Picture this scenario: You've just come home for siesta from a long morning of milking cows and shaking hands. You can already taste the peanut soup that awaits you, but you wisely detour to the bathroom to wash your hands. Alas, nothing comes from the tap but the familiar hollow gurgling sound that means the water has been cut off. How will you cleanse the disease-wielding bacteria from your grubby little fingers before lunch?

Never fear! I proudly present to you... the TIPPY TAP! Ta-DAAAAA! I didn't invent it, but I wish I had. You're probably thinking, "Gee, Sarah, why are you so excited about an empty two-liter bottle? Just recycle it already."

No no, my friends. Always preferable to recycling is reusing, and with a little strategic cutting you can transform this two-liter into the solution to your handwashing grief. The label becomes a convenient mounting string, and the bottom becomes a soap dish! The next time you have water, fill it up and hang it in the bathroom. Loosen the cap and a trickle of water is released. Adjust cap to achieve desired flow. We recommend a gentle trickle for conservation purposes because, let's face it, who knows when the water will come back?

"But, Sarah!" you say. "What about the unsightly puddle your Tippy Tap left on my bathroom floor? What if someone should slip and fall? I'll be sued for sure!" Have no fear, boys and girls. In Bolivia nobody would sue you for that.

But to solve your puddle problem, I now present to you... the GIANT SQUEEGEE! Lovingly and descriptively known as a goma, this device will divert the dangerous puddle to your floor drain (with which every Bolivian bathroom comes equipped), averting the impending crisis. And the goma is multifunctional! This amazing tool, coupled with a rag and a little of your exertion, will mop your floors!

I am about to apply the goma-rag combo to my nasty floor. I committed the horrible error of not sweeping for a week (GASP!!!) and this is what the broom gathered up. I'm considering planting a tree. This mound is the reason every Bolivian housewife wakes up at the crack of dawn and cleans every surface in her house. My host mom goes so far as to sweep the dirt courtyard in a vain attempt to keep the enemy out of her home. If you know me at all you've probably guessed that I do not take part in the futile ritual with such frequency. I try for twice a week, making the giant dirt pile a familiar sight, and I probably goma-mop every two weeks. It will be nice to return to a land where carpeting is a good idea, but I will miss my beloved Tippy Tap.

After an indescribable vacation, I've decided not to describe so much as simply show you my experience. And after this, I want to hear no more complaints that I don't post enough pictures.

To fulfill Steve's final wish before leaving South America, we decided to trek to Machu Picchu, "The Lost City of the Incas." But rather than use the well-trodden Inca Trail, a tip from a fellow volunteer put us on the three-day trek through the Lares Valley. Whereas 500 tourists use the Inca Trail every day, our companions were Peruvian children to whom we gave bread and school supplies as they followed us down the path.

Please take note of the wide open spaces and lack of 499 gringos walking up the trail ahead of me. At the top of the waterfalls is our campsite for the first night.

We camped among sheep, llamas, and horses. Over that ridge, masked by the fog, is a beautiful lagoon. And to further to the right...
Our bathroom! Thanks to Susan for the demonstration.

Here's a view of the lagoon from the other side. Our campsite was just over the ridge above the reflection of the mountain peak.

In case you were wondering how we did all this strenuous hiking with camping gear and food and backpacks, here it is. Although we take the road less traveled, like true gringos we still hire people to carry our crap.

The temperature? Cold. Actually we hiked through a very wide range of climates, but the first two nights were FREEZING. Look how much joy Steve is getting from this warm bottle of water in the morning.

A lot of what made this trip so special for me was spending one last week with Steve (of the Steve-Winston-Sarah recycling trio). This picture is of a little hike we took together after lunch on the second day and the amazing snowy mountain view shared only by us. That made me happy.

You know what else makes me happy? Llamas on the trail!

And good food. Our cooks were amazing and prepared for us some of the best food I have eaten in the last two years. They even made us personalized pancakes on the last morning!

