Today’s economic crisis was really forshadowed in the 2001 Argentinean debt default. I know about it, because I was in South America studying it. Here’s an excerpt about the crisis from my book, “JackFruit”., which you can download to read from the book page.

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“All through the night, I rode on the long distance bus with Edward and Megan. During one section of the trip, where I felt the driver twist and turn, I began to feel nauseous for the first time, so I opened up a window. The bus smelt of stale, humid air, and human odors, and I figured everyone was breathing everyone’s already spent air. Someone immediately slammed the window shut. In a daze, I looked up, and opened it again.

“Please keep this window closed!” griped a young woman. I stood up, looked her and smiled, as I tried to put her at ease.

“I’m feeling nauseous, and it’s stuffy in here.”

“I don’t want that window open!”

Across from me, Ed looked to the young woman, and said, “excuse me ma’am, but he’s feeling sick.”

“I don’t want my child getting sick.” I looked to the other seat, and in the dim light, I saw the little child.

“It’s OK, Ed.” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

I put up with worse before. I chose to deal with it, and tried to go to sleep. I never slept well on moving vehicles. After a night of twists and turns, we finally arrived at the enormous Cochabamba bus station, where I immediately stumbled outside at 5:30AM.

“Ugh.” I muttered.

“That, was a long bus ride.” Said Megan.

“Yeah, let’s find a hostel.” Replied Edward.

We found a hostel near the station, got two rooms, and I fell asleep for a few hours. When I came too, Edward was knocking on my door, “are you up, Dave?”

“Yeah, give me a moment.” I said as I put some clean clothes on. We went out to tour the mansion of an 18^th century tin baron. Back in the 1800’s, Bolivia was populated with some of the richest people on the planet, during the days of the tin, silver, and rubber robber billionaires. As we toured the lavish palace, I admired some of the intricate woodwork, and walked over to Ed and Megan.

“This is disgusting.” Said Edward.

“Really?” I inquired.

“Yes. With this country’s history, and extreme levels of poverty, this is just unbelievably disgusting.”

“I see what you mean.”

Extremes like this, with little to no system in place for advancement, a government which aims to keep it that way, and an enormous population which, paradoxically, was marginalized, although how to marginalize 90% of a population is quite a feat, was a brewing fire bomb for revolutions. Not surprisingly, there were constant blockades and protests, which were the only way for the 90% to have a voice. The month before we took our trip to Cochabamba, all the roads leading into Cochabamba were blockaded for several weeks, and it effectively shutting down much of the economy.

The blockade was in protest of the US drug war, which was rife with human, environmental, and indigenous rights violations and abuses. The locals were upset, and as a result, a US marine had disappeared into the hills, a few miles from us into the highlands region. Rescue efforts never found or recovered him.

For a long time, I heard many stories about the destructive and inhumane results of US foreign policy, but every time I heard about them, they were, to me, purely anecdotal. Usually, an errant European would complain about the US, but I always considered them as jealous first worlders.

In Bolivia, however, it was the first time I witnessed and spoke with economic refugees, who were escaping the rampant destruction wrought by the USA’s proxy institutions, namely the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund. While I was in Sucre, I’d initially made arrangements to enter Argentina, but at the same time, Argentina’s economy and society imploded. Streams of Argentineans were making their way into Bolivia, Chile, Brazil, Uruguay, Paraguay, Europe, and USA.

When it came to economics, I was more in favor of capitalism than socialism, but to a point. Argentina’s downfall tempered much of what I thought was appropriate. We picked up a local newspaper, and read how Argentina went through six presidents in two weeks. This was a former first world country, that plunged into violent chaos from defaulting on their loans. Argentina became the only non-African member of a group of several nations to default on their loans.

