Interesting OPB article about North Pole ice.

Wow, it’s been a while!  A lot has happened since the last post, so this is just a quickie to give you a glimpse of what’s coming down the pike.

Here’s what to look for…

• Write-up of the summer
• Steens trip with Shanna
• School plans
• Lots of great photos

Talk to you soon!

In which The Author, lamenting His scholastic Situation, and having Moved On, elaborates upon a Subject Of Great Interest, that being His Blossoming Beard, and having given Sufficient reasoning for growing Said Beard (namely, the Possibility of being Mugged in the Pit of Vipers that is São Paulo), decides to Commemorate said Beard with a Photo, which is very grainy Indeed.

So today is the first day of spring term, 2009. Since I won’t be showing up to school this week, I have emailed all of my instructors and told them not to drop me from their respective classes.

We’ll see how well that works out.

Speaking of beards, I have been getting a glut of questions from HIGHLY-concerned viewers/readers about my facial hair. Allow me to explain…

According to wikipedia, crime is the most critical problem found in the city of São Paulo. Additionally, the US Department of State rates the crime rate for São Paulo as CRITICAL. “Despite various organizations and state government entities reporting decreases in crime levels throughout São Paulo state, crime is still widespread with various degrees of severity. Violent crimes such as murder, rape, kidnappings, armed assaults and burglaries have become a part of normal everyday life. Every São Paulo neighborhood is susceptible to high crime rates.” And according to my Lonely Planet guidebook, a law has recently been passed in the city of São Paulo that makes it not only legal but highly encouraged for motorists to simply slow down instead of stopping at red lights after dark because of the high number of carjackings that occur.

All that said, I have to travel through São Paulo later on this week, and have carefully cultivated the meager assemblage of hairs on my face into a “don’t mess with me” look. In addition to sporting the aforementioned facial hair(s), I might spatter some blood across the front of my shirt.

I also plan to wear an eyepatch, speak almost exclusively in “aaaargs” and grunts, and drool while entertaining a slight nervous paroxysm in my “good” eye.

In the event that all of these precautions aren’t a sufficient deterrent to ill-doers, my backup plan is to carry a Bible around and start evangelizing at the top of my lungs if I think I’m about ready to get into a scrap. In my professional, medical opinion, it takes one determined criminal to inflict violence upon a pirate, let alone a Benny Hinn Pirate.

And that’s why I have some facial hair at the moment.

In Which the Author uploads photos taken at the Santa Cruz Zoo.

Click here to see them.

In which The Author discusses how unfreakingbelievably beautiful Bolivia can be.

I just got back from Samaipata, which is situated 170 kilometers east of Santa Cruz and sits at about 1650 meters above sea level. I got there by a harrowing originally-was-supposed-to-be-only-three-hours-but-somehow-mutated-into-a-hideous-beast-monster-of-a-six-hour-trip in a private taxi, complete with live chickens in the back.

But it was worth it. As soon as the sun came up the next day at my cozy hostel (Hostal Andoriña) I rose and bounded with all the grace of a gazelle out the front door, much to the concern of the other residents of the hostel. But I didn’t really care so much, for Today was The Day that I would get to see something about which I’ve been dreaming for some time now: the pre-Incan ruins of El Fuerte.

El Fuerte is situated about 6,600 feet above sea level in the eastern foothills of the Bolivian Andes. The most ancient of the ruins are about 3,500 years old, according to the latest radiocarbon dating information. In that span of time, it has been inhabited by three different cultures: the Chanes, the Incas, and the Spaniards. Read up on it here.

The distance from where I was staying to the ruins was a paltry 9 kilometers one-way, so rather than hire a taxi for US$10 I just decided to hike it. And what a lovely decision that turned out to be! As I climbed up and up, I suddenly found myself in the clouds with a light mist falling around me. I arrived at the information center for the ruins right around 9:00 AM and discovered that I was the only person there that day, most likely due to the weather (which, in my opinion, provided the perfect setting in which to view ancient ruins: misty, foggy, creepy). I spent the next several hours exploring around and walking on land that has borne the footprints of the Chane, the Inca, the Guaraní, the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Jesuits, and countless nationalities of tourists.

It was wonderful.

I walked back down the mountain, had a quick lunch, and got a taxi back down to Santa Cruz. This time, I was able to get pictures! Click HERE to see them.

Anyway, I’m tired, so I’m off to bed.

In which The Author, in a Vaguely Theme-Like Manner, addresses such Pertinent Issues as Communism in the Western Hemisphere, the Cuban Cigar Crisis, his lack of Sleep due to the Ongoing Interrogations at the Police Station next door, and Michael Jackson’s Nose, which is the Principle Reason why He, The Author, obstinately refuses to Refer to plastic surgery as “enhancement.”

And now, for all the Americans out there who can’t find it on a map, a tediously-brief history of Bolivia.

Bolivia, as everyone knows, abuts the western border of Brazil. And if you don’t know where Brazil is, well, it’s right next door to Bolivia. Case solved.

