from my hilltop vantage point, buses are stretched out in both directions, as far as the eye can see. it´s about 9 am, we left la paz yesterday night at around 7:30 pm and i have no idea when i´ll make it to sucre. the road is blocked, has been since about midnight, by massive boulders pushed into the street by protesting campesinos. no one can pass.
the buses and trucks are virtually abandoned by now, rusty shells of their former lives in the squinting morning light. hundreds of passengers milling around draped in blankets, hundling next to makeshift bonfires, washing clothes (yes, someone decided this was the perfect time to do a bit of river laundry), feeding babies, scrounging the local homes for food, for breakfast, a piece of bread, anything.
it´s cold. although i´m wearing leggings, jeans, wooly alpaca socks, wooly alpaca gloves, a wooly alpaca beanie, two sweaters and a hoodie, the air is frigid and biting, unforgiving. i turn my face toward the rising sun, hoping to will myself to absorb extra warmth from the still-weak rays. horns blare in the distance, a futile and fruitless endeavour, only adding background noise to the chaotic scene developing below. i get comfortable in my hilltop hamlet. we´re in here for the long haul.
i´ve only been in bolivia six days and have already experienced three protest, two of which have directly affected my means of travel. i´d heard that social demonstrations, riots and blockades were a weekly event in this country. for once, the rumors seem to be true.
a dog barks, a rooster crows, where am i? and what possessed me to buy fingerless gloves? writing this is the only way to keep my hands warm, at a normal human temperature. the landscape is barren, seems harsh and unfit for the hordes of people who have unwillingly invaded. what would i give for a hot cup of coffee. another story for the books, i guess.
i´m approached by a couple of indigenous men, bright multi-colored ponchos and smiling toothless grins, disturbing my peaceful alone time but that is ok. in a mix of quecha and spanish, they explain what´s going on--apparently the government promised funds for some sort of land works project and didn´t follow through--and invite me for pan con queso and a fireside spot. the talk is all indigenous, i can´t really understand, but am grateful for the warmth and hospitality.
fireworks set off, car alarms crying, cheers sporadically rise up from the rioters, power to the people?
it´s amazing, the difference between the situation here and what would happen in the states. everyone is so bothered by the slightest delay, the most minor inconvience, a tiny detour in plans. i am not immune to this. but here, you make the best of it. though my bus was filled with elderly and women with fussy babies, i haven´t heard one complaint. maybe they are used to it, yes. most definately. but you would think angelenos would be use to the maddening traffic, and road rage is still a contagious epidemic, isn´t it? i just think it says something about resiliency and character. and although sometimes i let my born-and-bred americanism rear it´s ugly head , i continue to be impressed by the latin attitude. even while sitting stranded on a rocky hilltop, toes numb, rumbly in my tumbly, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. or, is it the center of everthing?
amazing words, alex!
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