All through the 90’s, Argentina was the “successful” poster child for the IMF, and the World Bank. They listened, and implemented every single request of the IMF and the World Bank. Not surprisingly, as a result of those policies, all through the 90’s, half of that decade was spent under economic hardship, despite the world press parroting it as a paragon of their policies. Push came to shove in 2001, when the trigger of the IMF, on December, 2001, withheld 1.2 billion dollars in loans. They imposed more conditions that Argentina had to fulfill. The country couldn’t, and it defaulted.

The chaos in Argentina was unbelievable. Long lines formed outside of banks, who, due to following the Washington consensus, were a fractional reserve banking system. They only carried just enough for day to day transactions, and there wasn’t enough actual money for depositors to reclaim. Violence erupted, and I saw a photo of a Bank Boston building with a hole in it.

Food riots grew out of control, as markets were bereft of inventory, since they couldn’t buy inventory with their devalued peso. I saw a picture of starving children, who lay dying, and it looked like something from Africa, if it weren’t for the blond hair and blue eyes. Riots broke out, and half the country was unemployed, and for the first time, there were mass migrations to Europe and the USA. Just a month before the collapse, the Argentineans weren’t required to purchase a VISA for entry into the US. At the moment of the collapse, the US slammed the door shut after the crisis, and the Argentineans, suddenly became like the rest of Latin America.

For many Latinos, they felt it was poetic justice. For too long, Argentineans looked down on the rest of Latin America, thinking that they were Europeans, not Latinos, and proclaimed themselves to be better than the rest of the mestizo, indigenous continent. Now, they were worse off than the rest of the continent, and Bolivians noticed how they started to enter the borderlands of Bolivia, looking for a place to stay and work.

The IMF and the World Bank, both of whom have their headquarters in Washington D.C., are extensions of the Federal Reserve. Any country which takes a loan, usually at the behest and bribery from an “Economic Hitman” has to comply with several requirements. All major national industries, services, and utilities were to be privatized. Tariffs and taxes on trade were to be removed. Officials and wealthy members are bribed, and told to embark on massive infrastructure projects: highways, electrical generation, airports, ports, and industrial parks. The caveat is that the US or Europe must build the projects. As a result, the money never touches the hands of the local people. When the project is complete, the company that built it maintains ownership, so the local government has no say in how it is managed. Prices are raised, and recently privatized industries are absorbed by foreign corporations. Layoffs are almost always the next step, and then suddenly, not only do the local governments and people find themselves unable to pay their basic utilities, but with the loss of revenue in the form of taxes from laid off employees and once national utilities, the local governments are trapped between cutting off basic social services and administration, and raising taxes just to pay the interest off on a debt that their official was bribed into accepting.

Argentina was caught in that bind, hence the budget shortfall of 1.264 billion, which the IMF withheld in the form of a loan, all while the IMF were the ones who made the conditions which created the problem in Argentina in the first place!

Bankruptcy and devaluation resulted, and even then, there was still a loan to pay in now devalued currencies, for a product which they never, and could never own. With a nation on its knees, they are then forced to submit to in-equal treaties, a long forgotten relic that’s still alive and well, and descended from the mercantile colonialist policies of Britain and the USA back in the 1800’s. These in-equal treaties include submission to have a foreign military base planted in their soil, or to give up primary resource control over a national resource, such as oil, tin, gold, etc. The list goes on and on.

As for open, “free” trade, the first to go is usually agriculture. Agriculture is the biggest industry in the world, and Argentina has some of the richest farmland in the world. They produce eight times the amount of food than their population requires. Yet, while the Argentineans were starving, they were exporting their produce in order to bring in foreign capital!

To add insult to injury, at the behest of the IMF, Argentina pegged their peso to the dollar, and supported it with the issuance of government bonds. Much of the bond sales and handling was via foreign banks, located in New York. As a result, all Argentinean products were uncompetitive, since they were priced in dollars. No money was being made, nothing was being exported, and almost all the money going into Argentina was from foreign investors speculating on the bonds. Bond holders, naturally, expected a high interest rate of return. Interest in government debt is paid for by either tax revenue, or via national industries.

