Home, Sweet Home (Away from Home)

so here's what i wrote upon getting back to chile. started saturday and finished yesterday (hope you have awhile to sit down and digest it all):

sábado 18 septiembre 2004 Fiestas Patrias de Chile

So I didn’t think I would have to put it this way about the vacation I was so looking forward to, but I will: I survived Bolivia and am more than happy to be back in Chile.

Remember how many times my plans changed in the lead-up to the Perú trip? Well, picture that and then consider if my plans changed twice as often…because that’s about right, in relation to what happened with this adventure.

First, Tom ended up only staying in Santiago two days before heading back to California, so I chose to get on the plane to Arica (north of Chile) alone, while he took the international flight (this was on 9-11). My idea was to meet up with an EAP classmate when I got to La Paz, but at first I would be a lone gringa heading into an unknown land. This was exhilarating at first: what a liberating thing, what an adult thing to travel alone: what a chance to enjoy solitude and peace while I explore new territory.

The first night at the hostel in Arica, where I had to camp out before my early morning bus to La Paz, I realized how very quiet my room was (that is, apart from the constant traffic and barking dogs outside) and got a better idea of what I was getting into. And it wasn’t like I was just biding time before I would meet up with someone the next day; it was going to pretty much be like that the rest of the way. From the time I left Santiasco, I would be sharing every moment with strangers or with no one.

So now I turn to share it with you. Bear with me if I skip out on some of the more, um, embarrassing details, please.

How about I start out with the good stuff. During the eight-hour trek through the Andes getting into Bolivia on Sunday morning, I met my guardian angel, la Giovana. She and her newish husband were heading back to La Paz from their short vacation in Arica—I noticed them fondly on the bus because they were very sweet together, and obviously having a good time. She first volunteered some advice about changing money, and by the end of the trip, she insisted on giving me her three phone numbers, so that I should call on her if I needed anything; she promised to point me in the right direction to see the sights, etc.

Yeah, there was a whole lot I wanted to cram into that little trip. How could I say I was going to know Bolivia if I only managed to see a handful of things? It turns out, I had to settle for doing about half of what I had intended. My itinerary originally included one full day seeing the city—museums, markets, etc. on foot. Then a day trip to Valle de la Luna—badlands outside the city—and to the ruins at Tiwanaku, followed by a bus ride to Copacabana on Lake Titikaka. I would spend the next day exploring Isla del Sol (the birthplace of the sun, according to Inka legend), and after that take a quick trek over to the Peruvian side of the Lake to see Puno and tour the islands over there. On my last day, I could just take a quick 10-hour bus ride to Tacna, and then cross back into Arica, Chile, in time to catch my flight.

Damn, it seemed so simple—especially considering I only had myself to worry about, and didn’t have to accommodate other folks’ desires and abilities.

Let’s just say, then, that I’m lucky I ended up seeing Tiwanaku and a tiny bit of Isla del Sol and Copa. Because, other than my new guardian angel, the rest of the celestial beings were conspiring against me.

I won’t get into it, but I didn’t plan on calling Giovana, since I had my trusty Lonely Planet and a pretty clear idea of how my trip would go. But the second morning of my trip, I walked out of my hostel in the Centro area of town, carrying my huge backpack and sleeping-bag, headed for the Cementerio district, where I intended to store my big stuff at the bus terminal while I took a day trip to Tiwanaku. I would pick up my pack that night for my trip to Copa.

You know I love to walk. But there were a few variables I didn’t consider. One of which is that the area around the cemetery is quite sketchy. Another is that I am a conspicuous enough white woman in Chile, where I look more like the resident population than I resemble any Bolivian. And I had felt quite safe in La Paz because, unlike in Chile, no one looked twice at me in that city; although there are very few gringos there, the locals are not thrown off by their presence. Yeah, but early in the morning in a shady area without a police presence (it’s a heavily policed city), loaded up as I was with the material that put a huge target on my head for bad guys, well, I had bad luck.

Tom had asked me before how much I use the Lonely Planet to get around places—is it a bible for me when I travel, etc. And I had thought about the things it’s most useful for, like orienting a person in a new culture. For instance, there’s always a section for every place called “Dangers and Annoyances,” including a sub-heading “Scams,” so that travelers watch their back.

Always read that closely, my friends. And prepare yourself for how you might respond if put in a questionable situation. Think creatively about the myriad lies you might tell about husbands waiting and lawyers you need to call. Consider the possibilities, weigh the risks. Know some basic aspects of the law where you’re going. Remember you are obliged to no one: you don’t have to talk to anyone.

It’s far easier for me to give you this advice today, because I’ve been mulling over the millions of ways that Monday morning could have gone at least a little better for me. Who knows—if I had been cleverer and less naïve, I would only have lost $30 instead of over $400. Or maybe, had I slightly resisted, they could have physically harmed me, or let me go.

