Spanish Lesson.

“Es importante que no metas la pata, especialmente porque eres una gringa.”

-The words of my spanish teacher, letting me know that for a tourist, less speech is more.

My conversational skills have improved monumentally, and I’ve also realized that formal speech and using all the tenses that we learn in Spanish class is not necessary on a simple level of communication. It’s even gotten to the point that I would rather say “No me importa” than “I don’t care”, and I usually say “Claro” instead of “Of course.” Here’s some local terms and phrases I’ve learned over the past month.

Se hizo pepa- Essentially, to haul ass, take off.

Ser camote de alguien- to be smitten by a person, such as some of the charming latin men that are unfortunately difficult to find.

Mitas Matas- Approach a stranger at a bar. Hold up your drink and say “Mitas Matas?” If they respond with affirmative body language, down half the drink and hand it to them. They should say something along the lines of “Ya pues, carajo,” and down the other half.

Chela- Cerveza, beer. Drinks are commonly called tapas. The most popular beers here are Paceña, Huari and Judas, the strongest beer EVER.

Paceña- The people of La Paz.

Farrear- tomar, to drink.

Chapi- Rubbish, Sketchy. Use it jokingly with friends or to describe something you don’t fancy.

Chaqi- Resaca, hungover.

Chakra- A “lamo”, or “uncool” person.

Although it means “to pick up”, don’t use Coger unless you’re in Spain.

Gringita.- With the diminutive “-ita” tacked on the end, it’s a way of fondly acknowledging a non-latin, poor spanish speaking gringa: yours truly.

Dar la vuelta- Means go around the corner, this is easily one of the most useful phrases I have learned here.

Salud, Dinero, Amor [and Paz].- We all know that Salud is the proper reply to a sneeze, but here, each sneeze receives a different wish. Paz for the fourth sneeze is customary in Peru.

Buen Inversion- A good deal, like the fruit and veggies here.

Maestro- Typical name for the conductor of a taxi or minibus.

Voy a bajar- Literally, I am going to lower. What to say when you want to get off a minibus or bus, which will stop anywhere for you.

Casera/Caserita/Casero- Typical name for a street vendor.

Puedes regalarme un…- Literally asking someone to “gift” you something, like a little bag for your fruit.

…and it never hurts to refer to people as amigo/amiga.

And curse words. You’ll learn a lot of those at futbol games. It’s a great feeling to be a language student and finally be able to use curse words fluently.

“Al mal tiempo, buena cara.”

-A common phrase here, used to tell a sad person to keep their chin up.

Alimentos [food and drink].

Te con Te- Add an extre Te, and it’s alcoholic.

Secombe- I’m assuming how this is spelt, it’s a traditional drink served during the same occasion as Te con Te. It looks incredibly enticing, foamy goodness bubbling out of the top of a glass. It’s prepared by mixing singhani alcohol into a hot brew with condensed milk and whisking it.

Salchipapa- Sausage and potato, fried or made on a grill. Usually made with a mix of sauces including ketchup, which here tastes like sweet and sour sauce.

Tucumanas- Somewhat like empanadas, they are fried and filled with meats while the vegetarian ones have eggs and potato. Only served during breakfast time, unfortunately. Tucumana stands have containers of vegetables and different sauces that you can top your breakfast with while you eat.

Salteñas- Similar to Tucumanas in appearance, yet these are baked and taste completely different. They taste somewhat like cornbread on the outside, and contain a soupy mixture of either meat or vegetables on the inside [vegetarian ones are difficult to find]. They’re also eaten for breakfast, and are absolutely awesome.

Cuñapes- Awesome cheesy spongy patty-things.

Humintas- They taste like corn bread yet look and feel like tamales. Great with coffee.

Yapa or ‘yapita’, porfavor- Asking for a little more, like the remainder of a delicious blended smoothie.

Retreat to Sorata.

Every great adventure starts, and finishes, with a sketchy mini-bus ride.

This so far has been my understanding of adventures in Bolivia.

Last weekend, we retreated to Sorata for a photography project, as we had been told that both the people and scenery there are beautiful.