So, what happened when most of the population wasn’t able to produce and sell their goods overseas? Those revenues went down. The revenue that came from once public industries was also gone. The government still had services and administration to pay for, but their sources of revenue dried up, so they issued more and more bonds, which, I’m sure, were “backed with the full faith of the Argentine government”. When the budget shortfall occurred, they petitioned the IMF. The IMF refused, and Argentina became the largest sovereign debt default in history.

Argentina, from the moment she signed those agreements with the World Bank and the IMF, had signed away her sovereignty, her freedom, and her future. And all it took to collapse the country was less than a decade. Not surprisingly, Argentineans had few kind words for the World Bank, the IMF, or the USA.

Bolivia was effected by this as well, but unlike the Argentineans, the Bolivians have a powerful bullshit meter in their indigenous populations. When ex-president Lozada privatized many of the national industries and utilities, among them was water. Water, is rare in the high Altiplano, and for thousands of years, the Quechua and Aymara worshiped water. Bechtel corporation, located in San Francisco, bought the utility, and immediately raised the price and cut services in Cochabamba. Protests ensued, people died, and the company left, but not before asking for 12 million in compensation loss from the government, which is like a bully, after getting his ass kicked, requesting payment for emotional damage.

As we toured Cochabamba, we noted how many of the buildings had large rain catches. It looked as if the protest was still on going, as people chose to be self reliant on water. All of these things made me temper my libertarian, pro-capitalist leanings. I understood that I also had a responsibility to both the people around me, and people I effect, as well as the environment. After all, we all live on one earth, and what goes around, comes around, and when it comes around, it often comes back in multiples.

We finished our tour, and met a family from La Paz: Christian, a 28 year old man, Elsa, his mother who was a scientist and director of eduction, and Chyang and Claudia, a married couple from Santa Cruz. They invited us to see them in La Paz, and Christian, after I told him about some of the things I’d seen and learned about in Cuzco, as well as my theory on the device, was excited enough to ask that I spend a week with him exploring some of the more unknown parts of the Altiplano.

“If you want to see some unusual things, come to our home. You must,” he said.

“Yes, David, you must come,” replied Elsa.

“And, Claudia will find you a pretty Bolivian girl,” joked Chyang.

“But I already have one,” I protested.

“You’ll change your mind when you meet her. But you must come see us,” said Elsa.

For lunch, we went out to eat in Govinda, one of the many vegetarian restaurants run by the Krishna’s all over the world, before parting ways. Then we went to the market. Cochabamba’s market was famed in Bolivia for the sheer variety and quantity of goods available. I loved to walk around the markets. The scents, and smells of peppers, dried spices, fresh fruits, and freshly baked bread wove a sense of dignity amongst the campesinos. I stopped in front of a cholita, a plump Quechua woman, with brown skin and a bowler cap, and asked questions about her produce. Always, their Spanish was halting, and I noted how Quechua was still their first language.

I strolled through the market. Food, pants, equipment, and parts, TV’s, stoves, ranges, and bicycles, a market is an organic expression of human labors, desires, wants, and needs. Like a cornucopia, it all depends on individuals and teams of people seeing a place for themselves in society to provide for a need and a want. I found myself in the “taller de bicicletas”, a bicycle shop, looking at their cheap Chinese and locally made frames. Despite the quality, it always fascinated me of what people did to fulfill the needs of the populace. I started playing around with one heavy duty clunker of a bicycle, a cheap, heavy, steel bike that didn’t have wire cables for brake control. It used solid steel tubes.

I met up with Megan and Ed, and we went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner, where Ed noted a linguistic error I made as we walked by a girl vending sandwiches at a stand.

“You know, Dave, when that girl in the market asked if you wanted a taste, you basically said that you wanted to eat her because she’s pretty.”

“What? I did?”

“Mmhm.” Nodded Megan, who was smiling at my naivety.

“I was trying to say I’m sure it tastes wonderful, because you’re pretty. Whoops!”

“Yeah. So, how’s your Spanish tutoring going?”

