Bolivian Journal 8, November 8, 2005
Welcome to Edition 8 of the Bolivian Journal
In this edition I will relate a small part of our adventure.
Two weeks ago we took a trip to Santa Cruz. After Sunday supper we went to the bus terminal to buy our tickets early, reserving front seats for the next day trip. We were successful in part as we booked to two left front seats for Susan and Anna and the widow seat behind them for me. We were so eager to see another part of Bolivia that we decided that we would take the Sunday overnight bus, saving ourselves a day of travel and gaining on extra day in Santa Cruz. We were informed that it would be a nine hour trip leaving at 10:00 and arriving at 7:00 am. All appeared to have started well. However, I soon discovered that it would not be as pleasant a trip as expected. Next to me sat a man who was a heavy smoker and although it was a no smoking bus he took advantage of every bathroom and food stop along the way to light up, puff out and then climb aboard the bus. The net result was that he and his clothes were baptized in cigarette smoke and smell. For a non-smoker like me it is torture to have to have to share side by side seating in the presence of this pervasive cigarette odor. Non smokers please dislike me, ignore me or forgive me for any offence this brings to you. I thought at first that I might witness to the man so that he might experience a change of heart and a change of habit. Even if the life transformation didn’t that night perhaps I could prevent another non smoker being victimized on another occasion. Since the stranger spoke only Spanish and I, in terms of effective witness, spoke only English the possibility of spoken witness went up like smoke. I realized that I would have to witness with my actions which meant sitting in silent, smelly suffering for nine hours. Such was my fate. This would have been the end of it but for the Susan’s first question next day after a nap to catch up on bus lag. “Do you have any itching or bites?” she asked. Fleas in Spanish are “pulgas”. We traced our symptoms down to the suspicion that the man on the bus had left me living, odorless witnesses of the trip we had enjoyed together. Chalk it up to experience. It is all part of the volunteer missionary adventure.
We as a family agreed on some of our first impressions of Santa Cruz. These impressions are relative to our experience of Cochabamba. Santa Cruz has no easily discernible orienting features: no high-rises visible to all, no ocean, no Christo to look up to (what in could be worse than this?), and no mountains defining the edges of the city. In the city it felt as if there is no north, south, east or west. Cochabamba has the Christo to look to for direction (what better in life than this?), in addition to the mountains and hills on the margin of the city. It is easy to find your bearings here much like it is in Victoria or Vancouver or St. John’s. Santa Cruz gives the appearance of being a wealthy city. There are fewer buses, taxis and trufies but more SUV´s and newer model cars than Cochabamba. In comparison, Santa Cruz also has larger and newer buildings – homes, hotels, restaurants, tourist attractions and entertainment spots. Cochabamba doesn’t have the same atmosphere of prosperity. Still, in both cities the poor are in evidence for those with eyes to see. The weather in Santa Cruz is not as agreeable as Cochabamba. The Santa Cruz climate this time of year is hot and humid. The daytime high is 30 to 35 while the night time low is around 20.The relative humidity ranges around 53%. Susan woke up one night and watched, from the bed, a tropical rain, lightning and thunder storm that last five hours, from 2am to 7am. The storm was unlike any storm either of us had seen before. Even I woke up for part of it! This time Susan could have stayed up reading without turning the lights on! That Susan did not read a book during the night, even with all the light, is an indication of what a spectacular sight the storm was. In Cochabamba at this time of year the daytime high is between 20 and 25 while the nighttime low is about 13. It is not nearly as humid, with 29% relative humidity. Considering these differences Susan, Anna and I decided that we prefer Cochabamba. I see this preference not only as a reflection of our likes and dislikes but as a sign that in our time here Cochabamba as become home sweet home for us. Chalk it up to experience. It is all part of the volunteer missionary adventure.
The return journey was a surprise. We went the day before and reserved the front seats. This time we were told that all the buses were routed via the old road, el camino antiguo. On hearing this news we looked at each other in puzzlement, asked the ticket agent a few questions in Spanish, listened to his reply, thought we understood him, believed that all buses from Santa Cruz to Cochabamba went by the old road, and accepted our destiny. The journey would last 13hours, departing at 9am and arriving at 10pm.