We climbed the streets to Buenos Aires to catch a bus brandishing the “Sorata” sign. Busing or minibusing to destinations is the main mode of mobility here in La Paz, for Cholitas with their sacks of who knows what [shel silverstein-children] and tourists tight on cash. It takes three hours to get to Oruro, one of La Paz’s neighboring departments, while traveling to Santa Cruz, the Eastern most and largest, takes over 24 hours. Nevertheless, buses still go there, and the fare is considerably cheap.

Sorata is right near Lago Titicaca.

I’m learning not to make the mistake that my friends and I will have the entire mini bus to ourselves. Each seats 9-15 people depending on how tight you pack it, and drivers will most definitely always pack it tight, even if it means shouting at the window at potential passengers, waiting around until it fills, or making numerous stops to pick up or drop people off at their respective destinations.

View from the back of the minibus, triple-threat Cholitas.

I was grateful that I was crammed in the back between two of my friends rather than a crying baby and smelly Cholita. As we descended about 2000 feet into the multi-biomic region that is Sorata, passengers began to leave, sometimes in places that seemed desolate and remote, which opened my eyes to the striking simplicity of life for some of the people here. People get off the bus in the complete darkness, swing their sacks over their backs, and disappear into the velvet black of the unlit road.

We got out of the minibus on a crowded road where all the buses drop off their travelers. After a month of confinement, my toes enjoyed the air reminiscent of Long Beach’s summer evenings, as we stepped over puddles in the grooves on the imperfect cobblestone streets lit by dim streetlights and convenient stores. The town was obviously small even at night, and walking there was a nice break from nearly getting debilitated by a taxi or bus in the streets of La Paz.

Our hostel was called Mirador, and it was an earthy little hostel overlooking, at that time, pitch black that we knew would turn into an incredible view the next morning, just because of the feel in the air. It had dream catchers and tapestries hanging around the area and reminded me of a beachy hotel california. I shared a room with a bed and nightstand and a key dangling with another dream catcher with my friend. For my first hostel, this was a privilege, as hostels are generally a single room with about ten bunk beds and a colorful array travelers with an equally colorful variety of smells and sleeping patterns.

Hostel Mirador.

A walk out at night would reveal restaurants with a greater variety of vegetarian options and cheaper prices, at which we had egg sandwiches, a pretty common “delicacy” sold anywhere from official restaurants to businesses with nothing but bread and cardboard signs.

We awoke early the next day and dressed to meet the president, as we were notified that he would be visiting the small town to check on the city’s construction progress and through that, further his campaign. Signs that read: “SORATA SUPPORTS EVO” were strung across the city, some dangling with stuffed animals and festive decorations.

People were already preparing, vendors were out and people were working along the sides of the streets. Women were holding campaign signs and those in opposition were setting up their own. We found the football field where Morales was scheduled to visit, and became acquainted with a few of the people in charge including a man organizing the event, who made an appoint to arrange the army in an appealing formation when we expressed interest in taking photos of a few of them.

While some Bolivians wish that we go back to our country while we buy things from their stores, walk in their streets and take photos of their gorgeous country, some absolutely love it. This troupe of soldiers basically waited in line to take pictures of and with us, in multiple different combinations, followed by asking us where our hostel was so they could come see us later.

The field slowly filled with people, mainly workers’ unions and indigenous groups holding signs, cohesive not only by their closeness but also the wide array of bright colors they wore on their hats or shawls. Not only was the field filled with excited Soratans, but the bleachers behind the fence were filled as well, Cholitas with children on their backs, munching snacks from bags and men knelt in groups awaiting word of the president’s arrival. Some said he was to arrive via helicopter, some said that he was in the black SUV with tinted windows, Bolivian flags blowing in the wind along each side. Instead, he was walking down the dirt decline to the field, officers surrounding him, militia men guarding him, and the colorful locals streaming behind, increasing their speed to catch up and catch a glimpse or a wave.

Multiple people introduced him on stage, some speaking in Aymara, some in spanish, but all hailing him as if he were a god, saying “Ja ya ya Evo!” between phrases. When he came to the stage, he was adorned with necklaces made of flowers, fruits and vegetables native to the Andes region.  He sat surrounded by his supporters on the stage as people spoke, whispering to his colleagues and at one point, point to my blonde friend and I, as if to comment on our out-of-place-ness.

