Lets break it down. I left the Ecuadorian jungle and so much more on July 31st. I arrived in Boston, MA on the same day. America and I shared a brief yet poignant embrace. After 10 days of cushy, high on the hog American living, (Marriot breakfast buffet, if only we could marry and start a fairy tale) I found myself back in the chaotic clutch of an airport, with the haunting memory of tequila pulsing between my temples, most likely hanging on my every spoken word. Sorry stewardess. On August 11th, at 630am (GMT -4) the thin and crisp air of La Paz, Bolivia issued me a good morning slap in the face/clap on the back. So I have been absorbing this truly incredible city for the last 5 days, and have just been really taking it easy; this is suggested to every traveler for the fact that La Paz is the highest capital city on God´s green earth, and altitude sickness is very easy (if not unavoidable)
to succumb to. Were talking 3660 meters, over 10,000 feet. La Paz peeps, what the hell were you thinking? But, us human beings being the hardy and adaptable folks we are, usually get over the effects of the elevation in 4 to 6 days. My body is finally adjusting, and I can now do pull ups on playground equipment without my eye balls exploding out of their sockets, or going into cardiac arrest. Two days ago, more than 15 steps up an incline would have left my lungs feeling like an elephant was standing on them, and my brain feeling like it was intimately getting to know the scent of glue for better than an hour. With taking it easy being said, I have not gone to any eye ball busting sights, or culturally rewarding tours that I could otherwise write about on these here electronic pages. The interesting thing about being a traveler in a foreign country is that there is literally hundreds of hilarious, shocking, and deflowering experiences occurring everyday worthy of discussion.
Here are descriptions of a few of those experiences:
I was welcomed back to hostal life when I was in my bed, securing my beauty sleep/coppin Z´s at a respectable 12:30am hour, when my two other roommates burst in, bringing with them light and passionate conversation with the all around delicateness of a bull. My ipod was the answer until they started smoking a spliff, placing the ash tray on my bed. It was all too much, so I decided to just wake up and introduce myself because trying to sleep would have simply been futile. In a offering of peace, the contraband was passed my way, which I of course had to respectfully decline, because like Snoop, Im drug free. They were both actually very cool and interesting people: Phillip is a fun loving German working on the second degree of his Karate black belt. Andy is a soft yet cleverly
spoken American who peace cored in Paraguay for 3 flippin years.
The American Embassy in La Paz really stepped on my puppy. Otherwise stated, they denied my request of putting additional pages in my passport because of a little mold. My passport will be running out of pages very soon, and I heard that the embassy puts extra ones in for free, so I thought what the hell. NOPE, D-nied. Apparently a little discoloration, a little bit of a funky smell is enough to render a passport invalid by their asinine standards, even though I went to the states and back with out a hitch, ¡caras de culo!. The mold of the Ecuadorian jungle is still haunting me.
Bolivian culture is bodacious. Specifically the female attire. They dress themselves in the most vibrant of colors; Joseph (of the bible), not to be disrespectful, but your techni color coat doesnt hold a candle to the colors that these women flaunt. They also bury themselves in layers...Im talking at least 5 thickly layered garments, shawls, slips, sweaters and more. It is these outfits of sheer depth that gives every single one
of them a hefty, hefty appearance. Like being 4ft11in and ballooning is a requisite for pulling off the look. I have yet to see a skinnier woman dress in the blanket bubble which is the norm. And we cant forget the bowler cap, no doubt pinned in place, looking almost cemented atop their jet black haired heads. They look too cool, and I wish I had the power to pull it off, but sadly my head is just too big. The bowler cap also adds an element of fear, because I keep thinking that one of these ladies will own a cap that is lined with razor, and she will want a gringo head to add to her collection.
The bustling pedestrian street that I lived on for my week in La Paz owned a depressing monotony of food
choices. No doubt it would have been an orgasmic eruption of savory pleasure for a certain kind of people...that is if you believe in stereotypes. Every other shop extending along both sides of this street featured a combination fried chicken or hamburger stall, all of course coming with a generous side of papas fritas. Although, when your in a hurry and need something in your stomach before a 13 hour night bus ride, the sight of such disgusting food can sway the tongues of even the most picky eaters. At the moment, I am in another city called Sucre, which is to the southeast of La Paz. However I cannot wait to come back in a few weeks and taste the rest of what this maneating city has to offer. I am told that the two prisons allow travelers to come inside and converse with an inmate of your choosing; and there is zero in the way of security. My dreams are already running wild, and I promise you will not see my face on a milk carton. Nos vemos gente hermosa, y suerte con todo.