Visiting Samiapata

Over the weekend, we took an excursion to a mountain town called Samiapata where a member of one of the Rotary Clubs here in Santa Cruz owns a lovely cabana. The trip took 3 hours and was exhausting. Our team and hosts went in three separate personal vehicles. Anne, Doug and I rode with Ever, a doctor of internal medicine. He spoke the best English, and my hosts are usually kind enough to put me with the person who is the best English speaker to account for my weak Spanish.

Ever earned a PhD in Japan in order to do his medical practice. There are apparently no MDs in Bolivia. While bounding through busy city traffic, weaving from lane to lane, he told me there is no public medicine in Bolivia. A visit to his office costs the equivalent of $20. He was soon to be on his way to Miami to purchase a used endoscope. He said that new ones cost around $35,000, but in his third-world country, doctors like him could only afford used ones from the States for around $10,000. It was worth a trip to Miami to look over the machine personally and decide whether it was in the proper condition for purchase.

Half the trip was on flat land, the other in the mountains. In the flat country, there were a continuing series of habitations, some very nice and others of wretched poverty. Countless vendors, both with open-air stores and from simple carts or hand-held trays sold all manner of goods, from fruits to soft-drinks, cigarettes, and candy.

As the road entered the mountains, we stopped to pay a toll. I asked Ever if the road was paved all the way. No sooner than he assured me that it was, we encountered the first of many dozens of unpaved sections, lasting a few hundred yards. There were vehicles of every description: cars, busses, trucks, motorcycles, and in every condition from new but muddy to ancient and decrepit. Lane markers were largely non-existent, and where they did exist were consistently ignored. Passing was done at any time and in any place thought to be at least marginally safe. Our speed was constantly changing, as we would accelerate over good pavement and then brake hard for the dirt sections, for a slower vehicle, or for any of a million road hazards. Many of the dirt sections were wet, muddy, and rutted. There were few guard rails and significant drops towards the river below. The lower section was a deep canyon, with reddish cliffs hanging overhead. At one point, we passed the construction site where a bridge, perhaps 100m in length, was being made of concrete. However, there were no cranes in evidence and seemingly no ability to transfer the concrete from the on-site mixing machine onto the bridge itself. Forms for the concrete were held in place by thousands of pieces of wood.

We got a late start for the long, exhausting trip and it was well after dark before we arrived at the village. Still, there were countless people walking along the road, largely unprotected from traffic. There is seemingly an endless supply of pedestrians, with no amenities (e.g. sidewalks, crossing markers) for them. There were also animals – dogs, chickens, horses, goats, and even cows – ambling along the road. Yet we miraculously saw no road-kill. How could these animals never get hit?

Motor vehicle safety is nonexistent. We saw people on motorcycles without helmets (sometimes the driver wears one but the child on the gas tank doesn’t, nor does the wife behind him), people bouncing along in the back of large trucks, and cars without functional tail-lights. The passenger seat belt in Ever’s car didn’t work, so I simply went without.

It was late at night before we bought food for breakfast, arrived at the cabana, then departed again to have dinner in the village. Afterwards our guests took us dancing until past midnight. (Note: this was advertised as a “rest day.”)

The next day, we spent all morning visiting an Inca ruin historic site at the top of a 2000m mountain. It was not as grand as Macchu Picchu, but fascinating and beautiful nonetheless. Our guide was a hefty, jovial man who carried a stick that he used to draw figures in the soil to explain his thoughts, much as a teacher uses chalk on a black board. His explanations migrated seamlessly from Spanish to English and back again.

Before departing for Santa Cruz, Ever bought gasoline to top off his car. There were no electric pumps in the village. So the gasoline was poured into a large measuring cup with a spout from a jerry-can and then into the spigot.

The drive back into the city was equally long and tiring, especially because of the increasing heat due to the decreasing altitude and to the increasing traffic. We arrived back in the city by 7:00 p.m. but it was nearer 9:30 before Marlene, my host, could retrieve me and have me “home.” I was dead-tired, but I became rejuvenated by a conversation with her and her two boys over a late dinner of rectangular pizza. Her boys are Gabriel, age 14 and Leonardo, age 12. Both attend an English school. Leonardo was particularly interested in my books and asked me to explain in detail the writing process and the sources of my inspiration. I told him about a new novel I have in mind and asked him to participate in the plot development. I invited both boys to visit with us and to consider Virginia Tech or one of our other Virginia universities when they’re ready for college. My GSE experience thus far has afforded me far too little time to spend with Marlene and her boys as I like them all very much.

Our itinerary has been too full and the entire team is tired. I have written to the GSE coordinator for the host district to ask that we be afforded more REAL rest time and he has responded with understanding, saying,

“The wornness and affection of Rotarian people of Bolivia make this things happened. I just talked with (the district Governor’s) representative to fix the schedule for these last days you´re going to spend in Santa Cruz. We will fix all the schedules. Don´t worry...”

The graciousness of our hosts is unbelievable.

Michael