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

On language and friendship

We are in the city of Santa Cruz, which has grown from a mere 60,000 or so fifty years ago to over a million today. There are several Rotary Clubs here, perhaps six, and we are hosted by a new one almost every day. So we’re meeting a steady stream of new people who come into and out of our lives with maddening speed and frequency.

Yesterday, the Rotary Club of Santa Cruz, which is the first club here and the “mother” of the others, was our host. The president of the club, Bolivar Carvalho, and several club members escorted us to a rehabilitation center that they have funded and built since Rotary International’s 100^th anniversary six years ago. "Rotary implored us to think big, and we did." It is a totally modern, spotless facility. It is not a hospital for acute injuries but a rehabilitation center where victims of accidents, mostly burns, can receive longer-term care.

Much of the tour was given in Spanish, but the Rotary guides and my teammates were quick to provide enough translations for me to hopefully understand what was going on. One of the Rotary members, Fernando Soriano, spoke fluent English (more about him in a moment), and he made sure we all understood the vital work being done.

Burns are a frequent accident among the poor children of the country. “Here’s a typical situation,” we were told. “Imagine a family of three children where the six-year old it left during the day to care for a 3-year old and a 1-year old while the parents – or single parent – is away working. No six-year old child is prepared to take care of him- or herself, not to mention other children. Many families heat and cook over open fires. Children are often burned. When they are burned, they not only suffer the intense pain of the injury, but they feel shame and often leave school and become withdrawn.”

The center can always use more money because the needs are overwhelming.

Driving back into the city center for lunch, Fernando spoke in perfect English about his intimate familiarity with and fondness for Southwest Virginia. One of his twin sons, Javier, attended high school in Abingdon, as an exchange student. Javier loved the area so much that he stayed and earned his bachelor’s degree at Emory and Henry College and then a master’s degree at East Tennessee State University in Johnson City, Tennessee. Fernando and his wife had made several trips to the area where their hosts never let them stay in hotels, only in their home.

Later that afternoon, we met Javier. He is a totally engaging, bright young man. He spoke about his admiration for his dad and for the Rotary club and the work they were doing for the community, and of his experiences in Southwest Virginia. I liked Fernando, his wife Mealy, and Javier, very much.

Still later, Bolivar escorted us around the old city center, into various museums and the impressive cathedral. Bolivar made the effort to speak English for us whenever we didn’t understand what we were being told, while Judah carried most of the translation task.

That evening, we gave the program at their club meeting, which began with dinner shortly after 8:00 p.m. and lasted until 11:00 p.m. or so. I had several conversations with club members, some who spoke English and some who did not.

One man was an engineer, a graduate with a master’s degree in Civil Engineering from University of Texas. My degree is in Mechanical Engineering from Virginia Tech, which he knew about and spoke well of. We talked about the Bolivia’s infrastructure and power generation systems. Another man was a former Davis Cup tennis player, and he worked in coordination tennis activities in Bolivia. He was in charge of the student exchange program. He admitted to me that getting students from the USA and other first-world countries was a hard sell. “Few of them want to come to Bolivia.” I told him that the challenges for an American here would be great, but worth it, and to look for student looking for a challenge.

Everyone was extraordinarily warm and welcoming. We were treated like celebrities.

I left the meeting with the profound realization that speaking different languages is a barrier to communication but no barrier whatsoever to friendship.

Michael

Me? I’m a simple man, a small town family man. I love my small town. People drive with courtesy, in marked traffic lanes. People leave their doors unlocked when they’ll only be away for a short time. I awake with the sunrise, never setting an alarm clock. I go to my office by 8:30 a.m. I pack a lunch which I eat at my desk. I come home at 5:30 and have supper by 6:00 p.m. with my wife. I drink a dark beer. I go for a walk in the evening, 5 to 10 kilometers, with one of my dogs. I shower and go to bed by 10:15 p.m.

I am in Bolivia.

In Bolivia, my life isn’t like this.