Finally, after a very comfortable night in a hotel, we reached Machu Picchu as the sun rose over the mountains and gradually illuminated the impressive ruins. Built in the 1400s at an altitude of 8000 feet, its exact function is unknown, though some think it may have served as a royal estate and religious retreat. Most of the structures are built of granite blocks fitted together perfectly without mortar. Special care was given to ensure this exact fit, although none of the blocks are the same size and some have as many as 30 corners. In the religious sectors especially, the joints are so tight that even the thinnest of knife blades cannot be forced between the stones. Another unique thing about Machu Picchu is the integration of the architecture into the landscape. Existing stone formations were used in the construction of buildings, sculptures are carved into the rock, water flows through cisterns and stone channels, and temples hang on steep precipices.

Forgotten and deserted for unknown reasons, Machu Picchu was rediscovered in 1911 by Yale professor Hiram Bingham. After clearing off the jungly overgrowth, little else was done to restore the constructions to their splendor. All stones are original, and only the grass roofs have been added.

After our tour of the ruins, we climbed the tall peak, Waynu Picchu, in the background of the first ruins picture and got a glorious aerial view of the ruins and surrounding mountains.

Then, tired of being tourists, Steve, Susan and I did some exploring of our own. It soon started to rain, scaring the other gringos away and leaving us in relative solitude and with free reign of the truly magestic setting. Not only were we able to soak in the awe and wonder at our own pace, but we also had the chance to spot some wildlife inhabiting the ancient rooms.

Okay, so it's not too hard to spot a llama, but this little bugger, the viscacha, is a little bit stealthier. He thinks we think he's a rock. This little marsupial is quick and evasive and inhabited many of the regions on our trek, though I think I saw one of them on the trail.

Anyway, if you're going to visit Machu Picchu, I highly recommend ditching your tour guide when you've gotten as much out of him or her as you can. The ruins are worth some personal exploration and meditation, if you're into that.

As for me, I continue to meditate on my mouse-removal strategy. Speaking of stealthy rodent-like critters, I returned home to Valle to find that The Mouse had completely ignored my ingenious trap. Back to the drawing board...

The first stop on my vacation was the famous Bolivian mining town of Potosí. Our bus rolled in from Tarija in the wee hours of the morning, we took a quick nap, and we were ready for the mine tour at 9am. Our miner-turned-tour-guide, Juan (pictured to the right with dynamite), brought us first to a small store where we purchased gifts for the miners including coca leaves, 96% alcohol (“puro.” Not 96 proof... 96 percent), and $1.35 sticks of dynamite. Then we got suited up and headed out to Cerro Rico (“Rich Hill”).

The Spaniards, in a successful attempt to increase productivity among the highly-superstitious indigenous workers, placed Tío, a god of the underworld, at the mine entrance. Before each workday, the miners pay their respects to both the statue and the Pachamama (“Mother Earth”). We also honored Tío upon our entrance, offering puro and coca to both of his arms, his giant erect penis (symbolizing fertility), and the ground at his feet (Pachamama) and placing a lit cigarette in his mouth. After we each offered a swig to Pachamama and took one ourselves, we entered the depths of Cerro Rico.

At one time, Potosí was the world’s number one supplier of silver and was more populous than both Paris and London. It is said that, with the products of Cerro Rico, one could build a bridge from Bolivia to Spain out of silver... and a bridge back out of skeletons. During the Spanish colonial period it is estimated that over eight million miners died in these narrow, low passageways.

Unfortunately, though the mines are now run by Bolivian cooperatives, dangerous conditions have not changed much, and the majority of work is still done by hand. The miners use dynamite to consruct the passages but to conserve materials only leave themselves a two-inch fuse. That means they have about twenty seconds to escape explosion through the dark, cramped tunnels. Additionally, no lifts have been installed in the mine, so miners often move between levels by climbing ropes and similarly transport their products by pulling them up in sacks.

Such manual labor requires some serious strength and endurance. For this the miners rely on coca, keeping a wad of leaves pressed in one cheek and drawing from that their only sustenance besides the breakfast they ate before leaving the house in the morning. The coca provides energy while suppressing hunger and helping their bodies cope with the 13,500 foot altitude.

