Going Up: Bolivia

As I have been a complete blogger-slacker the last week, here’s to cheers and a little catch-up...but really, can you blame me?  I am in South America!

If you were to look up the definition of a type A personality, you would find a proper photo of myself right next to it.  Planning, making sure everything is in line- the control aspect itself- drives my family crazy, as well as makes me a little loca.  Dad used to joke that if he moved something on my entry table three inches that I would notice the next time I walked by and move it back.

That’s all changed.  The biggest lesson I’ve learned in coming down here is that in South America you cannot have well-arranged plans.  You just have to be safe and go with the flow.  That’s exactly how I ended up in Bolivia...wait, Bolivia?  Weren’t you just in Peru? you are asking.  Here’s how this all happened:

Before the journey began, I had arranged to work for a bilingual school in Cusco, had a place to stay for free.  Everything was well-laid out, I was budgeted...then I got to Cusco.  Besides making it obvious he was trying to sleep with me, which creeped me out beyond belief, my jefe (boss) was a disorganized mess.  Day 1: Samantha goes into the school to co-teach with said jefe for a 3 hour jaunt in a local school.  Reality, jefe disappears, leaves Samantha to teach nine different classes of children ages three to six without any lesson plans, resources, books, nada...WHAT THE F?  Day 7: the jefe has new plans to have Samantha teach an English-exposure art class, so lesson plans are submitted, the sixteen children ages three to six show up...and the only supplies Samantha is provided are some desks and tables.  That’s right, an art class sans paper, crayons, music, games...have you ever tried to keep sixteen small children occupied for two hours?  Sorry, but the $5 I was paid for that two hours was not worth pulling my hair out for that guy.  See you later, Jefe!

Luckily for me, I’d made friends with enough locals that finding a job in a bar or picking up some English tutoring at night was not going to be a problem.  (Notice that the Type A is not freaking out right now.)  And just when I was printing out my resume and taking copies of my teaching certs to another language school, an Israeli friend from the hostel comes up to me and says, “We’re going to Bolivia, you should come.”

My reply? “Sure. When do we leave?”

Whhhhhhhaaaatttt?  Can we please go back and read that last statement?  I was being spontaneous?  I didn’t have a detailed, intricate itinerary spelling out my exact moves?  This is what I mean about South America changing you.  You plan to be safe, travel cheaply and with friends you meet along the way.  The experiences here are molding me, relaxing  me, lifting me to higher ground.

Quite literally.  This morning I woke up in La Paz, Bolivia, which is higher in altitude than Cusco.  I packed my bags, left a duffel in Cusco, and took an overnight bus to Puno.  Puno, on the edge of Lake Titicaca, is not much to write home about.  The scenery of the lake itself is beautiful, but a consequence of the exploitation of the culture of the natives living on the floating reed islands is that Puno is extremely touristy.  My Israeli friend, Shahar, and I took a morning boat tour after our all-night bus ride, out to the floating reed islands named Uros.  Long story short, natives made these floating reed islands and live on them now, and much of their income is now due to tourism.  It was interesting but having been off the beaten path for several days, it was odd to be a “tourist” again.  One day was certainly enough in Puno, and we took the afternoon bus to La Paz, Bolivia.

Or so we thought.  I knew things weren’t going well when my stomach started to buckle on me...as of yet, I haven’t had the slightest sign of any kind of traveller’s illness, which is pretty miraculous since I’ve been careless and slightly reckless...eating street food, putting things in my mouth, aka robins eggs off a street cart, that probably shouldn’t go there.

