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Tag: Bolivia

The Loneliness of Travel

February 3, 2022 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 114

I have been lonely occasionally in my life. Though for the past decade and a half, the perfect companionship of my wife has easily pushed away those feelings.

But 17 years ago, I spent the better part of a year in the mountains of Bolivia. That time formed and shaped my life into what it is now, or at least greatly contributed to it. I lived with a few missionaries and other English-speakers for several months. And soon, some of them left to go back to the States for a while. I was left on my own, helping to look after a dairy farm owned and run by an American missionary.

My days were filled with occasional things farming. I milked a few cows, planted a bit of corn (by hand, dropped into a planting tube on the back of an ancient tractor), helped to maintain the water tower, and fought for my life against the evil of South American spiders.

Other Americans lived in the nearby town of Vallegrande. I saw them several times a week. But not always. The traveled around the area doing their own thing. And every couple of weeks, I walked into town and caught a bus (microbus-pronounced meecrowboos). After a relatively uncomfortable ride for three hours, the bus finally pulled into the Andes Mountain village of Pucará. American friends of mine lived there, teaching the Bible and raising four crazy boys (He now pastors a church in Montana where his family also has one of the largest goat farms in the State—it is as cool as it sounds). I relished the time I could get to their home and rile up their kids and eat their food.

But I wasn’t always able to go. Weeks would go by during which I would speak no English (my Spanish is terrible) nor see other expats. I was a stranger in a strange land. I remember waking on a Thanksgiving morning with plans to take the broken down 1975 Honda Super Cub into Vallegrande and have Thanksgiving dinner with an American family. It took me a minute to register the sound of heavy rainfall on the tin roof. I peaked outside and saw a raging downpour. No trip to town today.

I dressed and ran from my room, through the courtyard of the hacienda-style home, to the kitchen. My Thanksgiving would consist of oatmeal and coffee mixed with sweetened condensed milk. I felt a vague nagging at my heart. I was much too young to know what it was that I felt. Youth misses so much. Or maybe time gives us eyes to see. Either way, I know now what deep loneliness feels like. It’s an uncomfortable restlessness of uncertainty. It’s a nagging sorrow which can’t really be understood when you’re going through it. I spent my day sitting in the kitchen, listening to John Denver’s Fly Away, playing my guitar, and reading. Today, that sounds like a glorious afternoon. But then it felt like milquetoast. Loneliness, longing for the company of someone who understands your context and being, turns the good things into white gummy paste.

And I was only in Bolivia for the better part of a year. These feelings of loneliness and separation come to a head when an expat comes back to the States. It took me quite some time to feel like I was an American again.

I have expat friends who’ve experienced this far more than I. They feel a “cultural homelessness.” The idea is that as an American goes to another country to live or work, they begin changing to adapt to that new culture. But they are American and will never truly lose that. So they remain an outsider, no matter how much they change. And what if they go back to the States? They’ve become an outside there as well. They’ve lost a little (or a lot) of their own culture and adhered to another.

If the American is blue and the new country is yellow, after a while, the American turns green. He’s no longer blue and he’s no longer yellow. He’s a little bit of both, mixed together. He’s culturally homeless.

“Wow,” you say, “this is terrible. Why would you tell me this? People should just stay home then! Why would I want to go anywhere or see anything if I’m just going to be changed into a lonely green blob?!”

Because green isn’t all that bad.

The world needs more green people. Green can converse and understand the cultures of blues and yellows. These third culture people tie into the cultures of others. They inevitably speak two or more languages. This type of mixed identity fills the seat of the UN, sends ambassadors to foster peace deals, teaches the Bible in other languages, ends racism in the US, forms agreements for the safety and security of mankind, and loves their neighbor as themselves.

But as the great philosopher, Kermit the Frog once proclaimed, “it’s not easy being green.” The loneliness of travel can often be unbearable. Understanding simple things about a culture is exhausting. Just eating strange food strikes fear into many Americans. Try driving on the wrong side of the road; then come back to the States and get behind the wheel—lookout world. Talk to people; try not to offend them; be the butt of jokes when you make a language mistake. It’s lonely.