Our tour took place on Friday, also known as “drinking day,” so our gifts of puro were much appreciated, and we even caught a room full of miners on break and shared this rubbing alcohol with them as we chatted about their worries about the falling dollar and its effect on the mining market and therefore their paychecks. Despite economic troubles mining work is relatively lucrative, and the average miner earns from 450 to 600 bolivianos ($60-80) a week depending on productivity, yield, and the miner’s place in the cooperative hierarchy. For this reason, about 60% of the population of Potosí works in the mine, despite serious health risks. While the law now limits the workday to eight hours (though our talks with the miners themselves revealed that this law was not always respected), the average miner is only expected to survive 15 years of work. The most common ailment suffered is silicosis pneumonia, but there is of course the risk of death by injury and other threats like the presence of arsenic in the mines (right).

Juan, still a young man, was clearly in good health, and refused to tell us why he left the mining life until we had left the presence of his former colleagues. Outside the mine he told us that, though his father had been a miner, what every father in Potosí wants for his son is that he become a professional. After a few years of mining, Juan quit to pursue his degree in tourism. Though Juan’s earnings do not match those of his mining friends, his father is extremely proud of him.

I leave you with a picture of me holding lit dynamite. Don't worry. We used a three-minute fuse. Clearly I'm still alive.

On Monday morning, after returning from a weekend in Santa Cruz, I was standing in my kitchen getting ready to leave for the PAN office when I glimpsed a amall, brown movement near the oven. I stayed perfectly still but shifted my gaze to catch The Mouse slowly emerging from his house.

He paused, perhaps contemplating how seriously he should be taking me. I stared him down, wanting to show him who wears the pants in our relationship. I wanted him to react to me in fear, but I remained motionless to see what he would do.

Just because I've been allowing him to peacefully coexist with me does NOT mean he no longer has to cower in fear in my presence. (I'm not a very nice roommate.... but he's not bathroom trained.) The Mouse was clealy getting cheeky. And that was the last straw. But I stayed still, determined to win the stare-down.

When The Mouse finished his leisurely contemplation, he turned and sauntered back under the oven.

You must be kidding me.

I turned my thoughts back to the time in college I googled a humane mouse trap for Nicole's Arch Nemesis Mouse. I gathered the necessary materials -- a cardboard box, office paper, masking tape, and peanut butter -- and MacGyver-ed myself a device to punish The Mouse for his insolence.

Directions:
1 - Roll paper long way into a tight tube.
2 - Tape paper tube closed.
3 - Bend tube 90 degrees about 4" from one end to form an "L" shape.
4 - Tape tube across 90 degree angle to hold "L" shape secure.
5 - Fill long open end of "L" with peanut butter (or other bait).
6 - Use bait-loaded "L" to prop upside-down cardboard box so open end of box faces down, hovering over the long end of the "L" which is also hovering under its box roof, suspending bait within mouse's reach.
7 - Leave the house, but check in every few hours. Mice can chew through cardboard.

As of this morning, The Mouse had not fallen for my tricks. I'm going on vacation and won't be back for two weeks, but damn am I sick of The Mouse. Before leaving the house, I replaced the cardboard box with a ceramic pot, transforming my humane contraption into a death trap. Good luck, Mouse.

Carnaval originated as a celebration of the springtime planting season when families buried and burned offerings to the Pachamama (Mother Earth) in hopes of being blessed with healthy and bountiful harvests. With the imposition of Catholicism, the Carnaval celebration was transplanted to early February to coincide with the beginning of Lent. Now the festivities include the two belief systems, blending indigenous with Catholic.

During the twenty hours of parading, for example, tribal war dances like the Tinku alternate with St. Peter conquering the seven deadly sins. Another example of this assimilation can be seen in the different depictions of the Virgin Mary many regions of Bolivia have adopted. As a means of incorporating Catholicism but not losing rich cultural tradition, statues and images of the Virgin are often superimposed on a more traditional symbol of worship. For example, the Virgin of the mining city Potosí sits atop a mountain so that while paying their respects to the Catholic symbol, Potosinos continue their tradition of honoring the mountain that sustained their society. Another Virgin depicts the indigenous reverence toward nature and the cosmos by sitting atop a crescent moon with stars.

