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Words by: Jamie Phillips

Image by:Ahron de Leeuw
Bolivia, it is said, is a country of extremes. And, so far, whoever coined that phrase has proved it to be accurate. In less than 24 hours I traveled from the frigid, nearly oxygen-less altiplano into the depths of the humid, delirious jungle. And each new place that I visit has a heartbeat that’s as different as its climate.  It’s as though Bolivia is marching to several drums, all playing a completely different tune and not necessarily in the correct rhythm.  To the traveler, this means, and happily so, that stumbling across the entertaining, the interesting and the downright absurd is as guaranteed as falling ill.
Some anecdotes to this end:
1.    La Paz: a dizzying city high in the altiplano, guarded by stark mountains.  The traffic in La Paz is what you could call chaotic, with a touch of anarchy. Even being a pedestrian is an exercise in adroitness. However, one day I saw an act of traffic altruism: two people dressed as zebras, helping people cross the street.
2.    Sucre, the capital of Bolivia. The city is full of activity, noise and political marches, but maintains a tranquil undercurrent and fair weather. The buildings are whitewashed colonial style, palm trees wave cheerfully in the parks and the daily siesta occurs from noon to four. On the day we arrived, Sucre was hosting a Latin American Olympic-style Games. That night, for seventy-five cents, we watched Ecuador clobber Bolivia in boxing, while the two little girls behind us screamed, “Come on! Punch him in the stomach!”
3.    Rurrenabaque: a small, delightful town in the northern jungles. A friend and I decided to volunteer at a nearby wildlife rehabilitation center, and upon following the directions, found ourselves quite off the beaten track. The jungle rose feral and enticing on the left while vibrant green fields stretched far out to our right. The dirt road that brought us was barren - our minibus had already disappeared noisily around the bend, into the dust. A wooden sign directed us onto another dirt road, and we followed with the heady feeling that the foliage was swallowing us whole.
•    We were greeted by an emaciated, coca leaf chewing hippy from New Jersey. Expertly maneuvering around the giant wad of coca leaves, he rambled at great length about the center, and pretty much everything else that came into his head, peppering his speech generously with profanities. The center was still in its infancy so there was naught but construction work. When we visited they were working on a shelter under which the volunteers could smoke. There were, allegedly, two pumas on site, somewhere off in the jungles being walked on long leashes by a couple of lucky volunteers. We weren’t allowed to see the cats.
•    We helped the New Jersey Hippy make lunch and heard more from him about the philosophy of the camp. He didn’t tell us until after we ate, but evidently, washing your hands is pretentious. Also, according to him, you didn’t need soap at the camp because when you sat in the river the fish nibbled away the dirt.
•    After a day at the wildlife refuge, we decided that our volunteer energies would be best spent elsewhere. At daybreak, we bid the camp adieu and hitchhiked back to town. A large pickup truck stopped for us, the bed filled with Bolivians also heading into town. One friendly, toothless old man made sure that I got a reasonably comfortable seat and shared some of his fruit with me.

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