Kermit also said that, “green is the color of Spring, and it can be cool and friendly-like.” The rewards of travel greatly outweigh the woes. I have a friend who is moving back to Southeast Asia in a couple of weeks. To him and all the other brave souls out there building a better world, I say, “cheers!”

“You look beautiful. Green is definitely your color.”

anthony forrest 

Cassidy, the Kid, and Me

June 24, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 102

You’d think that I would not have much of a connection with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. You’d think that me and a couple of legendary outlaws share little to nothing in common. You’d think that stories of Wild West gangs marauding and pillaging the frontier, were nothing more than tall tales and romanticized legends cooked up by Hollywood movie makers and idealistic rememberings of years gone by.

And you would probably be right.

But my brain works wildly. And as much as I want to minimize the story I’m about to share, I simply cannot. To me, I share a connection through more than a century and a half with the two bawdy outlaws. They did the thieving, and I got the loot.

Once upon a time, in the Old West, when outlaws robbed banks and trains, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid led the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang in a series of crimes throughout Wyoming and Idaho and a ton of other places. Their fast shooting and even faster getaways are the stuff of Hollywood fodder. The 1969 movie, starring Robert Redford and Paul Newman, tells the highly apocryphal tale of the romantic American West. And those that remember the movie will recall that they eventually flee the US and head south, to Argentina and, eventually, Bolivia.

I’ve always loved that movie. It has possibly one of the greatest endings of all cinematic time. Cassidy and the Kid lay hunkered down inside a small shack in a tiny Bolivian pueblo. The Bolivian army has pursued them constantly. Our boys are tired, injured, at their end. And they know it. They lead us on with talk of further escape to further lands. But we all know what’s coming. This is it. Ever the optimists, they help each other up, and tie their guns to their hands. They jokingly note that their archnemesis isn’t out there with the Bolivian army and say, “for a moment there, I thought we were in trouble.”

They burst out of the shack to their gun-fiery end. It’s a moment of clarity for them and for the viewer. They knew they’d be gunned down. We knew it too. But the romantic ideal of going down in a blaze of glory rules the day. Dying was the least of their worries. How were they going to do it? Now that’s what matters.

This has stuck with me over the years. And I thought a lot about those two outlaws almost 16 years ago when I lived in Bolivia. My time was spent in various small towns in the Vallegrande province. I traveled back and forth between the larger town of Vallegrande and the smaller village of Pucara, where I stayed with friends and out of trouble (most of the time).

This was my first major international trip, and my longest. My dad gave me his old oil-skin fedora hat and I wore it with pride. Along with my long-sleeved shirts with the first few buttons undone and my ratty jeans, I imagined myself to be the next generation of Indian Jones. (A far cry, believe me)

All of that to say, I was in it for the adventure. Or as Indy would say it, “fortune and glory, kid, fortune and glory.”

Now, at the top of the hill in Vallegrande stood a German restaurant. You heard me. Or, at least, a German man owned it. Of course, in my mind, I thought this meant that he had escaped from Nazi Germany or had a relative that had done so. There was always talk of Nazis fleeing to South America. What can I say? I have an imagination.

Somehow, I cannot remember how, but I had heard that this German man had come across some buried treasure. I had no details other than that.

I got up my nerve, kickstarted the ol’ Honda scooter, and drove up the hill with some money.

I wanted in.

This man spoke no English.

I spoke no German.

We both spoke some Spanish.

I introduced myself and asked him about his recent discovery. He sat me down with a glass bottle of cold Coke, and shuffled off into the other room.

Soon, he returned with a small bundled towel and laid it on the table in front of me. He knew of a man building a house in a village about three hours away. This is the village of Postrervalle—or, the “last valley.” The road ends there. It is the last establishment surrounded by mountains.

