58 hours later in Sucre, Bolivia

One last bus, this one on rocky roads tabien and with little kids packed into the luggage compartment.

Bolivian nights are cold and this one was no different.  But I’ve learned quickly and this time I’ve worn half of my entire stock.  Three shirts, two jackets, dude stockings, jeans, and a hat.

I finally arrived into Sucre 58 traveling hours later, not including my two day drinking stop-over in Santa Cruz, and my cranky soul searching layover in Cochabamba.

But let me tell you – it was worth it.  Sucre, a grand colonial city of old is a sight to be seen and the perfect place to study spanish.  Internet cafes a plenty, bars and plazas with free wifi, and an exchange rate that makes living easy and comfortable, this is the place to be.

I’ve hooked up with spanish lessons and spend four hours a day flirting with my professor in spanish – which is great conversational practice, plus I learn a bit about politics and local culture as well.  Got around to learning the past tense today, as well as the present conditional, and I really feel like my spanish is coming along.  Tempted to stay here for a few more weeks at the least for sure.

My living situation is nifty, the school placed me with a real live bolivian family and we have lunch together every afternoon.  It’s a sweet deal and a chance to practice spanish – though i spend most of the meals with my tail between my legs, trying hard to understand the conversation but mostly not understanding much at all, but coming out with the occasional joke every now and then.

My Bolivian mom lives with all of her sisters in a patio type of setup where a bunch of different rooms surround a courtyard which also functions as the living room.

Most of the action takes place in the kitchen though where the grandma starts a soup every morning and where we enjoy three course meals everyday.

On Sundays the mid-day meal is even larger and yesterday I had some of the most delicious fish I’ve ever tasted – though my spanish teacher insists I only thought it was so good because I spent the better half of Saturday throwing up (my own special fireworks for America’s independence day) and was thus really hungry for some food on Sunday. She might have had a point.

This Sunday was also the occasion for a taste of corizon de vaco, or a cow’s heart.  I’ve never liked tongue because it looked too much like tongue but here I was, holding a huge life sized heart in my hand, complete with four chambers and large chanels for where the arteries might have been.  Not the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and certainly one with the strangest texture, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be inclined to eat it again – that is unless I have to eat it again as to not insult my host family.

But overall, I really like the setup here.  Learning spanish and being a part of a university enviornment, I’ve met some really intelligent kids here that have humbled me, but which have also showed me that there does exist a type of individual that I get on along great with.  And that’s so far which has seperated bolivia from the rest of my travels – that the travelers here are much more political, and much more interesting as well.

And as a I wrap up my cigarette and beer for the night, so should I wrap up this long tale of my first week in Sucre.  More sure to come soon.

Cochabamba

Central Bolivia, Cafe, Waiting for the bus to Sucre.

Feeling somewhat pointless today.  Wandering from bar to eatery to coffee shop, but not necessarily in that order.  I’m in Cochabamba, the sight of one of bolivia’s most important struggles, but I didn’t know that then.

I’m stuck in town because some travelers recommended I take two buses instead of one to Sucre – because a direct trip wuda meant 18 hours on unpaved, bumpy road.

It was a good idea, but there weren’t any immediate connections, so after one 11 hour ride through the night, I searched for a hostel for a few hours of snoozing, and after flirting with the idea of a cold shower, I went on my way to explore the city I was forced to explore – except that I was tired and cranky (and showerless) and there was nothing to explore.

Can’t get the girl from new zealand out of my head.  not because she was gorgeous (though she wasn’t bad) but because she was the type of girl i am attracted to, a wanderer, a hippie, a bandana draped over her head.  attracted to her life story, the brave decision to delay university and go traveling instead.  i wonder how i can too balance the need for a job, a respectable job, with the need to travel, and with the need to live abroad.

i want to live in coloroado, maybe work on a slope.  i want to live in california, in texas, in mexico, and in spain too.  i want to live in austrilia, in new zealand, and i want to live in new york.  a visit to london, to italy, to europe, a year in china, a day in thailand, a meal in malaysia, a bike ride through ireland, and a motorcycle ride through eastern europe.

and as i sit here and day dream, i spot a policeman who’s positioned to protect the well-to-do diners from the beggars they choose to ignore, show an act of kindness.  i watch as he helps a beggar load his plastic bag with the leftovers of a fine meal.  positioned in the smarter area of town, forced to guard the rich, i wonder if he feels the difference between himself and the uppercrest of society.

Protected: When In Rome

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Santa Cruz

Santa Cruz Plaza, a couldy afternoon at the very end of June.  2009.

I’m in an old frontier city, something out of the old wild west, with low houses and wide streets.  But it seems to have been created with an architect’s pen, carefully designed, aligned, in a grid lock format with rings that eminate from the center.