Our assignment was to catch the reactions of those who were expecting the president, so rather than listening to the content of the speeches I was running about and capturing the awe-struck, anticipatory and concentrated faces of those in the crowd. These are the best of the bunch:

While I didn’t pay much attention to the speeches, they all seemed to be in worship of the president, and the “visit” seemed to be more of a sermon with many guest speakers than a presidential address. There was no direct campaign speech from the president whatsoever, just his sitting and enjoying the praise. There was mostly support from indigenous groups, as Morales was originally a Coca farmer, “The face of change” that appeared all over Bolivia, elected into office for his support for the indigenous population. Groups of construction workers, mechanics and other unions stood with signs in support, some stepping up on stage to say a few private words to the president and gift him with flowers or cover him with confetti.

The second half of our day was set aside for a long hike, 8 miles in 3 hours, to La Gruta de San Pedro, a cave with an underground lake. The hike was gorgeous, the perfect manifestation of our escape from the city for a few days; we walked through tropical forest, over a river and plunged into the canyon via a windy road that we could see from our hostel.

While catered to tourists as most places are, Sorata is quite untouched compared to the beautiful areas of Bolivia; while some restaurants lined the beginning of the trail there were mostly convenient stores for locals’ benefit and homes scattered along the rolling hills or grassy meadows on either side. Our futbol-loving friend spotted a clan of kids playing a game on their family’s property as parents and elder siblings watched, so we climbed onto the field and joined.

Yeah, it was pretty much like the movies. Groups of kids, first timid, later clung to our legs and ran after us as we zigzagged the grass, chasing the under-inflated ball. The air was warm and the scene reflected it, the sun bringing the brightest green out of each blade of grass. Chickens clucked and dogs laid on the sides of the misshapen field. It was Chicos vs. Chicas, and the girls won. When we left, the girls followed us to the edge of the property, begging for us to return and wishing they could come with.

We continued, being passed by taxis that bring those who don’t want to journey by foot to the cave. Some families or young people carrying buckets and bags were walking in the other direction; the length of the daily journey for some people to work or feed their families is humbling. We came across a frail man with a multi-gallon tank full of water. He was attempting to sling over his shoulder a thin rope attached to its handle. His eyes were glazed over and his skin was leathery and aged from years of labor. He asked us to help him place the load on his shoulder so that he could continue walking, but our friend helped him carry it a ways and down a hill to his home, which had been deprived of water as the city was using dynamite to dismantle the side of the hill, for reasons we didn’t understand.

Across the scale, there is an astounding disregard by the government of peoples who live secluded in this way, and Bolivia is like a look through the magnifying glass at this issue. It sometimes makes me wonder if they prefer to live isolated from the hustle and bustle, or if they have no choice. Around Bolivia one sees many unfinished houses-missing ceilings, windows, walls, etc, that are lived in. This is because the property law here differs from elsewhere, and if a residence is incomplete, property taxes need not be paid.

We were almost there, and quite hurried as the workers above were yelling for us to get out of the way of the explosion. When we arrived to the entrance of the cave, it was a lot more claimed upon than I had hoped, and they were asking admission. After looking us up and down, he asked 20B from tourists and 10B from Bolivians, which my American friend who had been born in Bolivia (yet speaks no spanish) was admitted for the color of her glowing dark skin.

The humidity increased significantly as we descended into the cave, and it was much less touched than commercialized natural attractions in the U.S., as the only addition to the cave was lightbulbs to light the path and some stairs for safe descent. A narrow passageway gave way to a bigger cavern, its ceilings limitless. We were using stalagmites as handrails as stalactites hung over our heads (nope, I didn’t mix those up, I just checked). In the heart of the cave was a lake that was so clear and still that it appeared to be a giant hole giving way to another level of the cave. The water was perfectly clear and in the heat of the cavern, a swim was extremely enticing but prohibited. The monopolizers of the natural phenomenon gave boat rides for 5B.

As captured by my iPhone.