At the start of the build, this man set to digging and laying the foundation of the new adobe home. To his surprise, his tools struck a chest hidden in the earth. They uncovered it out of the dry Bolivian clay. Though I didn’t see this chest with my own eyes, the German man told me that it was roughly 18 inches long and locked with a heavy lock. You know, exactly like you’d imagine buried treasure. The man was overjoyed and sold the contents to his moderate fortune. The German man now came into possession of a handful of the contents.

At this time, he opened with towel and displayed 24 silver coins, each dating in the late 1800s- early 1900s. The bluish silver gleamed with the Bolivian seal on the back.

“Who would bury a chest of silver?” I asked, staring at the coins.

Turns out, robberies and “wild west” style crimes were not isolated to the US. Many times, criminals would rob a bank and bury the loot for recovery later. That is, unless they got gunned down first. My mind raced. The only wild west outlaws I knew of in Bolivia were the leaders of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It took very little stretching to tie this lost, buried, and most obviously stolen treasure to those two infamous criminals. Clearly it was their doing. Cassidy and the Kid had robbed a Bolivian bank and stashed it all for later. But they had died before they could recover it. And now here I was: the boys robbed the bank, and I came to claim my share.

The German man and I made a deal and I walked out of there with 11 of the silver coins. Not a lot, but enough buried treasure to last me a lifetime. I fancied myself quite the adventurer. Cassidy, the Kid, and I had done it again.

The stolen money jingled in my colorful Bolivian bag as I slung it over my shoulders.

On went my oil-skin fedora.

And I rode off into the sunset on my little Honda scooter, the only surviving (honorary) member of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang.

anthony forrest

The Stories we Share

October 1, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 81

“You thought she was cute!” he barked.

“I did not!” I was not doing a very good job defending myself.

Devon was telling a story I’ve heard many times over. Its hilarity does not diminish with the telling.

We sat around the living room of an old farm house, laughing. I hadn’t heard or told or even thought about these stories in ages.

It’s the one about how he bribed me to talk to the attractive young lady working behind the counter at a coffee shop in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. I apparently had an enormous glob of whipped cream protruding from the end of my nose. This detail is debated by only myself.

“And then I slammed 50 Bolivianos on the table and told him,” Devon continued, pointing accusingly at me, “‘if you go up to the counter right now, I will pay for the coffee.’”

“So he grabs the money and rushes up to the counter.”

Everybody is roaring.

“He pays.”

“Comes back…”

Dramatic pause…

“…and it was still there!”

Perfect setup, timely delivery—Laughter abounded.

I fought hard to put up some kind of defense and fell horribly short. But it didn’t really matter. I was laughing too hard to blush.

Earlier that day, we took the exit for Lodge Grass, Montana on the Crow Reservation. My wife read off the directions from the text message Devon had sent.

“…turn right, and go over the railroad tracks. Climb the hill. The road will turn into dirt. Drive for a mile or so. You’ll pass three grain bins. Take the road to its end.”

Let’s just say that our friends live out of the way. I looked around. This part of southern Montana reminds me of another place. I met the Dosson family in Bolivia many years ago. It was high time for a visit.

Though I cannot pretend to read minds and hearts, I am sure that they would say their time in South America changed their lives. They lived there for several years. In fact, their children were just that, children. They’ve grown now and I can no longer hold my own against the lads (not that I ever could. But now all doubt is gone.) The boys have families, careers, passion, and pursuits of their own now.

But there we sat, in the farm house in a land of cattle, goats, farming, and western living. Their lives have taken them from one rural place to another. Anymore, we don’t have a whole lot in common. My wife and I live far different lives than they. But it doesn’t really matter. Our commonality lies not in lifestyles or pursuits. Our commonality lies in our shared past.

Sure, places connect us.

But not as much as the stories we share.                    

 

anthony forrest

Postrervalle

August 13, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Note the exquisite handwriting of 12-year-old me.

Travel Journal, 75

My thoughts take me to 1999. I’ve written about Bolivia a couple of times. But long before I lived there as a high-energy, guitar playing 18-year-old, my entire family spent a month in the town of Vallegrande, nestled in the Andes Mountains.

