that recently Target got into some trouble because they were selling CD cases with his image on them. The Cuban American community was outraged because they claim he was a violent man who sanctioned torture and personally signed a death warrant for 600 men, women and children. Target stopped carrying the line of kitschy cases and immediately issued an apology. I’m not saying don’t buy Che, just do your homework before you put on that Che Guevera fanny pack.
BACK TO SANTA CRUZ
It is here that the Bolivians give us Yankees a lesson on how to live correctly. Angelo’s family gets together for long lunches EVERY DAY. No matter how busy work is or what else is going on, you have lunch with your family. Period. Outside the city, they have a quinta where the barbeque is always running at full tilt and friends, family and neighbors gather every Sunday at this gorgeous tranquillo place to eat, drink, dance, lay in the hammocks, swim, play football, play guitar, tell stories, gossip, nap and eat falling mangos and aichacharus from the trees.
Here the Bolivians also show us how to party correctly. It is constant, requires much training and involves copious amounts of straight whiskey and tequila. Somehow the long languid lunches melt into happy hour, which then melts into dinner and dancing, and before we know it the night is gone and we collapse into bed at 4am only to wake up and head back to lunch. I also have to give credit where credit is due. My brother Adam is amazing with the mujeres. Despite his minimal Espanola and their non-existent English, he is collecting numeros left right and center. This industrious flirting has earned him a nickname with Angelo’s family. He shall henceforth be known as the Gringo Lover. We should all have such a great nickname.
The amazing meals, patience, energy, endurance and generosity of his family are staggering and endless. We are so lucky.
BACK TO THE JUNGLE
Despite our cushy last couple of weeks in Bolivia we decide that we are up for one last hurrah on our mega-moon, which brings us back to where we started. The jungle adventure. Angelo’s cousins Cindy and Guillermo were also up for “mucho aventura” so the five of us decided to hire two guides and a bunch of ATVs and head out through the jungle to a hotel that is only accessible by a 4-hour ATV trail during certain dry seasons (yes mom, this is one). The day we left it was sunny and gorgeous with none of the ominous foreshadowing or tense music that usually accompanies stories like this in the movies.
All morning we bounced over rocks, up mountains and down into valleys. We roared through dense foliage, countless small streams, past tiny villages with waving children, over rickety wood bridges and through foot deep mud. By the time we got to the hotel the bags were covered with sludge and we were grinning and spattered from head to toe with mud. Arriving at the hotel was completely surreal. Situated on hill in a big clearing in the jungle, this glowing white retreat was simple and rustic but at the same time an elegant art deco wonder. Huge covered porches with vines and bougainvillea held swaying hammocks and white iron dinner tables with candles.
The rest of the lovely afternoon was spent sipping Pacenas (delicious Bolivian beer), playing cards, relaxing in hammocks and swimming in the nearby waterfalls and natural pools. Later that night the proprietor and his son made us a simple dinner by candlelight (no electricity) and we went to bed in our dorm-like bunkroom laughing feeling like we were at camp. What a fun day!
Then at about 10pm the rumbling began.
Like me after dinner, God seemed to have serious indigestion. The sky opened up and the deluge began. It rained that kind of jungle rain that comes down without mercy- in walls and sheets and buckets. The kind of rain it takes to sustain thousands of miles of dense Amazon rainforest and one of most complex ecosystems in the world. The kind of rain that can last for weeks. That night none of us slept. We just lay in silence worrying and listening to the earth soak through to the very core. At 7am the rain had was still coming down. The guides were pacing outside on the porch looking very nervous.
The phone line at the hotel had been knocked out so there was no communication outside the jungle. After talking to the guides (since they were about 15 years old, we were weighing their knowledge of the jungle with our knowledge of mortality) we decided we would try to head back because truly the rain could last for days or weeks and everyone’s families would be worried sick when we did not show up around 2pm, not to mention losing thousands of dollars on flights and Christmas with our families in Colorado! Unthinkable.
To say the least the day was a calamity of errors. One ATV after another broke down after slogging through deep mud and being pulled through one stream after another that had become rivers to be reckoned with. Finally after several hours in the driving rain we came to the river that we began this story with. Angelo crossed it by himself to check out the other side and determine whether the machines could make it across. It was knee deep. He came back, we debated for about 15 minutes and finally decided to abandon the machines and walk 10 hours through the jungle to the Big river where hopefully someone could make us a wooden raft or throw us a rope. In the 15 minutes we took to debate, the rain continued and the river rose to chest level. Angelo kept referring to the discovery channel show “I Shouldn’t be Alive” in which people make a variety of bad decisions and some people in each expedition end up dead. Great. We were not even halfway through the river when the force of the chest-deep current started to sweep us all away. Terrified and clinging on to each other we made it back to the shore we started from and crawled to a nearby hut where the local villager gave us hot thick coffee and let us get out of the rain and warm up.