This is what it really looked like. Photo Credit: Michael Dunn Photography

Somewhere in between, there’s a couple sketchy taxi rides as well. It was too late and we were too drained to walk another 8 miles back, so we hailed a couple of taxis. They told us vaguely that we had to travel a ways around the curvy trail to the cars that would be driving us, due to the debris-blocked road from the explosion. After climbing over debris, we came upon our ride, which was out of gas. After waiting a bit, we crammed two too many people into the taxi and headed back to town. The ride felt like Disneyland’s Indiana Jones. There were parts when it looked like his turn wouldn’t be sharp enough, and we would plummet off the side of the cliff, and bumps so big that we would hit our heads on the roof. And it wasn’t just the condition of the road, he was driving really fast and really recklessly, causing his random rainbow of knickknacks by the windshield to sway back and forth over the furry dashboard. I had a good time, but it seemed that everyone else was terrified.

We had another quiet evening with the Bolivian 20B three-course meal and wine in the tranquil, lukewarm darkness.

During the last hour of my stay in Sorata, I saw one of the most beautiful scenes of the movie that is life through my own eyes. I’ll try to describe it, but I don’t think my words will give it justice. It was about 8 am and the gray skies had not yet burned off. The morning bustle was the same as the every day, markets opening and people walking up and down the streets with sack loads of products to be sold. The chitter-chatter between my friends and I faded away, and at that instant, the activity along the sidewalks slowed. The only sound was that of little feet pounding on the stone streets, and we all watched silently as Sorata’s mascot, a young boy with a toy bow-and-arrow who I had repeatedly spotted around town, came running, momentum maintaining his speed, his wispy hair rustling like wild grass. He wore a simple T-shirt and cargo shorts with flip flops, and from whatever he was running, he gripped his bow-and-arrow with a liberated expression on his face as if it was all he needed.

Visions of La Paz.

Flowers at Mercado 20 de Enero.

Fruits at Mercado 20 de Enero.

Photography project in El Alto, photographing kids because adults refused to let us photograph them.

Except for him, he couldn’t see me.

Children with their siblings and mother at a Mocohinchi stand.

 

Helping abuela shop.

 

 

Photography project in Zona Sur, contrasting the commercial with the traditional buildings in other parts of the city.

Another part to the project, the quite different fringes of Zona Sur.

Zona sur, dude reading newspaper.

My favorite photo from Tiwanaku, the Aymara new year.

Learning night photography with Gato, a view from El Alto.

Our friend Gato.

 

Hike to La Muela del Diablo.

Sunbathing

Views from a bridge over Calle Ecuador.

 

 

Cholitas and Cherimoyas.

Rodriguez market, governed by Cholitas.

I know my way around.

Well, not completely, I used a map and got lost a couple times. But these are all learning experiences.

I know how to find some nightclubs, grocery stores and attractions even across the seperate parts of the city.

Last week, we went to El Alto to check out El Mercado 16 de Julio, where Cholitas reign. It’s the largest swap meet/ flea market I’ve ever seen. Like a giant thrift store, farmer’s market, sale- you name it, it stretches for at least 1 km. The first time I went, we were there for two hours and couldn’t even see the end of it. Apparently it’s very dangerous as thieves are especially numerous and crafty, as they are known to spit on you or spill something on your shirt, resulting in your distraction as someone else slyly pickpockets you. It’s not an uncommon sight to see a local walking around with a their backpack backwards, as tourists are not the only targets. However, I see no problem as long as I use a small purse or fanny pack-yes, I bought a fanny pack-and be aware of your surroundings.

The fringes of Mercado 16 de Julio, El Alto.

When I first learned this name, I realized how city-wide the streets are named after dates. July 16th is the anniversary of the city of La Paz, which was established in 1809.

20 de Octubre- My spanish school, restaurants and bars. For me, the main artery of Sopocachi. I can find whatever I need here, Vegetarian Saltenas, Ice cream, internet cafe, bars (with awesome happy hours and really strong drinks). On 20 de Octubre in 1904, a treaty of peace and friendship was established between Bolivia and Chile after the end of the Pacific war in 1879.