Dad, mom, sister, brother, and I packed up our 90’s clothes. Armed with a sparkling-new Sony Handycam Hi8 camcorder, we flew to the heart of South America. This would be a kind of survey trip to help our family decide on whether or not we would move there and become missionaries. Though life would take us in another direction, that first international trip helped to shape my life.

During our travels, we spent some time in the village of Postrervalle. The name translates to “the last valley.” It’s the end of the line; the quintessential middle of nowhere. Parts of Bolivia remind me of my own home state of Wyoming. It’s arid, desert-like, and has a sort of cowboy feel to it. We traveled there during Carnaval. This custom includes a weeklong celebration of indigenous beliefs mixed with assimilated pseudo-Catholicism. But mostly, it’s an excuse to party. For days on end, the music rarely stops. Alcohol flows. Food stands and vendors line the plaza.

And for some reason, I remember the rain and the mud…

We sit at a small plastic table, huddled close due to the cold. These parts of the Andes Mountains are cool this time of year. I smell the food cooking and have no idea what it is. But when my dad asks if I want the sausages hanging nearby, my instincts scream, “yes!” Soon, a plate of sausage, rice, potatoes, and salad arrive and I tuck in neatly. Even though I’ve been stuffing my face with candy, I can always still eat. My chocolate supply is running low. Earlier I bought a handful of chocolate sticks (which taste like low quality Easter chocolate) with little comic strips inside the wrapper. I clean my plate, but don’t eat my salad. Our family stays away from the produce. Dad says it’s because we don’t want to get sick. Fine with me. I didn’t want to eat my salad anyway. I’m 12. I want chocolate.

I finish my food and look out to the street. It’s only 4 p.m. and already dark. Actually, the whole day has been dark. The surrounding mountains hide the sun earlier than the true sunset. Above, black rain clouds mask the only remaining light. The foreign festival gives me an uncomfortable feeling.

Darkness sits in this valley like the smoke of a smoldering fire.

The day’s drizzle seems to have stopped, but the mud prevails. Our chilled bodies warmed, we walk down the muddy street laden with trash and running chickens. I remember the story that my dad’s friend told us around a bonfire last night. Apparently, the locals think that the house in which we are staying tonight is haunted. He talked about people hearing things in that house—sounds of strangers dragging one foot. That sort of thing. I don’t buy it. At least, that’s what I want everybody to think. In a place like this, who knows. Postrervalle used to be spiritually dark—witches and demons dark. That is, until he and his mission’s team brought the light of God. And that light has shone in the darkness since. But on a rainy day with foreign music and muddy roads, my mind tingles with hesitant curiosity.

Haunted, you say?

It’s night. I’m lying in a sleeping bag on a straw mattress in the haunted (?) house. Though we’ve all been in bed for hours, I hear the throbbing of the drums and the beating of the music in the town plaza. They’re celebrating. On and on they’re celebrating. And to me, every beat sounds like a stranger dragging his leg. I finally fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning with the twisted dreams of an imaginative 12-year-old.

But now it’s morning. The sun is shining. I look outside and see that it doesn’t look all that dark anymore. The mud still cakes the roads, but the music doesn’t play. I throw my sleeping bag and backpack into the rusty Toyota pickup. I eat some bread and a chunk of cheese as I climb onto the truck. And rolling down the muddy road home, I glance back at Postrervalle—that last valley. The end of the line.

You know what?

Now it doesn’t look all that bad.

But I know that night will come once again. The drums will beat. And then, at least in my mind, the ghosts will come out to play. The only cure for this darkness is the light.

I’ve been back to that village in the years following my first visit. And though the light continues to seep through the cracks in that dark place, the work in Postrervalle is far from over.

But that was over 20 years ago. Who knows what goes on now in the mountain village of Postrervalle, Bolivia?

