It seems we are a bit travel weary – our attention spans shortened by over stimulation of cute villages, UNESCO World Heritage Sites, roman ruins, and gastronomic delights.
France is one of the least friendly countries to vegetarians… at least it feels that way in many restaurants as we ply the streets trying to find one with a vegetarian dish beyond salad and dessert. Pizza and pasta and Indian restaurants are pretty reliable, so we tend towards those. And the business hours are confounding. And the customer service lacking...
But, enough glumness about France. We have had some marvelous experiences: Staying and working for a few days on a goat cheese farm, walking around Avignon in the middle of the night trying to find our way back to our apartment (and seeing lots of vans with scantily glad ladies in them with a light hanging in the window), one truly amazing meal at Pasta Cozy in Aix en Provence – with pear stuffed pasta and creamy sauce with toasted black sesame seeds and a small ravioli with asparagus baked to perfection. We had fun at a circus where we loved the dog tricks and decided to stretch a bit more after watching the contortionist. We visited a gypsy/Roma festival in the Camargue and watched horses riding out into the sea and a Catholic processional following them. We sculpted clay and made friends in Toulouse. We enjoyed Pont du Gard and marveled at what the Romans were building in 19 B.C.
We are ready for home though. Counting down the days now for a return to our garden, kitchen, house, cat, city and wonderful friends in Seattle.
Because the airlines are stupid… or maybe it is me… I will take the train at 7 p.m. to London from Paris, take a bus to my hotel, sleep for 5 hours, take a shuttle to Heathrow at 4:30 a.m., board a plane for home, and promptly complete my first leg back to Paris… C’est la vie.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
A vacation within our vacation
Our last few weeks in Bolivia have been travel packed. We took a vacation within our vacation to be a bit more touristy and visit some sites and pay for some guided tours.
We started our trip within a trip with a visit to the Hacienda of Candelaria and the surrounding countryside to see the weavers of this region and were hosted by three generations of the owners of the hacienda that has been in their family for 6 generations. Great discussions of politics, land reform, poverty, traditions and history – and wonderful food cooked over a fire stove with 8 – 10 holes in it for pots of various sizes. The hacienda was similar to a feudal castle in that it was the residence of the land owner and the villages that sprung up around them were for their support and were people that worked the land but didn’t own it – and the amount of land that went with the haciendas was huge. Enough to support 10,000 people or more I would guess. Liz’s family went through land reform in 1952 when the campesinos (peasants/people from the countryside) had organized into militias and other changes were going on in the government. Her grandmother met a group at the door once with a double-barreled gun and explained that she thought she could kill 3 of them before they could kill her. Eventually the people supported the owner of the hacienda (Liz’s grandparents) and they were able to keep the main house and a small orchard as well as some land a distance away. We were both attracted to the candor and poise of our main host Liz who told stories from her youth and explained the culture that we were seeing.
One of the stories she told us was about a story found in one of the Tejidos (textiles). It was a story about a partridge and a fox. The partridge is going to go to heaven for a big feast and is gloating about it to the fox. “It is only for pretty creatures that can fly high.” “Take me with you please,” the fox begs and eventually the partridge acquiesces. The feast is huge and abundant, but the fox makes a pig of himself and is rude and greedy. The partridge tells the fox he is not going to take him back to earth, but the fox says, “Who cares!? I’ve already had my fill, and I’ll use a rope to descend from the sky.” On his way back to earth he meets two parrots and begins to taunt them. “I’ve just been in heaven. It is for pretty birds and creatures who can fly. It’s not for ugly birds like you. You just squawk and can’t fly high, and you weren’t invited. “ The parrots bit the rope that the fox was descending from heaven on and he fell to earth and died. His stomach split open and the contents that he had eaten in heaven spilt onto the ground, and this accounts for the bounty of things we have on earth today – good foods and drink and the abundance of things we find from the earth.
We then took in Tarabuco for the second time – this time for the festival of Pulljay with dancers and politicians and lots of other gringos dancing and picture taking. Miss Bolivia was there too – she was a candidate for governor of one of the departments (although on Easter Sunday the elections were held and she lost, but I read in the paper she is talking about election fraud now). The textiles of the region are amazing and worn by the 
small groups dancing and playing instruments: Colorful ponchos, intricately woven skirts, decorated leather hats, wooden shoes with 2 sets of spurs on them as a type of musical instrument… The beer and potable rubbing alcohol and chicha was also flowing freely at this celebration. Participants dance around a large tower loaded with things that Pacha Mama has given or things symbolizing the earth’s abundance. Traditionally everything on this goes to the family that will pay for next year’s even bigger tower… Once again we were treated to feast of stories and political insights. “That man behind us was the Mayor of Sucre when the constitutional referendum was held and they burned his just completed house down on the third day,” for example.
We were both sorry we hadn’t met Liz earlier, I would have enjoyed helping do some work on the hacienda, and she is such a class act that we wanted more of her company. We ended up coming back a day earlier than planned from our next trip to be able to have dinner with their family and spend the afternoon with Liz before she departed to lead a guided trip across the Salt Flats.
We left Tarabuco without having bought any textiles, but were now on the lookout for them. We flew the next morning to La Paz, ringed by stunning mountains, and sitting at around 2 miles high it made breathing a bit difficult. We flew on to the Amazon rainforest and spiraled upward in the plane to get over the mountain range where once on the other side the landscape plunges away to a level of 200 meters above sea level. We arrived in Rurrenabaque hot and humid, and were the next day on our way up one of the tributaries of the Amazon – Rio Beni to Madidi National Park (written about several times in National Geographic and notable in our memory for Joel Satore’s description of biting things and critters…) We saw a capybara family hanging out on the shore (picture 300 pound beavers who have been crossed with guinea pigs and you get the picture).
Then two hours into our 6 hour journey we saw an ocelot swimming across the river. It was about half way across and right next to our boat. We freaked it out and it turned to swim back to the nearer shore. 
We let the boat drift backward and were able to watch the wet cat – keeping his head and ears out of the water but nothing else – make his way back to shore, slip a bit on the rocks and blend into the vegetation.
Chalalan lodge is a special place. It is built in the heart of Madidi by a community who 15 years ago decided to try and become eco-friendly and earn money from tourists instead of forest products. The buildings are beautiful and the site is full of nature. Trails are well marked and we saw in our 5 days in the jungle 4 different types of monkeys, 2 snakes, lizards, frogs, caiman, tarantulas, a cicillian – one of the strangest animals I’ve ever seen – also called the “blind snake”, it is an amphibian that looks like an overgrown worm or a really slow snake, toucans, red and green macaws, and numerous other birds. One of the things that impressed me though is how empty the jungle is… some days we walked for hours without seeing a thing – and although the jungle supports extraordinary amount of diversity, it is not like the illustrations might lead one to believe full of a monkey and snake and birds in every tree.
Because the lake is pure and they use the water for drinking, people are asked to not wear insect repellent or sunscreen when they go swimming. One day I was heading down for a swim but decided instead to canoe around the lake and look for monkeys… Although I didn’t know it at the time, the no-see-ums had me for lunch, and they happen to be a vector for Leishmaniasis – also known as tropical ulcers or dry leprosy. The next day I could feel and see the bites and had more than 250 on my lower body. One of them developed blisters and bumps after 1o days or so and that is when we started getting more concerned and saw a few doctors. So far it is early and hasn’t erupted into an open wound, so the prevailing advice seems to be wait and see, and that it is probably not Leishmaniasis…. The last doctor we saw was before we were supposed to board our plane to exit the country and as a result of this and other things we missed our flight out and spent an extra 2 days in Bolivia.
After leaving the Amazon, we headed to Copacabana (not the Rio Beach) on Lake Titicaca to have a night on Isla del Sol (island of the Sun) where the Incas believed the sun was born, and which is often compared to the Greek Islands. It felt very pastoral and was fun and exhausting to climb the 1000 steps up to the ridge for the panoramic view.
We had pizza by candlelight that evening and explored a small Inca ruin the next morning where Yvette found a bit of peace at the end of the dock before we went back to the main land and watching the ramp up to the elections with a big political rally/party in the streets.