6 de Agosto runs parallel and is right below 20 de Octubre, and a couple clubs are here as well. I mostly just use this one for logistics when taking minibuses across town. The independence of the Bolivian republic was declared on August 6th, 1824. Simon Bolivar gathered troops from Argentina, Peru and Columbia to fight against Spain in the battle of Ayacucho, the future Bolivians’ final triumph.

A farmer’s market in Chasquipampa is called 20 de Enero. I’m not sure what happened on this date, but it’s a great farmer’s market, where you can get a huge Cherimoya for 10B, a steal. Let’s talk Cherimoya.

Praise for the wonderful Cherimoya.

It’s definitely my new favorite fruit, and I wish I could bring some back to all of my lovely friends in the United States. But of course that’s impossible, so I’ll eat them all to myself here. They have the texture of ice cream and the appropriate nickname “Custard Apple.”

Mark Twain called the Cherimoya “The most delicious fruit known to men.”

The tree thrives in higher altitudes, from 4500 to 8500 feet. The natives in the Andes have said that the Cherimoya enjoys seeing snow nearby, but doesn’t like to be surrounded by it. Apparently it’s grown in California, but the fruits there are said to be around four dollars, 35Bs in comparison to the giant 10-20B fruits here.

Fresh Cherimoya contains upto 15% sugar and some vitamin C. The fruit is like adam and eve’s poisonous apple, however, as the fruit has been said to link to atypical Parkinsons, and the seeds are poisonous if crushed open.

I now also know my way around some cholitas- which requires care and courtesy.

Undercover photo.

These women literally give no damns.

Although El Alto is a fantastic place to photograph some of the epitomes of La Paz, I couldn’t bring my camera because

1) I could have gotten too distracted, and

2) indigenous people hate gringos even more when they take photos of them.

There are various reasons for this. Cholitas have noticed that photographers have come to this country, taken photos and have become rich and famous off of the image of a poor Cholita surrounded by her fruits and vegetables, without giving any reparation to the subject of the image. For this reason, Cholitas have told us to go take photos in another country, despite our being students trying to complete a photo project.

Another reason is that in Andean culture, the people believe that a photograph captures small bits of a person’s soul. It makes sense. Your spirit is shown in your demeanor in a photograph, and when this is shared and distributed amongst numerous people that you may or may not know, they are able to view this piece of your spirit that you would otherwise only share with people whom you choose.

While they must feel that are photographs are exploiting and exposing them, we are only trying to capture the beauty that we see in them. So we tell them this.

“Puedo sacar una foto de ti? Creo que eres bonita.”

Unsuccessful. And of course, we don’t continue to be persistent, because these women are horrifying. We’ve had a few minor run-ins with them.

Weighing in at about 300 pounds, long braids tumbling down their backs, wearing ballerina flats and layers of skirts and sometimes carrying a baby in a sack on their back, Cholitas will get in your face. These women are the face of wrestling here in Bolivia. One almost beat my friend with a baseball bat after she crossed over her blanket of knickknacks at the market.

I couldn’t find a trash bin for my Cherimoya peel so I placed it nicely on a corner near a fruit stand. The Cholita’s eyes were elsewhere, but apparently she has extra sets on the sides and back of her head. As I walk away innocently, “Senorita…Senorita…SENORITA…” gradually gets louder until the peel goes flying by my head and hits the ground next to me.

Yesterday, we grabbed fruit on which a tower of browning bananas had been balanced, resulting in the tower’s toppling. I recovered most of the bananas and prevented the whole table from falling over, but the Cholita placed the blame nevertheless and forced us to buy the fruit that we had grabbed.

While I’ve been told that Bolivia is a paternalistic society like the U.S., I disagree completely. It seems that the women dominate the business sector, as well as relationships. Of course love is far beyond skin deep, but I’ve seen a hefty Cholita practically pulling a skinny guy by his earlobe. Everyone here knows to respect these women, and they smugly take advantage of it.

They are the most steadfast women I’ve ever encountered. They remind me of my Aunt Mary, a sturdy, independent woman who although restricted by her old legs, could still entice you to approach her chair so that she could whack the shit out of you with a brush.

