Ok, I don´t have anything as amazing as the Bolivia trip to talk about, but I have found some moderately interesting stuff to recount in these past three weeks (pictures to be uploaded soon!). Three weeks ago, before my club´s weekly Rotary meeting, I went down to Santa Cruz´s main bus terminal and bought two tickets to Sucre on a semi-cama bus (seats that reclined to 130 degrees, which was nice) leaving the next day. I spent most of Wednesday morning getting everything in order for the trip: making sure that we had a hostel to crash at when we finally got into town, buying food, exchanging money, packing, etc. I was really excited to spend some more time in western Bolivia, and effectively do it on my own schedule, with no constraints from Rotary.

In previous years, Rotary Club Amboro had always paid for its students to attend the annual district Rotary conference. This year, due to some sweeping changes that have hit the exchange program recently, they decided not to send us. Upon hearing about this, Erika and I asked if we could go to Sucre using our own means, without Rotary funding. The club didn´t seem to find any issue with this, first asking if they should pay the small conference attendance fee to admit us to the lectures and events, then telling us that the actual lectures were unbearably boring anyway and that it would be better for us to find some other way to occupy our time. This seemed like an excellent idea to both Erika and me, so without further ado, we boarded our semi-cama bus for the 18 hour ride to Sucre (see Erika´s blog for a rough idea of the bathroom situation, I managed to avoid that mess entirely by refraining from all food and drink 36 hours beforehand). After a rough sleep, which was humorously interrupted once or twice by a hallucinating Erika, we arrived in Sucre and deboarded. Erika and I each took turns watching over the packs while we paid to use the relatively – using this word in the loosest sense possible – clean bus station bathrooms (it beat the obscure little village alleyway at the midnight rest stop). We then grabbed our respective packs, walked out of the bus station and into the streets of Sucre. After 18 hours of sitting in the same position, we wanted nothing more than to stretch our legs, so we decided to walk the 12 blocks or so to the central plaza, which was supposed to be close to the hostel I had booked. We asked several shopkeepers along the way if they were familiar with our hostel; they all seemed to be vaguely familiar with the name, but in reality had no idea where to find it. Finally, we bumped into our good friend Ethan, who happened to be walking around with his visiting American parents. Ethan knew exactly where our hostel was, having stayed there a few late nights himself, and had no trouble giving us accurate directions.

We arrived at “Hostal El Amigo” in just a few short minutes. At $4.50us per night, “El Amigo” makes for lodging that is at once very distinctive and full of personality. The little backpacker-crossing flag above the door was the only way that we managed to spot it walking down the street; once you enter however, it´s difficult not to be distracted by odd chipped layers of rainbow paint covering everything. The stairs are narrow and concrete, although they still maintain the fruit loop motif. There are several hallways and empty common spaces to wind through before you reach the little courtyard surrounded by small private rooms (we agreed to upgrade from $3.50us per night so that we could lock away our belongings each day). Our room was on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard, which gave us the added advantage of using the second floor bathroom, which was generally less flooded and less used than the one on the main floor. The culture at “El Amigo” made our stay in Sucre quite pleasant, and definitely entertaining. During our stay, we met an amiable group of Israelis who were taking one last jaunt around the globe before beginning their military service. We saw them almost every night and traded words in Spanish, English, and Hebrew over breakfast. We also met a former American dentist who seemed to have suffered an early midlife crisis. He had left the states several months ago to settle down in the middle of Bolivia and spend his savings learning Spanish. There was also an Aussie college student, a young Swedish man, several Israeli women and a German couple who all contributed to the hostel´s constant activity. Each morning between 8am and 10am, all the residents who weren´t suffering from serious hangovers would make their way down to the main kitchen for a free continental breakfast of bread, jam, butter, and coffee. Usually, this was the quietest time of day. From 10am – which was checkout time – until about 3am, the place was always swept up in a quiet yet constant activity, whether it be free amateur haircuts in the courtyard, a lively conversation over drinks and snacks in the kitchen, or a struggle to get time (about $0.18us per half-hour) on the hostel´s one computer. During our stay, we heard lots of stories from Ethan about various misadventures that had occurred there: some involving a pair of Kiwi backpackers whom I had met earlier in Santa Cruz, others involving fellow exchangers, and others involving people we had never met, but they all involved near lethal levels of alcohol and tended to be more disgusting than humorous. I preferred to focus on the quirksome oddities, such as the neat stacks of empty plastic bottles lining the walls or the single fluorescent light bulb on the verge of going out in our room, rather than imagine the sheer amount of bile and other fluids that, according to Ethan, had, at one point or another, been spilled on the doors, balconies, floors, etc.