As Carnaval falls during the hottest time of year, the festivities also include water fighting. Cholitas sell spray cans of foam, pre-filled water balloons (8 for 15 cents!), ponchos and beer, and the entire city is a warzone. Unlike the friendly fire in Tarija I've described in previous posts, in Oruro you couldn't step out of a building withough getting soaked. Balloons sailed over the parade route in the spaces between dancing groups, but when those ornate costumes made thier approach, all attention shifted to the complex and lively dancing.

Though over 28,000 dancers and 10,000 accompanying musicians participate in the parading, Carnaval de Oruro still had a very intimate feel. For example, here a perfect stranger shares his beer with a tired dancer, head dress in hand.

After literally hours of snaking through the city, the dancers make their way to the Sanctuaria del Socavon, or "Church of the Mineshaft" (so called due to the miraculous appearance of a mural of the Virgin Mary in Oruro's richest silver mine) for a short ceremony before they rejoin the throngs of spectators outside. Because a few volunteers were dancing with one of the final Tinku groups the first night, and they didn't begin the route until 3 am, we were at the church at sunrise, still cheering them on. We finally dragged ourselves back to the hostel just as the morning cleaning shift began to tackle the garbage-filled parade route, preparing for the dancing to begin again in a few hours.

Carnaval de Oruro was an amazingly diverse and lively cultural experience, and in my opinion has earned its status as one of Mankind's Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity by the UNESCO in 2001. It is a must-do if you ever find yourself in Bolivia in February.

The other day a fellow volunteer came in to Tarija dreadfully sick with fever, vomiting and diarrhea. She called the Peace Corps doctor to get her blood test results and was informed that she had both amoebas and a ¨severe¨ bacterial infection. The doctor had her jot down the long, complicated names of three different drugs, and I set off with the list to the nearest pharmacy, leaving her curled up in a ball trying to retain fluids. Considering there is a pharmacy on pretty much every city block, my mission did not take long. I presented the ¨prescription¨ sans doctor´s signature, to the ¨pharmacist,¨ who found the pills, put them in a neat little bag, and printed my receipt. (This was a new-fangled, fancy pharmacy. Usually receipts are handwritten.) The total? 6.50 Bolivianos. Translation: About 81 cents.

***

My host family´s cat just had kittens. Last year at about this time, there were kittens as well. They all disappeared, probably fleeing to escape the torture inflicted on them by Ana and Sofía, but that´s just my theory. Let´s forget about the treatment of Bolivian animals for just one second and appreciate how many cute, furry puppies and kitties I get to see and play with due to the lack of spaying, neutering and housebreaking. Bob Barker might not be pleased, but newborn animals put a smile on my face.

***

It´s almost Carnaval time again, which means the streets are teeming with water balloon-toting, summer vacation-crazed kids. And they are stealthy, let me tell you. You walk down the street, minding your own business, and all of a sudden wetness explodes on the back of your head. You whirl around, but there is noone in sight. To remain dry, one must regard every street corner, every balcony, every open door as a possible threat. Everyone is a suspect. As you round each corner, you find yourself scanning the next block for wet splatter marks on the sidewalks and walls indicating the scenes of previous attacks and areas to be avoided. 'Tis the season to be soaked by strangers when you least expect it.

***

Yesterday I went to the PAN office and found no work to be done except some general harrassment of the alcaldía to buy the materials for a project we´re trying to do. After that I excused myself for the rest of the day. Instead of ¨working,¨ I sat in the plaza with my little friend Paola eating cookies and yogurt. Then I sipped mate and fed the birds with my favorite senior citizen. I ended my rigorous and gruelling day with Ana and Sofía making origami whirley-birds and reading a book. I have the greatest job in the world.

***

Cheap drugs, young animals, the attitude that allows public water balloon attacks, and the joys of being a Peace Corps Volunteer are just a few of the things that make me glad to be back.