Not all Cholitas are mean, however. They’re especially nice when you buy something. Some will flash their gold and silver grill at you as you walk by, murmuring and coaxing you with a two-for-one tomato deal.

While hiking up to La Muela del Diablo, we in the near distance an elderly Cholita climbing the same steep path as we. A couple minutes later, we saw her trucking up a hill at about a 40 degree angle, all while wearing the traditional flats and skirt. Twenty minutes later, we crested a hill and saw her gazing over her city, from the valleys, through the city, encompassed by the andes. In the end, they are just Indigenous women proud of their country, fierce protectors of Bolivia’s dignity.

I chewed coca leaves, and my mouth is numb.

Phase two: Some things I learned, some things I find strange.

Being a broke college student in Bolivia is great. Yeah, I blow through 500 Bs in 5 to 7 days.But that’s less than 100 bucks. Therefore, I’ve only spent about 400 bucks since being here, and that’s with taking public transportation everywhere (mainly taxis), buying touristy stuff, going out to eat way too often, and doing expensive excursions. This is a great place to travel for the college student on a budget; most street food is less than a dollar and you can buy a really nice, handmade alpaca sweater for about 20 bucks.

Minibuses appoint random people to call out and advertise the destination, as well as take fares, which sometimes are strange prices like 2.40 B. I was told that they’re random, but I think they’re skilled somehow. They rattle off the destination as if they’ve been practicing as an auctioneer, hanging out of the open door as the bus drives by.

Dogs here wear clothing more often than I’ve ever seen. Due to the high volume of stray dogs, I came to the conclusion that this is how the homeless are distinguished from the housed. My friend thinks that it’s to keep them warm, but I disagree.

In our favorite internet cafe, Blueberries, there is a bulletin board where advertisements for everything is posted, from car sales to event publicity, even solicitations for friendships and relationships. We posted one for our friend Gato:

Cholitas ask you to pay them if you want a picture,

The cholita covering her face yelled at us shortly after this photo was taken.

while little ninos and ninas follow and stare at you until you snap a few of them.

Many food and beverage kiosks serve your aliment on a non-disposable plate or in a glass cup, requiring that you stand next to the kiosk to consume it.

Cholitas chill in their produce piles as they sell it. 

Believe me, these women are ballers. A vegetable vendor broke my 200B after charging me 5B for 8 bananas without a problem, while most vendors or even shopkeepers would supplicate for smaller bills.

Shoe shiners cover their faces and beg you to step up on their “briefcase” as you pass. What defines an occupation is completely different from the those in the U.S. While a street worker is more rare and less lucrative in that capitalist society, the foundation of La Paz seems to be those who work in the streets. Business people get their shoes shined for 2.50B before going to the office. Men in suits throng around kiosks ornamented with sweets, snacks and knick knacks, reading newspapers from one of the many vendors that crowd the city in the morning. Street vendors sell the TIGO or VIVA cards used to upload credit onto most Bolivian phones.

Alex getting her boots shined. These guys holler at them boots every time she passes.

And oh, the food. Food here has a different meaning. The food is made up of mostly meat, potatoes and bread. You can buy a bag of 8 Mariquetas on the street for 2B ( about 15 cents). In the United States, this would inevitably lead to obesity. But here, the food is fuel. Carbs don’t sit in your stomach and turn to cellulite. You eat about three whole potatoes and half of a baguette, then you walk a few miles, dominantly uphill.

In Latin America, which I’ve learned from the people surrounding me who each have roots in their own respective parts of the continent show that people live to eat, not eat to live. While I came here as a vegan that was constantly watching my calorie intake, it’s refreshing to find an environment where it’s okay to enjoy food, as it’s made directly in front of you, fresh and by someone who takes what they do seriously. A burger and fries in the united states is made by one of billions of people who work the drive thru, not exactly sure what’s under the wrapper they’re handing you. Burgers and fries here are fried directly in front of you, the potatoes and cows come from the hills just a twenty-minute taxi ride to the south. Therefore, the baked, or fried, Saltenas and Tucumanas sold on the streets aren’t as guilt-harboring as eating fried, processed food from a U.S. chain.