Copacabana is famous in Bolivia especially on Holy Friday of Semana Santa for cars and things being brought here to be blessed. One of the hills is called Little Calvary and has the stations of the cross on the ascent as well as a spectacular view from the top. People also ask Jesus and the Virgin for many things, I like the Spanish on this sign - "Welcome to the Sacred heart of Jesus where...[and here my Spanish becomes less literal] you can ask for objects you desire, cars, things, money, etc."
Pilgrims walk for 3 days from La Paz during Holy Week before Easter to this place, and we saw some of them on our early morning departure the next day.
Learning Spanish, and a week-end in the Cordillera de Los Andes mountains – by Yvette
Before describing recent peregrinations, I wanted to share some thoughts I wrote awhile back about learning another language. . . .
Humanity of words
To know another language is to have another soul. (Charlemagne)
Language captures our sameness, with “doing” words, and words that wait to be done to. And time—things we did before, are doing, will do.
On learning a new way to speak, I am a toddler again, my reality is present and selfish. I want, I eat, I go, I am. No nuance, no sense of bad words, ‘cuz they don’t sound bad to me. A blank slate.
And on a grander scale, languages map how we relate—organic growth of trunk, branch, twig, some words shared and others not, some polite here and there not—fed by colonial power, political manipulation, economic struggle, media battles, and then tangled by desire, beauty, experience.
And, here’s what we did a few week-ends ago, hiking around Sucre . . .
Got to the bus around 7:45am Saturday morning, was supposed to leave at 9:30am according to our book, but they said get there early because it fills up. We wanted to go to either Potolo or Maragua, then walk to the other. No buses to Maragua cause the road was bad, so signed up to go to Potolo. They told us right away that instead of the normal 2.5 hours, it would take ~5 because we’d have to wait for road construction. Yep, about 35 mins out of Sucre we stopped, waited from 10-12am when, right on schedule, they opened the gate and let what was now about 20 vehicles thru the construction area. Some of the worst road we’ve been on (I think the vehicles act as caterpillars to flatten bumpy parts post-construction), but beautiful views and our driver (as has been my feeling on almost all the vehicles we’ve been on here, in Syria and in Laos) was careful on the narrow roads with steep drops. SO . . . . got to Potolo around 2:30pm. Neil was very eager to ask around if they had some textiles as there are very distinctive textiles. The textiles are showcased in the museum here in Su
cre at up to $500 (yes, US) for some items, very fine double-sided weaving. So we spent an hour being led to a couple of houses by a little boy, to no success (saw some weaving in-progress but only smaller items were available for sale), then hit the trail. We’d heard reports as varied as 2 hours to 7 hours between the towns, so knew we were pushing daylight. Kept getting varied reports on the trail, too (2 hours! Only 1! 3!) Of course compounded by both the fact that the trail was VERY easily lost (lots of goat / sheep trails, little creekbeds, etc.), and most people speak very little Spanish, mostly local Quechua. Anyway, several helpful people (we thought) pointed out the path at times, they were generally out there herding there sheep or working their fields of wheat, quinoa, corn.
Anyway, we walked pretty quickly until just after 7pm. The altitude is high, around 3700m, so on the uphill portions we were having to slow in order to breathe. Somewhere around here we realized we’d forgotten our flashlight. We were trying thru the afternoon to remember when the moon’s been rising recently. Anyway, as night was falling around 7pm we asked at a house we passed how many hours to Maragua and she quite clearly said 2-2.5, and that we should wait there at her house while she got her husband. Shortly her son and husband showed up, offered that we could eat there and then sleep nearby for a small price. While I (Yvette) was a bit disappointed not to get to the supposed showers and tourist cabanas, I agreed with Neil that it was the better part of wisdom. Really a very good choice, as we otherwise likely would’ve spent the night out (two Italian guys we met did). So, a hot “Wheat Soup” (I think just wheat flour thickened into a white sauce, seasoned a bit not sure with what, and potatoes chopped up in it, but warm, hearty and relatively flavorful) accompanied our cookies and apples we’d snacked on a bit earlier. 
Then, off to a little building they’ve built nearby to house tourists such as ourselves, where there were two mattresses we unrolled onto a stone floor, and 3 wool blankets (seemed relatively clean tho I found a flea on me in the morning, and little nibbles later—hmm). Was grateful for the clean smartwool socks and longjohns I’d brought along. I used some precious drinking water to wash my hands and brush my teeth. Then early in the morning back to their house for a breakfast of hot tea and toasted plain wheat from their field—eaten much like roasted soybeans. Flavorful but probably not a breakfast I’ll seek out. 
The dad was quite comfy with tourists, even speaks a couple of English phrases in addition to fairly simple Spanish ( better than ours, but not by a lot). We filled out his tourist registry (monitoring and evaluation officers be proud!!). Apparently he’s the “responsible man/authority” somehow for the village, including having the key to the cabanas. The reason they’re there, I think, is because about 25 meters away is a rock face that includes some dinosaur footprints. Also some better-known ones about 1 km away. So in the morning he took us to see both of those, then walked with us to where the path on to Maragua was quite discernable, and sent us on our way—all for $6.50 (we gave him $10). The most disappointing moment was when he asked us which direction we’d come from, from Potolo (“this side or that side?”) Apparently there are two routes from Potolo—the long one and the short one. We’d taken the long one, darn it.
Anyway, walked the trail from 7:45am-9:30am, arrived in Maragua and asked around for textiles and a restaurant to have an early lunch. The sole “tienda house” (“They have beer!” we were told) in town agreed to whip up some rice, potatoes and eggs for us. Yummy, hit the spot and we also drank 1 liter each (yes, really) of Fanta. Asked around for textiles but again, not much luck. We’ll have to get it here at the Museum in Sucre, which is still good for the artesans tho not quite as direct. Also met the nurse in the town of Maragua, a lovely and very helpful women named Carmen, I told her I was a nurse too, and she immediately asked for my contact info. Will be interesting to see if I hear from her. We talked re: obstetric emergencies and what backup she has, what the major problems are (beyond that one, upper respiratory illness and diarrhea for the kids). Very nice and responsible-seeming lady. Anyway, took off again around 11:30am and reached the next town where we hoped to get public transport around 2pm. Had to ford a hip-high, fast river that nearly knocked me over! Fortunately didn’t. Sat by the road for a whole 5 minutes before a car came along, agreed we could hop in the back for a ride to Sucre. A 1984 Datsun that had definitely seen better days. The road was REALLY bad in parts. We had to get out for certain parts to make the car ride higher. When it stalled, the car was kick-started, usually by rolling it in reverse on the steep parts. Also stopped at a creek to drain and refill the radiator to keep it from overheating. Rather vintage, but it got us here! And the driver was very courteous (and safe), he zoomed in front of a bus here in town, went half a block and let us jump out to catch a bus that brought us directly home.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Back home in Bolivia, after Potosi, Carnival and the Salt Flats
We’re now well-accustomed to life in Bolivia. Sliding into life here in Sucre has been very easy. It’s known as a small, rich city that is definitely not representative of Bolivia overall. So in choosing to live here, we’re consciously enjoying a more comfy and aesthetic life and remain intent on using our home as a base for trips to other parts of the country.
As for our apartment, we share the compound with our landlady’s brother, his wife, 5-year-old daughter and now, the 1-month old Rottweiler puppy named Luke (who recently lost his tail. . . pobrecita!) It’s very comfy, hard-wood floors throughout, arched windows and doorways, stark white with terra cotta roof tiles, nice furniture, a modest bathroom and more modest (but very functional) kitchen, and three bedrooms. We also have a nice outdoor patio which we share with a scruffy-looking, suspicious cat that I’m putting food out for whenever we’re here. Yes, I know, but I’m trying with all my pet-telepathy skills to communicate that he needs to maintain his other food sources, this is just a booster to help him get more healthy.
Sucre is a small city, the center is easily walkable, though we also use the minibuses a lot. A grid of UNESCO-protected, Spanish-colonial architecture, the biggest hazard of the streets is the ever-present dog doo-doo that is all over the sidewalks. I jog most mornings in the beautiful Parque Bolivar (worked up to it given the 2790m elevation). We buy most of our produce at the very bountiful Mercado Central (farmer’s market style in the maze of a big concrete building), and other staples at the SAS supermercado—pretty much like Safeway. We’ve found 4 vegetarian “set lunch” places that serve tasty and healthy fare—cheapest $1.40 each, most expensive $2.40. We’re taking two hours of Spanish week-days (and I’m happy to say that the Arabic hadn’t replaced all my Spanish), as well as drawing / painting classes twice a week.
