Hmmmm. Santa Cruz for the second time!
Sticky hot. Glad I bought extra mozzie repellent.
My 1970's hotel needs to be re named I think. I stayed here last year for one night. The tiny 84 year old lady owner who shuffled across the dining room to switch on the computer for me was super friendly, and I liked the central open space filled with mature pot plants. However, this visit, a more appropriate name would be Hotel Mala Suerte (Hotel Bad Luck).
Returning at about 8.30 pm from having a fun time with my young friends Claudio and America, I hear a woman's hysterical screams coming from the first floor.
The hotel layout resembles a prison. It transpires the woman has ( also) been caught in a scam. Fake police in the street have robbed her of all her money ( 1400$), her credit cards, her passport, her partners passport. She is about twenty years old an on honeymoon.
The next day a group of teenage Brazilian girls arrive and seem to spend most of their days in the hotel shouting at each other. Mala suerte for me, except the ancient air con blots out most of the noise. The hotel is smack in the centre of Santa Cruz. I thought I'd experience more of Bolivian life if I stayed here than in the beautiful Casapatio sanctuary. Talk about getting what you asked for !
Hugo Chevaz has died. The news is everywhere in the city. A week later I read the Bolivians, and the Russians believe he's been poisoned by the CIA.
Many friends are posting his photo on FB. I read about his life on Wikipedia. I cry. I can't explain why. Maybe it's the music on Spotify- Hymns Without Words. Maybe it's because two friends also have cancer.
On the Internet I find a photo of three red candles. The image won't attach itself to my Facebook page. Ok I say. This will be a private goodbye Señor Chevaz. Whatever you did or didn't do with your gifts and your power, it's all over now.
The crimson candles also symbolise a private moment of love for two special friends, and a connecting and an empathy for all who are bravely and not bravely living the cancer journey.
I'm in the cathedral in Santa Cruz Bolivia, it's about 3.30. It's a month since I was here when Carnival and paint throwing were in full swing.
I'm not a follower of any one religion but I do hunger for sacred spaces when I travel, especially when I have moments of insight, upset, or anger. Anger is an emotion I rarely feel.
In the lofty cathedral I say the lords prayer in Spanish then watch people touch a huge painting of Mary. Next, without exception, looking up into her face, the devout press their thumb and forefinger to their mouth in a kissing gesture. I know this gesture. But what does it really mean? The woman in front of me finishes her prayers. Now she's adjusting her makeup.
Kiss or no kiss, I'm here to have a little chat with God.
I talk to Him-Her-It first thing in the morning and last thing at night, always. Usually it's just an outpouring of gratitude. Today it is different. My anger is as ugly.
Twenty minutes earlier, a money changer on the street in the main square cheats me. Part of my anger is directed towards myself. Why didn't I go to a proper money changing office ?
In my bedroom at the ill fated Hostal Mala Suerte I discover I've been shortchanged. I decide to go back and confront the ba...ard. I'm in a very unfamiliar state of wanting to do damage to another human being and I'm deeply shocked at my reaction!
I decide to tell him if he doesn't give me my 200 Bolivianos ( 20 GBP) I will go to the police.
I remind myself to take the emotion out of the situation and just deal with the facts. Everything then becomes so much more manageable.
Amazing how quickly we can forget our own best advice !
Crossing the main sun filled historic plaza I'm surprised to see three young policemen doing nothing in particular.
I tell them I have a little problem and ask can they help me?
One decides to help me.
We walk towards the money changer. On his 'patch', with his back to me, he looks busy.
'It's him.' I say to the policeboy. 'The guy with the white shirt.'
I'm concerned he will scarper if he sees me with a policeman, but no. The twenty year old policeman keeps a calculated distance.
I tell the middle aged dark skinned man he has cheated me and I want my 200 Boliviano's back.
Without any fuss he gives it to me. I'm ready to use all the Spanish expletives I know, but I don't have to. I look into the bland face of a man of Afro Bolivian origin.There is no expression at all. Maybe he never knew the love of a kind mother.
I can hardly believe it. He gave me my money!
So in the cathedral I need to be with God-Goddess- All That Is.
I need to get this experience into perspective. My anger was more horrible than the theft. The gratitude to the young policemen disappears in seconds. How can this be ?
So Señor, I am right of of balance. Please help.
Where did those vile thoughts come from, where did that gratitude disappear to. What's happened to my compassion, my driving force, my default setting?
Yes I know this is the second time I've been robbed this trip.
Every cell in my body is pining to be in the country, eating healthy, simple food, communing with nature. I feel like I've been stoned ( as in having stones thrown at me, not the other) by city energy, negative energy, fear information, high altitude, too much noise, too many people.
I know dear reader I said I'd tell you about the first robbery, the Scam. I will, I promise. Please bear with me. It's a great story, so cleverly choreographed in every detail, and funny with hindsight, ohhhhhhhhh you will laugh too!!
But first let me get used to Heaven in Samaipta, 2 and a half hours from Santa CRuz. After a hair raising journey here, all is calm, all is well, all is quiet, all is natural. All will come into focus.
Six days after arriving I feel wonderful. Tomorrow I'm going to explore a remote village where an old woman weaves in a stone house. I've been advised by Dutch Pieter, the Caretaker of Heaven, to take her some food.
