Yapado

Got a little more than I bargained for with this trip to Bolivia – in a good way. S hooked me up with a “rotation” at one of the tertiary hospitals in El Alto. She knows pretty much everyone in that hospital, and has been introducing me left and right. I’m spending half days there shadowing and getting pimped in Spanish.

But on Saturday, W, one of the interns, offered me one of her kiddos (and her phone number!) and let me examine and present him to the attending pediatrician. It wasn’t any worse than my English presentations (which isn’t saying much). The first day I was there, we saw a case of laryingitis (where are the adenoids on lateral xray?), organophosphate intoxication (what lab test can be used to confirm, what’s the difference between nicotinic and muscarinic receptors?), and what I thought might be Sturge-Weber syndrome (he had a port wine stain, seizures, visual disturbances – the neurologist has to work him up though).

In the latter half of the days, Maria Renee and I have been furiously trying to finish what I came here to do. These last few days in La Paz are gonna be busy…

The Sell

Just as I was about to enter our apartment building one afternoon, a little kid ambled across my path. Clutching a bunch of yellow flowers in his hands, he mumbled something in his little kid voice, the one where they sound like they have just barely gained control of the movements of their mouths.

All I understood was “pesito, pesito”. Usually I’m pretty cheap when it comes to hawkers trying to sell their goods. This kiddo looked like he had just learned to walk, much less talk, so I wanted to find out how he came into his line of work. I crouched down and asked him how old he was, what his name was. He rattled off more unintelligible words to me, interspersed with “pesito”. What must have been his older brother ran over, but he didn’t look that much older. “No habla español,” the brother said.

“Solamente habla aymara, entonces?”

“Si.”

I chuckled – I don’t think it would have helped me any if the kid had been speaking English. As it were, my command of the indigenous Aymara language was nothing to write home about. I asked, “Eres su hermano? Cuantos años tienes?”

He was 7, and his little brother was 4. I had so many more questions – why were they out here in the streets of La Paz alone, where were their parents, where did they get their flowers from, and did I look like the type of guy who wanted to buy some flowers – but I guessed they had to get on with their jobs so I refrained.

I told myself that living with three women gave me reasonable cause to buy flowers (because they like such things, right?), and so I shelled out the one pesito. If having a job at an early age builds character, those kids are gonna have more than I ever will.

Lost and Lonely

The other day, Maria Renée (my Bolivian collaborator) and I were coming back from visiting hospitals in El Alto. We were already running an hour late for our lunch date with the people at the lab. Before our kombi stopped, we had already identified the connecting trufi that we needed to take to get to Calacoto. The trufi is just like a taxi, except that it seats five passengers so you carpool with strangers.

There were two people already inside, a man riding shotgun, and his wife was in the back. Maria Renée went to get in, but the lady pulled HARD on the door and said loudly in an American accent, “No! Sorry. NO!”. She caused Maria Renée to almost fall over.

A little delirious from the day’s journey, Maria Renée and I were taken aback. We stood at the curb and looked at each other, unsure what to do. It was so unexpected. The man had his nose buried in a map. I thought about offering help, but the lady had given off such a rude, unapproachable vibe, so I stayed silent.

Less than a minute later, the taxi driver kicked the couple out, and we in turn got in the taxi. Cue the righteousness indignation. I turned and looked at the lost couple and almost felt bad. The lady must have read in Lonely Planet about the criminal schemes that happen in the trufis. Maybe it had happened before and still happens on occasion, but this is how many Bolivians get to work and school every day.

How intimidating it can be to be a stranger in a strange land, and how funny those strangers must seem to the natives of that land.

The Sun Also Rises

Since 2am, we had been at the ancient ruins of Tiwanaku. We were awaiting the dawn of the winter solstice. The four of us huddled in the chill, hoping that the rays of the sun would shine through soon. My full winter wear was doing a tolerable job, but I would have liked to have had on one more layer. The Bolivians had said it would be freezing.

Our bottle of lemon soda and gin had been drained hours ago at the solstice concert. The music had been good with the haunting flute and the distinctive beat. But the people onstage had started to talk too much. After four songs and many words, we had left to find tickets to the ceremony.

Merrily, we had ambled through the shanty town that had sprung to life for the solsticio event. Groups of people stood around bonfires, some dancing to music. I was envious of their fires, even though the warmth of the gin concoction hadn’t left us yet. I was talking too much as we wandered. The Bolivians are kind but reserved and kept to their own groups. Among them was a man who was selling hats while wearing a USA hat and the cholita who sold us deep fried pasteles that didn’t taste like anything and another old lady who filled for us two old wine bottles with hot té con té. None were too amused by my cheery attempts at small talk, but they tolerated it. The lady with the té con té did start to tell me about how hard life was there. I had wanted to hear more but Adelit, the thin and wiry Bolivian, wanted to push ahead. We had to get in line early for the good viewing spots at the ruins.

We found the entrance to the ceremonial field. For 10 bolivianos each, Adelit bought four tickets of local class. “Say that you are from Santa Cruz and that you are Japanese,” Adelit whispered conspiratorially in Spanish. “The austriacas must say that they are from Tarija.” We made our way to the end of the line forming against the chain-link fence. The cold was beginning to creep to the bone. Adelit and I passed the two bottles of té con té between the two Austrian girls. The warmth of the liquid made the taste easier to bear but I still couldn’t get the thought of rubbing alcohol out of my mind.