Potosi – miner’s week-end
A few weeks ago, Neil and I spent the week-end in Potosi. At 4070m altitude, Potosi “enjoys” (about like Nigeria “enjoys” it’s oil) the presence of Cerra Rico, a mountain whose silver bankrolled the Spanish empire for centuries. Much of the wealth from Potosi helped to build Sucre (a city deemed more habitable by the colonialists due to its lower altitude). The cost in lives over time is estimated at 8 million—mostly indigenous or African slaves. Reportedly the slaves would be put in the mine 4 months at a time without emerging to sleep or eat. Many of the Africans died, unaccustomed to the altitude. Within the last few months, the miners have swelled from a normal 5,000 to 10,000 given the metal prices on the world market. Last year there were 20 deaths due to accidents in the mines, but the bigger casualty (usually after 15 years or so) is silicosis, lung cancer from the poor air quality in the mines. The work conditions are tough—reaching 50C (120+F) in the lower levels due to the earth’s core heat, and difficult to breath due to the dust. One would think this a ripe opportunity for automation, but the reality is that many miners work as they have for centuries, tap-tap-taping a chisel in to make a hole for dynamite. We met Don Miguel, a 38-year-old (same as Neil) miner who’s been working there for 14 years. He has daughters so no sons to help mine to support the family. Alone, he can make two holes per 9-hour day, then blast those and carry out best of the minerals he discovers. 
The youngest miner we met was 12, youngest of 4 brothers, and has been working there one month. He had a shy smile that reminded both Neil and I of As-uhl, the Laotian 16-year-old we got to be friends with. Most mining is done by cooperatives—groups of 10-50 miners who share the profits based on time worked. The minerals are sold to crude processing plants in town, which are generally owned by Bolivian or multi-national companies. While the prices are low and there’s understandable tension between the miners and the processing companies, most seem to feel that Evo Morales’ government has done a good job of ensuring that the benefits from the mines aren’t only enjoyed by the elite.
So . . . our mine tour started at 8:30am on a Saturday morning (a different kind of church, learning about our world) by suiting up in rubber boots, over-clothes, belt with battery pack, hard hat, head lamp and bandana to deal with the dust. Then a visit to the Miner’s Market where we were introduced to a colorful description of dynamite, ampho, fuses, alcohol, coca leaves (chewed by miners for the whole day to avoid hunger or discomfort), and soda—all suggested gifts for the miners whose day we’d slightly interrupt. Neil and I went for dynamite
(useful, you know, for a miner!!) and gloves (seemed practical and we were told a very nice gift tho we saw no one using them in the mines). Then down into the mine, we walked as much as possible, got all the way down to level 4. Being a Saturday after the Thursday fiesta, many miners were still “buracho” (drunk) so we only encountered about 6 men working, who were cheerful, sweaty, happy to chat. There were air compression hoses along the passages, so someone is clearly set up to use jack hammers. And part of the time we walked along tracks that are used to carry the minerals out of the mine—by two guys pushing and two pulling. The air quality was much worse than I expected, my throat was hoarse and sore for the rest of the afternoon. And it was hotter than I thought. Above ground, you really wanted a light jacket, but in the mine we were dripping sweat. The altitude meant I had to stop just to BREATHE frequently. 
We visited the “Tio” of the mine—deity of the underground who is, therefore, in charge of all minerals and who must be kept appeased with lots of alcohol dousing (makes for potent air in such a space). Reportedly, Tio isn’t an old Inca god but was a manipulative creation of the Spaniards to intimidate the indigenous people who weren’t eager to continue mining. Tio must be appeased to prevent accidents, including that women aren’t to work as miners because Tio wouldn’t like it. He’s a seated, human-sized mud creature with horns and often marbles for eyes. Ours was dressed in ribbons due to the recent miner’s fiesta.
Our guide—a very competent, English-fluent, humorous ex-miner—wondered aloud whether the mountain would still be mined in 50-100 years, and I couldn’t help but think that the determining factor won’t be availability of minerals, but “next best gig” that any miner can get. The miner’s cooperatives mean the minders do “work for themselves”, of course better than outright slavery but still a pretty grim career with bloody lungs at the end.
Above ground, the lucky non-miners (or those just coming to with a hangover) engaged in serious water-balloon or squirt gun fights in the month-long, increasingly dangerous and wet lead-up to Carnival. . . .
Carnival in Oruro
. . . which we decided to spend in Oruro. This tiny little (historically also mining) town has 250 years of practice in hosting the national festivities, and boy do they do it with flair. The main parade is Saturday, starting at 8am and lasting, literally, until 6-7am the next day.
Then Sunday at 8am (yes, an hour later) they start again—this time without the large masks and with even more alcohol than the first day. Any given group takes about 4 hours to complete the parade route, 25 minutes to pass any specific spot on the route. Wow—what a show of effort!!! And the beauty and artistry of the costumes and dancing wasn’t sacrificed, despite the effort. The main dances seemed to be:
And then . . . there was the other side of carnival. I have never in my life seen so many drunk people. Wow. The dancers, the spectators, the vendors. I wondered the first day why there was so much water running in the gutters—then realized it was pee. Yep—some men didn’t even bother to get down from the stands but just went right down thru the benches. The beer cans were collected into large 2x2x2 sq meter bags, we saw many of those. And when you count that probably 5,000 were in the parade alone and an estimated 300,000 attend, well, all that liquid had to go somewhere. 
Then of course the water balloon fights—full-fledged wars that waged in between the dancers of the parade. It’s “off-limits” to hit the dancers or police (still happens), and bad form to hit babies or old people, but everyone else is fair game. Neil even hit a nun, in habit, square-on. The water balloons are augmented by up to 4-liter, 8-chambered squirt (rather soak) guns, hoses, buckets, water bottles, anything that will hold liquid. Inevitably, those balloons that miss the target square-on hit the street and instead spray muddy, well, you can imagine what it sprays up on your clothes. And then there are the foam cans – usually aimed right at the face and often within 12-inches. Fortunately, the foam doesn’t sting the eyes. Luckily for us, foreigners are a particular target. :-) Anytime you leave your seats, you can expect to walk a gauntlet. Despite one’s REI raincoat and plastic poncho purchased for the occasion, well, you just gotta expect to get wet and foamy. 
While Neil loved this all, I must admit it was at times difficult to “do in Rome as the Romans”—I don’t have to like the culture wherever I am, right? There’s definitely a predatory and exploitive aspect (including bands of teen-age boys regularly targeting teen-age girls, the whiter or skimpier the t-shirt the better). No sympathy for the family with small children trying desperately to get to their seats, or the shivering skinny girls who happen to be cute, or the blonde German who swears when hit, or whatever. Just brings it on all the more.
We celebrated Carnival with our Spanish teacher and good friend, Yeshira, and another British student and new friend, Vicky—the four of us staying at the home of a friend-of-a-friend, for $6/person/night. Juan Pablo (who danced for the 13th time this year) and his family took brilliant care of us. Accommodations were basic, including the challenge of a non-functioning shower and then no running water. Buckets were lined up by the bathroom door and we did the best we could to stay clean. Juan Pablo’s mom served us hot drinks in the morning before we went on our way to face the partying.
Salt flats and the high desert
Tuesday, as Oruro took down the stands and mopped up the streets, we hopped the train to the town of Uyuni, an even-smaller frontier town at the edge of some of the most desolate areas of Bolivia—the Southwest circuit. Now we were backpacker-types in earnest.