Sticky hot. Glad I bought extra mozzie repellent.
My 1970's hotel needs to be re named I think. I stayed here last year for one night. The tiny 84 year old lady owner who shuffled across the dining room to switch on the computer for me was super friendly, and I liked the central open space filled with mature pot plants. However, this visit, a more appropriate name would be Hotel Mala Suerte (Hotel Bad Luck).
Returning at about 8.30 pm from having a fun time with my young friends Claudio and America, I hear a woman's hysterical screams coming from the first floor.
The hotel layout resembles a prison. It transpires the woman has ( also) been caught in a scam. Fake police in the street have robbed her of all her money ( 1400$), her credit cards, her passport, her partners passport. She is about twenty years old an on honeymoon.
The next day a group of teenage Brazilian girls arrive and seem to spend most of their days in the hotel shouting at each other. Mala suerte for me, except the ancient air con blots out most of the noise. The hotel is smack in the centre of Santa Cruz. I thought I'd experience more of Bolivian life if I stayed here than in the beautiful Casapatio sanctuary. Talk about getting what you asked for !
Hugo Chevaz has died. The news is everywhere in the city. A week later I read the Bolivians, and the Russians believe he's been poisoned by the CIA.
Many friends are posting his photo on FB. I read about his life on Wikipedia. I cry. I can't explain why. Maybe it's the music on Spotify- Hymns Without Words. Maybe it's because two friends also have cancer.
On the Internet I find a photo of three red candles. The image won't attach itself to my Facebook page. Ok I say. This will be a private goodbye Señor Chevaz. Whatever you did or didn't do with your gifts and your power, it's all over now.
The crimson candles also symbolise a private moment of love for two special friends, and a connecting and an empathy for all who are bravely and not bravely living the cancer journey.
I'm in the cathedral in Santa Cruz Bolivia, it's about 3.30. It's a month since I was here when Carnival and paint throwing were in full swing.
I'm not a follower of any one religion but I do hunger for sacred spaces when I travel, especially when I have moments of insight, upset, or anger. Anger is an emotion I rarely feel.
In the lofty cathedral I say the lords prayer in Spanish then watch people touch a huge painting of Mary. Next, without exception, looking up into her face, the devout press their thumb and forefinger to their mouth in a kissing gesture. I know this gesture. But what does it really mean? The woman in front of me finishes her prayers. Now she's adjusting her makeup.
Kiss or no kiss, I'm here to have a little chat with God.
I talk to Him-Her-It first thing in the morning and last thing at night, always. Usually it's just an outpouring of gratitude. Today it is different. My anger is as ugly.
Twenty minutes earlier, a money changer on the street in the main square cheats me. Part of my anger is directed towards myself. Why didn't I go to a proper money changing office ?
In my bedroom at the ill fated Hostal Mala Suerte I discover I've been shortchanged. I decide to go back and confront the ba...ard. I'm in a very unfamiliar state of wanting to do damage to another human being and I'm deeply shocked at my reaction!
I decide to tell him if he doesn't give me my 200 Bolivianos ( 20 GBP) I will go to the police.
I remind myself to take the emotion out of the situation and just deal with the facts. Everything then becomes so much more manageable.
Amazing how quickly we can forget our own best advice !
Crossing the main sun filled historic plaza I'm surprised to see three young policemen doing nothing in particular.
I tell them I have a little problem and ask can they help me?
One decides to help me.
We walk towards the money changer. On his 'patch', with his back to me, he looks busy.
'It's him.' I say to the policeboy. 'The guy with the white shirt.'
I'm concerned he will scarper if he sees me with a policeman, but no. The twenty year old policeman keeps a calculated distance.
I tell the middle aged dark skinned man he has cheated me and I want my 200 Boliviano's back.
Without any fuss he gives it to me. I'm ready to use all the Spanish expletives I know, but I don't have to. I look into the bland face of a man of Afro Bolivian origin.There is no expression at all. Maybe he never knew the love of a kind mother.
I can hardly believe it. He gave me my money!
So in the cathedral I need to be with God-Goddess- All That Is.
I need to get this experience into perspective. My anger was more horrible than the theft. The gratitude to the young policemen disappears in seconds. How can this be ?
So Señor, I am right of of balance. Please help.
Where did those vile thoughts come from, where did that gratitude disappear to. What's happened to my compassion, my driving force, my default setting?
Yes I know this is the second time I've been robbed this trip.
Every cell in my body is pining to be in the country, eating healthy, simple food, communing with nature. I feel like I've been stoned ( as in having stones thrown at me, not the other) by city energy, negative energy, fear information, high altitude, too much noise, too many people.
I know dear reader I said I'd tell you about the first robbery, the Scam. I will, I promise. Please bear with me. It's a great story, so cleverly choreographed in every detail, and funny with hindsight, ohhhhhhhhh you will laugh too!!
But first let me get used to Heaven in Samaipta, 2 and a half hours from Santa CRuz. After a hair raising journey here, all is calm, all is well, all is quiet, all is natural. All will come into focus.
Six days after arriving I feel wonderful. Tomorrow I'm going to explore a remote village where an old woman weaves in a stone house. I've been advised by Dutch Pieter, the Caretaker of Heaven, to take her some food.
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