Puppy Love

Well, I feel a little guilty about this but not guilty enough to change my mind. Let me give you some background first. Dogs are not friends in Bolivia. They live on short chains on concrete floors, if they’re lucky. I have seen them eat their own feces. If fed, their diet includes dog soup, made from chicken heads and other delectables, and bones from table scraps. They are skinny and often abused.

The rest roam the streets, angry and mangy, until they are hit by cars or poisoned or killed in fights with other dogs. Dog orgies along the sides of the road are not uncommon. One turns off the ability to see these things.

I had it in my head to adopt one of these such dogs, to rescue him or her and make an example to my future community of how rewarding it can be to have relationship with your pet – and also to abate my own loneliness once I get to site. I didn’t anticipate that my dog would choose me.

So meet Leona, the exact opposite of what I was looking for but everything I wanted. I nursed her back to health when one of the other dogs tore at her neck with its teeth. After much adieu, I bought her from my host family who couldn’t believe that one could train a dog to retrieve a plastic ball (evidence of our special bond; she’ll only return it to me) or that a dog would stop eating because it was depressed, as she was every time I left for a tech trip. They bought her to breed, but in the end agreed to send her along with me because they were truly afraid she would die when I left!

Yesterday the world got very big for Leona, who’s barely left the backyard in her three months of life. First my language professor, Alex, donated his time and his car to take us to the vet Saturday morning (btw, I tested out of Spanish at Advanced Low, the biggest jump in my group). That thing where the dogs stick their heads out the window and smile is totally international.

Then she came to our going away barbecue at the training director’s house and played with his kids for two extra hours while I took a bike safety course. Last night, she was a perfectly behaved lady for a 12-hour bus trip to Santa Cruz. No barking in a very crowded bus station, where I was toting her plus everything I own, no accidents and lots of cute sleeping positions – mostly half draped over me (oh great, you got me two seats! But where are * you* going to sit?)



I have to go. Somebody just dropped a slobbery ball in my lap.

Wandering in Circles

This morning on the way into the city, I sat next to a scrawny, weathered, dirty but not quite scary old man. He was wearing two hats (one for cold and one for sun, presumably) and chomping away on what I thought must be nuts or chips, but on closer look discovered were definitely coca leaves. Just crunching away there on the bus, high as a kite without a care in the world.


Across the aisle sat a middle-aged cholita woman in the usual garb: lacy button up shirt, long black braids and stiff, flowery hat … save that her traditional, ruffled skirt (called a pollera) was made from fuzzy leopard print fabric (Mom, Mike, a la Lise?). This is why I love Bolivia. I’m not sure I can elaborate on that, but I’ll keep giving you examples.

The cancha in the city of Cochabamba is a market the size of an entire neighborhood where they sell everything under, over and to the left of the sun. My friend Helen nearly purchased a sleeping child in a bedroom store this afternoon. You’d be amazed how many of them you randomly stumble over while shopping, in the strangest places (and anyway, she really just wanted a travel pillow). We spied a cat asleep inside a glass cabinet alongside various breakable wares. Yes, a real cat.

Ask two people for directions in the cancha, and they’ll point down opposite roads. It is possible that they’re both right (ie two stores that carry the item), that one person knows and the other person is lying to save the embarrassment of not knowing, or that neither have a clue and just don’t want to admit it. To get somewhere you need to go, your best bet is to take a poll. Ten people, at least, before you put any serious effort into walking in a particular direction. Unless you’re like me and up for a stroll anyway, or care to turn it into a game: how many Bolivians does it take to find the kitchen utensils?

Meanwhile they’re playing, hah! Let’s see how long those ridiculous gringas will wander around in circles.

Author’s note: I later discovered that one could mash potatoes just fine with the bottom of a Nalgene bottle, anyway.