With a sort of home base set up, Erika and I began to properly get acquainted with Sucre. During the Bolivia tour, we´d had a meager few hours to explore the city before it was time to turn in and rest ourselves for the following days in Potosi and Uyuni. Now, however, with a complete absence of Rotarians (my counselor wasn´t concerned enough about our status to take my calls – which was fine with me) and any type of agenda, we were free to do as we pleased. We found some food in one of the cafes off the plaza, met up with Eva and Liv – two German exchangers whom we had met on the Bolivia tour – for some coffee and crepes, and wandered around a bit trying to get our bearings. Sucre, more than any other city in Bolivia, is a back-packer town. Consequently, with a large population of foreign travelers comes lots of foreign food. After having gone nine months eating a very carnivorous Camba diet, Erika and I were delighted to see a few Italian pizzerias, French-style cafes, a Thai/sushi bar, and several places serving ambiguous/American-style food. I was particularly happy with the significant crepe selection. I think that I might go on a vegetarian or, at the very least, pescatarian purge for a year or two once I get back to the states. It was a relief to cut back on red meat consumption and be exposed to a variety of food again. The evening passed into nightfall, and before we knew it we had been invited to a fashion show in the central plaza. The fashion show turned out to be the biggest annual fashion event in the country, and although Sucre has a relatively small population, the city was chosen as host in honor of the bicentennial of the South American movement for independence (Sucre is Bolivia´s other capital, it was the source of the first cries for freedom and so it remains the constitutional capital, though not the administrative one). And so, there we sat. Freezing, shivering, our teeth chattering, we watched a series of mildly interesting creations walk down the runway. Everything from gowns made entirely of chocolate to ill-advised alpaca leggings was presented over the course of several hours. After the show, we joined Eva and Liv at a bar outside of town where we met several of the male models, who, interestingly enough, weren´t very attractive up close. We enjoyed the party for an hour or two and then decided to go find Ethan at an orange party at the only Dutch-owned bar in town. By the time we got back into town, I found out courtesy of his brother that Ethan had gone home and fallen asleep. So, without anything left to do, Erika and I walked our tired selves back to the hostel and tried to catch up on the sleep we missed on the bus the night before.