Okay, I’ll spell it out for you… It goes like this: Finland, Sweden, Switzerland, Egypt, Antarctica, Oz, Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and then Brazil. And then Bolivia. Of course most Americans don’t know this because most Americans don’t care.

Ask any American college student for a history of Bolivia and they’ll likely reply with “Bolivia was a general during the Civil War, which occurred in 1492, after the CIA dumped tea in the Gulf of Tonkin, sparking the Great Depression, which ended with the Cuban Cigar Crisis and the development of the cotton gin by Sammy Davis, Jr.”

Actually, I would be quite impressed with that answer.

The fact of the matter is, since the republic of Bolivia was proclaimed on August 6 of 1825, there have been no fewer than 192 different governments in charge of this parcel of land.

I say all of this because of the fact that today, March 23, is the Dia del Mar, or Day of the Sea. Every year, Bolivians all unite to collectively mope around about losing their 800+ kilometer coastline to Chile in the War of the Pacific (1879-1884).  Bolivians to this day allege that the war was unfairly won by Chile due to the fact that the Chileans invaded during Carnaval.

All things considered, it is a very merry sort of countrywide pouting that goes on; this morning I was awakened by the sound of drums and brass warming up to play for the entire town of Puerto Suarez. This was a welcome departure for me because the two previous mornings I was awakened by the sounds of – no joke—the sounds of brutal torture emanating from the wall which I shared with the Policia Nacional, my house being nestled neatly between the Bolivian Army barracks and the National Police station. But that’s a tangent.

But now as I journey across this country I find that this, its one-hundred-ninety-second government, is quite possibly one of the most interesting things happening in the western hemisphere, aside from (of course) watching those photo-morph animations of Michael Jackson’s nose.

Here it is, in a nutshell. Evo Morales is the first fully indigenous head of state to be elected in Bolivia since 470 years of Spanish conquest. And he wants to nationalize everything. And he’s great chums with Hugo Chavez and the Castro brothers (and if you don’t know who those people are, that’s ok; just ask a college student). And Santa Cruz Department, in which I am sitting at the moment, has voted to secede from the Republic of Bolivia. And the country is being torn apart in two different ways: firstly, between the Cruceños (people from Santa Cruz Department)and the Altiplanos (everyone else); and secondly, between the indigenous peoples and those of European descent.

And let us not forget that Che Guevara was executed in this country only 32 years ago. Che, by the way, was a prominent slave owner in the country of New England during the Oklahoma Land Rush, which occurred in 1776, on Three-Mile Island, and ended after Confederate soldiers under the command of Bolivia detonated the Twin Towers in Washington, DC……

In which The Author quite begrudgingly flies from Puerto Suarez to Santa Cruz, Survives, and tells the Tale Of Not Only the Japanese auto industry, but Also That Of the Bedside Manner of the Flight Attendants of AeroSur, S.A., which amounts to That Of Christian Bale, were he a Doctor, which he is Not, Presumably Due To the fact that he has never been to Medical School, unlike The Author’s Sister, in whom He is Well Pleased.

I have already made one short foray into the mores of driving in South America. Allow me, if you would, so expand upon that ever so slightly and address the somewhat more salient case of transportation in general.

Specifically, on flying in Bolivia.

Specificallier, on flying from Puerto Suarez to Santa Cruz.

Specificalliest, on the trip from my house to the Puerto Suarez airport to Santa Cruz.

It is a little-known fact that, in Japan, it is against the law to allow one’s car to leak oil. As a result, the good citizens of Japan tend to sell their vehicles once they have passed the 50,000 mile mark. And where do those cars go, you ask? Bolivia, I say. Because it’s also a little-known fact that the Japanese, like their British, Australian, Kiwi, and South African comrades, drive on the wrong side of the car. This phenomenon does not work in favor of the Japanese exporting their low-mileage cars as it shrinks the buyer market, um, significantly.

That said, it is not that uncommon to climb into a taxi in Bolivia and witness the following (that would be Ken in the ex-driver seat).

The steering wheel, along with the turn signal lever and pedals, has been moved to the other side of the car and now juts out of what used to be the glove box.

This was our taxi to the Puerto Suarez (international) airport. We had decided to fly because by train (El Expreso del Oriente, affectionately termed the “Death Train” by my LonelyPlanet guidebook…) the 600-kilometer trip took 21 hours. By bus, it took 12 hours. And flying took 55 minutes.

Unless, of course, you happen to be flying on an AeroSur jet. The jet in question (ahem, OURS) flies twice weekly from Santa Cruz to Puerto Suarez and back; we were booked to depart from Puerto Suarez at 11:15 this morning but didn’t wind up leaving until nearly 1:30. Cue the following conversation between me and the airline attendant in the airport:

“Why is our plane not here?”

“Because it hasn’t left Santa Cruz yet.”

“I see. And why, pray tell, has it not left Santa Cruz?”

“Because it’s raining too hard to take off or land at Santa Cruz.”

Legitimate answer, I thought. Once we were airborne the truth came out, as truths are wont to do. The plane was late leaving Santa Cruz because, according to the flight attendant (who announced the following, in English and Spanish, INTO THE MICROPHONE) “neither engine would start.”