The chaos of getting train seats (“get there at 5am” (we didn’t), then stand in line until we rush the counter as it opens (we did), then stand in another line (effectively reversing the first line) to get a number, then hope the seats don’t sell out before your number is called) reminded us that queues here are sort of just suggestions. Anyway, we happily got our seats, and started colluding with other backpackers to form a compatible group of six to buy a tour together. The next morning, after selecting our agency, we were off in a 1996 Land Cruiser that’s seen better days, under the careful and responsible hand of our driver Serapio. Georgie, Tim and Hanna from the UK and Sanna from Sweden completed our group. So for the next 3 days we shared cookies, water bottles, TP rolls, coca leaves, and cameras. Highlights of what we saw included:
Arriving back in the frontier town of Uyuni, we were dust-worn, saddle-sore and Neil was getting sick. So we checked into a comfy/cushy hotel (private bath, hot showers 24x7, comfy bed), had a pizza dinner and took the 9-hour bus-ride back to Sucre, and to home-sweet home. Amazing how much more comfy it is to have your own space and food, especially when sick. He’s on the mend, I am fighting a cold, and all in all we’re in good shape, having seen a bit of Bolivia outside of our lovely little city of Sucre.
As for our apartment, we share the compound with our landlady’s brother, his wife, 5-year-old daughter and now, the 1-month old Rottweiler puppy named Luke (who recently lost his tail. . . pobrecita!) It’s very comfy, hard-wood floors throughout, arched windows and doorways, stark white with terra cotta roof tiles, nice furniture, a modest bathroom and more modest (but very functional) kitchen, and three bedrooms. We also have a nice outdoor patio which we share with a scruffy-looking, suspicious cat that I’m putting food out for whenever we’re here. Yes, I know, but I’m trying with all my pet-telepathy skills to communicate that he needs to maintain his other food sources, this is just a booster to help him get more healthy.
Sucre is a small city, the center is easily walkable, though we also use the minibuses a lot. A grid of UNESCO-protected, Spanish-colonial architecture, the biggest hazard of the streets is the ever-present dog doo-doo that is all over the sidewalks. I jog most mornings in the beautiful Parque Bolivar (worked up to it given the 2790m elevation). We buy most of our produce at the very bountiful Mercado Central (farmer’s market style in the maze of a big concrete building), and other staples at the SAS supermercado—pretty much like Safeway. We’ve found 4 vegetarian “set lunch” places that serve tasty and healthy fare—cheapest $1.40 each, most expensive $2.40. We’re taking two hours of Spanish week-days (and I’m happy to say that the Arabic hadn’t replaced all my Spanish), as well as drawing / painting classes twice a week.
Potosi – miner’s week-end
A few weeks ago, Neil and I spent the week-end in Potosi. At 4070m altitude, Potosi “enjoys” (about like Nigeria “enjoys” it’s oil) the presence of Cerra Rico, a mountain whose silver bankrolled the Spanish empire for centuries. Much of the wealth from Potosi helped to build Sucre (a city deemed more habitable by the colonialists due to its lower altitude). The cost in lives over time is estimated at 8 million—mostly indigenous or African slaves. Reportedly the slaves would be put in the mine 4 months at a time without emerging to sleep or eat. Many of the Africans died, unaccustomed to the altitude. Within the last few months, the miners have swelled from a normal 5,000 to 10,000 given the metal prices on the world market. Last year there were 20 deaths due to accidents in the mines, but the bigger casualty (usually after 15 years or so) is silicosis, lung cancer from the poor air quality in the mines. The work conditions are tough—reaching 50C (120+F) in the lower levels due to the earth’s core heat, and difficult to breath due to the dust. One would think this a ripe opportunity for automation, but the reality is that many miners work as they have for centuries, tap-tap-taping a chisel in to make a hole for dynamite. We met Don Miguel, a 38-year-old (same as Neil) miner who’s been working there for 14 years. He has daughters so no sons to help mine to support the family. Alone, he can make two holes per 9-hour day, then blast those and carry out best of the minerals he discovers. 
The youngest miner we met was 12, youngest of 4 brothers, and has been working there one month. He had a shy smile that reminded both Neil and I of As-uhl, the Laotian 16-year-old we got to be friends with. Most mining is done by cooperatives—groups of 10-50 miners who share the profits based on time worked. The minerals are sold to crude processing plants in town, which are generally owned by Bolivian or multi-national companies. While the prices are low and there’s understandable tension between the miners and the processing companies, most seem to feel that Evo Morales’ government has done a good job of ensuring that the benefits from the mines aren’t only enjoyed by the elite.So . . . our mine tour started at 8:30am on a Saturday morning (a different kind of church, learning about our world) by suiting up in rubber boots, over-clothes, belt with battery pack, hard hat, head lamp and bandana to deal with the dust. Then a visit to the Miner’s Market where we were introduced to a colorful description of dynamite, ampho, fuses, alcohol, coca leaves (chewed by miners for the whole day to avoid hunger or discomfort), and soda—all suggested gifts for the miners whose day we’d slightly interrupt. Neil and I went for dynamite
(useful, you know, for a miner!!) and gloves (seemed practical and we were told a very nice gift tho we saw no one using them in the mines). Then down into the mine, we walked as much as possible, got all the way down to level 4. Being a Saturday after the Thursday fiesta, many miners were still “buracho” (drunk) so we only encountered about 6 men working, who were cheerful, sweaty, happy to chat. There were air compression hoses along the passages, so someone is clearly set up to use jack hammers. And part of the time we walked along tracks that are used to carry the minerals out of the mine—by two guys pushing and two pulling. The air quality was much worse than I expected, my throat was hoarse and sore for the rest of the afternoon. And it was hotter than I thought. Above ground, you really wanted a light jacket, but in the mine we were dripping sweat. The altitude meant I had to stop just to BREATHE frequently. 
We visited the “Tio” of the mine—deity of the underground who is, therefore, in charge of all minerals and who must be kept appeased with lots of alcohol dousing (makes for potent air in such a space). Reportedly, Tio isn’t an old Inca god but was a manipulative creation of the Spaniards to intimidate the indigenous people who weren’t eager to continue mining. Tio must be appeased to prevent accidents, including that women aren’t to work as miners because Tio wouldn’t like it. He’s a seated, human-sized mud creature with horns and often marbles for eyes. Ours was dressed in ribbons due to the recent miner’s fiesta.Our guide—a very competent, English-fluent, humorous ex-miner—wondered aloud whether the mountain would still be mined in 50-100 years, and I couldn’t help but think that the determining factor won’t be availability of minerals, but “next best gig” that any miner can get. The miner’s cooperatives mean the minders do “work for themselves”, of course better than outright slavery but still a pretty grim career with bloody lungs at the end.
Above ground, the lucky non-miners (or those just coming to with a hangover) engaged in serious water-balloon or squirt gun fights in the month-long, increasingly dangerous and wet lead-up to Carnival. . . .Carnival in Oruro
. . . which we decided to spend in Oruro. This tiny little (historically also mining) town has 250 years of practice in hosting the national festivities, and boy do they do it with flair. The main parade is Saturday, starting at 8am and lasting, literally, until 6-7am the next day.
Then Sunday at 8am (yes, an hour later) they start again—this time without the large masks and with even more alcohol than the first day. Any given group takes about 4 hours to complete the parade route, 25 minutes to pass any specific spot on the route. Wow—what a show of effort!!! And the beauty and artistry of the costumes and dancing wasn’t sacrificed, despite the effort. The main dances seemed to be:
Morenada – the dance representing the African slaves that came to work in the mines. These included black-smeared skin, handcuffs and chains, exaggerated lips and noses, afro hair, and sometimes a foreman with a whip. One slave character even laid down and crawled a length of street with his elbows (ouch). They also carry noise-makers (“canchas,” I think), which, when the handle is turned make a sound meant to emulate the sound of chains.
La Diablada – the dance of the devils. These masks are amazing, including snakes, frogs, fire, fireworks, lights for after dark, etc. Often these devils are accompanied by one character with a gold, Spanish conquistador-come-angel helmet and big, feathery white wings. He represents Archangel Miguel (Michael) who singlehandedly defeats the hordes of diablos (devils).
Caporales – this includes numerous dancers, typically the chicos look like lavishly-dressed Spanish cowboys with lots of bells on their boots which makes for a nice sound as they dance. And the chicas have higher-than-knee-high boots (the heel of which is about 5 inches off the ground) and short, full skirts that get twirled all the way down the parade route. Classic Bolivian beauties, with all the cleavage and leg one can imagine. - Tinku – a very traditional dance from the Tinku people, sort of includes bending over and waving one’s behind in the air. The Tinku people engage in a fighting festival, where they must draw blood (or preferably take a life—apparently that’s rare these days) to appease Pancha Mama. A German friend-of-a-friend danced this one, after having practiced for nearly a year.