“It’s going well, I’ve been using this.” I pulled out a copy of Schaum’s outline of Spanish, and showed it to Ed. He and Megan looked at each other, frowned, and said to me, “You don’t want English in your studies. That’s like a crutch.”

“That’s how the Peace Corps does it.”

“Have you noticed how we are with Spanish and how they are?”

“You two are much much better. The Peace Corps people still have trouble with it, even after two years. OK, I see your point. I’m getting a full Spanish text when we get back.”

On the ride back, which was during the daytime, we got to see where and why the driver drove with so many twists and turns. The road twisted from one close call of a canyon to another, on dirt roads with no safety rails, and along the way, we saw a carcass of an overturned bus. At that moment, Ed, next to me, panicked, and yelled out, “We’re gonna die!”

I looked at him, smiled, and said, “Ed, I’ve come close to death several times. Believe me, unless I go, you’re not going. And I’m not going anytime soon.”

Megan tapped his shoulder, and calmed him down, as I watched and enjoyed our razor edged bus ride on the edge of doom. We didn’t die, and we got back to Sucre, where as we walked into the Plaza, Claudia spotted me, and jumped into my arms.

“Where were you?” she exclaimed as she kissed me on the lips. She looked at Edward and Megan.

“Hello Edward, hello Megan, where did David go?”

“He came with us. Don’t worry, he didn’t misbehave,” smiled Megan.

“Misbehave?” I asked, as Claudia kissed me again.

“Yes. I can be very jealous.”

“Oh. Well, see you Ed, see you later Megan.” I waved to them as the walked back to their apartment. Claudia and I walked to the Central Plaza, and I breathed in the fresh air in the mid summer night.

“Did you miss me?” Claudia asked.

“Of course.”

“You didn’t flirt with other women, did you?”

“Me? No, you know me, I’m very friendly.”

“That didn’t answer my question. Did you or no?”

“I didn’t. Claudia, you know the only woman on my mind, other than my mother, is you.”

She kissed me as we strolled through the plaza, and as we walked, I told myself, no, there was one other woman on my mind, and she started reappearing again.” – excerpted from Jackfruit: A Two Wheeled Adventure Through Latin America

Now, the reason I highlighted some of these passages is what we’re seeing today is really a default, but in this case, the large banks are the one’s in default. At the core of the default is something I have yet to see in the headlines, which is the derivatives bubble collapse of several hundred trillion dollars, which is on the order of many times the world’s GDP. Derivatives are always billed as being, among other things, “too complex to understand”. That’s a misnomer. The easiest way to look at a derivative is to see it as the financial system’s attempt to manufacture it’s own money outside of the purview of sovereign governments. That’s really all it is. Anything can be turned into a derivative, whether it’s oil and corn futures, to stocks and bonds, to home mortgages and student loans. All that mattered was the promise to pay based on, in this case, revenues collected from loan payments, the infamous ARMS, or oil deliveries. Because derivatives have no inherent value than what’s on paper, it’s currently, collapsing. Just like Argentina did when it couldn’t pay the interest on it’s loans. The difference is, it’s world wide.

I finally caved into it. I finally did it. In a mad, mad world, I put my work of nonfiction up, the thrilling recount of my 2001-2002 expedition through South and Central America up, for free for you readers to download and enjoy. So, why am I doing this? Why, after 7 years of hard work, sweat, tears, surviving the expedition in the first place, then attempting to put it into written word that would entertain, enthrall, and enlighten, would I EVER decide to give this away for FREE?!! Have I lost it?