Never before have I been so tempted to eat meat; The presentation here is different. However, the gorgeous fruit markets have of course held  me over. Best apples I’ve ever tasted, I bought 7 for less than $1 on the street. Bananas are dirt cheap (although I bought only-friable plantains for the first time, unknowingly), and Cherimoyas, oh boy. They are pretty pricey, but they taste like Ice cream.

Fernet is the greatest drink ever. It’s a liquor from Italy that tastes somewhat like Jager, said to contain a number of herbs including myrrh, rhubarb, chamomile, cardamom, aloe and saffron. It’s been rumored to have anything from shrooms and absinthe to coca leaf, st. John’s wort and peppermint. I wouldn’t deny any of the rumors, either, because it tastes like a mix of everything. What I know for sure is that it makes me feel great. When my friend and I have Fernet the night before, we wake up feeling like new women.

 

This is API, it tastes like apple cider and is made out of corn.

What’s not so great: sushi in Bolivia. I should have known not to go in the first place, but our Editor in Chief told us that this place is really good. We sat down and looked at the menu, and the first thing I saw was:

California Roll- Jamon, Queso, Huevo…

I chuckled and left.

Customer service doesn’t really exist here. At the same sushi place, they charged us a random cover charge of 20B for a band that was going to be there whether we chose to eat or not. Restaurants also don’t like to split checks. One of the most popular happy hours in the city insisted that they don’t have change enough to let us split our 99B check between 4 girls. We were buying Fernet at a grocery store and a women shooed us out of her aisle, yelling that she was cleaning. Waiters don’t really check up on you at your tables and sometimes bring food to each person half an hour apart. I think this is because tipping is neither expected nor common here.

La Paz, or Bolivia in general, is incredibly diverse. You’ll see poverty, wealth, tradition and modernism all in the same day. The only thing you’re missing is the beach. From one of the top vista points, La muela del Diablo to which my friend and I hiked, you’ll see the countryside, city, favelas and suburbs with the backdrop of the snowcapped Andes.

The raddest day of my life.

It’s been almost two weeks since I biked the death road, and the adrenaline rush has worn off a bit. I just finished my articles, so I finally have time to rave about the funnest day ever. It’s pretty difficult to choose “the raddest day of your life”; it’s almost like choosing your favorite brother. But at the same time, it’s like rating all the movies you’ve seen a 4/5, never giving one a 5/5 due to anticipation for a film that’s just a little better than the rest. Therefore, I sucked it up and chose that Sunday.

We were packing to travel from one climate extreme to the next: Dry, arid high elevation to air so warm and moist it was like a giant sauna nestled in between mountains and trees.

We wore a couple layers and leggings with trainers or hiking boots, pretty standard. We packed extra clothes for the end to make the finish even more satisfying.

We awoke at 6, the earliest I had been up yet in Bolivia while at home this is generally my standard. It’s nice to experience La Pax in the morning, where newspapers replace piles of fruit and the sun reflects softly off of the askew cobblestones that make up the streets. Walking around a city in hiking boots makes you feel like a legitimate backpacker, while we were really just a few miles from ‘home.’ We met at a popular coffee shop and awaited the group and guides.

We couldn’t drink too much coffee or else we would have to go in the one of the various holes in the ground along the road up to the top of the road.

The bus was full of great people. Four being my friends and the others being exceptionally cool, I knew this was going to be a fantastic day. We told embarrassing stories and marveled at the quickly morphing sights as the bus rumbled through.

We stopped in the snow, yet I was too excited to be cold. The bus was parked by a lake that one of the guides (the new guy) said was El Lago Titicaca, but I found this hard to believe as it was simply a large pond, which didn’t stretch beyond my view as Titicaca should. We put on our Gravity baclavas to keep our faces warm, and some put on the badass (yet still chunky) jumpsuits. We got on our bikes, mine was named bart simpson, I called him bartholemeu. This was the first time I’ve ridden a mountain bike, and I loved it. Made me want to buy it, despite the starting price of $4000.

We went over the rules, me with a stupid grin on my face the entire time. Then one of the guides pulled out a small bottle of clear liquid, advising us to pour some on the ground, some on our tire, and then take a swig, because it’s really strong. We were giving tribute to Pachamama, mother earth of the Andes, to help keep us safe before we began the 60 km ride. I naturally took a much-too-large swig, leaving my stomach more fluttery than before.