- Amazonian – dancers with sparse costumes that have lots of animal skins, animal parts, birds, etc., more like stereo-typical American-Indian garb than others. Bolivia’s geography is very diverse, these folks represent the Western part of the country that shares the Amazon with Brazil.
And then . . . there was the other side of carnival. I have never in my life seen so many drunk people. Wow. The dancers, the spectators, the vendors. I wondered the first day why there was so much water running in the gutters—then realized it was pee. Yep—some men didn’t even bother to get down from the stands but just went right down thru the benches. The beer cans were collected into large 2x2x2 sq meter bags, we saw many of those. And when you count that probably 5,000 were in the parade alone and an estimated 300,000 attend, well, all that liquid had to go somewhere. 
Then of course the water balloon fights—full-fledged wars that waged in between the dancers of the parade. It’s “off-limits” to hit the dancers or police (still happens), and bad form to hit babies or old people, but everyone else is fair game. Neil even hit a nun, in habit, square-on. The water balloons are augmented by up to 4-liter, 8-chambered squirt (rather soak) guns, hoses, buckets, water bottles, anything that will hold liquid. Inevitably, those balloons that miss the target square-on hit the street and instead spray muddy, well, you can imagine what it sprays up on your clothes. And then there are the foam cans – usually aimed right at the face and often within 12-inches. Fortunately, the foam doesn’t sting the eyes. Luckily for us, foreigners are a particular target. :-) Anytime you leave your seats, you can expect to walk a gauntlet. Despite one’s REI raincoat and plastic poncho purchased for the occasion, well, you just gotta expect to get wet and foamy. 
While Neil loved this all, I must admit it was at times difficult to “do in Rome as the Romans”—I don’t have to like the culture wherever I am, right? There’s definitely a predatory and exploitive aspect (including bands of teen-age boys regularly targeting teen-age girls, the whiter or skimpier the t-shirt the better). No sympathy for the family with small children trying desperately to get to their seats, or the shivering skinny girls who happen to be cute, or the blonde German who swears when hit, or whatever. Just brings it on all the more.
We celebrated Carnival with our Spanish teacher and good friend, Yeshira, and another British student and new friend, Vicky—the four of us staying at the home of a friend-of-a-friend, for $6/person/night. Juan Pablo (who danced for the 13th time this year) and his family took brilliant care of us. Accommodations were basic, including the challenge of a non-functioning shower and then no running water. Buckets were lined up by the bathroom door and we did the best we could to stay clean. Juan Pablo’s mom served us hot drinks in the morning before we went on our way to face the partying.Salt flats and the high desert
Tuesday, as Oruro took down the stands and mopped up the streets, we hopped the train to the town of Uyuni, an even-smaller frontier town at the edge of some of the most desolate areas of Bolivia—the Southwest circuit. Now we were backpacker-types in earnest.
The chaos of getting train seats (“get there at 5am” (we didn’t), then stand in line until we rush the counter as it opens (we did), then stand in another line (effectively reversing the first line) to get a number, then hope the seats don’t sell out before your number is called) reminded us that queues here are sort of just suggestions. Anyway, we happily got our seats, and started colluding with other backpackers to form a compatible group of six to buy a tour together. The next morning, after selecting our agency, we were off in a 1996 Land Cruiser that’s seen better days, under the careful and responsible hand of our driver Serapio. Georgie, Tim and Hanna from the UK and Sanna from Sweden completed our group. So for the next 3 days we shared cookies, water bottles, TP rolls, coca leaves, and cameras. Highlights of what we saw included:
Salar de Uyuni – a 12,000 sq km salt flats, visible from space. Yes, this is just salt, but it forms beautiful patterns—typically 1 meter wide irregular hexagons, with fluid-filled bubbles/blisters all across. A surreal, space-like place under a perfect blue sky. Of course it’s blindingly white. Occasional islands of rock and ancient cactus dot the salar. - Salt hotel – was very cool. Our beds, nightstand, tables, chairs, all were formed of salt, with big salt blocks and salt mortar to constitute the walls. In the lobby were two pillars made of 24”-wide, 6”-high squares of salt, staggered as they rose, with two brown stripes in each one (a volcano? Some mud?). The floor was crunchy salt, too.
- Highest desert in the world – at 5,000m altitude one has to breathe deeply and move slowly. Truly desolate, no vegetation, would hate to be left behind there!
Vicunas – the wild cousins of the llamas, with finer-and-more-expensive hair, frequently dotted the landscape of the slightly-more-habitable parts of the journey. What fun! We also saw a desert fox who was amazingly bold, apparently sometimes they receive handouts from the tourists.- Lakes, volcanoes and flamingos – Some of the lakes have various minerals (borun, fine for the flamingos, or arsenic, not fine for the flamingos), making for various colors. Volcanoes are mostly dormant but impressive nonetheless. And oh, a large geothermally active area much like the mudpots of Yellowstone—despite that the distance for the earth’s core is oh-so-far at this altitude.
Arriving back in the frontier town of Uyuni, we were dust-worn, saddle-sore and Neil was getting sick. So we checked into a comfy/cushy hotel (private bath, hot showers 24x7, comfy bed), had a pizza dinner and took the 9-hour bus-ride back to Sucre, and to home-sweet home. Amazing how much more comfy it is to have your own space and food, especially when sick. He’s on the mend, I am fighting a cold, and all in all we’re in good shape, having seen a bit of Bolivia outside of our lovely little city of Sucre.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
A Palestinian friend’s story, wishes for Syria, farewells to our Syrian friends, and transition to Bolivia
(Written before and just posted now, since we now have easy internet access--yeah!! Sorry for the out-of-orderness)
Hello everyone and Happy New Year! We’re now in route to Bolivia, sitting in the transit lounge in Sao Paulo, Brazil.
Neil and I were amazingly lucky to have my parents and sister, Lavelle, join us for two weeks over the Christmas holidays. We spent four of our days together in Damascus, during which we were generously hosted for dinner by the family of my friend Fadwa. I met Fadwa last year, during a week spent considering “eHealth” amidst the beauty of Bellagio, Italy. Fadwa has been in charge of Syria’s “health information system”—putting computer systems in place country-wide to track birth, death, disease burden, etc. Fadwa is feisty, dedicated, purposeful, humorous, courageous, loyal, honest, collegial. I’m proud to be a colleague of hers in global health. I want to tell you the story of my friend Fadwa’s family, especially her father.
In 1948, when Israel became a state, Fadwa’s grandparents were told by the British authorities in Palestine that, for their safety they should leave—probably just for 2-3 weeks, during the war. Having 8 children, they complied, expecting to return very soon and thus not taking their valuables, significant money, or titles to property. They had been a wealthy family, but as the reality sunk in that they weren’t going back anytime soon, their father took a job pumping gas. This didn’t bring in enough money to care for the large family. So it was decided—of the 8 kids, the two girls wouldn’t go to school. And of the remaining six boys, only three could study. To be fair, Fadwa’s grandparents put their six sons’ names “into a hat” and drew three names. Fadwa’s father, it was decided, would not go to school. He became a barber, another brother a tailor. Of those who studied, two studied math and one economics. Fadwa’s father taught himself German on the side.
Fast forward, then, to when Fadwa’s brothers were in school. Living in Syria, they are allowed full access to government services (e.g., education, health, etc.) though they are not given Syrian passports (since this would conflict with Syria’s official stance that Palestinians must be re-established within a Palestinian state). As for feisty Fadwa, at about age 11, she fought with an unreasonable French teacher and so demanded of her parents that she go to a school that didn’t teach French. The nearest school meeting that requirement was a school specifically run for Palestinian refugees—so that’s where Fadwa went. Fadwa’s brothers occasionally came home with less-than-stellar report cards. And as happens, history mixed with family dynamics, and her father was angered by their lack of dedication—since he had not himself had the chance to study. Fast forward further, then, to the Iraq war—when Fadwa’s father, watching TV over dinner, dropped all the food off the table in his rage at seeing repeated what had so dramatically affected his own life.