Well, I didn’t exactly get to this decision lightly. You see, for the past six months, I’ve been busy trying to get this published. I sent out proposals, with a lot of marketing statistics and data, you know, the kind of stuff that would make an agent start to salivate. I mean, come on, I’ve had almost 39,000 blog page views… not withstanding that one of my most popular articles, about the Bora Bora tribe accounts for the large percentage of views. Interestingly, the search words for that article that I’ve seen consistently involves the words naked and amazon tribe, or naked amazon tribal women breasts. Yes, interestingly, there are many individuals with odd fetishes for brown primal women in a rain forest. Hey, what ever floats their boat, right? Well, jungle minded perverts aside, my proposal included analyses into the asian american, hispanic american, and spiritual minded american english speaking audience, which is a rather large audience. It included facts and figures on my latin american television appearances, appearing across latin america as well. You’d think that the idea of selling a spanish language version of my book to a half billion latinos would make the agents think some more about my book.

Alas, all my effort, to this date, is of no avail. I’ve received countless rejection slips, and several nibbles that ended in, “we’ve seriously thought about your book. No, really, we did! Or at least, I did. Unfortunately, the market is sooo competitive that we can only accept a limited number of projects. Have a nice day.” signs the agent.

I remember a quote by a famous publisher, O’Reilly, that the greatest threat to an author, isn’t piracy. It’s obscurity. With that said, I’m pirating myself. I’m pirating my work. I’m giving it away for free, mainly so that it at least finds its proper audience, but also to prove to those foolish agents, that people want to read this book, especially in light of these times, filled with financial crises, global climate change, and general end of the world talk. The work is protected under a Creative Commons License.

I mean, with dark times like these, who wouldn’t want to read a book that has a light at the end of the tunnel? So here it is. Come and get it. Read it, and enjoy. And let me know what you think about it. Prepare to be enlightened.

Addendum – August 3rd, 2009 – After several months of having the book available for free online, I became aware that because most people have trouble reading even a hundred pages of an ebook, that my 420 page book was intimidating. So, in the interests of the reader, I shortened the book for easier reading, and it’s coming out in print from Booklocker.com. So you can download the the book from Mininova.org.

It had to happen. Eventually my adventures had to appear worldwide. So, here it is. This was broadcast on SMTV, through out the Americas, Europe, Asia Pacific, Australasia, and Africa through satellite, cable, and internet networks. I appear about 20 minutes into the program, which gives a decent overview of the expedition.

David Nghiem’s 6000 kilometer expedition through South America

Not bad! The publicity is going well. I apologize to the audience for not updating the website lately, but stay tuned. I have some video of the Amazon tribes to put up.

Regards,
Your Adventure Maniac
Dave

It’s out! I’m working on catching up with the next set of essays about the Bolivian section of the adventure, so bear with me. But, the video trailer is finally up and running regarding the adventure.

Video Trailer on Youtube

Dave´s New Adventure
Adventures from the South American Continent 4/2007-5/2007

Nine Days on the Northern Route of Lake Titicaca: Part 2 – The Return to Bolivia

I had just two days left on my peruvian tourist visa, and the border town of Tilali lay out of my reach. I parked my bike next to a post. Surrounding me were the marshlands of the edge of the lake. The overcast day and morning mist covered the marshes with a thin, wispy blanket. It was Sunday, and even if I made it to Tilali, the customs and immigration office, if it did exist, was closed. Llamas grazed in the drier areas of the valley, and they stared at me as I pulled out my camcorder. Occasionally, people on classy, old, chinese made single speed bikes pedaled past. I finished my filming, and pulled out my map. I chuckled after searching it for a minute.

“Great, the town doesn´t even exist.”

Course, I knew this was false, since the townspeople I talked to said there was a town called Tilali, where I could get my exit stamp. It did´nt matter. I just needed to get to Tilali before night fall. I pedaled down the dirt road, along the marsh. The road lay north, and I traced its faint outline back up into the mountains again. I groaned. It was going to be another day of ascents, and given the road conditions and the angle, that meant more pushing and walking. But all of suffering has its rewards.