In Bolivia, people drive with sort of a cooperative aggression. I think they go to work, and they must get up in the morning, because they are up during the day. They eat lunch from noon until 3:00 p.m. What I mean is not that they start eating at noon or any time until 3:00 p.m., but that lunch takes three hours. They often eat a snack at 5:00 p.m. They socialize until 8:00 p.m. Or 9:00 p.m. Or 10:00 p.m. They drink lots of wine. Last night’s dinner was served around 10:30 p.m. Or was it 11:00 p.m.? By then, my eyes are drooping. I smile a wan smile and implore to my hosts, “Estoy consado” (I’m tired) and hope they are not offended. Within a short time, like an hour, a grouping of hosts form to preliminarily think about how I might be delivered back to my host home.

I write this post at 8:30 a.m. According to the itinerary our hosts have given us, we are to visit a hospital this morning, departing at 8:00 a.m. My hostess is evidently still asleep. I have no idea who will pick me up or take me to the team gathering point.

It is an amazing life here in Bolivia!

We have arrived

We have now been in Bolivia for just over 24 hours and what a full and exhausting experience it has already been!

All our flights were on time. The longest leg from Miami to La Paz was overnight, and sitting upright, I failed to get any sleep at all. Although other team members seemed to sleep well, it was frustrating for me to watch them snooze.

In La Paz, the airplane was thoroughly checked by uniformed security people, running gloved hands in and around the seats, seat-backs, and overhead compartments.

We arrived on time at the Santa Cruz airport where Nicolas Zalle of the Bolivian team to our district helped us through customs and immigration where we purchased visas. The clerk carefully and unhurriedly looked over each bill for authenticity (we were required to pay in cash) before he counted them. For inexplicable reasons, Anne’s luggage didn’t arrive with everyone else’s, so she had to fill out the requisite paperwork and was instructed to return today to see if a miracle had occurred in the meantime and the missing suitcase could be properly delivered.

We were met by most gracious Rotary hosts at the airport, where we did our best to smile and project happy demeanors through tired eyes. Each of us was shuttled off to our various home stays.

My host is Marlene de Giannotti, a lovely and attractive single mother of two boys, Gabriel and Leonardo. Marlene studied at colleges in the United States and the boys go to an American school, so all of them speak perfect English. Marlene has a beautiful, immaculate home in a gated community. It is a two-storey building with many rooms having balconies above. There are tasteful, artistic, and interesting nick-nacks on every surface. Flamboyant artwork is on many walls, signed “Giannotti” and I am yet to learn which family member is the artist.

Her two maids brought me breakfast and I took a shower and a short nap before rejoining my team at a restaurant closer to the city center.

As Marlene drove me there, I began to get a sense of the nature of city traffic and driving here. “Chaotic” isn’t a strong enough word to describe the frantic, hysterical, haphazard movement of cars and people. There are no lane markers to speak of and drivers aggressively fight their way into the most modest spaces. At intersections with stop lights, people walk between cars holding spray bottles of cleaner and rags, wiping motorists’ windows for tips. Others sell soft drinks and snacks. At one intersection, two people performed acrobatics on a mat in front of a long line of vehicles. I was surprised by how few cars had dents or bruises, given the madness.

The restaurant was a bustling, loud place with several interconnected rooms all largely exposed to the pleasant outside air. A portable grill was delivered to our table where steaks and sausages fried. There were plates of hot salsas and bowls of tomato based salads. A woman brought a stack of sombreros, placed them on our heads, and took photos of us, returning later with commemorative prints.

We departed in three cars for our safari of the day. We drove out of the city, I believe in a southwesterly direction. (I do my best to be aware of my spatial surroundings and be cognizant of compass directions, but here in the Southern Hemisphere, so far I’m flummoxed. If it’s afternoon and the sun is over there, then which way is north?) Roads soon turned from pavement to dirt and we bounced along for many kilometers until we reached the weekend home of Jorge, one of our Rotary hosts. Jorge is an architect of commercial buildings in the city and is clearly very successful. The home was spacious, surrounded by palm trees and bird-of-paradise plants. There was a beautiful swimming pool in the back yard. Judah pulled a cocoanut from one of the trees and Jorge’s grounds-keeper sliced it to the core with a machete, allowing us to drink the cocoanut milk inside.

We then drove to an area where many indigenous people were living subsistence lives. There was an infirmary, a church, and a school. The infirmary had five rooms, each for various purposes including gynecology and birthing, dental examinations, pharmacy, general health, and administration. It had neither heat nor air conditioning, and it was hot inside. It was staffed by two women, apparently one a doctor and the other a nurse. There was mildew on some walls and flaking paint.