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 20

July 4, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Everything Important

All six of us piled into the Bolivian taxi. The back row sat three. But it’s not like they have seatbelts anyway. The driver threw all of our belongings into the back and slammed the door. Most taxis here are white and in pretty rough shape. But the little Toyota hatchbacks seem unfazed and resilient. Riding in those cars, rocketing down the dirt or semi-paved city roads at ramming speed and not falling apart at every pothole, still shocks me. Streets, whether marked or unmarked by signs, flew past us as we merely honked through intersections and dodged fellow thrill seekers. Every ear was tuned to a steady stream of inordinate honking and crazy-loud blarings of accordions and flutes and guitars pouring from the radio (only piece of working tech in the car).

This was my 5th month living in Bolivia. And I love Bolivia. Vibrant and eclectic, Bolivian culture has no equal. Perhaps being locked in by five other south American countries has preserved its bold flavor. I can close my eyes and still see bright and colorful dresses. I hear flutes of many varieties. I smell the salteñas (a type of meat-filled pastry). And for some reason, the smell of burning propane reminds me of the propane mantle lanterns that gave off light. I was traveling and occasionally staying with, Devon and Jenny and their raft of boys (all of which behaved better than I, but that is a story for another time). We were in the city of Santa Cruz for a couple of days. The never-ending sea of paperwork demanded that we present ourselves in an official capacity. And after several hours of filling in forms and standing in lines, we were simply ready to get back to our rooms.

After arriving at our destination, we clambered out of the taxi, paid the driver, and watched him speed away in a cloud of dust. At that moment, Devon began spinning around like a dog chasing his tail.

“Where’s the backpack?” he choked.

All the color left his face as he realized that his backpack was behind the last seat, in the hatch.

“What was in it?” I asked.

“Our passports, our money, everything important!”

If you are reading this and wondering what could be the worst-case scenario for international travel, wonder no longer. The odds of the situation improving after you lose your passport and money are comically low.

But we knew a guy.

In fact, we knew the guy who was a driver of another taxi. And he knew the guy that ran the taxi dispatch. And the dispatcher knew all the taxi drivers. And they actually found our driver.

He returned the backpack, passports, money, and all.

And instead of going to the American Consulate, we just went home.

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 8

April 11, 2019 / / 2 Comments

Bird Water

We gazed back and forth—at the well, then up at the water storage tank. The only running water the farm had was a well system at the far end of a property. As water filled the well, a windmill pumped the water up and out, into a water storage tank 25-feet in the air. From there, the water gravity fed the Hacienda and the rest of the buildings.

 

For the past week, we had been experiencing reduced water pressure. And nobody knew why. So, there we stood, investigating. It was finally decided that the best course of action was to climb the tower and peer into the 600-gallon tank. We soon discovered that the tank was full of crystal-clear well-water. However, the two-and-a-half-inch pipe which fed the property was plugged.

 

Something was in there.

 

I might mention now that though my Spanish had improved greatly since I began living in Bolivia, there were still many words I did not understand. To make matters worse, the local dialect was awash with a rich Quechua vocabulary.

 

We both hung off the side of the sky-high tank trying to come up with a plan. It was decided that he would cut the pipe with a hack saw and I would hold my hand against the end of the pipe, holding back thousands of pounds of water.

 

Brilliant.

 

Surprisingly, it worked. Not because of my brute strength. But because of science reasons which to this day elude me.

 

As I gaped at my uncanny ability to stem this watery force of nature, I looked up and saw that my fellow tank repairer’s face turned an unpleasant shade of green. He looked up from the end of the pipe and coarsely whispered, “ch’uwaku.”

 

Not a Spanish word.

 

I scraped the bottom of my mind this new word and meaning. I asked for clarification and to my horror, found out that a bird (ch’uwaku) had died, been sucked into the tube, and evidently plugged our water source.

 

In silence, we finished repairing the tank. He disappeared and later returned with a jug of bleach. As he poured a ¼ cup into the tank, he looked up at me and said in a mix of Quechua and Spanish, ” bird water.”

 

 

anthony forrest 

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