Free Ride

Free Ride

After more than three tries, we finally made it to Camiri on Sunday. We took a taxi early in the morning to the bridge, walked across the blockade (really no more than a mountain of sand, some sticks and a few cars at this point) and hopped another cab on the other side. We had been stuck at site for more than two weeks; I needed wine, milk and dog food, but mostly Internet, paperwork and some quality time talking English. I was beginning to seriously question my sanity and just about everything else.

My friends Mike and Wes live in Camiri. Emily came with me and Jacqui was visiting as well. We were all lounging around at Mike’s place, and I think it was he who said, “do you ever just wake up in the morning and think, Man. Fuck. This.” As in your job, your site, your inability to communicate or make plans or like, leave. I couldn’t have said it better myself (and probably wouldn’t have). We’re thinking of having t-shirts made.

All the prices had gone up in Camiri and the bank ran out of money. Luckily I took out a bunch the first day so didn’t desperately need more before leaving, though it would have been nice to have. Still, we drank beer and played Frisbee down by the river. We found a place that made tacos (score!) and I ordered the chicken. Out came cold, fatty beef tacos, and the kid just looked at me dubiously when I asked why he brought us carne instead of pollo. “No hay pollo.” There is no chicken. Of course not; hey, thanks for letting us know. Later I think I got some mild giardia from the food there. While sitting on the toilet I thought: Man. Fuck. This.

The next day I had some better luck. After some phone calls home, a late night chatting away online and a rare and elusive hot shower, I felt much better. I knocked out most of the errands on my list and opted for a fruit salad over another plate of mystery meat. We ran into Emily’s work counterpart in the market and he offered us a free ride home (score!). He planned on driving through the river to avoid the blockade entirely; we said we’d meet him on the other side at 3.

We were still twiddling our thumbs at 4, but the sun was out and there was a nice breeze. Emily pulled out some fresh mandarin oranges and I had bought along some wicked homemade cookies made with coconut and dulce de leche (Sweet milk? More like caramel). Finally Profe Pedro, whom Mike once dubbed ‘the father of the world,” rumbled down the road and we mounted up. He put on some mariachi type music and we yelled and laughed over it. There’s a tollbooth along the way that was closed, but some guys let the gate down for us to pass by and Pedro joked, look how jealous they are! Here I am with my two beautiful choclitas! Then he proceeded to lecture us on how we should get married and stay in Bolivia forever.

A little ways up the road, he told us about a party for the Virgin Guadalupe we’d pass by on the way home. “Vamos a parar un ratito,” he said. Just for 20 minutes so he could pay his respects to the virgin. We reluctantly agreed given that we had little choice in the matter. The family we visited had built an entire little house for their delicate statue, who was adorned with flowers and offerings for the occasion. A smattering of people milled around. We visited briefly then sat down as Pedro lit his candles and prayed. He then stopped to talk to an old woman whom he referred to as the abuelita – not his grandmother, just the grandmother. He said he was going to walk her up to the house and greet the family then we could go.

So he starts walking with this ancient woman up the hill, and she takes these tiny, wobbly steps leaning heavily on his arm and a cane for support. It is evident that they will not reach the house anytime soon. We watch their painstaking progress. A man strides over with a bucket full of chicha, homemade beer, and obliges us to drink a cup. We talk him into letting us split one and agree not to make eye contact with anyone else for fear of beverages. Then we decide it would be less rude to just go sit in the truck.

Finally we see Pedro making his way down the hill. He’s out of breath but excited. “Vengan!” he says. “Come up to the house and drink some chicha with the family. They want to meet you!” We give him weary looks and doubtful replies. “Just one and we’ll head out. I told them you’d come.” So the three of us make our way up the hill toward an old adobe house where an extended family, some ducks, chickens, dogs and cats are seated in the sunshine. I am handed a dirty glass filled with thankfully non-alcoholic chicha, but I’m pretty sure there should not be a greasy film on top. I beseech Emily to split one but she thinks it would be rude. They hand her one, too, and we sip and make small talk as the women cut vegetables. We finish our glasses and thank them graciously. Pedro fills up a second glass. The women peel boiled potatoes. I am exhausted. The music gets louder and couples start dancing chacarera; the women flare their imaginary skirts and the men jump from side to side tapping their boots to the beat. We’re up and headed toward the car, Emily ostensibly for her glasses and me for a sweatshirt. We’re down and seated again; “no chicas, ahorita vamos.” No, girls, we’re going now. Right after we eat.

I am pretty close to saying you-know-what, but not quite there. Pretty soon the whole situation just becomes riotously funny. A never-ending plate of beef and rice and beet salad appears in front of me and we’re sharing one knife between all of us. Pedro is thinking hard about whom he should marry Emily off to so she’ll never leave and I’m thinking, good lord we’re probably never going to leave this party, let alone Bolivia. All in all it took us three and a half hours to get home from Camiri, which is an hour away. And believe it or not, that’s making pretty good time.