We were supposed to have a “semi-cama” bus, which means that it is a double decker bus with seats that recline half-way, and a bathroom.  Nope, we got a 1980’s bus with no bathroom.  Anyone who knows me knows that I drink liters of water a day...bad news bears when there’s no bathroom for over three hours.  When we finally got to the Bolivian border, besides nearly exploding from lack of facilities for hours, chaos ensued.  There was some kind of festival going on with hundreds of people about, and being a border, pick-pocketing, thievery and mugging are very common.  So we were ushered off of the bus while being told we had to abandon it altogether, had to grab all of our belongings and were swept through the noisy crowd, through three different immigration processes, and holding onto our pockets.  AS I pushed my way through the crowd, Shahar kept looking back at me to make sure I was safe- I felt like we were in a scene from a movie.  Finally we made it to the other side, people shouting at us to get in another van which would take us to our new bus...or so we thought.  Instead we were crammed into this little kombi of a van, mochilas (backpacks) thrown onto the roof rack. When I say tight squeeze, that would be a vast underestimation.  There is no torture like not being able to move, being car sick on windy Bolivian mountain roads in the middle of the night while the driver has a preacher on the radio blasting at us in Spanish.  At one point in the night the driver stopped, starting yelling at us to get out of the van immediately.  Next thing we knew, our driver, van and luggage are getting onto what I assume is a ferry (aka floating cardboard box, I am shocked the van made it across), and we are paying a boater to take us across the lake.  Apparently this happens all the time, but not being aware of it, the fact that we were puttering across a lake in Bolivia in the pitch black of the night was a little beyond ridiculous.  As miserable as the night was in times, we were all laughing about it the whole way...

...and this is what I mean about South America changing me.  I may never be the most spontaneous, relaxed person, but this feels right at the moment.

xx from Bolivia.  Where to next?  Flying by the seat of my pants!

Getting High in Cusco

Runner’s high that is.  Living in high altitude has it’s perks: feeling winded when you walk up a flight of stairs, flat hair, dry skin, and an incessantly dry mouth.  Due to the lack in oxygen at this level of nearly 14,000 feet above sea level, your heart pumps faster and your lungs work harder to deliver the oxygen needed to your tissues.  After a few days your body begins to compensate by producing more red blood cells to carry the oxygen needed- hence more issues with viscous (thicker) blood, and so forth.  But eventually you are supposed to acclimatize and feel somewhat normal again.

Athletes around the world train in high altitudes in order to enhance their performance at lower altitudes, although the effects of more red blood cells (and greater capillary density in your tissues, therefore more oxygen and less fatigue when performing) usually dissipate within a few days.  I, however, am no professional athlete, I certainly don’t have a coach, and I am not here to “train.”

So how do you begin running again in high altitude?  I gave myself ten days to buff up on my RBC’s, trying to keep myself super-hydrated and building up my daily walks and hikes to a point where I felt maybe not quite as winded as my initial days here.  So today was the big day: the goal was to venture out in running tights, Baltimore t-shirt and ipod loaded with “please don’t die going up the Cusco hills in front of hundreds of tourists” motivational songs and attempt a run.

It. Felt. Amazing.

Well, that’s not completely the truth.  I nearly did die going up the Cusco hills, which I chose because they have much less foot and vehicle traffic- running through the streets here is constantly stop and go with people and cars.  My lungs felt like they were going to explode.  My heart was beating at about 200 bpm after only a few minutes of jogging.   But once I got into the swing of things, I ran up to the entrance of the Sacsayhuaman ruins, looped around some back roads, then headed home through the Plaza de Armas.

Plodding along on the dusty back roads, the euphoric runner high that I am so addicted to re-emerged after lying dormant for almost three weeks.  Every time I go out for a run, I remember why I love it so much.  Time to think, time to process what is going on in my life, even time to just tune out the noise in my head and focus on pushing my body to it’s physical limits.  I can’t explain it; it just feels damn good.

There is also no better way to take in the scenery that is the ancient Andean town, the “navel of the mountains,” so called by the Incas, than by foot.  It’s quiet and peaceful on the outskirts of town, locals scurrying about their daily chores.  I appreciate more and more the beauty that is the Andes each day I am here.

The most difficult part of this morning’s run was getting past the idea that I look completely out of place.  Imagine being in a town full of tourists and locals, perusing store fronts, selling el menu del dia...then this loca gringa comes running by.  I am sure it was a sight to see...locals yelling at me, “Run gringa run!”

I came back dusty, sweaty, lungs exploding, but...

...la gringa está corriendo!