But only my dignity and bank account were damaged. They did not touch me. I gave it all. And I felt violated.

Now, I keep hearing the voice of Christian Slater telling Winona Rider, “Look, you believed it because you wanted to. Your emotions were too icky and scary for you to believe” (or something like that), in Heathers. And it’s true. Actually, after they were satisfied with what I told them, and they ejected me from the cab I never should have boarded, I didn’t even believe I had lost anything. It wasn’t until after I called Mom from a little store—to leave a tearful message saying I was scared but nothing too bad happened—that I considered that things from the bag they had searched (the “police” assuring I didn’t have drugs, and wasn’t carrying fake money) might not all be there.

And the inventory proved that ratones ladrones had scammed me big time. Generously, however, they left me 30 bolivianos (~$3.50), so I only owed the Señora a little bit of cash, to be repaid once my dear mother sent me some. Remarkably, they took my cell phone, which does not even work for phone calls in Bolivia, but not my little camera or Palm Pilot.

Hysterical and alone in an unknown part of the city (they took me around the city but not that far from where they hooked me), I called Giovana, and she—teamed with my mamita—saved the day.

It was her birthday, and she generously took me to lunch with her friends, after I met her at her work. She accompanied me to the Tourist Police as my attorney (which she now is!) and gave me lots of hugs and some faith. She taught me about angels to call upon when I need help, and she helped me re-jig my plans, so that I would still have a good time. She assured me that I was no longer alone in the city: that I had her, a friend.

So that night, I got to see the Museo de Instrumentos Musicales, which is on a beautiful colonial (car-free!) street on the hillside of La Paz. We goofed around and played the instruments, and she gave little lessons on the musical culture of her country. We took lots of photos. She did her best to make sure I would not remember the city and its people for a bad (after all, everyone tried to convince me the robbers were Peruvians!—that’s a whole other story).

The LP lied, and there were no buses out to Copa at 8pm, so Giovana saw me to an alojamiento in the area from which I could catch a colectivo for there the next day. I stored my big bag and in the morning decided it would be better to spend the day at Tiwanaku instead. So I hopped on one of the mini-buses at 8am to go out to the southwest of the city to see the ruins of the Tiwanaku culture out there.

It’s a funny thing about La Paz, how their amazing public transit system works. They have legions of small vans on fixed routes through the city. One dude drives, and he is accompanied by another person—usually a young child or a wife—who hangs out the window of the door shouting out the vehicle’s various destinations. They pull people in along the way but hardly ever come to a full stop; when the assistant determines it’s OK to get going at full speed again, s/he declares, “vamos, vamos” and eventually takes the rider’s fare (a ride across the city typically costs about $.12). It was quite alarming when I first heard the chorus of aggressive bus-announcers—I’m so accustomed to anything being shouted from a moving vehicle being sexual harassment, so I had to chill out and come off the defensive.

I am not really sure about kids being in school in La Paz. Aside from the kids helping out with the movilidades during the day, there are hundreds of 10-year-old kids scattered around the city, wearing ski masks, hawking shoe-shining services. (The LP says these “menacing” figures cover their faces to avoid social stigma, since they’re usually supplementing their parents’ income, to keep them in school.)

Anyway, it was a beautiful ride out to Tiwanaku, and an interesting one. I was the only tourist on the small van, and throughout the 1.5 hour/$.50 journey, tons of people crammed in and out of it. And it was a beautiful trip.

La Paz is a smallish city built in a modest-sized valley and its hills. Thanks to its altitude (it’s the highest capital city in the world), it doesn’t suffer the same kinds of pollution problems that Santiago—also in a valley—faces. Interestingly, each time I rode out of the bowl, I noted the poverty rising with the elevation. By far the poorest barrios are on the hillside, which, if nothing else, provides the city’s poor with an amazing view of things they probably do not have much access to.

As I mentioned, I was one of very few tourists in La Paz—and I was close to being the only one from the US—so that should give you a flavor for the city. Although it’s obviously metropolitan and therefore distinct from the culture you might find in rural Bolivia, it’s still packed with indigenous life. I would say the majority of the women I saw there were dressed in traditional Aymara wear. Men are almost always clothed in modern threads. Very few folks were dressed for business—and those who were, by and large appeared more Spanish than mestizo or Aymara. I got the impression from my treks outside the city that large chunks of the people in La Paz are coming in for work and trade but actually live outside the city.

And it’s a blessing to leave the city. I don’t just say that because it was kind of ruined for me that second day. The landscape in that part of the country is to die for. And of course there’s jungle in the lowlands, but I unfortunately didn’t get to that at all. It’s all mountains and valleys, mostly arid. Tons and tons of llamas, sheep, and pigs. Practically the only motorized vehicles are for public transportation; everyone has an ancient bike to get around.