“Que quieres comer?” Lisa, the petite blonde, asked me. I said salchipapas. The fried sausages and potatoes would be delicious at this hour. She smiled and left to buy the food with Antonia, her tall brunette compatriot. A few minutes after they left, Adelit became worried. He left to look for our female friends. Now, I was alone. Shivering, I clutched the bottle of té con té. The Bolivians around me in line didn’t look like they were interested in making a new friend. In any case the sleepiness was setting in for me. I hugged my knees and tried to think warm thoughts for the next half hour.

Adelit came back, unsuccessful. He sat down next to me and offered me a drag on his cigarette. The girls' presence had made him bubbly and jovial. Now, we stayed in silence, watching the fires dance at a distance as he took swigs from the bottle and smoked. When human figures approached in the darkness, he would call out for Antonia and Lisa. I could tell he was worried by their absence. He soon left again but returned empty-handed once more.

At quarter to five, the austriacas came back with two plates of anticuchos and two small plastic bags of warm liquid. It had been hard to find food, they said. Lisa took some sips from the straw coming from the bag’s opening. Then she thrust the bag in my direction. “Tomalo!,” she ordered. I gratefully grasped the warm bag with both hands and greedily swallowed some of the sweet liquid before returning it to her to drink. In turn she proffered her bowl of anticuchos and potatoes. “It’s not as bad as the name sounds,” she said in Spanish. I didn’t need much convincing with the smell of hot, fried meat wafting towards me. The chicken hearts were chewy and salty and pungent. I offered the bowl back to Lisa. Together the four of us polished off the hearts and potatoes and the liquid and the rest of the té con té. The line began to move forward.

Adelit was right. We did get a good spot on the field even though we had to wait longer in the cold for it. I wouldn’t really appreciate how good it was until later after dawn broke and the ceremony began. For now, during an hour that seemed like an eternity, our bodies pressed against each other's in the darkness, the four of us within the burgeoning crowd. I broke away from Antonia’s warm gloved hand only to snap photos of the first soft glow of the day. As we stood, Adelit frequently rambled on about things. The austriacas giggled. He must have been funny but I didn’t understand half of what was said so I stayed silent.

“Veinte minutos más”, said a man in the neighboring huddle. But he had claimed twenty more minutes until sunrise half an hour ago so I decided that he was only guessing. The gin, the té con té, and the staying up were having their effect on me. A few times I dozed off, still standing. The heralding glow intensified, illuminating the crest of the faraway mountain range. Still, the sun stubbornly remained out of view.

The processional began. I swayed slightly to the drumbeat as we watched the Bolivian flags go up. The national anthem was stirring as only national anthems can be, especially when everyone around you knows the words. I could now see more in the growing light. Throngs of people were amassed on the site of the ruins all around us. Some of the police guards who were keeping us separated from the actual ceremony were even taking their own pictures of the crowds.

The drums beat on, the songs changed, and a brilliant ball finally peeked above the mountains. You couldn’t look straight into it but that wouldn't stop your eyes from trying to as the ball lifted higher into the sky. We had been patiently awaiting the guest of honor, as people had done on this same field since centuries before. Now, it was here. The cold and darkness faded away. I glanced behind me and there was a sea of hands, now ungloved, thousands of palms upraised to the warming rays.

Such Great Heights

Nuestra Señora de La Paz is 3650 meters above sea level (that’s over 2 miles) and beautiful (especially at night). The current capital of Bolivia sits inside of a bowl created by the surrounding Andean mountains. I should post a picture of Mount Illimani sometime- it’s a gorgeous view from our apartment window.

I’m still starry-eyed and soaking everything in. We landed at LPB on June 2, in time for that Thursday’s sunrise. Because the airplane cabin had been a controlled environment, I had forgotten about the famed altitude sickness. The air of La Paz is cool, crisp, and very thin. Four hours into breathing it, I started to get a stabbing headache (contributing might have also been the fact that I was trying to cram in 16 hours of online lectures about statistics and research methods so I could focus on my actual project later, but this headache just did not stop). So yeah, this altitude sickness is a real thing. Wikipedia says that severe complications include pulmonary and cerebral edema (don’t judge- the “evidence-based literature” sites weren’t loading on our Internet connection here – imagine the pain of trying to watch those online videos). Paulina offered me some acetazolamide but I thought I’d try to walk it off.

Everything is just a little different here at these heights. For example, the water boils almost instantly, but things take longer to cook. I guess the MCAT had some useful information after all – but I had to dig deep to remember pressure and temperature relationships (Luckily, Rachel had been a physics major before she started at Rollins). Also, every so often, I’ll catch myself sighing. I think it’s because my body hasn’t entirely adjusted to the thinner air entirely yet so I have to keep taking a deep breath. It's not bothersome or anything, just something I notice sometimes. I tried to jog a few times at El Prado, the bustling main boulevard, but I could only go very slowly.

My project changed for the 3^rd time in the first week that I’ve been here. It was just as well, as my research mentors had warned me to take it easy the first few days because of “el altura”. Because three months isn’t all that long, I had wanted to hit the ground running. But perhaps these unexpected changes are for the better. Tomorrow, I’ll meet with more of our Bolivian collaborators at the Universidad Mayor de San Andrés to finalize the new plan for my piece of our work here. I’m excited and eager to start.