Regal, ambitious, but with obvious signs of decay, it was sort of like a soviet republic with signs of former glory, except that i can’t be sure it ever had any former glory at all – just a story of poverty, of hope, of despair.

But truth be told I didn’t stray far from a hammock filled hostel that was full of good people, palm trees, and was close to the bars.

I hit it off well with a group of travelers that had been together for sometime, and we spent a few afternoons hanging out, drinking beers, and playing cards.  I even ended up staying an extra night in town with them before we all split up and went in different ways.

The Death Train

The train ride was cold, icy cold. Woke up in the middle of the night to a ghoulish nightmare.  The train was stuck in the middle of a forest , or a swamp.  Maybeiit was a bridge.

I wasn’t sure because of a strong haze and mist.  I’m on the death train, infamously named for the amount of people who died in the 80’s when the train derailed with an alarming frequency.

I head metal clanking.  It sounded like a piece of the train had fallen off.  Then a loud hissing sound, as if the train was too tired, and it exhaled it’s last breath in defeat.  I thought it sounded like gas – and trains, jews, and gas don’t mix all too well.

My watch, the only tell tale sign of my gringo status, as the rest of me is in ragged holes, tells me it is 9 at night.  Good.  We’re almost there.  My ticket says 9:45 so I force myself back to bed.  But soon I was up again, this time whitness to a cultish group of folks, with deep, evil black eyes and martching black attire.

It wasn’t Spanish they were speaking.  Missionaries I thought, or devil worshippers. Either way they ought to be avoided at all costs I thought.  That’s the aura that orthodox jews must give off as well.  Oh well, it’s ok to be hypocritical in the middle of the night.  Speaking of which, what time is it?  Two in the morning.  A butch, incredibly ugly, gentle woman with braids, gold teeth, and contraband wrapped around bright ethnic quilt told me the train was due to arrive at 9.  That’s right, I knew that.  My ticket says that too.  Shit, she means 9 in the morning.  Fuck, that means I’m on a 20 hour train ride.

No money, no food, and no water.  I tried giving dollars, worth seven times the local currency to the small children who invade the train to sell snacks, but they don’t know what a dollar is, and won’t sell me a thing.  It’s freezing too and I think about cuddling with the indigenous woman sitting in front of me, who had that bright ethnic blanket that looked oh so warm.   Instead I wrapped my ankles with dirty wife beaters and boxers, the only things I could find in my bag, and tried to curl up in a tight ball and call it a night.

I would find out the next day that my voyage took me through the coldest night of the year, a night so cold that Bolivians actually turned it into a holiday, and a night I would have done well to travel with a bottle of red or a bottle of vodka…

Crossing the Bolivian Border

Motorcycle ride to the bolivian border, a skinny good natured cabbie was the driver. A good command of  English and a good command of the wheel.  The kind of driver I like. Fast, controlled, and careful.

I was glad to be on my way.  Three months in rio, and it was time to move on, time to feel the thrill of the road.  28 hours and counting.  There was the 22 hour bus ride from sao paolo, made a bit longer when my bus left a rest stop without me knowing, with my bag and everything I owned in toe.

Then there was another 6 hours to Corumba, Brazil’s bordertown to Bolivia and gateway to the pantanal, a moto-taxi ride through the night, and a sketchy hotel that barely cost 20 bucks which came with a sketchy hotel owner too – whom I interrupted watching porn at the receptionist desk.

But that was all behind my as I sat on the back of a motorcycle, with everything I owned on my back, zooming past truck drivers on my way to the bolivian border – where I would be bribed for over a hundred bucks.

A gold toothed border guard flashed a smile, showed me some bogus paperwork, and smugly informed me that I either had to pay or head back in the other direction.  I smoked a cigarette outside to think over my options, maybe to earn some pity as well.

A chorus of women chimed “cambio,”  “cambio,” in unison.  A group of men sang their own aggressive tune.  “Taxi, Taxi.”  I haggled with the guards but they wouldn’t lower their demand, so I made the walk of shame to a bank (a few blocks into Bolivia) where the machine conveniently offered a quick withdrawal of 140 dollars.  The bribe would be a buck thirty-five.

I flirted with the idea of making a run for it but ended up back at the border, handing over my cash to the border guards, and wishing them luck with their new purchases.  The whole exchange left me somewhat disheveled, and I went on my way without acquiring any Bolivian currency, mistrusting the street women’s exchange rates and taking a hit when I was forced to pay for a train ticket with Brazilian bills.

Thought I guess the border guards were somewhat disheveled themselves, or at least gidy from their new found loot, because they gave me a 5 year visa, a period unheard of for most travelers.