Because I didn’t hire a guide at Tiwanaku, my experience of the ruins there wasn’t quite optimal. But I can tell you that the culture that lived there lasted a hell of a lot longer than the Inkas, though there are some overlapping factors, like their spirituality. The Tiwanakus came around in 1580 BC and continued until 1172 AC, with a significant period of empire in there near the end. The Spaniards wiped out a lot more of the physical evidence of indigenous cultures of Bolivia than in Perú, usually building their own cultures right on top of the indigenous’. The most significant remains at Tiwanaku, therefore, are the Puerta del Sol (Sun Door), Puerta de la Luna (Moon Door), and a semi-underground temple, the Templete Semisubterraneo.

They were an incredibly advanced culture—with some of the soundest architecture ever, as well as a very developed mathematics, astronomy, and spirituality that went with it. One of the most amazing things about the site at Tiwanaku and other places where there are remains of the culture is these gigantic stone sculptures, which no one knows the origins of. Somewhat like the mystery at Rapa Nui/Isla de Pascua (Easter Island), somehow there are these enormous sculptures made out of rocks that weigh tons and tons but do not seem to be from the area. Incredible.

Well, I am currently writing from Saturday night, on Chile’s Fiestas Patrias, and I can hear the parties going on all over my neighborhood. I think it’s about time to join them, and I’ll continue with my story soon. Damn, I didn’t intend to be so linear in this report, but I suppose that’s part of my anal nature. There’s so much more that’s fresh in my mind, since I got back to this country—and the parties for its independence day started yesterday (which I partook in) if not Thursday—but it’ll have to wait.

domingo 19 septiembre 2004

Ay, I am exhausted but too addicted to spilling my stories to take a nap. This is the first time since I got back that I’ve hung out at home, and it feels so good to be at my base camp.

Since my phone was stolen, I am pretty much out of touch with all of my EAP and Chilean buddies—I only had their phone numbers in my phone, so I have to wait until I run into them to get their contact info. Until then, I’m pretty much stuck with my housemates and their various associates. So no one was home when I got in Friday night—it being a holiday weekend, I’m guessing they were all out of town or at carretes. But I called the one Santiago friend whose number I miraculously still had—I needed to be with people—and went to a little asado at another friend’s house. Had to bring veggies for a salad and other edibles for me, since those fools were content to eat nothing but meat, meat, and more meat off the grill.

I’ve been mulling over that night since then, because it seemed like such a weird scene for me—uncomfortable, at the very least. It’s actually something I’m hoping I don’t have to get used to: in this situation, I was the only non-actor and non-member of the group. And no one really seemed concerned about closing that gap between the gringa visitor and the rest. I know I can be shy, but I swear I did my best to integrate. Once I stopped fiddling with the food prep and eating too much, I pretty much had nothing to do except observe the others and wish my Spanish were good enough to keep up with the less-than-coherent drinkers.

It’s always a question for me: is it that I’m incapable of asserting myself enough to have fun, or might it be the case that I’m dealing with cliquish people? I think I’m leaning toward the latter possibility, though I cannot throw away the chance that much of the blame for this awkwardness is my own.

Actually, I was thinking about my friend Lelia. She has really been ragging on the Chileans. She doesn’t like it here, and is not at all impressed by the people. I haven’t really had a problem until now—except my frequent loneliness when I’m on campus—and had kind of written off her criticism.

But now I can very much sense why she’s having a hard time here. It seems to be a very closed society. That’s easy enough to back up with some statistics: with hardly any immigration, Chile is very homogeneous. And in social situations I have had, I can definitely say that there are a lot of cold, closed people here too. It seems like breaking through to new people is too much of a risk, so they stick to themselves.

I am trying to think of how I am with my friends/comrades in the States—are we as exclusive as I have found people to be here? I hope not.

So anyway, other than the yummy grub I fixed up at the party, I found myself pretty miserable and was able to convince my friend to take me somewhere more exciting. We therefore transferred ourselves to a fonda, a Fiestas Patrias party, that other friends were hosting.

The scene there was much cooler—I had already met about half of the people there, and we ran into my housemate. And everyone was dancing salsa, cumbia, and cueco. It knocked me out of my funk and got me on my pathetic dancing feet. I couldn’t shake the feeling that people were laughing at me for not being such a pro dancer (but then again, they’re Chileans and not the best dancers in the world), but screw it.

Good times. Nothing like walking back from a party at 5am with a soundtrack of birds chirping and a city on the verge of waking up.

Yesterday was chill enough—I feel like I’ve been on vacation forever, since I didn’t go to class for two weeks. Beautiful thing, waking up at 2pm with nothing pressing to do. Besides, I needed to be rested for the real parties yet to come, on the official holiday.