We boarded the bus the next morning. Within an hour after leaving Santa Cruz we began to climb and we did not stop climbing for another 8 hours. From this point on we never looked back and seldom looked down. Some times we climbed gradually and at other times it seemed like the pilot, or rather driver, was pulling back on the steering wheel to gain elevation. The road followed the contour of the mountains with all their twists and turns. The short paved portions of the road were at the beginning and end, but in between these two extremities all was gravel. There was no shoulder along either the inside or the outside or of the road. On the inside the terrain ascended to the peaks and on the outside it descended into the abyss with jungle or tiny farms and villages visible in the distance. Guard rails were only a distant memory of BC. Often we would pull out to pass and squeak by a slow moving transport truck. Alternately we would squeeze over to make way for trucks or buses careening downhill. There were grave or memorial markers of the way to remind us that others had passed this way before us. I alternated my activity between praying to the Lord and talking to myself. I keep reassuring myself that the drivers were men who were raised in this mountainous country. I could be reassured that they were not closing their eyes even though I was closing mine. Looking back on the journey, we could have been blazing a new trail up Macchu Picchu in Peru. All this is saying something since it come from one who grew up with one leg shorter than another on the slopes of the North Shore of Vancouver, who negotiated the old road to Whistler in the winter, who traveled the Fraser Canyon with Hell’s Gate, and was comfortable with the highway through the Rockies. Even though we safely reached our destination that night, I found it unbelievable, even laughable that the Bolivian Government should allow public transportation under such rugged condition. The laugh was on me when the next day I learned that a storm had washed-out a bridge on the new road, causing the rerouting of traffic via el camino antiguo. Thanks to the Bolivian government. Chalk it up to experience. It is all part of the volunteer missionary adventure.
In the next edition I hope to tell you about the ministry English congregation of Calama Baptist.
Keep up the good work. Fight the good fight. Trust in the good Lord.
Every blessing in Christ,
Kent
To see more photos click on:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/Slideshow.jsp?mode=fromshare&Uc=ahf9qs9.4ncgdzl&Uy=-avathu&Upost_signin=Slideshow.jsp%3Fmode%3Dfromshare&Ux=0
In this edition I will relate a small part of our adventure.
Two weeks ago we took a trip to Santa Cruz. After Sunday supper we went to the bus terminal to buy our tickets early, reserving front seats for the next day trip. We were successful in part as we booked to two left front seats for Susan and Anna and the widow seat behind them for me. We were so eager to see another part of Bolivia that we decided that we would take the Sunday overnight bus, saving ourselves a day of travel and gaining on extra day in Santa Cruz. We were informed that it would be a nine hour trip leaving at 10:00 and arriving at 7:00 am. All appeared to have started well. However, I soon discovered that it would not be as pleasant a trip as expected. Next to me sat a man who was a heavy smoker and although it was a no smoking bus he took advantage of every bathroom and food stop along the way to light up, puff out and then climb aboard the bus. The net result was that he and his clothes were baptized in cigarette smoke and smell. For a non-smoker like me it is torture to have to have to share side by side seating in the presence of this pervasive cigarette odor. Non smokers please dislike me, ignore me or forgive me for any offence this brings to you. I thought at first that I might witness to the man so that he might experience a change of heart and a change of habit. Even if the life transformation didn’t that night perhaps I could prevent another non smoker being victimized on another occasion. Since the stranger spoke only Spanish and I, in terms of effective witness, spoke only English the possibility of spoken witness went up like smoke. I realized that I would have to witness with my actions which meant sitting in silent, smelly suffering for nine hours. Such was my fate. This would have been the end of it but for the Susan’s first question next day after a nap to catch up on bus lag. “Do you have any itching or bites?” she asked. Fleas in Spanish are “pulgas”. We traced our symptoms down to the suspicion that the man on the bus had left me living, odorless witnesses of the trip we had enjoyed together. Chalk it up to experience. It is all part of the volunteer missionary adventure.