When my family ate with Fadwa and her parents, we were given slippers for our feet, generously and delightfully served mounds and mounds of food that had been lovingly prepared by her mother. Humor and good will surmounted our partial language barriers, and we felt tremendously loved by all of them. They were honest about opinions on world issues, religion (on which Fadwa and her dad see differently), and careful to prepare medicinal tea for our sore throats. We got to see the family pictures, see their apartment that has been home for 35 years (Fadwa: “My parents asked when we were little if we wanted to move to a different house, but we couldn’t imagine not living here!!”), meet their fish, and taste the candied eggplant delicacy Fadwa’s mother makes (a very time-consuming process).
My family has long known people from the Middle East, are familiar with the injuries if not the politics of the region. And yet that day made an impression on me by putting a face—my friend Fadwa’s face, and her dad’s—into the “his-story” of Palestine. It doesn’t provide any solutions, only compassion and a reminder that the big stories of the news, are the big stories of people’s lives. And with that, comes a renewed accountability to engage, to share my thoughts, to help my own community be aware and be accountable, especially given America’s role in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. (More on this below.) Such as here, with this blog. Now you, reader, are anointed too, to be interested, engaged, educated and influential.
What impressions of Syria do I leave with? That the people are fabulous, the food is great, and the country is, well, getting there. There is a lot of optimism, increasing foreign investment. It’s easier to buy a car than before. Despite some economic downturn relative as throughout the world, in general, people are vibrant, have things to do and are productive. At the same time, there is still some fear—for example, that the police might think us spies and question our Syrian friends. (Beyond one straight-forward phone call, we never knew it if the police were following us.) Kurdish people living in Syria also feel marginalized. And there’s nervousness about getting too interested in US and European news, issues, politics. American policy does cause problems for Syria and Syrians, both directly and indirectly. One friend’s business is losing customers as it can no longer import small light-bulbs for cars from the Hungarian producer since US-based GE has bought that producer and thus the product is sanctioned. Another friend whose beautiful manufacturing facility produces dental anesthesia won’t even consider US markets partly because of US trade relations. US support for Israel is a constant thorn in the flesh for Syrians. Numerous times a day, we were engaged in conversations re: Bush or Obama and why the US policy is what it is.
As I described above, I do walk away with a renewed desire to take the risks (like this one) of sharing my perspective, of seeking to influence US policy in the Middle East toward greater alignment with fairness and human rights. However, I’d also like to venture a perspective for Syria, based admittedly on a brief stay. There is still deep, huge resentment toward Israel especially for the 1967 war where they took the Golan Heights from Syria. I would hope for Syria that they are able to negotiate a resolution internally if not internationally. As we traveled to Jordan, our Syrian friends told how wonderful Jordan was (there’s great malls, people are educated, the place is clean, the roads are good), and they were right. When we traveled to Turkey, it was the same (the bathrooms cleaner, the offices more professional, the shops more organized). Syria has different challenges (and a much larger population), but one of those challenges seems to be a willingness to bargain a piece of their future, for their past—to compromise how progressive they can be by holding out for something that may not come. I want the best for Syria, for all of our wonderful friends who enjoy the rich life but also struggle with the daily realities of living in a country where you’ve got to be a bit of a fighter to get ahead. So I hope that Syria will engage in the best solution regarding Israel and Palestine that it can, and then resolve to look more forward than backward. I sincerely hope that this perspective isn’t hurtful to any of my Syrian friends reading this blog, I offer it with all good will for them and for Syria.
So we’ve now packed up and moved on from Syria. I’ve decided that our plan of moving countries every three months was an invitation to have my heart somewhat broken every three months. It’s always hard for me to say good-bye to people who have, despite language barriers, the awkwardness of difference in culture or religion, and in some cases deep fear / suspicion, opened themselves to us with generosity, candor, humor, patience, and good will. I will remember so many wonderful people and their fond farewells, including:
• A last farewell dinner with friends (with kids coming in from karate)—delicious as ever with mujederra, fried potatoes, fried cauliflower, hummus, salad, boiled eggs, bread.
• Gifts from our neighbors—two coffee cups, two little jewelry boxes, a Kleenex box decorator, a bottle of baby powder from their 11-year-old’s work place (he fills these bottles to support the family, instead of going to school). And his willingness to take the injured bird from us (despite his mis-led efforts to bilk us out of $50 for two weeks of bird food), and care for it until it can be safely released.
• Fancy hot chocolate drinks, saying fond farewells to the “young hip crowd” we were generously included in.
• The carpenter and his kids with gifts of Arabesque geometric designs.
• Lunch with Ahmad and his sisters, and a coincidental “farewell on the bus” with Nour.
• Very fond text or voice messages from Judy, Bushra, Ahmad, Abdel, Mohammed, and others.
• Leaving Syria in convenience, comfort and style with a friend who took us to Turkey for a flight to Ankara
I now am excited about our next stop, Bolivia, with warmer climate, Spanish language (Roman characters—yeah!!), higher altitude, less concern re: modesty, and hopefully hot showers.
Hello everyone and Happy New Year! We’re now in route to Bolivia, sitting in the transit lounge in Sao Paulo, Brazil.
Neil and I were amazingly lucky to have my parents and sister, Lavelle, join us for two weeks over the Christmas holidays. We spent four of our days together in Damascus, during which we were generously hosted for dinner by the family of my friend Fadwa. I met Fadwa last year, during a week spent considering “eHealth” amidst the beauty of Bellagio, Italy. Fadwa has been in charge of Syria’s “health information system”—putting computer systems in place country-wide to track birth, death, disease burden, etc. Fadwa is feisty, dedicated, purposeful, humorous, courageous, loyal, honest, collegial. I’m proud to be a colleague of hers in global health. I want to tell you the story of my friend Fadwa’s family, especially her father.
In 1948, when Israel became a state, Fadwa’s grandparents were told by the British authorities in Palestine that, for their safety they should leave—probably just for 2-3 weeks, during the war. Having 8 children, they complied, expecting to return very soon and thus not taking their valuables, significant money, or titles to property. They had been a wealthy family, but as the reality sunk in that they weren’t going back anytime soon, their father took a job pumping gas. This didn’t bring in enough money to care for the large family. So it was decided—of the 8 kids, the two girls wouldn’t go to school. And of the remaining six boys, only three could study. To be fair, Fadwa’s grandparents put their six sons’ names “into a hat” and drew three names. Fadwa’s father, it was decided, would not go to school. He became a barber, another brother a tailor. Of those who studied, two studied math and one economics. Fadwa’s father taught himself German on the side.
Fast forward, then, to when Fadwa’s brothers were in school. Living in Syria, they are allowed full access to government services (e.g., education, health, etc.) though they are not given Syrian passports (since this would conflict with Syria’s official stance that Palestinians must be re-established within a Palestinian state). As for feisty Fadwa, at about age 11, she fought with an unreasonable French teacher and so demanded of her parents that she go to a school that didn’t teach French. The nearest school meeting that requirement was a school specifically run for Palestinian refugees—so that’s where Fadwa went. Fadwa’s brothers occasionally came home with less-than-stellar report cards. And as happens, history mixed with family dynamics, and her father was angered by their lack of dedication—since he had not himself had the chance to study. Fast forward further, then, to the Iraq war—when Fadwa’s father, watching TV over dinner, dropped all the food off the table in his rage at seeing repeated what had so dramatically affected his own life.
When my family ate with Fadwa and her parents, we were given slippers for our feet, generously and delightfully served mounds and mounds of food that had been lovingly prepared by her mother. Humor and good will surmounted our partial language barriers, and we felt tremendously loved by all of them. They were honest about opinions on world issues, religion (on which Fadwa and her dad see differently), and careful to prepare medicinal tea for our sore throats. We got to see the family pictures, see their apartment that has been home for 35 years (Fadwa: “My parents asked when we were little if we wanted to move to a different house, but we couldn’t imagine not living here!!”), meet their fish, and taste the candied eggplant delicacy Fadwa’s mother makes (a very time-consuming process).
