Take It Easy

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A new week arrives in Bolivia.

The bodies of several supporters of Evo Morales have been found murdered in the northern region of Pando. The governor of the region has been arrested on orders from La Paz. He is accused of paying death squads to hunt down the supporters and kill them.

Meanwhile, in La Paz, all non-essential personnel have been evacuated from the United States embassy. Two full flights of American citizens have been evacuated from the La Paz airport, and the State Department is strongly warning against all travel into Bolivia - fearing violence against Americans.

Things in Bolivia are bad. But this is just embarrassing. The UK Foreign Office is saying that travel to Bolivia is fine, but that Santa Cruz and Pando should definitely be avoided.

My fellow Americans: CHILL OUT. Our reputation of being arrogant and overbearing is way overstated and dwarfed by the reputation of being complete pansies that are convinced that someone is out to get us around every corner. Get a grip. And I'll wager anyone who wants to correct me has never left the continent.

I know. You're sick of me going on about this subject. I'm sick of writing about it.

So let's get back to Sucre.

A new week arrives in Sucre.

The road blocks that everyone expected never go up. The peaceful and tranquil atmosphere of Sucre continues.

Still, a lot of travelers left on Sunday to avoid any problems. The hostel is nearly empty, and there are very few tourists in town.

For me, the week is quiet and restful. I spend the mornings catching up on the blog. In the afternoons, Ross, Anna, Ailbhe, Mike, and I sit in the sunny courtyard, play cards, and sip wine.

At some point in the past, a UN resolution must have been passed making it mandatory that all backpackers on the planet learn a card game known as Shithead. Everyone knows it. The rules vary slightly from time to time, but the general idea is universal. A bit like Uno, it is a lively and addictive game in which one tries to get rid of all the cards in their hand. The final stage of the game becomes highly tactical and screwing your opponents is vital. It is great fun.

Yaniv, an Israeli game, is also good fun and can last up to a few hours.

We lazily haunt the courtyard and oscillate between the two games.

For lunch, we invariably head into the traditional market. This is a huge covered space where just about anything can be bought. Enormous spreads of produce, meat, fish, and bread cover the market.

Toward the back are groups of long tables and benches where women cook lunches. For less than $2, you can get a plate of rice, fries, and salad with a large trucha (trout) or milanesa (a sort of chicken-fried steak) thrown on top of it all.

For dessert, we wander over to the fruit section for a fruit salad. For another $1, you can enjoy a dish piled with apple, banana, pineapple, papaya, watermelon, orange, and strawberries coated with yogurt. Top the whole thing off by jamming a cookie into the top and you're set.

After stretching our stomachs to the breaking point, we waddle around the main square and catch some of the warm sun. Eventually we end up back at the hostel for another game of cards. Why not?

Roaming around a continent is hard work. We need vacations, too.

Emergency Room

Late Wednesday morning, while on my way back to the hostel from the internet cafe, I see a girl limp out of the front door and head up the street away from me - uphill. This is Petra from Hungary.

Three or four days ago, she tripped, fell, and bashed her knee. It's been very swollen ever since and painful to walk. We've been telling her that she should go to a clinic if it doesn't get better soon - if nothing else to confirm that nothing is broken. But she is rather stubborn and continues to walk around as much as possible.

I trot up alongside her, "You know you really shouldn't be walking on that."
"I know, I know. I gave up. The lady in the hostel said there is a clinic around the corner. I'm going there now."

Petra is here studying Spanish, and is doing well. But she probably isn't ready for a medical conversation.
"Ok, I'll go with you and translate."
"Yeah? Thanks."


We walk into the clinic and I ask the guy at the front about some sort of emergency or trauma service. He explains that this is a private clinic and that we'll have to go to the city's main hospital - Santa Barbara - about five blocks away.

We walk outside and Petra starts hobbling up the street. I flag down a taxi.
"Get in. For a thirty-cent taxi ride you're not walking five blocks."
Petra objects, "Look, I'll be ok. I don't want you to have to go all the way over there and spend who knows how much time. You've got better things to do."
I look at my watch, "Well I do have a few board meetings before the stock market closes, but I think I can squeeze it in. Come on, I have done literally nothing in the past four days, it's no problem."

It isn't pure altruism. No way am I going to pass up the chance to see what the inside of a Bolivian hospital is like.