Thanks and have a great flight.

In which The Author discovers, to His slight alarm, the administrative processes of Bolivia (Languid Chaos), the Mid-day Habits of the Federal Police (Publicly-Financed Vacation), and the Correct Method for immigrating, illegally, into Bolivia, (simply put, drive across the Border and wave while smiling at the Military Police), and then gets Eaten Alive by Ants while Typing This Paragraph at the local Internet Cafe, much to his Unabashed Dismay.

They say that adversity builds character. They are tragically, tragically wrong. It is my opinion that adversity, especially when coming in the form of enormous incompetence by numerous government officials in a third-world country that, in only 19 years, changed governments 17 times, builds what some people may call “character” but which the medical community calls “hypertension.”

Upon arriving at the Brazilian town of Corumba on the Bolivian border this morning, Our Little Expedition hit not what I would call a speed bump but rather, in Princess Bride terms, a Pit Of Despair. And since neither Prince Humperdink nor Count Rugen nor The Creepy Pitkeeper were present to show us the way out, it took us nearly 8 hours to get through Bolivian customs. Read on, Lizzy…

So first, since our driver couldn’t find the Bolivian consulate (where the Elusive Visa Applications awaited us) we went to the border where, we optimistically assumed, somebody could help us. We drove all the way into Bolivia before we realized that, somewhere between the road sign that read “Cemetery, left: Bolivia, straight ahead” we had (illegally) entered the country. I briefly entertained the thought that I was now an illegal immigrant, then immediately ordered a U-turn and found the Oficina de Imigracion.

Well, it turns out that we needed to go to the consulate after all because the Oficina de Migracion didn’t have any visa application forms. Allow me to expound. The Oficina de Migracion PROCESSES visa applications. That’s like a bank that accepts cash but doesn’t provide the requisite deposit slips.

So, after procuring explicit written directions to the consulate, we left Bolivia for the first time today. We found the consulate which, oddly, appeared to be a private residence. Even stranger than that was the fact that it WAS a private residence; notwithstanding, it still performed its government-sanctioned activities with remarkable aplomb. I swaggered in, told them that I needed two visas, and here are the passports, and that’s such a nice painting of your horse.

“That’s my wife.”

Whoops. Can I still get those visas?

“You need to fill out a visa application.”

“I’m aware of that. Do you have any applications?”

“I only have one, so you’ll need to go make photocopies.”

“Can’t we use that photocopier right there?”

“That’s only for official government business.”

“Isn’t the immigration process considered official government business?”

“You must make your own photocopies. And you need to get your photos taken.”

Long story short, the consulate advised us to rush downtown to perform our very-private-definitely-not-official-government-business of making photocopies for the Bolivian government and to rush to the Federal Police station to get our exit stamps on our passports because “the police station closes for lunch” (thankfully, criminals in Corumba aren’t aware of this phenomenon yet).

Straightway we made our way to the police station only to find that (shocker!) they actually had closed for lunch. A lunch that, presumably, began at 11:00 and ended at 3:00. (That would represent one sixth of the entire day, or two months out of the year that the police force is unavailable. Just a thought.)

So we went to the bank. We went to the bank because of the stupendous cost (USD$135 per person) for Bolivian visas. We went to the bank, rather than just using my credit card, because the Oficina de Imigracion doesn’t own, much less know how to operate, a credit card machine. We went to the bank because my conversation with the immigration official went something like this…

“Can I pay the $270 with my credit card?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t do that here.”

“Why not?”

“Because, as you can see, señor, we don’t have a machine” (gestures toward empty desk).

I glanced around the Havana-esque room, noted the highly-sophisticated filing system (a “Sol” beer carton with papers on the floor around – not inside—it), and sighed deeply.

And so we waited until 3:00. I was the first in line at the police station to get my passport stamped for exit, but it did me no good because, as soon as he took my passport, the man behind the glass proceeded to put it in his shirt pocket and make a 15 minute telephone call to Sao Paulo, all the while furrowing his brow with the ferocity of a rabid bull. After the 15 minutes were up, he walked back to the window and…

“What is your job?”

“I’m a guide.”

Stamp.

I want to know what Sao Paulo said.

Later, back at the Oficina de Imigracion, I filled out the photocopied applications, attached the photos, handed them to Señor Credit Card, and he proceeded to pull two more copies OF THE EXACT SAME FORM from under his desk.

“Por favor, fill these out.”

“No, I just finished filling those out. You are, in fact, holding my completed forms in your left hand. They’re the pieces of paper with squiggly black markings on them.”

“We need you to fill these out as well.”

“Just out of curiosity, where did you get those? Because you didn’t have any when I was here earlier today.”

“We made copies.”

“Aha. Then can’t you just photocopy the forms that I’ve already completed instead of making me fill them out again? Or is that not official government business?”

(Blank stare.)

“Señor, please fill these out.”

And that’s not all. To add insult to injury, my last name, according to the Bolivian government, is now Mowlcirlc.

But we made it through, and tomorrow I´ll post pictures to prove it.