The hours passed as we waited for the rain to relent. Finally Cindy remembered that her grandfather taught her that to stop the rain you must empty a glass bottle and stick it upside down in the mud. (I wish she had told us this last night!) We carried out the instructions and lo and behold- it worked! The rain stopped and the man at the hut told us the river would subside quickly. We got across the river now only with 2 machines for the 7 of us. Which meant that we would take turns running/walking and being shuttled by ATV. We knew it would be dangerous to be caught between rivers and stuck out in the jungle after dark- pumas, poisonous snakes, insects and armed local n’er-do-wells looking to make some kidnapping money from careless gringos being the main fears, so we were hustling to make it to the big river by sundown. Time was not on our side. One river after another, (Adam guessed we crossed 15 rivers) the guys would help Cindy and I across the strong currents and then go back and ride/carry the ATVs across. They were our only hope of getting help before dark so we couldn’t afford to lose another machine.
Finally we reached a tiny village (four huts?) close to the river. We were dumbfounded to find that amidst these mud huts and thick foliage there was a real live pay phone. The villagers stopped us as soon as we arrived and told us that Cindy and Guillermo’s family was worried sick and had been desperately trying to reach us on that phone. (What did they look up in the yellow pages? “F” for Freakin’ middle of the jungle?) Cindy, being a smart cookie had told her sister we were going out to the hotel so her sister called all kinds of people and found out the trail to and from the hotel went by these huts so she called there.
There was one more huge river to cross after the village so Cindy called home and her family sent a rescue crew to the river to help us cross with trucks and chains and ropes and plenty of strong cousins to help. We thanked the villagers and ran/rode for an hour and a half to the river as the sun sank lower and lower and dark spread itself across the expanse of green. We were so excited- we might get out today after all and be able to make our Bolivia to Denver flight the next morning! When we finally arrived at the river, shivering and covered from head to toe with mud we almost cried. The river was at least 200 yards across and full of massive trees being carried downstream by the impossible current. Christmas with our families was on the opposite bank. There was absolutely no way to cross the river. Attempts were made to get us rescue helicopters but it was already too close to sunset. The Calvary on the other side had to retreat and leave us there to spend the night in the jungle.
We turned around and started the sad trek back to the mud huts. Arriving with the last shred of daylight, a woman in one of the huts offered us one of the warmest welcomes we have ever had. She let us borrow her husband’s dry clothes, had her 5 year-old children build us a bonfire, she offered us her mud hut to sleep in and then to feed us, she snapped the neck of her chicken. The ultimate act of generosity in corner of the world that lives hand to mouth. We hung our mud-encrusted clothes, huddled around the fire and ate chicken soup for dinner in the pitch dark under a thousand stars.
After dinner we went into the hut to try to get some sleep. The two straw mattresses she put down for us were seething with bugs and as Adam and I shook out the wool blankets one massive spider after another fell out. We lay down in full clothing and wrapped our feet in our muddy jackets and our heads in “head bags” made from shirts, towels or anything dry we could find. All this to protect ourselves from the creepy crawlies that wanted to eat us for dinner. Throughout the night no one slept much and there were several times would one of us would bolt upright, turning on the headlamp, screaming and swiping at our faces to stop whatever was attacking us.
I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, YOU CAN COUNT ON ME...
Thank God there was no more rain that night and at 3:45am we got up and in the pitch dark of the jungly night we started for the Big river again. We had to be there at 5am sharp for the next rescue attempt if there was any chance of us making our 9am flight out. By flashlight and headlamp we trudged through the mud and through several smaller rivers to get to the Big one. Dawn descended upon us, streaking the sky with hope and optimism. We grabbed hands and waded through the waist deep water to safety on the other side.
Uncle Loro was there to get us and we all hopped into the bed of the truck and raced through the city, grabbing our bags, throwing our mud encrusted clothes into plastic and heading right to the airport where we boarded an American Airlines flight waiting to take us home. Never have we been so glad to be in beautiful snowy Colorado with our families. Never have we known how blessed we really are.
Merry Christmas to All and to All a Good Night.
Jenna, Angelo and Adam