We arrive in front of the emergency room of Santa Barbara a few minutes later. Before I can finish helping Petra out of the back seat, a porter runs out with a wheelchair. He wheels her inside to a medium-sized room with several hospital beds surrounded by curtains. So far, it looks just like any other ER I've seen.

The nurse asks for a basic description of the problem and I tell her. She tells me I'll need to go over to the clerk, pay for the basic service, and give Petra's information and a history of the incident. Petra hands me her passport and I walk up the hall to where the clerk is.

On the way, I snicker to myself. "Historia" in Spanish means "history", but it also means "story". I'm going to go tell the clerk a story.

There once was a Hungarian who fell on her knee
She wished she was in Europe where the health care is free
But she found herself in the heart of Cokaygne
Where the doctors may lie and try and con ya!

At the clerk's window, I give Petra's information from her passport, and explain what happened. I pay the service, and head back to the curtained bed. A nun and a nurse are cleaning the cuts on Petra's knee and dressing it with a bandage.

"How much was it?" she asks me.
"600 Bolivianos."
"What??"
"Kidding. 25 Bolivianos."
"Oh, good. Ok so are they going to do an X-ray or what?"
I talk to the nurse and ask if they can do an X-ray to make sure the knee isn't broken. She explains to me that they can do it right now, but I'll have to go back to the clerk to pay for it, first. Apparently this is how things are done. No bill racked up at the end - you have to request each service and pay for it up front. Weird.

The nurse fills out a form and hands it to me. I run back over to the clerk to tell him another story about paying for an X-ray, get the stamp, and come back. Petra is back in the wheelchair. The porter comes over and the three of us head across the large hospital to the radiology department.

The waiting room of the department is a tiny, rustic room with a small desk and a few plastic chairs. The X-ray room itself is even smaller with a single flat table. The machine is mounted above it.

"That doesn't exactly look state-of-the-art," says Petra gloomily.
"I've seen worse," I say inspecting the machine and thinking of Moscow in the early nineties. Still, I tend not to trust what are essentially radiation canons painted in a nice 70's avocado-green.

Oh well. One blast can't hurt.

The radiologist comes in and shoos me out. A few minutes later he wheels Petra back out and hands me a manila folder with the X-ray inside.

"Broken?" I ask.
He shrugs, "Doesn't look like it. The porter will take you back to the ER and they will take a look at it there."

Back in the ER, the nurse (or is she a doctor? I can't tell) looks over the X-ray and confirms that there is no break or fracture in the bone. She adds that Petra will just need to stay off of it for a few days until the swelling goes down.

Having talked to her mother who is doctor, Petra is convinced that they first need to drain the fluid from the knee in order to avoid infection. I ask the nurse. She says it shouldn't be necessary. I'm beginning to understand how things work around here, so rather than asking her to reconsider, I simply request that we see a doctor that can make the assessment. She fills out another form - a "transfer of service" for another doctor. The porter reappears and leads us to a large, square courtyard that resembles the cloister of a cathedral. Doctor's offices line the entire square. The center of the courtyard is full of grass and beautiful palm trees. Elderly sit on benches with their walking canes parked next to them. A child with a large bandage over one eye is sitting in the grass with a toy near his mother.

The porter parks the wheelchair outside one of the office and explains that I'll need to go up to a different window and pay for the service transfer. Well of course.

I run up a ramp to another identical courtyard in the corner of which is a large waiting room and another clerk's window. I stand in line for several minutes, pay the fee, and get the form stamped.

I return to the office where Petra is and we wait to see the doctor. I ask her what kind of doctor her mother is.

"Psychiatrist."

Ah.

Eventually a doctor in a white jacket and a thick mustache opens the door and asks us in. He helps Petra onto the examination bed and inspects the wound carefully. I ask about the fluid drainage. He explains that the ligament of Petra's knee has been bruised and that this is causing the swelling. There is no damage to the bone, and draining the fluid would have no positive effect. She needs to rest and stay off her leg. He looks over the list of prescription anti-inflammatories and pain killers given to us by the nurse. He shakes his head and crosses one of them out. He adds another one below it along with a mild antibiotic and explains that this combination will be the best way to avoid infection.

He is patient, clear, and kind with his explanations. Petra is convinced, and she climbs back into the wheelchair.

We thank him and head back to the ER where the pharmacy is. I go inside and fill the prescriptions.