We as a family agreed on some of our first impressions of Santa Cruz. These impressions are relative to our experience of Cochabamba. Santa Cruz has no easily discernible orienting features: no high-rises visible to all, no ocean, no Christo to look up to (what in could be worse than this?), and no mountains defining the edges of the city. In the city it felt as if there is no north, south, east or west. Cochabamba has the Christo to look to for direction (what better in life than this?), in addition to the mountains and hills on the margin of the city. It is easy to find your bearings here much like it is in Victoria or Vancouver or St. John’s. Santa Cruz gives the appearance of being a wealthy city. There are fewer buses, taxis and trufies but more SUV´s and newer model cars than Cochabamba. In comparison, Santa Cruz also has larger and newer buildings – homes, hotels, restaurants, tourist attractions and entertainment spots. Cochabamba doesn’t have the same atmosphere of prosperity. Still, in both cities the poor are in evidence for those with eyes to see. The weather in Santa Cruz is not as agreeable as Cochabamba. The Santa Cruz climate this time of year is hot and humid. The daytime high is 30 to 35 while the night time low is around 20.The relative humidity ranges around 53%. Susan woke up one night and watched, from the bed, a tropical rain, lightning and thunder storm that last five hours, from 2am to 7am. The storm was unlike any storm either of us had seen before. Even I woke up for part of it! This time Susan could have stayed up reading without turning the lights on! That Susan did not read a book during the night, even with all the light, is an indication of what a spectacular sight the storm was. In Cochabamba at this time of year the daytime high is between 20 and 25 while the nighttime low is about 13. It is not nearly as humid, with 29% relative humidity. Considering these differences Susan, Anna and I decided that we prefer Cochabamba. I see this preference not only as a reflection of our likes and dislikes but as a sign that in our time here Cochabamba as become home sweet home for us. Chalk it up to experience. It is all part of the volunteer missionary adventure.
The return journey was a surprise. We went the day before and reserved the front seats. This time we were told that all the buses were routed via the old road, el camino antiguo. On hearing this news we looked at each other in puzzlement, asked the ticket agent a few questions in Spanish, listened to his reply, thought we understood him, believed that all buses from Santa Cruz to Cochabamba went by the old road, and accepted our destiny. The journey would last 13hours, departing at 9am and arriving at 10pm.
We boarded the bus the next morning. Within an hour after leaving Santa Cruz we began to climb and we did not stop climbing for another 8 hours. From this point on we never looked back and seldom looked down. Some times we climbed gradually and at other times it seemed like the pilot, or rather driver, was pulling back on the steering wheel to gain elevation. The road followed the contour of the mountains with all their twists and turns. The short paved portions of the road were at the beginning and end, but in between these two extremities all was gravel. There was no shoulder along either the inside or the outside or of the road. On the inside the terrain ascended to the peaks and on the outside it descended into the abyss with jungle or tiny farms and villages visible in the distance. Guard rails were only a distant memory of BC. Often we would pull out to pass and squeak by a slow moving transport truck. Alternately we would squeeze over to make way for trucks or buses careening downhill. There were grave or memorial markers of the way to remind us that others had passed this way before us. I alternated my activity between praying to the Lord and talking to myself. I keep reassuring myself that the drivers were men who were raised in this mountainous country. I could be reassured that they were not closing their eyes even though I was closing mine. Looking back on the journey, we could have been blazing a new trail up Macchu Picchu in Peru. All this is saying something since it come from one who grew up with one leg shorter than another on the slopes of the North Shore of Vancouver, who negotiated the old road to Whistler in the winter, who traveled the Fraser Canyon with Hell’s Gate, and was comfortable with the highway through the Rockies. Even though we safely reached our destination that night, I found it unbelievable, even laughable that the Bolivian Government should allow public transportation under such rugged condition. The laugh was on me when the next day I learned that a storm had washed-out a bridge on the new road, causing the rerouting of traffic via el camino antiguo. Thanks to the Bolivian government. Chalk it up to experience. It is all part of the volunteer missionary adventure.
In the next edition I hope to tell you about the ministry English congregation of Calama Baptist.
Keep up the good work. Fight the good fight. Trust in the good Lord.
Every blessing in Christ,
Kent
To see more photos click on:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/Slideshow.jsp?mode=fromshare&Uc=ahf9qs9.4ncgdzl&Uy=-avathu&Upost_signin=Slideshow.jsp%3Fmode%3Dfromshare&Ux=0
posted by Bibliomaniac | 7:38 a.m.
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