To Cochabamba We Go

This post is a bit belated (as I arrived safely in Sao Paulo yesterday evening), but I wanted to make sure, really for the sake of posterity, that I recorded my experience in Cochabamba, a city approximately an 8 hour busride southeast of La Paz.

I was excited for the trip largely because it would allow me to both see another city in Bolivia as well as get a feel for the countryside, something that wouldn't have been possible by plane. The bus terminal was about a 15 minute walk uphill (shit...) from my hotel, so the "convenience" helped me convince myself that getting out of La Paz, at least for a couple of days, was necessary. I certainly would not regret this decision.

The countryside was of a beauty that you would find in some classic novel of South America (think Conrad's "Nostromo"). It's funny doing all of this alone (well, not really alone, but without anyone you know) because in the downtime, your mind starts to wander a little bit. Looking at so much countryside I found myself thinking how someone more articulate than me (like an author) would describe the scene. What kind of words would they use? I thought about words like "sprawling" "scorched" "abandoned" "neglected" "soft" and "dry." My mind wandered further and I would pick out a place, miles away, and imagine what is was like living there. We would go miles without seeing a structure, then you'd glimpse a man or woman or a couple of sheep, literally in the middle of nowhere, and I would wonder what their life was like. Where were they going?

Topographically, the countryside varied from fertile to parched, where you couldn't imagine there ever having been a drop of moisture in the earth--though the deep crevasses representing dried river/creek beds told another story. After miles of pure hills you would rise over the top of one and there would be a single house, or two houses or even a small community. Nothing larger than that. And it was mostly the same; small makeshift homes with a clay/mud surrounding wall or, occasionally, a cement wall. Whenever you happened upon a community, which from a passing bus looked more like a ghost town, there were three things that you could count on: stray dogs, soccer fields (two structures resembling goals on a flat surface) and a church (always the most developed edifice).

Though the 8 hours didn't pass quickly, the time was not on my mind. Privileged with a window seat, while not asleep, I understood the author's use of the verb "drink" when describing how a pair of eyes will take in a scene; at times I would pull my gaze away from the countryside, eyes ringing with a dull pain because I had not blinked in minutes. There was so much to see and wonder about. In the middle of nowhere you would see foot high walls surrounding a piece of land; why are they even there? Property? Maybe, but it's the middle of nowhere. Farmland? Maybe, but the earth had long since been sucked dry of any sort of moisture.

While not focused on what was outside the bus, I found my attention taken by what was going inside the bus. Interestingly enough, I think we saw a pair of the best D-level movies I've ever seen. The first was a Jet Li movie entitled "Contract Killer" which chronicled the protagonist's (Li) rise to become the King of Assassins. Very nice. The second was a real classic whose title I never saw but featured a girl who continues to inject herself with a fluid that prevents her from transforming into a werewolf until finally she allows herself to transform in an effort to stop another werewolf that keeps on killing. Three thumbs up!
The last movie is one that actually shook the passengers out their collective comatose as it was the movie based on Evo Morales' life story. It was interesting to watch the change in reaction. Passengers who had been lazily viewing the previous two films (as there was nothing else to do on the bus) immediately appeared more focused; parents who had been allowing their children to sleep on the busride called the youths to attention. During funny parts the entire bus would chuckle; in the tense moments, you could feel the silence. It was a shared experience, the type of moment that you will have in a movie theatre (with the right movie of course), which helped me gain a bit of insight into what Morales and his story means to Bolivians.

Arriving in Cochabamba felt like arriving in another country. The weather was warmer. The population (at a glance) was more diverse. Even the layout of the city was different from anything I had seen in La Paz. There was a fraternity/sorority parade in the leadup to a festival held two days later and from the music and the dancing, Cochabamba had a rhythm so different from La Paz that you would think that you were somewhere completely different. Having been confused by La Paz for my first few days, Cochabamba made sense. I gained my internal security in Cochabamba in a matter of hours, while La Paz tooks days. While only planning on staying in Cochabamba for two days, I felt like I could spend months. And, interestingly enough, it made me genuinely appreciate La Paz. Funny how that happens.

Cochabamba was a blitz, and I would have liked to stay longer, but the narrowness of the window of time forced me to explore the city. Over the course of a single day I visited specific destinations and I wandered. I got empanadas from a lady on the street (not the best...) and some of the best fresh-squeezed orange juice I've ever tasted for about 15 cents. I watched the parades down the street, occasionally asking the bystander next to me which fraternities/sororities/universities were represented.

The picture accompanying this post captures one of the most exciting moments of my short trip. Informed by a friend (Sonia Torrico, '06) who is herself from Cochabamba that there is a Christ Statue in Cochabamba (to be precise, the highest standing Christ Statue in the world) I decided this was a site worth seeing. However, when I arrived at the bottom of the hill, I saw that the lift was under repair. My spirits sank a bit until, squinting my eyes against the sun, I saw that there was a narrow (and almost imperceptible from where I was standing) staircase that ran up to the top of the hill with the statue. Without thinking twice I began up the hill to the staircase. Understanding that I'm in pretty good shape, I figured that this shouldn't be too difficult a task, and surely, the view from the top would be worth breaking a few drops of sweat.

1500 vertical steps later, I staggered/crawled up the top step, almost keeling over before I reached a bench on which to sit down. The heat, in combination with the altitude in combination with the steepening of the staircase approximately 2/3 of the way up in combination with me not being in as good of shape as I had previously thought had made the trip a wee bit more difficult. In fact, had it not been for the small Cochabamba resident who start right after me, I perhaps may not have made it (ok, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic). What started out as a touristic walk up a set of stairs (and would have turned into, perhaps, a dejected, exhausted Chas) became a marathon of sorts. Out of breath, glancing over my shoulder, I stopped only when he stopped. When he started doing the steps two at a time, I did them two at a time. My brain and my lungs would be telling me to take a break; my competitive drive would tell them to shut up.

At about step 1300 he passed me (I'm sure he was satisfied), though even then I keep pushing. Now he was my rabbit. I pushed myself harder, trying to make up lost ground. I measured the distance in vertical steps. He had about 20 on me, all I had to do was cut that to 15....then 10. I came as close as 7, but he was not going to be overtaken. He had me and we both knew it.

Recovering my breath (sorta) after a few minutes I walked over to where he was and congratulated him; he looked at me puzzled (my Spanish was, for a rare moment, perfect, so I think he was just trying to play it cool, having pulled off a stunning, come-from-behind victory). We chatted. He grabbed some water. I tried to catch my breath and stop pouring sweat into my already soaked shirt. Then he took my picture.