The next day, we got up for a quick breakfast with the Swede and a few of the Israelis. We got ready and immediately walked into the center of town to start planning the next few days. There is a handy information and adventure booking agency on the northeast corner of the plaza, right in front of Joyride, the local gringo/backpacker club and bar. Although it was clear that we had very little intention of paying for a planned tourist excursion, the man behind the main desk was very helpful at pointing out the public microbus routes that we would need to get around and out of the city. He told us about some interesting attractions, which we managed to visit during the course of our trip. First, we decided to go see the famous dinosaur tracks just outside of town. We walked a few blocks to catch the A bus across town and up one of the larger hills. We got off at the last stop and had to walk two or three kilometers down the opposite side, away from the city, and up a larger hill, looming with a giant cement factory near the peak. Just behind the cement factory, was a small observatory overlooking an excavated limestone gorge, where the hundreds of dinosaur tracks could be seen crisscrossing each other on its walls. Most of the tracks were the classic circular and semi-circular prints of large Sauropods (“long necks”), mostly Diplodocids, but there were also plenty of three-toed talonesque tracks from small predators and larger Allosaurs, and strange gashes which, according to the staff at the observatory, were made by giant armored Ankylosaurs. The degree to which each trail had been followed and preserved was impressive. The sheer limestone wall must have spanned the length of several football fields and was easily eleven stories tall. The tracks were discovered by the neighboring cement factory, and although there is serious concern for their preservation, the cement company has only signed an agreement to preserve 60% of the wall, making the other 40% open for limestone quarrying. Erika and I ate lunch at the little restaurant on top of the observatory and then joined a tour wandering through the garden of life-size dinoreplicas. The Sauropod replica stood at a length of 30+ meters, and each of its legs had proportions similar to a middle-aged redwood tree. It was as much fun as I´ve ever had with dinosaurs. Finally, at about 5 o´clock, we agreed that it was time to leave. We didn´t want to make the walk back to the bus stop, through the sketchy outskirts of town, in the dark. I gave one last fanciful expression of my inner child with a quick walk across the rainbow bridge on the little playground below the restaurant, Erika quickly slid down the dino-slide, and then we left. Once we got back to the hotel, we tidied up our room and then started planning our evening. I originally had no intention of spending any more money on food that day. The restaurant at the dinocenter was touristy, and therefore not terribly cheap, and I wanted to make it at least three or four days on the last of my Rotary monthly stipend before having to make a withdrawal. So much for that plan. If there is one thing that I learned about Erika, it´s that she needs food frequently. In planning this trip I had accounted for the $10 bus tickets, the $4.50 per night hostel, and about $3.00 per day in food, assuming we could get away with a single large brunch-type meal and then an evening snack. The altitude killed most of my appetite, but Erika made it clear that this wasn´t going to work, so we started looking at places to go for dinner. We spotted a Thai/sushi restaurant, which after nine months (with the exception of that one night on the Bolivia trip) away from anything remotely resembling Thai or sushi, left me – the Minnesota native – very interested and Erika – the Alaskan accustomed to eating fresh salmon and Japanese food every day of the week – practically salivating. So, with my initial plan gone anyway, we decided to splurge. Three courses and about $6us later, I emerged with a very happy stomach. On our way out of the restaurant, we happened to bump into Ethan, who invited us to go out bar-hopping with him later on that evening. We agreed, and spent the night with him and his friend, hitting up three different bars before finally settling down at a little-known shisha bar for some good conversation. The first place we went to was Joyride. It was so odd walking through the doors (which we saw the next morning had signs declaring that females had to be over 19 years of age, and all males had to be over 21 – making a good third of the clientele, including us, unwittingly underage) and hearing Barry Manilow´s “Copacabana” being blasted with an odd mix of American 80s rock while people – mostly white – from all over the globe grooved in leggings, go-go sunglasses, and flower print shirts. It was decidedly the most un-Bolivian moment I´ve had in Bolivia.