My family has long known people from the Middle East, are familiar with the injuries if not the politics of the region. And yet that day made an impression on me by putting a face—my friend Fadwa’s face, and her dad’s—into the “his-story” of Palestine. It doesn’t provide any solutions, only compassion and a reminder that the big stories of the news, are the big stories of people’s lives. And with that, comes a renewed accountability to engage, to share my thoughts, to help my own community be aware and be accountable, especially given America’s role in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. (More on this below.) Such as here, with this blog. Now you, reader, are anointed too, to be interested, engaged, educated and influential.
What impressions of Syria do I leave with? That the people are fabulous, the food is great, and the country is, well, getting there. There is a lot of optimism, increasing foreign investment. It’s easier to buy a car than before. Despite some economic downturn relative as throughout the world, in general, people are vibrant, have things to do and are productive. At the same time, there is still some fear—for example, that the police might think us spies and question our Syrian friends. (Beyond one straight-forward phone call, we never knew it if the police were following us.) Kurdish people living in Syria also feel marginalized. And there’s nervousness about getting too interested in US and European news, issues, politics. American policy does cause problems for Syria and Syrians, both directly and indirectly. One friend’s business is losing customers as it can no longer import small light-bulbs for cars from the Hungarian producer since US-based GE has bought that producer and thus the product is sanctioned. Another friend whose beautiful manufacturing facility produces dental anesthesia won’t even consider US markets partly because of US trade relations. US support for Israel is a constant thorn in the flesh for Syrians. Numerous times a day, we were engaged in conversations re: Bush or Obama and why the US policy is what it is.
As I described above, I do walk away with a renewed desire to take the risks (like this one) of sharing my perspective, of seeking to influence US policy in the Middle East toward greater alignment with fairness and human rights. However, I’d also like to venture a perspective for Syria, based admittedly on a brief stay. There is still deep, huge resentment toward Israel especially for the 1967 war where they took the Golan Heights from Syria. I would hope for Syria that they are able to negotiate a resolution internally if not internationally. As we traveled to Jordan, our Syrian friends told how wonderful Jordan was (there’s great malls, people are educated, the place is clean, the roads are good), and they were right. When we traveled to Turkey, it was the same (the bathrooms cleaner, the offices more professional, the shops more organized). Syria has different challenges (and a much larger population), but one of those challenges seems to be a willingness to bargain a piece of their future, for their past—to compromise how progressive they can be by holding out for something that may not come. I want the best for Syria, for all of our wonderful friends who enjoy the rich life but also struggle with the daily realities of living in a country where you’ve got to be a bit of a fighter to get ahead. So I hope that Syria will engage in the best solution regarding Israel and Palestine that it can, and then resolve to look more forward than backward. I sincerely hope that this perspective isn’t hurtful to any of my Syrian friends reading this blog, I offer it with all good will for them and for Syria.
So we’ve now packed up and moved on from Syria. I’ve decided that our plan of moving countries every three months was an invitation to have my heart somewhat broken every three months. It’s always hard for me to say good-bye to people who have, despite language barriers, the awkwardness of difference in culture or religion, and in some cases deep fear / suspicion, opened themselves to us with generosity, candor, humor, patience, and good will. I will remember so many wonderful people and their fond farewells, including:
• A last farewell dinner with friends (with kids coming in from karate)—delicious as ever with mujederra, fried potatoes, fried cauliflower, hummus, salad, boiled eggs, bread.
• Gifts from our neighbors—two coffee cups, two little jewelry boxes, a Kleenex box decorator, a bottle of baby powder from their 11-year-old’s work place (he fills these bottles to support the family, instead of going to school). And his willingness to take the injured bird from us (despite his mis-led efforts to bilk us out of $50 for two weeks of bird food), and care for it until it can be safely released.
• Fancy hot chocolate drinks, saying fond farewells to the “young hip crowd” we were generously included in.
• The carpenter and his kids with gifts of Arabesque geometric designs.
• Lunch with Ahmad and his sisters, and a coincidental “farewell on the bus” with Nour.
• Very fond text or voice messages from Judy, Bushra, Ahmad, Abdel, Mohammed, and others.
• Leaving Syria in convenience, comfort and style with a friend who took us to Turkey for a flight to Ankara
I now am excited about our next stop, Bolivia, with warmer climate, Spanish language (Roman characters—yeah!!), higher altitude, less concern re: modesty, and hopefully hot showers.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Bolivia - First Glimpses (by Neil)
“There is another world, but is in this one.” - W. B. YeatsBolivia es bueno. The transition from Syria has brought us to a culture a world (well a half-world) away.
Woman here display hair and legs and belly-buttons and cleavage all of which can be seen from the vantage of my wi-fi connected park bench. Of course we have also changed hemispheres so we have jumped from the cold of winter to the sun-burning skies of Bolivia.
The weather here in Sucre has been sublime – hard to imagine better – as we have blue skies now with cotton candy clouds. Yvette and I have been here one week and stayed at a sweet little guest house with vibrant paint colors, a charming host family, a great little communal kitchen, a fascinated throughput of travelers, and a well stocked library of pirated movies (as far as I can tell there are no others available…) I really enjoyed Doubt and found it thought provoking.
Last week I did 5 hours of Spanish lessons a day – an hour of individual lessons at 7 a.m., and then a 4 hour group class from 8:30 – 12:30. This next week I’m planning to cut back a bit and do 3 hours a day of individual lessons. Yvette, whose Spanish is far superior to mine, is also doing 3 hours a day of individual lessons and so that adds structure to our mornings.The only thing to complain about has been that my bed (our room has two singles) is rather cup shaped and morning finds my back urging me to move towards vertical – which is good in that it has moved me to explore the city early in the morning and be up around 5:30 a.m… This morning I had studied my Spanish, drawn a picture, read a novella, and explored the Mercado campesino before Yvette managed to rouse herself.
The village market here is amazing for its breadth of offerings and geographic coverage… block upon block of potatoes, onions, mountains of bananas and plantains, baskets of grapes from the vineyards lined and covered with grape leaves, piles of melons, rows upon rows of carcasses and meats and cuts and innards, flower stalls, bountiful juice stands, corn and maize…. I bought some bright pink and yellow colored potatoes and purple fingerlings to cook up for lunch with some green beans and onions.
Our big news of the week is that we have rented a house here for the next 3 months. We traipsed the streets yesterday and navigated the local phone system – pop into a stall at an internet or phone store and make your local call (dial 0 first if it is a cell phone number – starts with 7). Our initially halting Spanish monologue became quite polished by the end: “We saw your ad in the paper for an apartment? We are Americans? Is it still available? Is it furnished? Can we see it? When can we see it? Thanks! See you at 4:30 this afternoon.” We looked at 10 houses and found a cute furnished apartment of a lawyer (formerly a judge) who is moving to Santa Cruz to practice corporate law. She is fluent in English and was fair and helpful in answering all our questions. $250/month is hard to beat (although we looked at ones that were as little as $70/month) for a cute place in a UNESCO World Heritage city – 4 blocks from the city center.
For some reason this last paragraph is being written at 4:30 a.m. having just watched Million Dollar Baby… I think I like Clint Eastwood better with each new movie he is involved in. The epilogue to our day yesterday was a funeral service at the Sucre Cemetary with hundreds of people in attendance and a mariachi band (or at least that style of dress and instruments) playing and singing funeral dirges – as the procession made its way from the gates of the cemetery to the vaulted crypt. We watched as they slid the coffin into the cement cubicle – 10’ off the ground – and cemented a coverplate over the front and plastered and stenciled the deceased’s name and filled the niche to overflowing with flowers. We both cried a few tears contemplating the sting of mortality and the loss of love ones – and the fear, as Yvette eloquently said, not of death, but that we might not live well enough. Because we don’t say it enough – to those friends and family who read this – we love you and all the quirks, memories, awkward moments, foibles, laughter, and richness you have made with us. We aren’t great at keeping in touch, especially when we are separated geographically, but we are often reflective and few hours pass by that things in our exotic other place here in Bolivia don’t remind us of loved ones or memories. Just yesterday we thought of Brian K and his guitar, of TJ and Susan and the Costa Rican Beach, of Debbie and Carlos and their beautiful family, of Lisa and her organized vacations, of Alan and Jane and their experience at Berkeley, of Sydney and her embracing of Common Ground, of Linda and John and their thoughtful engagement through travel, of Becky, of backpackers, of January birthdays – sorry Wayne, of Mari and Aiden, of our parents, of so many others… I like the quote I began this entry with, that I lifted from the front of True Confessions of a Part-Time Indian, I think this world contains many worlds – and we are blessed to be here – talking politics, feeding pigeons, pondering llama fetuses, visiting lunar landscapes, buying flowers, eating chocolate, negotiating for humintas, renting a house, watching babies be swaddled with packing straps into a papoose… The similarities in our humanity and sadly our inhumanity are much greater than the differences. We look forward to seeing all of you and know that we don’t have to travel far to live, to love, to grow. Vida mis amigos simpaticos. Hasta pronto.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Olive Trees and Burls and a Bowl and a Spoon – Syrian Labors (Neil)
My language ability keeps me from being able to communicate the ideas that I would like to, and thus I am assumed to be the maturity level of my language – namely a babbling toddler. It is the great frustration of being in a country where I am not fluent.
