Come Clean, Elvrum

It´s been the plan all along. Not a withdrawal from the Lake Titicaca foray, not a brash decision just to make light of some heady boast, but a well-tallied move befitting of two travelers who, let´s face it, are anything but typical. Little under a week ago, we slapped down the gravy and (sorry, Mom) bought motorcycles. Not rented -- bought outright. And if an oh-seven -- brand new! -- single-cylinder 125 cc can take me to even one rural village, dirt floors, thatched roof and all, then Lady Two Wheels is worth every dime. Even so, I say you can´t put a price on setting your own agenda. We´ve spent the past days landing very nice helmets, acquiring supplies (patch kit, spare tubes, etc.) and, most vital yet, getting comfortable in the saddle -- both rural and urban. So not to fret, especially to all the grandmothers in the audience. We´re doing this properly. Tomorrow, we get Bolivian license plates -- the best souvenir -- and soonafter we take to the road. It seemed important to bring up this whole escapade sooner than later. By the way, she´s light blue.

. . .Oh, right, I shaved my head right before leaving without showing anyone. My hair has been wayward before, sure, but never this cropped.

C'mon! Doing that then leaving for over two months isn´t funny! It´s hilarious!

Hiatus Day

From the strong-chinned investment banker (just finished ¨Bonfire of the Vanities¨) down to the salt of the earth, we humans are very similar. We eat a few meals, go to work, sleep away a third of the day, and if someone trips, you ask if they´re hurt and lend a hand up. Bolivians are no different, even more cordial that I anticipated. (Shorter than I expected, too. My offer at a pick-up game of basketball, billed as Muggsy Bogues vs. Izak the Goliath, still stands.) There´s fewer hassles than other Latin American countries: A soliciting vendor understands ´no thanks´ means just that. There hasn´t been any burgeoning prices contrived on account of my paler skin; I´ve even hung back at a hamburger stand only to hear a local get an identical price. No one is out to hang you up by your ankles to see what comes out. There is of course litter but what seems to be a concerted effort to consolidate that litter. Bolivia also has one the highest proportional native populations. A proud symbol displaying lineage is, get this, a hat -- and, yes, I´ll come forthright with it, I fancy myself a hat person. The men have your regular Fifties Era ¨Honey, I´m home!¨ Sinatra hat. The women are far more perplexing. Their keen derby-style bowlers (like Charlie Chaplain) seem to balance at the absolute precipice without ever shifting no matter how quickly they move nor tumbling off no matter how strong the wind. With no special clips, I just don´t understand it. Yup, not too different -- except Sunday. Bustling markets and noisy thruways cease. The sidewalks are barren. Only the churches shudder with activity. Welcome to Catholic Contry. I´ve met countless people who clock in a dozen hours a day, six times a week but no one -- not one -- that works all seven. Unless you plan to run willynilly through the deserted streets, it´s arduous to get anything done.

The Lone Ferry

Washington State has the only state-sponsored ferry system in the country, right? Leave it to a couple of Northwesterners to find the only state ferry in landlocked Bolivia.

North Meets South

It came and went. The Day of the Woman. Dia de la Mujere. With nary a clue, dropping into unassuming Cochabamba led, subsequently, right into one very agreeable holiday. Night. ¨What are you two doing back here?¨ says the toadfaced hostel deskman. ¨--Everyone is out tonight.¨ Shoo, fly. It´s true. The narrow, craggy sidewalks are swarming with vigor so we duck into the first joint we can find, one crowd to the next, if only to avoid spilling into the streets. The light is deep streetlight orange with matching dank tobacco-smoke air to boot. Anyone tending bar has three orders at once. Teenagers are trying to sell roses to anyone, everyone. And there´s the whitenoise acoustics of thirty conversations prattling on at once. We take a table against the wall for something to lean against and watch the spectacle. Right across the aisle? A bouquet of Cochabambinas nattering on and -- every so often -- glancing over at a pair of outtatowners. Andy gives the waitress a tap and a quick whisper in her ear. Moments pass, smiles continue to meet and ho!--the stunned masks cast across the entire table when -- voila! -- they´re assailed a round of drinks compliments from across the way. The waitress coyly points from whence they came. The jig is up. A boisterous hoist, ¨¡A Dia de la Mujere!¨ ¨To the Day of the Woman,¨ the tables braid together, and North meets South. Ah, surprise, surprise.