We ended up getting back to our hostel at 3am or so, and slept in past breakfast the next day. When we finally rolled out of bed, we decided to spend the day at El Castillo de la Glorieta, a very strange colonial structure that had all the elements of a gothic castle, an Arabian palace, a colonial plantation, and a south Asian ancient wonder replete with mysterious shrines. After a quick brunch, we grabbed a public bus from the center of town that went right up to the estate´s gate. As we walked into the building with one of the tour guides, I once again had a distinctly un-Bolivian moment. It seemed as if this small piece of land in the middle of South America ought to belong to the king of Morocco. As the tour went on, our guide frequently pointed out various architectural quirks and whimsies that the Princes, the original owners, had decided to incorporate into their dream home. The Princes in question were some Spaniards of dubious royal significance who had seen fit to colonize the wild countryside around Sucre, pooling their inheritance into one great dream estate, and starting several very successful humanitarian efforts that were able to garner attention from the Pope himself. Their tastes seemed fascinating if not overly eccentric. Walking around the grounds called to mind scenes from “Alice in Wonderland.” There was an adorable house that might have been fit for someone no more than a foot tall. Several of the sculptures and fountains appeared to have been slowly melting for the past 150 years. A “prince´s tower” shot up 7 stories from the heart of the palace in a sort of minaret, while the corresponding “princess´s tower” stood 5 stories in oriental style at the palace´s most prominent corner. We spent the afternoon walking the grounds and watching a local soccer game that was taking place nearby. When we got back into town, sunset was coming on. We decided to walk up the steep hill overlooking the city and have some hot chocolate (Sucre is famous for its chocolate, it supposedly makes some of the most delicious dark chocolate in South America). We sat at a little café just below the plaza de la recoletta and watched the sun set over Sucre. Erika got hungry again, and I saw some cheap bruschetta on the menu, and figured that it would be enough to tide us over. We munched on the bruschetta, which was halfway decent for a café in Bolivia, while the last rays of sunlight disappeared and then walked back down the hill. When we got back, the Israelis invited us to a rave, but I didn´t particularly feel up to a 24-hour-long international electronica party, and I knew that Erika, with her Mormon faith, would really be against the idea. So, we decided to have a quiet night. Erika made contact with her Rotary counselor, who invited us to the conference´s closing luncheon the next day. The hunger-quelling effects from the bruschetta did not last long, so we went to the market to see if we could pick up a few empanadas and maybe something to drink (the two 2L bottles that I had brought from Santa Cruz had run out by this point).  We managed to find two little cholitas still selling the last of their baked goods for the evening. I stocked up on some reasonably safe-looking rollitos while Erika chose some alfahores, which turned out to be good, and some more adventurous gelatin-like items, which neither of us ended up eating because they were so nasty. When went looking for something to drink, while we were trying to decide what to get, Erika spotted a few individual-sized bags of milk sitting on a nearby tray. I ignored the little doubts in the back of my mind, and we each bought two little bags. When we got back to the hostel, I bit the corner off my first bag and was about to taste it when I caught the strong scent of spoilt milk. I bit the other bag and found it to be the same. Erika didn´t seem to find anything wrong with her first bag. The second one, however, was completely spoilt. Oh well, our trip to the market was a waste, but there´s no use crying over spoilt (or is it spilt?) milk.

We spent the entire next day at the Rotary luncheon/picnic (free food!). Rotary clubs from each of Bolivia´s nine departments had the opportunity to present typical dances, oratory, or other cultural icons from their region. At first, keeping track of the host clubs was confusing. There are several Rotary clubs within Sucre, each of which goes by one of the city´s different names. Throughout its history, Sucre has gone by multiple names, but only five are still used today. So when someone refers to Charcas, Chuquicasa, La Plata, Sucre, or Ciudad Blanca, he or she really means Bolivia´s constitutional capital, or the city that´s usually referred to as Sucre. We watched the each of the spectacles: beautiful tangos from the south, cheery drinking songs from the east, reenactments of historical moments in the war for independence from the Chuquisaca area, passionate speeches from the La Paz area, and traditional zampoña music from the Andean regions. The luncheon also gave Erika and I the opportunity to see Danielle, a girl from California who lives in Oruro, who we had not seen since the Bolivia trip, and meet some of the short-term professional exchangers from Oklahoma who were touring the country. We mixed typical regional dishes for lunch and spent all afternoon dancing. I have to love Rotary Club Amboro for its true Camba spirit. Long after each of the other clubs had settled down, and various groups were starting to leave for their respective hotels, the party was just getting started for the true Cruceños. I don´t think any other club managed to take such good advantage of the free Sureño beer on tap. Every time a Santa Cruz carnival song would play, they would get riled up and start a small dancing frenzy amid the stares of the more conservative clubs from the west who were left in the immediate vicinity. By the time the sun started to set, I was hanging around with some very happy (and not a little drunk) Rotarians.