Just before we leave, Petra grabs my arm, "Shit."
"What?"
"Well, I have travel insurance to pay for this, but they require that I have a doctor's note in English.

Bah. I ask the nurse about this. She shakes her head. Service was transferred to the doctor upstairs, so this is no longer her responsibility. I'll have to go ask him. Oh come on.

I dart back up to the courtyard. On the way, I glance at my watch. 3:30. Now I really am in a hurry. I'm supposed to have an early dinner with Anna, Ross, Mike, and Ailbhe. They are all leaving on the night bus this evening for Cochabamba a few hours north. I'm sticking around for another day or two to get caught up on a few things. I had been planning on going straight to La Paz from here, but now am considering catching up with them in Cochabamba for a few days.

In either case, I don't want to miss dinner. The five of us have gotten pretty close and eventually going separate ways will suck.

I knock on the doctor's door, and he answers. I explain what I need from him. He listens politely and says that this is no problem, but it has to be done through a department called Dirección on the second floor of the other courtyard.

I run upstairs again and find the Dirección office. I explain what I need yet again to a woman sitting behind a large oak desk. She tells me that this is no problem.

GOOD.

She pulls out a form and shows it to me.
"You will need to bring me a copy of this form filled out with an official seal and 20 Bolivianos."
"Ok, where can I get the seal?"
"You'll need to go to a lawyer's office and have them fill it out. Then they will stamp it."
"A lawyer?"
"Yes."

Unbelievable.

I run back downstairs and give the information to Petra who, by this point, is apologizing profusely to me for all the time I've spent.
"Good God. Ok well, forget it. I'll just talk to my insurance agency and see what I can do. It wasn't that expensive, anyway."

This is true. The ER service, the X-ray, the second doctor, all the red tape, in addition to the pain killers, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics, and skin ointment the doctor prescribed all come out to a whopping 115 Bolivianos.

Just over $15 USD.

We grab a taxi back to the hostel. My four friends are packing their things and checking out of the hostel. The five of us plus Petra head to Joyride for one more dinner together. Petra and I tell them the tale of the Bolivian hospital.

I haven't eaten all day, so I order a steak drenched in pepper sauce with fries and a large mug of beer. The food comes out a bit late, so the others wolf theirs down as quickly as possible. They are cutting it close on time, and have to leave immediately to run back to the hostel for their packs, and get to the bus station. They hand me their portion of the bill and apologize for having to leave in the middle of dinner.

Petra and I say goodbye to them with a round of hugs and email exchanges where necessary. Ailbhe threatens me with physical violence if I don't meet up with them in Cochabamba. I promise to try and be there Friday morning. But I'm still not sure. I've spent a lot longer in Bolivia than I had planned. Maybe I need to get on.

They dart out the door to catch a taxi. Petra and I stay and finish our dinner. When we pay the bill, she insists on paying for my part as thanks for my help. I fight it off for several minutes, but this is the first opportunity she's had to be stubborn about anything all day long. Eventually I give in. The whole thing only comes out to about $6.50, anyway.

Exit

On Thursday, I pack my stuff and spend the day walking around the city taking photos and generally taking it easy. I've enjoyed this place. For the first time on this trip, I feel like I really lived a bit somewhere rather than just visiting it.

In the early evening, I say goodbye to the remaining guests at the hostel, and head to the bus station.

Bus stations in Latin America - particularly Bolivia - are some of the most impressive displays of rugged capitalism I've ever seen. It isn't enough that the destinations and schedules are plastered on large boards above each company. Employees stand out in front of their stalls yelling out the upcoming departures at the top of their lungs. "SANTA CRUZ!! SANTA CRUUUUZZZ!" "POTOSI! POTOSIIIII!" Then they approach someone who appears to be looking up at the board and drop their booming voices to a respectable and polite volume "Buenas señor, to Santa Cruz? Just 25 Bolivianos, large comfortable seats and food is included. Come right this way!"

This is salesmanship.

I walk past the front stalls and toward the back where all the north-bound companies are based. I walk past the barkers yelling out "LA PAZ! LA PAZ! LA PAAAZZ!" and up to a smaller, nondescript stall where a few workers are tagging luggage.

"Cochabamba, por favor."

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Photos

Ailbhe, Mike, Ross, and Tony
Photo by Anna