Okay, this entry was too sappy. Another one of the things I did yesterday was meet a highly-educated, well-read woman who thinks the number of homosexuals has increased dramatically in the recent past as a direct result of the hormones pumped into our livestock and produce. Don´t worry. If you slather that burger with enough ketchup, you won´t even taste the gay!

Oh, and today a mere acquaintance told me flat-out how fat I had gotten while at home... I have some readjusting to do.


The views and opinions expressed in this blog are those of Sarah Anderson and in no way reflect the views and opinions of the United States Government or the Peace Corps.

There´s a civic strike today. I´m catching some rays while I leisurely write in my notebook. I came into the city last night to have dinner with some friends and found out about the strike after the time taxis stop running to Valle. So now I´m stuck here because cars, buses and tree branches are parked across major roads, impeding the flow of traffic. The country is in a state of unrest related to the installment of a new constitution, but one wouldn´t notice by the streets of Tarija city where citizens joyride on bikes and motorcycles, the only vehicles slender enough to slip between that sideways pickup truck and the curb. Kids play soccer on streets they share with pedestrians who straddle the broken line because they can.

This morning I awoke to explosions. Firecrackers attempt to lure you to a rally in the plaza or are shot for no apparent reason at all. I largely ignore these sudden disruptions of peace and quiet. A plane passes overhead, one of maybe three flights that enters and leaves Tarija on any given day, and this makes me happy. Only in very extreme cases of civic strike and political sketchiness do the airports stop functioning. If today´s strike does not affect flights, it gives me hope that the strike rumored for next Friday will not tamper with the first leg of my journey home.

Do I wish I were in Valle right now? Sort of. Is it because I feel like I´m wasting time here in the city where nothing can be accomplished except the writing of this blog and other vital internet activities? Not really. I´m supposed to be finishing the construction of a latrine, and the alcaldía promises to buy the rest of my materials ¨tomorrow.¨ Tomorrow never comes, and I suspect it won´t arrive in time for construction to be completed before I leave. The half-finished latrine will likely sit until January when I will reiniciate my campaign for ¨tomorrow.¨ If you want to hear a real spiel, ask me about the bricks.

Anyway, it can hardly be said that I´m wasting time. I´m working on my tan, which is very important in American society, whereas the Bolivians tell me how lucky I am to be pasty white. Of course here also simultaneously exist discrimination against darker skinned fellow countrymen and the belief that black people bring good luck. But despite one´s ranking of different shades of brown skin, white is nationally recognized as a good thing. Seven out of ten men on the street agree. One volunteer recently stated, ¨I get worried if I´m walking in public and don´t hear any catcalls. I start compulsively checking myself out in shop windows to figure out what´s wrong.¨ Which brings me to an item that hovers near the top of my list of ¨Things I Look Forward to About Going Home¨: Timid men. The rest of the list is as follows, in no particular order:

-noise ordinances
-Mom and Dad
-ethnic food
-traffic laws
-chocolate that tastes good
-public gayness
-flushing toilet paper
-pretty cars
-price tags
-your face
-friendly dogs
-fidelity
-feminism
-stoves that light themselves
-real Christmas trees
-customary service with a smile
-driving
-my down comforter on cold snowy nights
-carpet
-turn signals
-less proactive beggars
-environmental awareness
-getting smoothly in and out of bed without having to unzip anything
-family holiday gatherings
-water pressure
-skim milk straight out of the fridge
-sidewalks that don´t disappear
-large shoe sizes for women
-toasters
-sarcasm
-music variety
-hot water from the tap
-drinkable water from the tap
-seatbelts
-general good smelliness

I have a medium-lengthed spiel prepared for each of the topics above. I won´t get started now, but feel free to bring them up in the future. I´m sure that after spending some time in the U.S. I´ll have a list of things I miss about Bolivia. I already anticipate a few. I´m sure when I´m stuck in angry traffic in a snowstorm while late for an appointment in a place where I´ll be conscious of the fact that I´m the least tan person in the room, I´ll be daydreaming of beautiful, sunny civic strike days in Tarija serenaded by chanting crowds and firecrackers.