The next day, Erika and I booked a tour on Ethan´s advice with a cab driver who also happened to teach pre-Columbian history and be fluent in Quechua. The driver agreed to guide us around several “wonders” of the Chuquisaca countryside. First, we stopped in a little Quechua village to buy coca leaves, water, pure alcohol, and other necessities. Erika and I had a chance to brush up on some of the more handy Quechua phrases (like “maq´asachk” which roughly means “watch out, or I´m gonna hit you,” which we learned when we mistakenly tried to take pictures of a woman´s sheep and it turned out that she wanted payment due to the common Quechuan belief that photos steal part of your soul – which still leads me to wonder why it was an issue, if she was just going to sheer and eat the sheep anyway). The guide gave us in-depth analysis about the deculturalization that is slowly eating away at the country´s 65% fully indigenous majority, causing generation after generation to move away from their roots and meld into modern mixed-race city life. We talked about the signs of deculturalization and how to recognize a first-generation city dweller. Our guide pointed out the large Romanesque aqueduct that handles all of Sucre´s water needs (I quote, roughly translated: “yeah, if you wanted to have a terrorist bombing here or something, that wouldn´t be good, we would all be completely screwed with no water”). Before heading to our first stop on the top of a nearby mountain, we had to partake in a brief offering to Pachamama. We each took turns pouring out some of the alcohol and stomping it into the ground until about half of the bottle was gone. About two miles up the road, we saw a truck that had lost one of its front wheels. The owner, who appeared to be long gone, had borrowed a large tree branch from the surrounding forest and used it to lever the front end off the ground.

“This is what happens when you aren´t good to Pachamama,” said our guide. We continued up the slope of the mountain, until we were above the treeline. We saw the only cactus on the mountain, which only flowers for a few days out of the year. Finally, near the peak of the mountain, we stopped at a little old chapel. Our guide told us that the chapel rests exactly between Tarabuco and Potolo, the two main indigenous communities of the area. A few meters higher, behind the chapel, stood the peak of the mountain, where the Incas of Qullasuyu, the southeastern region of the Inca Empire, used to make offerings to Inti, the sun god. The chapel was a literal example of Spaniards smothering out any heretic beliefs by imposing Christianity on top of the old native beliefs and customs. We walked around the chapel and saw the various offerings of Singani, moonshine, tobacco, and wine that were sitting on an altar in front of a very colorful rendition of the Virgin Mary. We also noted the little church bells made from the wheels of cars and trucks. We then climbed to the peak of the hill, noting sheep horns, small bones, and other bits and remains of animals who had taken on the role of live sacrifices in the 200 years since human sacrifices had become taboo. At the very top of the hill, where countless fifteen year-old virgin sun priestesses had no doubt lost their lives, a large white cross had been staked into the ground as a final reminder that the people of Chuquisaca had been Christianized, and as such ought to behave like Christians. But the small pile of bones at the base of the cross seemed evidence enough that the nearby Jalq´a of Potolo were still having trouble going cold turkey on the habit. After hearing a bit about Inca religious practices and sacrifice procedure (it turns out that the sacrifices were all willing noble girls, raised specifically for this purpose), we built little stone houses that were supposed to represent our own households back home, blessed them with the last of the alcohol for good luck, and then set off back down the hillside. We took a quick drink from the natural spring just below the chapel, walked down one of the nearby Inca courier trails, and we were on our way to stop number two.

Our second stop consisted of climbing once again to the peak of a nearby mountain to catch a view of the giant volcanic crater outside of Sucre. At the peak we saw the remains of an Inca courier safe house, and had some fun playing around on the rocks, one of which looked like a family of six, with two prominent parent rocks and four smaller children at the base (Evo has given several heartfelt speeches about the heritage of rocks; apparently rocks, like people, have families and heritage, and he says if you heard strange noises of rocks hitting each other in the mountains, that you should walk away, because rocks need privacy when they´re mating – Bushisms don´t even come close to this type of material). We then walked down the opposite side to visit the tomb of a famous 18^th century indigenous leader, Tomas Katari. During one of the worst periods of indigenous oppression, Tomas Katari united all of the surrounding communities under his leadership as the great Mallku (which means “supreme leader” or prince in Aymara, whose job it is to oversee the different Ayllus – the network of leading families that predates the Inca Empire; Evo Morales is the current holder of that title). He was kidnapped and thrown off the mountainside by the Spanish colonists of Sucre, killing him before his revolution could be fully realized. Although his first name is Spanish, indigenous people at the time were allowed to keep a Quechuan surname. The word katari in Quechua means serpent, hence the serpent carving featured prominently on his grave.

