This bitch went to Bolivia

September 29, 2005 - 12:00 a.m.

I should tell a few Bolivia stories now that weeks have passed and life continues to go on and I have new stories to tell. Firstly, we flew into LaPaz, the country's capital city and it was everything I could ask for in a South American metropolis. The airport is the highest in the world, at 13,500 feet. That number probably means nothing to you, so for comparison, let’s say that Chicago is 600 feet above sea level, and Denver "The Mile High City" is 5,430 feet above sea level, so we were way the hell up there. All I can say is that it made me feel like an alien, and just "not right". Us flatlanders are genetically unequipped for this type of altitude, whereas the native South Americans have lived there for thousands of years and their bodies do just fine on very little oxygen. Whitey, however, turns bumbling and blond, brain cells die at a rapid pace, and the whole body says WTF; *cease* like a car with no gas.

LaPaz is the coolest city, chock full of culture but somewhat difficult to navigate, with streets so steep the sidewalks were nothing more than steps. There’s no way a person could use a baby stroller, bicycle or any other type of wheeled apparatus, even if they wanted to. Instead they carry their babies on their backs, all wrapped up like little brightly colored burritos and it might be one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. They have beautiful children, all of them, but the adults seem to age prematurely, due to the extreme sun exposure. There's just no atmosphere there to protect you from the UVs, plus you're much closer to the sun, so the natives have the darkest skin, almost black, and by middle age it's as tough as leather.

We hiked around LaPaz quite a bit and visited the Witch's Market, which was vendor after vendor hocking goods to feed the superstitious, with jars and baskets full of GOD ONLY KNOWS but I reckon that they were magic potions made of the most exotic of animal parts. I imagine the foods they offer there are in the same vein (gag) as haggis or blood sausage. There truly was an overabundance of dried llama fetuses, of different gestational growth. They build bizarre shrines for good luck, perhaps to place outside of a new business for prosperity. The larger the llama fetus, the greater your luck, and while some of them were small and hairless, a few of them were large, covered in fur, and apparently full-term. The majority of Bolivian families have a dried llama fetus thrown under their house for luck, often built into the foundation. I shudder to wonder how exactly these fetuses are harvested, those poor goddamn llamas.

Before I left for my trip I joked to a few people that I would be sure to bring back plenty of cocaine and indigenous orphans for everyone. KC replied something along the lines of, “It’ll be pretty hard to sneak in some orphans. Why don’t you just get down and dirty with a local guy and smuggle home a fetus – in your womb?” You don’t know how excited I was to see that “local” fetuses were for sale on the street, and I was majorly tempted to bring one home for KC, but they smelled to the high heavens and looking at their little faces sickened me. It would have served him right though, to get a little brown “sullus” in the mail one day.

We also hiked through the Mercado Negro (black market) which was just American crap like Ricky Martin party plates and fake Hugo Boss jeans. And the Artisan’s Market which was like, the world’s cheapest, most awesome art and hand crafts. Scary devil masks, voodoo dolls, and all manner of clothing made from alpaca and llama fur. Not to mention piles of antiques, and mountains of patina’d metal, from spoons to cowboy spurs.

One day we decided to go to Peru, which is like right next door to where we were staying in Copacabana. Much of Lake Titicaca is located inside the border of Peru, and we heard that “Peru has the Titi and Bolivia has the Caca.” Well, I would be begging to differ as to who is in possession of the Caca. Crossing the border was the equivalent of stepping from the Gold Coast straight into Cabrini Green. Not to be rude, but um, Peru is muy mierda, or: very shitty.

Maybe my perceptions were skewed because that was at the peak of my illnesses, bleeding from both ends, etc. But what I saw was us leaving a sunny, bright, jubilant land, and entering a dark, cold, rainy hell hole with criminals hocking plastic crap on the streets, begging for money with shifty eyes, no public bathrooms, nowhere to exchange monies, and the rural landscape was no better. It was barren death, dirt, shacks missing 40% of their bricks, straw, and roofing. No agriculture, no business, just vacancy. Animals munching on dirt and algaed puddles of standing water. The whole time we were there I felt ill at ease, like a black cloud followed me around.

The reason we went to Peru is because I wanted to see the islands of the Urus, an ancient culture that built floating islands out of reeds to escape the Incas, and they have lived on these strange floating villages ever since. They choose to live out on Lake Titicaca, away from civilization, and they are totally self sufficient, living off of fishing and hunting birds. Plus, they’re known for building these elaborate boats out of reeds, with dragon heads and other animals incorporated into their handiwork.

They pull the reeds right out of the lake water and lay down new layers about once a month to keep their islands thick and spongy. It’s very interesting to walk on. On their islands they have houses, a school, a post office, trading posts, and tiny huts that house beautiful guinea pigs, who will later be skewered on a stick and roasted on an open fire. They were on the menu at the first restaurant we ate it, but neither of us was touching any kind of meat for fear of the salmonella.

But we only spent about 2 hours with the Urus and then we were back to Puno, Peru, to our hotel that we got suckered into by a tour guide. It was an utter shithole, and unacceptable even in third-world standards. Muy Bullshit! The sight and smell of the place curdled my insides, and words alone cannot describe how ugly, dirty, and shitty this place was. Imagine a retarded redneck from Southern Indiana. Imagine that he made a baby with the decade of the 1970s, and the Family Dollar Store, in a trailer decorated in black velvet and mirrored walls and mysteriously stained indoor/outdoor carpet. Many cigarettes were involved, as were some mangy cats. So this redneck had a baby, right? Now imagine that the baby took a giant shit, 6 stories tall. That was our hotel.