After several hours of ascent, I rounded a corner, and before me, the lake opened up. I was one hundred meters above the shoreline, and the road wound around the lakeside cliffs. I was walled in on one side by mountain, and on the other, with the hundred meter drop, by glittering, sparkling, aquamarine blue. The mountains on this side were dark with thick forests of planted eucalyptus trees, which were planted in the thousand year old terraces. A breeze touched my face, as it churned and whitened the wave tops on the lake. The air was crystal clear at this altitude, and the lake was a giant, flat, rippling gemstone. The breeze swayed the tops of the totora reeds on the shore, which from a distance, looked like fields of wheat.

I descended into the beautiful placidness of the road, and grinned. This route was rarely traveled, especially by the bicycle traveler, or by any other traveler. I continued to cycle down the rough road, and after one too many vibrations from my front rack, I dismounted and pushed the bike into a village that lined the shores. Crude, wooded boats lay on the beach, while in the waters, square trout farms drifted in the water´s edge, anchored to the bottom. I pushed my bicycle through the town, picked up some fruit, and then pushed down the hill to the police building. One of the police came out. We greeted each other, and then I asked him about the immigration office. He shook his head. Tilali did´nt have an immigration office. He suggested that I take a bus back to Puno, all the way on the other side of the lake on monday. I pointed out the impossibility of this, since buses were´nt available, and that my visa expired tomorrow. It was a 12 hour bus ride, in good conditions, to the other side of the lake, and that´s if there´s a bus available. He shrugged his shoulders, and said there was´nt any other way. I then asked if it was possible they could stamp it. They weren´t equipped or authorized to do that. So, I asked if they could write a letter, something, anything that would show evidence of me exiting Peru.

Finally, his superiors came out, heard my story, and suggested that I ask the custom´s officials in Tilali for a letter. Tilali had a custom´s office, due to inter Andean trade, but no immigration office. I asked him what tourists did, and he said that tourists usually don´t go through the northern route. If they ever tried to, they were turned back from the border to go to either Puno, or Copacabana on the other side for their exit and entry stamps.

¿So what do cycle tourists do?

We´ve never encountered any. You´re the first. He replied.

I smiled upon hearing that. It made everything worth it. The officer saw me smile, grinned back, and said, you really like adventure. Good luck.

I waved goodbye, as I pedaled down the mountain, and stopped to dismount and walk the road along the shoreline. Soon, I pushed my bicycle through a forest of eucalyptus trees in the fading twilight. The 4:30 wind picked up on time, and powerful gusts spread over the lake shore. I continued to push into the night, as an almost moon lit up the dirt road. Well after nightfall, I spotted the shadows of several buildings. Finally, I arrived in Tilali.

I checked into an alojamiento, picked up supplies, cooked dinner, and did an equipment check. I had to repair the rack attachment. The other side now popped off, and there was no way it´d last even half a day in the punishing terrain. After building another jerry rigged rack holder, I changed to sleep, and discovered that my 50¢ sandals had disappeared. I looked up at the ceiling, and said out loud, “So what´s the point of that?!” I couldn´t wait to get out of Peru.

The next morning, I cycled down the road ,and spotted two women who tended their sheep. I asked them where the custom´s office was. They pointed out that it was up the road, but it wasn´t open yet, and it wouldn´t open until 9A.M., since the custom´s official didn´t show up yet. So, I sat down to eat a breakfast of bread, cheese, jam, and juice. I then gave them my sugar, flour, salt, and baking soda. I wasn´t taking any chances.

Several boys crowded around me, so I engaged them in a game of hide and seek. After playing with them for a several minutes, one of the ladies alerted me to the custom´s official. I watched as he pushed his yellow mountain bike up the road. He was dressed in a a gray sweater, wore dark sunglasses, sported a graying mustache, and a receding hair line. I greeted him, and explained my situation to him. He said to meet him in thirty minutes at the border station.

Thirty minutes later, he had me remove and open my bags for an inspection, and explained that he wasn´t authorized to write even a letter stating that I was exiting Peru. He suggested that I talk to the border police just across the crude wooden gate. He also added that I was the first cyclist he´d ever seen in forty years.