The drive back to Sucre was quick and full of conversation. Erika and I were both happy with the amount of information we had picked up. We spent the rest of the day getting our things in order and finding food. We decided that, since Rotary wasn´t really concerned about where we were or what we were doing (I know, I hit on this topic a lot, but independent travel was very much a relief), we might as well see Cochabamba. So, we went to the bus station and bought some discount semi-cama tickets for $4us. We didn´t have time to go see Chuquisaca´s gorgeous seven waterfalls as we had originally planned, because our bus left at 7pm. So, we packed, killed a few hours, and pretty soon it was time to leave. The 10 hour ride to Cochabamba was comfortable enough for about 2 or 3 hours of sleep. We arrived in Cochabamba at a freezing 5am. We spent some time in the terminal negotiating a good fare on a full cama bus (seats reclinable to 170 degrees and footrests on a large double-decker, which was really nice) and stowing our bags at the 24-hour luggage-check station, then we walked out into the frigid morning air to experience Cochabamba. We caught the first random microbus that we could find – which looked like a very retro school bus – and asked the driver if he could let us off when we were more-or-less in the center of town. The first thing I noticed about Cochabambinos is that they are probably the friendliest people in Bolivia. The driver gave us helpful information about the micro routes and every single person we encountered gave us thorough directions to where we were going. The driver let us off near the teleferica, the gondola the ferries people up a large hill to the world´s largest Christ monument, the Cristo de la Concordia. We spent most of the morning looking out over the city from the base of the Cristo and taking a quick nap in the sun (the gate to enter the actual monument was closed, we did however get a few laughs out of the scrap of paper posted to the wall announcing a 200Bs. fee for anyone caught urinating inside the statue). At about 11am or so, we descended the hill and started thinking about food. We´d been told to try the traditional Cochabambino dish, pique macho, en el Prado district. After walking all the way across town – which was well worth it in Bolivia´s beautiful “garden city” – we finally found el Prado and settled down in a local restaurant to split a giant mound of steak bites, tossed with sausage, potato slices, peppers, locoto, and tomatoes. Pique macho was just that, a “manly bite;” red meat is to Bolivia as high fructose corn syrup is to the US. After stuffing ourselves with about a third of the food that was in front of us, Erika and I asked to get the rest boxed up so we could go find the a good beggar candidate and make his or her day. While this may be an easy thing to do in Santa Cruz, where multiple begging single mothers surrounded by packs of malnourished children can be found on every block, it seems that the residents of Cochabamba are either better off, or that very few slum dwellers make the daily trek into the city to panhandle. Although we looked all over, Erika and I didn´t find a single beggar the entire afternoon. Finally, we gave up our search and went to a local park where we plopped ourselves down on the playground merry-go-round (I was completely fascinated to find a nice clean playground with slides and everything in the middle of Bolivia). We spent the rest of the afternoon talking and chilling. When it finally got dark, we left the park and waited for a micro that would take us back into town. We then went to the plaza for about an hour or so, from where we could catch a cab to take us to the bus terminal. In the plaza, we stumbled upon a peaceful Masista rally. Near a tree that was spray-painted to declare the plaza a Fascist-Free Zone, a few cholitas were running exposés on the “lying oligarch press” and a young German activist was peddling controversial literature with an older Masista party member. I was sorely tempted to buy a full copy of the new constitution, a pamphlet on how to properly distinguish Cambas from Collas, a book about the economic value of coca production, and a booklet laying out the implications of Supreme Decree that nationalized many of Bolivia´s industries. However, with only 30Bs in my pocket, 10 of which would be needed for the cab ride to the airport, I settled on a booklet describing American deviousness with relation to trade agreements and a citizen´s voting guide to the referendum. We walked to the other end of the plaza shortly thereafter (I like to think that I can pass as a fair-skinned Argentinean sometimes, but a Masista rally definitely does not qualify as ideal testing grounds for that hypothesis) and began talking to a Colombian tourist from Medellin. Pretty soon, it was time to head to the bus station. We cheerfully boarded our comfy full cama bus, and dropped into true REM for the first time in several days.