We took off, immediately downhill on a windy highway. The first 25 km was pavement. I found myself in the front three for the entirety of this segment. You could say that I have a need for speed. hahah.

Everything was perfect, the bounciness and speed of the bike hurtling through scenery that was almost unreal. We punctured clouds and traveled from snowy surroundings, to mist, to a foggy jungle.

Each time we stopped I was more and more ecstatic about what I was able to experience.

We passed through a drug checkpoint, where we had to pay to pass. We passed buses going the speed limit, signs saying 30 km/hr.

We finally reached the entrance to the actual death road, a narrow, dirt road that wound above the depths of dense jungle.

 

At first the ride was a little sketchy, rocks were imbedded in the road such that I had to grip the handlebars, so hard that I knew my forearms were to be sore. The road became more and more narrow and continued to slope downhill, through mist that turned into waterfalls, bringing a sweet mixture of fear and excitement. Should I brake, should I pedal faster? The adrenaline rush was great, my heart was beating but I was so sharply focused that my reaction time was quicker, a feeling like no drug.

Yeah, I know that Gravity Mountain biking takes out about 60 people daily and this is nothing special, but I was still stoked on it.

We stopped at multiple landmarks along the way and the guides told us horror stories about back-breakingly sharp curves and riders following butterflies off cliffs. We took breaks on the side of the road and shed layers as we descended down deeper into the rainforest, away from the cold for which I traded my Californian summer.

Houses began to appear in clusters, hanging over the edge of cliffs or nestled in between the trees to our right. Children and families walked along the sides of the road, barely glancing twice at us adrenaline-seeking tourists ripping through their neighborhoods. The guides told us not to give the schoolchildren high-fives as we rode past, as they are known to grab your hand despite your downhill acceleration. Yikes.

I brought my malaria pills with me as I was told that any region below 7000 feet is mosquito-territory and therefore a malarial zone, but the agency assured me that I wouldn’t need them. When bites appeared on my chest and legs, I freaked out a little to myself, unsure how many bites and therefore how many sicknesses I would be prone to, due to the fact that a few had entered my agape mouth as I was focused on my human-generated roller-coaster ride.

One of the guides.

 

We stopped for oranges next to a cluster of houses, adorable dogs and chickens walking along the sides of the roads. A man sat outside on a bench, his single leg supporting him, his hand draped over a handmade cane. A sign next to his implored passersby to donate anything possible, as he had been bitten by a rattlesnake and had to amputate his leg, leaving him unable to provide for his family. A few of us gathered change and gave him all we could. One of the two guides told us that within the month, he is planning to bike up and down the death road (it’s not that fun to bike back up) and collect funds for a prosthetic leg for the man.

This is why I love travelling. I’ve met the most beautiful people on this trip. From what I’ve found, the world’s most conscientious, appreciative people are drawn from their houses, countries and comfort zones to these areas of the world. They are nature appreciators, people watchers, and scholars. Marcus, this particular guide, expressed his passion and love for latin america as an avid cyclist. The next day, when we went to the Gravity house to pick up T-shirts and photo CDs, we noticed that quotes from passionate bikers were scattered along the walls. The most memorable read:

“Everytime I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race.” -H.G. Wells

Radiant was the energy shared between this group of active, educated people. Maybe it was just the drugging affect of the adrenaline, but yeah, I was obviously stoked.

When we got to the bottom, we threw up our jackets and drank some beers that had been waiting for us at a random bar, absolutely filthy and sweaty, laughing and relaxing, breathing in the dense air.

We took the bus a short distance to another attraction, of a name that escapes me, but was cut off from the road by a strong river in which we swam-or rather waded- for awhile before showering in a bathhouse surrounded by a nature reserve. After putting on shorts and flip flops for the first time in what felt like forever,  we ate a mediocre-yet obviously delicious at the time- pasta dinner, looking at pictures from the day in which we looked a lot less cool than we felt.

And so went my first official adrenaline rush in Bolivia. Hopefully, there are more to come.