The flying menagerie
The airplane from Miami to Bolivia was a flying menagerie, a Hollywood back lot of costumed characters. Oddly clad Mennonite women wearing dumpy flowered dresses and head scarves, their men in straw hats and overalls. A commission of Japanese youth from the Buddhist Compassion Relief, dressed optimistically in white pants and blue shirts. (Those white pants will need relief and compassion soon.) Cholitas sporting full-skirted polleras, braids and bowler hats. The bright-eyed adventure tourist in newly bought hiking pants and shiny backpacks, eager to climb every mountain. And of course the fleshy-faced khaki pant-wearing American DEA contractors occupying first class, trying to look cool, yet fidgeting nervously.
The altitude wreaked havoc when we stopped briefly in La Paz, 14,000 feet. My pen exploded and my brain when soft. When I stumbled off the plane in Santa Cruz, now only 1000 feet above sea level, my ears were still filled with altitude. That made it easier to breeze through customs, since I couldn’t hear when they tried to stop me.
Entering Santa Cruz from the north by the airport took me through the outer rings of dust that surround the city like space debris. Ravaged countryside, industrial parks, drive-in love motels (where couples pull up into private garages in their cars and discreetly tryst). Then the graffiti appeared: “R” with a circle around it, “Resistencia al narco-comunismo”, “Evo es hijo de Chavez”. In a city that had always seemed too relaxed for strident political expression, these ubiquitous anti - Evo Morales sentiments raised my eyebrows. We entered the old city center, where Santa Cruz is still an overgrown jungle town. Lichen-covered ceramic tile roofs slouched into the streets, supported by spindly wooden pillars. Hand-painted signs decorated the walls.
It was early in the morning, and the hotels were full. I struggled to find a place to crash; after many tries I finally pounded on the entrance to the Residencial Bolivar. The door opened and I stumbled into the lush courtyard of the ancient house. The dry warm winds rustled through the palm trees, running through the leaf fronds like fingers. A startled toucan clicked its tongue. Ahh….I finally relaxed. I was in Bolivia.
I crashed and slept for hours.