Since having arrived in Santa Cruz, things have been fairly normal. On mother´s day, I woke up early and cooked a breakfast of American-style chocolate chip pancakes (smashing the chocolate almost ruined the surprise), ham, cheese, and mushroom omelets, fresh fruit, and a banana milkshake for my host mom, and then bought my real mom some pretty Bolivianita (ametrine – a fusion of citrine and amethyst that can only be found in Bolivia) earrings. Last Sunday, as I was having lunch with my extended host family, my host grandfather informed me that I need to get some more exposure to the bush meat around Santa Cruz. He has created a list of places to go and things to try which includes such entrees as tapir, capybara, agouti (think an Amazonian version of the giant swamp rat from “The Princess Bride”), armadillo, guinea pig and peccary. Yum? Last Rotary meeting, I walked down the stairs from the usual 5^th floor meeting area to snoop around the hallways where Bolivian officials staged their shootout with the alleged “terrorists” or would-be presidential assassins. The investigation tape had been taken down, but everything was still a blown up mess, with a tacky wooden barrier thrown up to hide it. Most of the doorframes had been busted out, so I spent some time scouring the walls inside several of the rooms for bullet holes. The lighting was poor, so I couldn´t very well match any of the scenery to the bloody aftermath photos that I had seen in the newspaper. As the international investigation continues, the innocence of the “terrorists” has come into question (apparently the Hungarian-Bolivian leader and Balkan war veteran was a die-hard autonomista, who boasts a long resume that includes acting as translator for Carlos the Jackal back in the 70s). Fun times at Rotary. On weekends, I´ve been enjoying some of the birthday and going away parties that the other exchangers have had. On this note, however, I would like to say that I´m fed up with hearing “Bolivia´s turned me into an alcoholic; I don´t know what I´m going to do when I get back to the states. I´m spending lots of money getting drunk every night. Living here has made me an irresponsible drunk. This is like living as an American but worse. All I want to do is drink, and I´ve got problems with tobacco and other things now. Etc, etc.” I´ve been hearing something to this effect from at least four different exchangers over the past few months. Everyone who has ever been to Bolivia has to admit that it is a paradise for every sort of substance abuse. But even though sipping beer or sangria at 8am may be culturally acceptable and common, that doesn´t excuse poor personal choices. If people want to blame their problems on their host country and ensure that their experience is remembered in a negative light, then I don´t see why they haven´t all left by now. If you hang out with the city´s wealthy elite, odds are that you will be exposed to a culture that encourages alcoholism. However, when watching my exchanger friends at various parties, no one is forcing them to buy that next bottle of whisky, or pressuring them down another glass of rum. They created the pattern, they let it get out of control, they need to break it, and stop complaining to me because they can´t figure out how they will be able to continue feeding their habit once they get back to the states.

As a totally unrelated aside, this week I began a very strange class called Pro-Vida at the behest of my host father. Pro-Vida, which means pro-life in both Spanish and Portuguese (and no, it has nothing to do with the legality of abortion), is a Brazilian religion/mysticism teaching/semi-secret society/life management class/philosophical following that is based in Sao Paolo and was founded by Dr. Celso Charuri. It is taught in a series of nightly classes, usually one week at a time, with each class constituting a level within the organization. My host dad attended his first class several months ago, and he has since completed the necessary repetitions of that class to move on to a more advanced level. To be blunt, he´s bonkers about the organization. He´s been insinuating at every opportunity that our whole family should take the first course, and now that I only have two more months left in Bolivia, he´s insisted that I take it. He said that it had truly changed his life, that he was sure it would help and inspire me, and that I ought to experience it while I´m in Bolivia because it isn´t offered in the US. If anything, all of his fervor made me a bit curious, so I agreed. Now, as an organization, I would classify Pro-Vida as a fledgling religion. I personally found it to be unsatisfying, as I expected, but my experience made my host dad happy and that´s all that I hoped to achieve anyway. Wikipedia already has a bare-bones summary in English (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pr%C3%B3-Vida), which reflects poorly on the experience, and a Portuguese version (for those of you who can read it - http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pr%C3%B3-Vida) that reflects much more favorably on it.

Well, this has been a monster of a post. I´m looking forward to my dad coming to visit Bolivia next month. Love you all, I´ll be home in a little under two months.