I voiced to someone that I wanted to work with a farmer for a day – I had visions of sheep and livestock, but ended up out at the olive orchard. The 10 workers shaking down the trees were all women, while the 3 men seemed set themselves to daily prayers, tea drinking and talking – interspersed with bouts of driving the pickup around. Actually for the men was reserved some difficult of removing burled and old root masses from the trees to allow new roots to grow and bring in water for the tree. The owner of the orchard, Abdul Rachman, had just had a surgery in Jordan, and the other man was lazy or tired and taking it easy by the time I reached there. So I had plenty of opportunity to swing the sledge and work my hands raw. Towards the end of my 2 hours there, we ate and my ride declared it was time to head back. I decided that I would go back the next day and take Yvette with me as there is something very connecting to a place about working in it. I took one of the burls with me to remember the experience and perhaps make into a bowl or sculpture.
The carpenter gave me an open invitation to come back. I arranged my last day to skip out on the final walk-through and financial settling of accounts with our landlord of our house so that I could spend 3 more hours in his shop. I brought my wooden burl with me that I wanted to turn into a spoon, and this soon became the project of the morning. He helped and supervised me and it felt like shop class as he suggested ways for me to make the saw take only the wood… In the next phase of the project he pulled from a drawer an old gouge and after watching my technique, sharpened it and gave me a few pointers. By then he had started to make a giant spoon, showing me how he would rough it out of a 3” log and stopping at each step to check with me as to the shape it should be and if that was what I wanted (my language skills not good enough to say that I only wanted one spoon – a memory more than a utensil, but of course I was getting a lesson and a memory which was doubly valuable to me).
I voiced to someone that I wanted to work with a farmer for a day – I had visions of sheep and livestock, but ended up out at the olive orchard. The 10 workers shaking down the trees were all women, while the 3 men seemed set themselves to daily prayers, tea drinking and talking – interspersed with bouts of driving the pickup around. Actually for the men was reserved some difficult of removing burled and old root masses from the trees to allow new roots to grow and bring in water for the tree. The owner of the orchard, Abdul Rachman, had just had a surgery in Jordan, and the other man was lazy or tired and taking it easy by the time I reached there. So I had plenty of opportunity to swing the sledge and work my hands raw. Towards the end of my 2 hours there, we ate and my ride declared it was time to head back. I decided that I would go back the next day and take Yvette with me as there is something very connecting to a place about working in it. I took one of the burls with me to remember the experience and perhaps make into a bowl or sculpture.
The next day I did return and brought food for the crew – that was a fun shopping experience. I also developed an appreciation (through the lack of one) of a balanced sledge hammer with a straight and smooth handle that doesn’t twist in ones hands. I was a fine mess by the time the big burly worker arrived with calluses the thickness of my hands, but now 1 month on my hands have returned to their untoughened selves... while the connections formed by work remain strong and vivid.
The olive wood burl had grown over the last 150 years, and having hacked it out of the earth I saw the beauty in its twists and turns and gnarls. It takes time to appreciate this type of beauty – it is the beauty of working hands, of fisherman faces shaped by a life of facing into the saltwater and sun, it is found in the patina of Italian stones taking their knocks since antiquity.
As we neared the end of our Syrian sojourn, we finally met our neighbor - the artist who had painted our room and restored much of our house. His house was lovely with carved plaster work, paintings, calligraphy, a stalactite decoration commom since the Syrian Ayyubid era, a 16 meter deep well and well chosen artifacts, textiles and art pieces adorning the walls and niches … We had tried to look at this home before, but had no response from our phone calls, emails, and notes left on the door. It turned out he was in Spain with his Spanish wife, but by coincidence we ended up renting a house 3 doors down from his in the old city.
I wanted to turn the burl into a bowl and found a shop with a band saw to begin the project by flattening one side. It turns out our neighbor – Achmed #101 as we came to know him – has a brother who is a wood turner and a phone call or two later found me with the lump of burl riding through the city streets to a back alley shop with a 3” padlock and 4 lathes and wood shavings aplenty. In the end I think my language ability had pegged my competence level around 7 years old, and so I wasn’t entrusted with the gouges and chippers that pared down the burl to a 9” bowl.
And while my skill level on a lathe definitely couldn’t match his, my carefulness would have compensated his cavalier-ness… I spied some calipers on the wall, and had even gotten them down, but in the end they weren’t used and the bottom was thinned two much for the jam to have structurally integrity. The gouge caught some of the twisted grain and torque the center of the bowl out of the wood. A dime sized whole now present in the bottom as though to drain a plant. I hid my disappointment and I think he hid his as well and we agreed that we would call it a feature – make up a story to tell of its function rather than admit the carelessness and the flawed execution of the desired product.
The olive wood smells of Mediterranean cuisine and begs one to just add tomatoes and crushed salt and basil to its aromas. It burns wonderfully as well – a fate that most of this burl’s neighbors endured after a lifetime of giving water – an irony of all wood destined for the flames really. I saved a small chunk from the burl that had been band sawed off to make a spoon to accompany the bowl, and my last full day in Syria I got the chance.
Achmed #101 had also introduced us to a master carpenter who specializes in Arabesque. He is an artist with wood, a humble, diligent and knowledgeable craftsman. I asked if I might work with him for a day, and he welcomed me to his shop, and although my language skills continue to bring my competence into question, he eventually entrusted me with the saws and I spent 6 hours table sawing, band sawing, chop sawing, and shaping 120 Arabesque mahogany pieces for a panel they were working on. My day was interspersed with lessons on the crosscutting, food and drink, band saw blade sharpening, coiling and uncoiling the 12 foot blade, using compasses and dividers for layout, jigs for making repetitive angular cuts, tips for avoiding tear-out, antique woodwork show-and-tells of the deteriorating 200 year old door panel he was commissioned to reconstruct using the same joinery techniques. 
That day was capped by an evening at his house – joined by Yvette and her family – where we were served up khanoon music and singing and dancing and food. The source of the carpenter’s compassion and sparkle evident in his parents faces who joined us and laughed and danced and urged us on to eat and sing and communicate and photograph.
The carpenter gave me an open invitation to come back. I arranged my last day to skip out on the final walk-through and financial settling of accounts with our landlord of our house so that I could spend 3 more hours in his shop. I brought my wooden burl with me that I wanted to turn into a spoon, and this soon became the project of the morning. He helped and supervised me and it felt like shop class as he suggested ways for me to make the saw take only the wood… In the next phase of the project he pulled from a drawer an old gouge and after watching my technique, sharpened it and gave me a few pointers. By then he had started to make a giant spoon, showing me how he would rough it out of a 3” log and stopping at each step to check with me as to the shape it should be and if that was what I wanted (my language skills not good enough to say that I only wanted one spoon – a memory more than a utensil, but of course I was getting a lesson and a memory which was doubly valuable to me).The spoon is with me now, the bowl having made its way with family back to the states to await reunion in June. The spoon is very rough. I still need to work the edges and gouge out some more, but time did not permit a finished product my last day… But the memory of work on the trees, and the wood, and the bowl, and my spoon – one of my few tangibly productive acts in Syria – reminds me that work is a gift that connects us and imbues us with meaning and gives an outlet for creativity and creates things of beauty and develops our character and our friendships, and that I have been blessed throughout my life to have it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)