But I needn’t have worried, because last night was pretty mellow: just a few of us hanging out at someone’s house trying to figure out a cheap place to dance. Sadly, there didn’t seem to be one, so we kicked it at this shady bar and people-watched and drank a lot of beer, wrapping up the night at 5 again.

I think I’m more emotionally tired than anything else now, though. My week away took a lot out of me, and I really miss my friends; I miss being fluent in the language I speak.

At least I got a lot of down time while I was gone though. Lots of opportunities to ponder my sticky situation. No, really, I can think outside of myself, and I definitely took the chance to appreciate the new world I was seeing.

I finally got the bus to Copacabana at 7am on Wednesday. Again, I ended up with locals instead of tourists, which I definitely enjoy. So about 2 ½ hours from La Paz to Taquina, which is a tiny town on Lake Titikaka. I read most of the way and dozed when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any more. And it was magic when I woke up to see the land- and waterscapes that are the region of the Lago Sagrado. At first, it didn’t seem that impressive—when I first caught sight of it, I was only looking at some small waterfront villages that looked like any other. And I realized why the landscape isn’t that dramatic. It’s because the lake is at such high elevation that there’s not much higher the mountains can go from there. I’m sure my geology is off, but I imagine the lake burying all but the mountain peaks.

The more the lake unfolded before me, however, the more entranced I became by its beauty. The bus route finished at Taquina because the road also came to an end there. So I hopped into this crowded commuter boat to cross the stretch of the lake, praying to reach safety at the other side of the 10-minute ride. Another forty minutes on the road—this time in a collective taxi—through more amazing scenery winding through the mountains on the lake, and I arrived at Copa in time for my second breakfast.

My apologies to that little town, because I would have really liked to spend more time there, if the gods had allowed it. But I had to get going: I had plans to do the 3-4 hour (HA!) hike from Copa to Yampupata recommended by the LP, and from there take a boat to Isla del Sol.

How can I describe what I saw on that trek? Or how I felt? Pictures are coming soon, so you can get some idea of it, but that can never provide a real sense of a scene. With my poorly- and over-packed backpack weighing me down, and a small detour with some British guys when we lost the trail, the hike turned out to be closer to five hours, but it was worth it. I got to walk along the coast of the lake in solitude (if not a bit of pain and self-loathing for my heavy load), climbing up and down the hills and discovering brand new views around every turn.

And by far the high point of my entire trip was the journey from mainland to island. The British guys and a Bolivian-US couple had met a local kid on their way and arranged to be ferried over on his little boat. They waited for me, and we made the most of the 1 ½- hour trek over the calm and then wavy waters. I probably could not have walked a foot farther, so crossing the somewhat turbulent lake felt like heaven.

Even though our $1.25 “ticket” to the island didn’t get us to a decent landing spot (yeah, we had to pace up and down the rocky coast to find a non-lethal spot to unload the five of us, since the waves were apparently too rough by the dock!), we survived and all made it to an inhabited part of the island by 7pm.

I am not sure if spending the day hiking the mainland was a good choice, or if I should have taken the tourist route of a nice boat directly from Copa to the island instead. I would have gotten to see more of the island, which is full of beautiful things, but oh well. The tepid shower and comfortable bed at the first hostel I came to were more than welcome. And the sea of stars overhead: exquisite and dizzying.

Another early morning on Thursday, as I had to catch a 10:30 boat back to Copa (no, I did not even consider the possibility of going back the way I came). So I got to see about 1/8 of the island—I did a short hike to the Pilko Kaino ruins on the lake. I’m not really sure what it was I saw, but it was pretty cool. When I was approaching the building from the trail, I didn’t realize what I was looking at, because the structure looks like any port and boathouse or something.

And it all went too fast, so that I didn’t get to enjoy that much in Bolivia. After the little trip to the lake, I just had one night left, which I relished in a super swanky $5 hostel by the bus terminal. Got to explore the city a little bit while seeking out a vegetarian restaurant (I had already eaten lots of fresh fish), take a hot shower, watch TV, and try to be rested for the early bus back to Arica Friday. The delicious night air in La Paz, along with the sliver of a waxing moon setting in the West, provided a lovely close for the trip.

It’s funny how things usually go generally how I expect them to; or things happen, and I go along with them without being too surprised by the results. But this trip was absolutely nothing like I anticipated. I also feel weird telling people how it went, too, because I’m used to an easy answer. Maybe the answer is getting easier to formulate, but it’s still not clear to me what I got out of the trip. I lost a lot. I saw not enough. I was very alone. I learned a lot. I felt very small. I alternately felt guilty and relieved about going home.

Next time, I’m inviting you to come with me. ¿Te parece?