Jorge’s wife had designed the church, which was beautiful yet simple. A large sanctuary had massive timber beams overhead. Jorge said a local carpenter had made the wooden pews and he was still making more. A large metal sculpture of Jesus lay on the floor, awaiting wall mounting.

The school had several small buildings built in brick. The classrooms were tiny with old wooden desks. We were told by one of the teachers that there were 12 teachers and a principal for 230 students. There was one bathroom for each gender with one commode each, situated in an outside building. Jorge said that he and his wife had donated the church, he along with his Rotary Club had donated the clinic, and they largely funded the school. Many children were playing on a paved playground, kicking a soccer ball into goals that had basketball nets above.

It was nearing what I normally consider dinnertime (6:00 p.m.) when we stopped by a factory where sugar is processed. We had hoped to take a tour, but it was closed for the day. The area around it was indescribably poor, with children of all ages playing ball, riding bicycles, or simply sitting in the dirt.

We bounced along for many more kilometers on our way back to the city. At one point, we were directed off the main road grade to a parallel grade, while workers were putting down new cement pavement on the main grade. Even at this late hour of the day, workers were toiling with wet cement largely with hand tools.

We crossed a long, one-lane bridge over the local river. Back home, our rivers have the decency of staying largely within defined banks. This river was shallow and muddy, meandering over drifting flats.

We finally reached a paved 4-lane highway towards the city. Traffic, including buses and trucks, barreled along briskly with passing done on both sides or wherever possible. There were clumps of people lining the road, wandering or chatting with friends, or risking their lives dashing across from one side to the other.

I was taken to the home of Rotarian German Suarez where his son, also named German, lent me his bed for a quick nap. German Jr. had accompanied us throughout the afternoon and helped Tamsen and Judah translate much of what we were told for me.

We all gathered again at the American Hotel near downtown Santa Cruz for the weekly meeting of their club. Dinner of ground steak, gravy, and mushrooms, accompanied with French fries and rice, was placed before me just before 9:00p.m. We did our presentation for the club, which I’ll describe in more detail later, and were taken home to our hosts by 11:00 p.m., exhausted.

Our itinerary had a complete schedule for the following day, but we were told that everything had been cancelled except our dinner meeting at one of the city’s other Rotary Clubs.

This morning as I compile these notes on my laptop in Marlene’s formal dining room, the two maids are scrubbing an already spotless house, the boys are apparently in school, and Marlene is napping upstairs. I plan to spend much of the day studying Spanish, eagerly trying to improve my ability to interact with my hosts during the rest of the trip.

Michael

communicating home

It’s amazing where the world has gone in recent years with regards to communication.

In less than 48 hours, we will be on our way to Bolivia on our GSE experience. Rotary has been conducting these trips for decades, but years ago, the teams had little contact with home. A dozen years ago, a friend led a team to South Africa. From what he told me, Apartheid was still in force and racial problems were rife. Things are different now with global communication.

Our district has two teams this year. The other arrived in Tasmania yesterday. Within hours, they had posted their arrival on Facebook and their blog making the news available to anyone with a computer on earth.

I just bought a new laptop computer to take along. I’ll be able to use it to picture-phone home via Skype. All of us can update this blog.

What remains to be seen is how prevalent Internet service will be. We’ll soon know.

Michael

Preparations continue

We leave in a dozen days for Bolivia.
Spring is just beginning here. Plants are poking through the soil and birds have returned from their migration. When we arrive in Bolivia, it will be autumn, heading into winter. At noon, the sun will be in the northern sky, not the southern. It will be weird.
Last weekend, I attended the annual conference of our Rotary district, 7570, at the Homestead Resort in Hot Springs. We listened to several inspiring speakers, including the vice-president of Rotary, Monty Audenart, from Canada. A dentist by profession, Dr. Audenart had performed dental services in many dirt-poor countries around the world, including Bangladesh. His stories had a profound impact on me, especially considering the opulent setting of the Homestead where I sat, listening.
I'm making lists of what still needs to be gathered and packed. I'm accelerating my Spanish language training. I posted a notice on Facebook about our impending departure and many friends have responded with well-wishes. I'm getting excited!