A Bolivian Odyssey

Sing, O Muse, of that choir which was never at a loss, which travelled far and wide after they had packed the famous hall of Chapin. Nine long days did they endure the siege of Final Exams, and many a brave GPA was sent hurrying down to Hades, but on the morning of the tenth day (as rosy-fingered Dawn drew back the curtains of a sleepless night for those for whom partying took precedence over packing) when the last items of dorm-room decor had been thrown into boxes and the last boxes thrown into summer storage, clutching only a suitcase or duffel bag in which they had salvaged a few choice possessions from the ruin, they set off in their coach bus over the wine-dark asphalt...

Exchanging our earthbound transport for the winged species at La Guardia, we flew to Miami and thence overnight to Santa Cruz, bypassing a scheduled stop in La Paz at the discretion of American Airlines- the implied political unrest not boding well for the highland leg of our tour (La Paz and Lake Titicaca). For the time being, though, we would be spending the first few days in the mission towns of the relatively undisturbed lowlands. A six hour bus ride from the airport took us to the Franciscan mission at Urubicha, where we spent the next two days milling around, playing soccer and frisbee with the children and sight-reading Handel and Vivaldi with the local choir and orchestra. At night we looked upwards and vainly tried to make sense of the unfamiliar Southern sky. There's something vaguely unsettling about being "under strange stars", but we admired the Milky Way for a while and eventually someone made a strong case for the Southern Cross (and a slightly weaker one for "Son of Scorpio").

Thursday, as luck or Providence would have it, was Corpus Christi, and we were able to stay for the Mass- and procession (I love Catholic countries!)- before heading off to our next destination, the Jesuit mission of San Javier. After two nights sleeping on the floor of a storage room in Urubicha, our hotel in San Javier was quite a step up- the downside being that there weren't any little kids running around to play soccer with. Our third and final mission town was Concepcion ("where life truly begins" -Rich) where, as in San Javier, we toured the mission and gave a concert following evening Mass. Here we faced a dilemma: we were scheduled to go on to La Paz, but the political situation had not improved, and while we would probably be fine in the city itself, we would have to drop our side trip to Lake Titicaca. We could find something else to do in La Paz for two days, or we could continue through the mission towns. We opted for the former, and that's how we ended up mountain biking down the "World's Most Dangerous Road" to Coroico, a small town over the mountains from La Paz, 64km northeast and 3600 meters down. Outfitted and chaperoned by "Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking" we set off from a bare and windswept plateau above the city into a series of sweeping mountain vistas (vistae?). This was more like it. My first impression of Bolivia had been that it was too flat (and dark, though that was the fault of the tinted windows on the bus.) The high peaks and deep valleys of the Cordillera Real in the morning sunlight more than made up for it, though of course I was too occupied in making sure that I didn't plummet headlong into aforementioned valleys to fully appreciate the grandeur. All too soon the asphalt ended and we found ourselves at the beginning of the WMDR itself, so named for the number and frequency of fatal accidents- not hard to believe, as we watched ponderous trucks and tour buses awkwardly navigate the narrow dirt road meandering into the distance, carved straight into the sides of the sheer cliffs that plunged to inestimable depths. "Don't worry, most of the accidents occur when people drive this drunk."

"Why would anyone drive this road drunk?"
"If you were sober you'd know better."

Cautiously we started off, but it wasn't long before a spill off the bike persuaded me to ride out the rest on the bus- not having ridden a bike since middle school, the WMDR was a bit much, and far too bumpy and dusty to be enjoyable. Whether I was really safer on the bus was debatable, but at least I could enjoy the view, which was pretty spectacular. We had left the stark highlands behind and were now in a dense subtropical forest, the southwestern border of the Amazon basin. A picturesque town perched on a hillside, Coroico could have passed for a town in Southern Europe, though the surrounding mountains were decidedly Andean. We crashed at the Hotel Esmeralda, feeling indescribably decadent as we entered our rooms to find them equipped with private balconies, hammocks, and (best of all) hot showers. Later, Emily tipped me off to the book exchange, offering intriguing titles such as "The Night Life of the Gods" and "What the Seers Predict for 1971" (sample prediction: the violent death of Fidel Castro). The next morning I got up early and hiked up the hill in search of an elusive waterfall vaguely indicated on the map- a vain search, as it turned out, though I was treated to an impressive chorus of dogs and roosters floating up on the morning breeze from the valley below. Returning to the hotel, I had breakfast on the porch, where we were treated to classical music of a vaguely apocalyptic vein (a Dies Irae, perhaps, I don't remember) from speakers which apparently doubled as a bees' nest. The bees didn't seem to mind, though we found the music amusingly incongruous as we admired the birds gliding lazily above the valley and the distant snowcaps occasionally visible through breaks in the clouds which clustered above the nearer hills.

After a brief cultural exchange and impromptu dance party with a group from the local Afro-Bolivian community, we hopped onto buses for the trip back up the Death Road to La Paz. That night was our final concert and official farewell dinner in deference to the seniors leaving a day early for pre-Graduation festivities back in Williamstown. The next day we were free to explore the city, dodging protests and residual tear gas, and that evening we had our unofficial farewell dinner at the Vienna Restaurant where Veda regaled us with tales from his childhood in a Buddhist commune. Our final Bolivianos spent, we traversed the urban obstacle course back to the hotel and packed for our 3AM departure, so timed in order to get us to the airport ahead of any blockades that might be set up later on. We made it onto the plane without incident and were soon on our way back home by way of Santa Cruz and Miami. National Treasure kept me awake for the first two hours (gotta love cheesy conspiracy theories- Jono, if he's reading this, should get a laugh out of it) and then I staved off the boredom by swapping my aisle seat for a window and spent the remainder of the flight contemplating the Brazil, Colombia and/or Venezuela, Jamaica, Cuba, and the intervening Caribbean. (Did I mention I'm also a big fan of clouds? I could watch those all day.) Landed in La Guardia, and thence home courtesy of Ellie and her brother, bound for Boston.

And that's it for now, though I might have some pictures to post later, and I'll probably elaborate on individual aspects as fancy strikes me or by request. 4:19 press return.