We noticed the room lacked a few essential things, so my boyfriend went to inquire. He learned that there was no soap, no towels, no toilet paper, no hot water, and NO HEAT. And it wasn’t as if these things were temporarily missing or malfunctioning, THEY JUST DON’T COME WITH THE ROOM. And it got cold at night, below 30. We asked for an electric heater and got a useless 40 year-old electric coil. Babies emit more heat than this thing did, and I was tempted to snatch a few off the street, to warm my feet at the end of the bed.

The thing that angered me the most was that, hanging in the bathroom, I found a shower curtain that was in reality a plastic Thanksgiving table cloth. Who do they think they are, trying to pass off a disposable picnic table cover, decorated with cornucopias and turkeys, as something that belongs in a bathroom? FUCKERS!

It’s not like I planned to take an ice cold shower anyway. And even if there had been hot water, there was the issue of privacy. Ya know, it’s very common in Chicago architecture to put a window inside a shower, and it opens to the outside for ventilation. And this shower had a window inside of it, but it opened into the main hallway of the hotel. And there wasn’t any window, just a big square hole where there used to be window. There were kids screaming and playing in the hallway, peeking in and laughing.

That hotel room made me livid for some reason. Oh wait, for all the reasons above. But normally I’m a cool cucumber and in general I do not feel hot anger burn in my soul.

We piled all of the cum-stained blankets on top of ourselves and slept fully clothed and I personally had bad dreams the whole night. I wore my clothes not only for warmth, but so my skin would not directly touch the cum stains. We woke up with frozen faces and I was genuinely shocked that we were not infested with bugs of some kind. I spent 15 minutes in the bathroom cleaning blood off of myself (with no toilet paper or water), and nearly made us late to catch our bus, and never have I been more eager to get the FUCK OUTTA DODGE. We got back to Bolivia and everything was right in the world.

Aside from that booshit, we stayed in some really beautiful hotels, I drank bottled Coca-Cola every day (and I love the glass), saw a priest perform blessings on cars and trucks, plenty of parades, dances, and live marching bands tooting all the time for no special occasion, cute babies out the wazoo, beautiful mountain scenery, and sparkling clean, albeit thin, air to breathe.

I would also like to mention that I had to pack light for this trip, since we would be backpacking and camping and carrying most of our shit with us at all times. Here is what I packed:

2 t-shirts
2 pants
2 long underwear sets
2 sweaters
2 bras
7 underwear
7 pairs socks

And that is it. No hair dryer, hair product, lotion, mouthwash, and just 3 pieces of makeup. I looked like a man. Almost.

When we camped, we climbed to the top of a mountain and then over the peak to set up our tent. It was actually an island, Isla del Sol, but it was like a mountain peak coming out of a lake. Quite a few people inhabit the island, and make their homes available to tourists. There were donkeys, llamas and sheep sharing the steep rocky climb with us, and they were no doubt more sure-footed and would scuttle on past us and snort with disdain at us gringos who were holding up the line, cuz you know those burrows got places to git.

We set up our tent and headed to the nearest house for dinner, where someone’s unseen wife made us a four course meal with fish fresh out of the lake and yummy red wine. It was $2.50 per person so I think we left a 100% tip.

Then we headed back to our tent in the freezing cold and fell into a fitful slumber, worrying about rolling off the side of the goddamn mountain.

Also: COCAINE. Bolivia and cocaine are quite fond of one another. While cocaine itself is illegal, the coca plant that is used to make cocaine is totally legal and a dime a dozen from anyone on the street. The local folk chew it like tobacco and it gives them a buzz similar to caffeine. I drank coca tea to relieve my altitude sickness and it was the yummiest tea I have ever had in my life. It is illegal in our country and my boyfriend made sure to stress to me the importance of removing all coca leaves off my body before we came home, or inevitably there would front page news the following day that read something like PILOT CAUGHT SMUGGLING COCAINE WITH WHITE TRASH GIRLFRIEND. My pockets were full of coca and I had to shake it out of my clothes. I miss my coca.

I also wanted to mention, now that I am completely well I am able to reflect more clearly upon the trip, and in reading over my previous entry on my sickness, I have to tell you this. All of the pain I described was not only completely unexaggerated, it was actually less dramatic than my real life experience. There are a lot of people in this world who don’t handle pain well, a lot of bloggers in particular like to voice this, and I often read of their melodramatic stories of headaches, cramps, poop, or sore muscles from mowing the lawn. I am not one of these people. I am often impervious to pain, my tattoo and piercings didn’t hurt at all, I get a bikini wax and eyebrow thread once a month, and I fall down flights of stairs all the time. My brother used to stomp on my head with shoes on so I built some sort of defense mechanism for pain. None of this phases me. But that trip? I have come to realize that I have never been in poorer health than that week of my life. I have never been sicker, and my body has never been more of a stranger to me. I managed to keep a positive mind set about it the first time around, but if I had to relive it, I so wouldn’t make it. I would probably cry constantly.

I sent every person in the universe a postcard and a few have received theirs already so enough with the bitching already! Put a sock in it, or next time you’ll get a fetus with empty eye sockets in your mailbox.

Love,
Shawna

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