Im in Bolivia, land of my birth. Riding a bus at an average speed of 30 mph, it is a slow trek across the Altiplano. We are 13,000 ft above the ocean, the Altiplano is flat as a pancake, like the bottom of an ancient lake. The Andes mountains rise on each side, peaks as high as 23,000 ft. The land is arid, scrub brush and dry grass tufts cover it. From time to time we pass a small farm with half-acre plots alternating between sorghum, potatoes, wheat and barley. These are the poorest of Bolivians, small homes made of adobe, huts with dirt floors and rusted tin roofs. It is harvest here, the rains have stopped and the quinoa, wheat and sorghum are cut, blond patch of wheat next to the brunette sorghum. The potatoes are picked by hand like my dad picked them 75 years ago in North Dakota, with a burlap sack on his hip. The ride from Cochabamba up to the Altiplano was breathtaking, a dozen viewpoints that would have had rest areas and signs in the US. On the upper level of my bus, my window looks down 2000 feet or more to the river bed below. Like much of the third world, it is the 1950s with cell phones and internet. Thirty minutes of the trip some Bolivian huckster in a suit and headset pitched a health powder that was made from Bolivian sugar beets and a sure cure for whatever ails. He passed out small sealed packets of it, and I said thank you in English. I only understood part of what he was saying and didnt want to seem eager to know more. When you go through a cut in the earth, you see the top three feet is lots of gravel and dirt mixed together. Under that is red clay - sometimes the hard clay is all there is. In the distance, the hillsides rise for hundreds of feet. They are a mosaic of variable colors of green, separated by walls of stone fence. The fences have no order or pattern, like a non-interlocking jigsaw puzzle. At each stop vendors and beggars await. At one, I paid 2 Bolivianos (28 cents) to use the restroom, and bought an ice cream drumstick from an Aymara woman who lifted the lid of a Styrofoam cooler and let me take my pick for 2 centavos (a tenth of the price of the bathroom). I gave her 1 Boliviano and walked away before she could give me change. I ate half of the top and gave the rest to a small boy begging at the door of the bus. It is a hard land that is strangely reminiscent of eastern Montana, eastern Oregon, every arid semidesert I have been to. No gang signs tagged on the walls here. To survive leaves no room for such foolishness.This is the country in which I was born and these are the people my folks ministered to from Lake Titicaca south to Oruru and Potosi. It is not a land that invites a return visit. But I will return, God willing. Yo soy Boliviano.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Apr 2014 19:34:59 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015