BOLIVIA
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Subject: Swallow a toad Date: 19 Nov 2002 From: Kevin Charbonneau
I find a morsel of humorous truth in Chamfortīs dictum that a man must swallow a toad every morning to be sure of not meeting with anything more revolting in the day ahead. - Goethe Potosi boasts the largest silver mine the planet has ever known. Yesterday morning I toured one of these medieval scars upon the earth. An invigorating visit. Bob Weir once said: I might be going to hell in a bucket, but at least Iīm enjoying the ride. As we are all too aware of my eventual destination, it was quite fun to visit this land of shades prematurely. Crawling in low, narrow, dirty shafts; climbing rickety ladders with dreams of oxygen; traversing thermoclimes that ranged from below freezing to a stifling 110-degrees ... it was an excursion best penned by Dante. Towards the end of his life, his South American adventures long behind him, Alexander von Humboldt complained, with a mixture of self-pity and pride, "People often say that Iīm curious about too many things at once: botany, astronomy, comparative anatomy. But can you really forbid a man from harbouring a desire to know and embrace everything which surrounds him?" Mom: Donīt read the following. As a male representative of the species, I have been either blessed or cursed - depending on your perspective - with the inherent mysteries of the Y-chromosome. One inexplicable attribute of being a guy is that we like to blow shit up. Boys of all ages would enjoy one aspect of visiting the mines in Potosi: The opportunity to purchase fuses, buy yourself some dynamite, and kaboom !!! A quick drive up to Cerro Rico, a brief demonstration blast, some minimal instruction ... explode away. Ahh, my Y-chromosome is still tingling. "Again and again there awaken some who, gaining strength through reflecting on past greatness, are inspired by the feeling that the life of man is a glorious thing." - Friedrich Nietzsche Sipping a coffee earlier today at Cafe Mirador I had an engaging conversation with a technocrat from the adjacent German Consulate. We discussed Nietzscheīs admiration for Bismarck, the Iron Chancellorīs deft political alliances, and the pivotal role of Deutschland in the evolving EU. I bitch-slapped his countryīs archaic economic rigidity, he cursed George Bush, I unleased a torrent of scorn on Gerhard Schroderīs distateful demagoguery, and we agreed that the Fatherland stands to benefit considerably as Europe expands east. He sugested that I look into Georgetownīs School of Foreign Service; I suggested that the new German Way leads directly into the geo-political toilet. We had fun. Weīre having lunch again tomorrow. The Cafe Mirador is attached to the Museo de los Niņos Tanga-Tanga; a beautiful childrenīs museum with terraced gardens overlooking the steepled skyline of Sucre. The fabled Inca treasure of Tanga-Tanga is rumored to be buried somewhere on this hillside. Hmm. Reflecting on such possible fortune-hunting brings to mind the notorious Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Did you know that they died here in Bolivia? After robbing an Aramayo payroll at Huaca Huaņusca, they reputedly met their maker in the nearby mining town of San Vincente. Again, hmm. Are any of you interested in an adventurous joint-venture business? I get to be Sundance. "I believe that life here is just a little more satisfying than in many other places." - Vincent Van Gogh This echoes my view of Sucre, the judiciary capital of Bolivia. It is one of thoses rare undusted jewels with multiple facets of hidden beauty. A place that softly whispers its siren song unheard into the noise of the maddening crowd. It bears comparison with the melodies of Brasov, Romania; Tallin, Estonia; and St. Gallen, Switzerland. Off the radar but better for it. Today in satisfyingly sweet Sucre, I obtained both a quality haircut and a new pair of Hawaiana sandals for 10 Bolivianos each ($1.30). A chorus of whoohoos. "No changing of place at a hundred miles an hour will make us one whit stronger, happier, or wiser. There was always more in the world than men could see, walked they ever so slowly; they will see it no better for going fast. The really precious things are thought and sight, not pace. It does a bullet no good to go fast; and a man, if he truly be a man, no harm to go slow; for his glory is not at all in going, but in being." - John Ruskin No I love good olī Johnny Ruskin and agree with nearly everything he has written. But it is apparent that our color-theorist-friend didnīt know crap about ballistics. If a bullet didnīt go fast weīd call it a rock. And on the risk of no longer truly being a man, I realize that I must now project myself throughout South America at a quickened pace. "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." - Ralph Waldo Emerson There is a sign printed over the door of the National Archives in Washington that reads: The past is prologue. Bullshit. Save that predestined helpless-loser littany for the oriental countries that spawned it. It runs contrary to we occidental optimists. Drive with force into the future. If you donīt like the scenery, either re-sculpt your environment or travel elsewhere. Donīt fucking whine about the past. Alright, alright, please pardon the passionate digression. Minus the personal profanity, Emersonīs segue leads down a different trail: I am shifting course. Saving northern Argentina for the malleable future, I have decided instead to roam the desert. My bus leaves Wednesday at 6:00 a.m. for Uyuni and the otherworldly salt lakes of southwestern Bolivia. Rather than return from the mountains, Iīll vault the border into the Atacama desert of Chile. The Little Prince explained, "What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well." I hope so; the Atacama is the driest place on earth. Bring it on baby; I now have sandals. "If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are rotten, either write things worth reading or do things worth the writing." - Benjamin Franklin Hmm. Rotten and forgotten it will be then. According to a survey commissioned by the Jenkins Group, a Michigan publishing-services firm (and printed in Newsweek magazine international edition): 81-percent of Americans feel that they should write a book. Buddha bless the USA. I doubt whether 81-percent of Americans are even functionally literate. Donīt let that triviality stop you, youīre an American. You could grow up to be president. With all due respect to my Aussie, Swiss, and Canadian friends ... the land of the free and the home of the brave absolutely rocks. Delusional with confidence, pen in hand, the future is being written. Unlike my fellow citizens, I do not feel as though I should write a book. I tend to blaspheme God and use naughty expletives. After tomorrow, my whacked words of wander will fall silent for awhile. Stop cheering. Iīll be polluting cyberspace in the future. - nestled amidst scarlet-berried bamboo and savouring sucre-salt ... Kev "The soul is dyed the color of its thoughts. Think only on those things that are in line with your principles and can bear the full light of day. The content of your character is your choice. Day by day, what you choose, what you think, and what you do is who you become. Your integrity is your destiny ... it is the light that guides your way." - Heraclitus |