Guess I’ll stay a while then…

a city bigger than New York…but not taller

Sao Paolo Bus Terminal , nearly the end of june

I think all day, lovely thoughts in my head, in and out, in and out. But when it comes time to write…nothing

But here’s a go at something:

I felt the magnitude of Sao Paulo right away.  Whereever you look there were buildings.  And behind them buildings some more.  I wandered around for ages, meandering between the curious and the boring.  I walked along Paulista which looked like the main street in town.  Wide promenades, plazes, it was a serious boulvrd.  It reminded me of Moscow.  Musuems, banks, and starry eyes tourists all blended harmoniously together, though there were significantly less tourists about than in Rio.

Most of the city reminded me of a sprawling Brooklyn, residendial/commercial streets that had nothing remarkable about them, save that they were sort of ugly, like an Avenue M, or a Coney Island, but were home to millions of people, each of whom had busy, interesting lives that may never intersect my own – though I did cross paths with a homeless man, who asked me for directions, and to whom I was actually able to respond with the right ones.

There days I thought I looked like a local in Rio.  But in Sao Paulo it wasn’t even a question.  Home to the descendants of jews, germans, the Lebanese, Portuguese, and the Japanese, my dark hair and dark brown eyes assured I blended in with ease.

With no one to talk to, alone with my thoughts, I wondered what makes a city.  Here was the financial capital of the southern hemisphere, the center of magnificent feats of architecture, the world’s third largest city, and there I was alone, small, insignificant. Even bored.  But then again, what would I if I was dropped off on the upper east side.  Dine, drink?  Go to a movie or a comedy show?  Cities after all are quiet unremarkable when you don’t live there.

But alas, after a day and half, I had to make some generalizations, lest I wouldn’t be a proper tourist.  So here are some impressions of the big city:

only donuts i’d seen in south america so far.

the food wasn’t that great, at least not on the cheap.

huge gay population

empty streets on the weekend.

stylishly dressed, but not overflowing with good looking women.

noticeable poverty – more homeless people than rio, but definitely safer than in rio too

buildings were about everywhere – but the tallest was only 51 stories high

a paulista afternoon

I arrived in Sao Paolo and the temperature was cooler; hoodie weather for sure.  Checked into the hostel with an uncomfortably friendly receptionist, so friendly that I wasn’t quiet sure how to reciprocate, and without a shower to my name, I immediately hit the streets of Brazil’s largest city.

It was Saturday and I wandered through its financial district, which came complete with a fulton type of street martket that offered up bootleg movies and sneakers.

I was in the mood for a gyro, having heard that Sao Paulo has a thriving Lebanese communitiy, and I spent a little while searching for english speakers (so much the better if they were girls) that could point me in the right direction.

That’s where Sashimi and Shortie came in, two girls from Japan and Columbia who were glad to explain to me that unlike in NY where we’re all rather segregated, there’s no ethnically divided neigborhoods in Sao Paolo.

They asked me what I was doing.  I told them I was just wandering around.  And like a tornado that picks up everything in its pth, I joined them for a whirlwind of a ride that took me through the streets of Sao Paolo, one especially cool one, some Arabic food, a night market, a muscician’s house, and some special gifts, and dropped me in the maze that was Sao Paulo’s subway system.

It’s Saturday, sometime at night, I think around ten, and I was teeming with happniess from their special gifts.  Without thinking I get into the first train that arrives.  I’m confident my house is just a few stops away.  But as I sit across from the map, I can’t find any stops that sound familiar.  I can’t figure out why the line I’m on is green.  I thought it was suppose to be blue.

I get out and look for a transfer.  I have a city map and try to put together the pieces of the puzzle.  The subway is full of people.  It’s huge.  Transfers involve complex escalators and walkways.  Some platforms have metal divides, like in amusement parks, to make sure people are reading and willing to board each door right away.  Stragglers will be left behind.

I’m lost.  Confused.  Some stations have a barrier for those entering and leaving the train.  Have to make sure you’re on the right side.  But I’m having fun. It dawns on me that I haven’t been inside a real subway system in months.  Rio’s straight line doesn’t count.   That’s why I got messed up in the first place.

I ask for directions.  Three really ugly girls came to the rescue.  I didn’t realize they were so ugly when I asked for help.  But they are eager to help.  I decide I was the first foreigner they’ve ever spoken to, and they are excited to help.

But I have a moment of clarity – I realize how far I am but assure them I know where I’m going now.  Need two more transfers, and then a solid walk though a sketchy neighborhood.  I’m off, wandering again through this serious maze of trains and stairs. The trains are old, like the Q line of old.  But I feel comfortable, and eventually make it to a stop four dark blocks from home.

I put up my hoodie, and walk the best thug walk that I can.  Needed to ask for directions, still not exactly sure where I live – but I have a good idea and only ask for directions to double check.   Stop to have a salgado, it’s not great.  I finish the night back in the hostel with a round of beers and a game of pool.

Protected: Leaving Rio

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