After waiting in the police station for an hour, the police chief finally arrived, and I explained my situation to him. He explained that they wold get into trouble with the central office for giving me a letter stating that I passed through the border. He suggested that I lie to the bolivian authorities, that I passed through the village of Milalia, and that there was no border station to apply an exit stamp. Regardless, none of the peruvian authorities were going to give me a letter for evidence of exiting the country.

I pushed my bike up to 4100 meters, and after 15 minutes of getting lost due to the multiple vehicle tracks, I finally navigated my way far above the tree line on top of a mountain, where the buildings were constructed of rough stone, roofs were held down against the wind by large rocks, and two border monuments marked the frontiers of Bolivia and Peru. People passed by me with burros laden with cut shrubs, and I pushed higher into the rarefied air. At the barren top, the aymara build stone walls to create wind breaks for their crops and animals, and I rested next to one as I gazed over the entire north eastern section of the lake. A giant expanse of steel blue opened before me. In the distance, clouds lay below my feet. A strong wind stroked my face, and hundreds of mountains dotted the horizon. Far across the lake, I spotted the Island of the Sun and Moon, the fabled birth place of the first Inca, Manco Capac. To the east, I saw the faint glimmer of the Cordillera Real´s snow capped peaks, standing tall above 6000 meters.

I cycled down the mountain, and at the true border, encountered a piece of barbed wire that stretched across two posts. I rode over it, and asked an aymaran if I was in Bolivia. He said yes. I was back. Finally, I was back! After three long years, I came back to Bolivia.

Back in 2001, but back then, I rode through the conventional way, the easy way, on my bicycle through Copacabana, along well built, asphalt roads. I stopped to celebrate with a toast to all the names of the One, and then to thank the peruvian people, families, friends, and everyone who helped me on my journey. I then cycled, pushed, and walked through the difficult terrain to Porto Acosta. The road changed from dirt, to piles of loose stones. In fact, I wasn´t even sure if it really was a road. I passed through water cascades, streams, and enormous expanses of wind swept, high altiplano prairie, that glowed in the setting sun. The occasional bolivian aymara greeted me with warmth, smiles, and encouragement.

I descended through rivers, and water carved cascades to Porto Acosta. I arrived in the central plaza, where I entered the bolivian police office. I explained my situation with the visa to the officer there, and the officer immediately typed a letter stating that I entered the country on the 29th, exactly the day my visa expired from Peru. He then notarized it, signed it, and said that Porto Acosta didn´t have any immigration office, and that I´d have to go to La Paz, to the American Embassy, and then to Immigration to fix my visa. But, he had no problems writing a letter to demonstrate evidence of entry. Then he gave me directions to a nice hostel in town. I grinned as I left the office. I really was back in Bolivia.

As I walked to the hostel, I smelled a scent of soap that I hadn´t smelt in three years. The town´s tranquility, and the kids playing in the square brought flashbacks.

Her black hair flowed down past her shoulders, and our lips caressed each other. Her large, dark, cafe eyes lowered to my lips, as we held each other. Then her face became sad, as I held her, and I looked into her beautiful, bronze face.

I shook my head as I knocked on the hostel door. The owner wasn´t there. I walked to another one, where a brown ornate door was open, and a little girl in a pink dress and coat stared at me.

We´d do this so many times. Her in the doorway, and me at the doorstep. Every time, we tried to kiss good night, it turned into thirty minutes of kisses, where we´d attempt to separate ourselves, and end up in playful farewells.

A little boy with a camouflage, soldier´s fabric hat greeted me, and helped me bring in the bicycle. I spoke with his grandfather, and we moved my things into the first floor room. I washed my hands, and looked at a poster of a Magnifica, holding a beer, on the wall. The beautiful model was dressed in a red bikini, and smiling in the harsh light of the Uyuni desert.

-Relationships aren´t just about sex. She said.

-No, they´re about communication. ¿Why do you always shut the door in my face every time I ask you what´s wrong, or what´s going on?

I spread out my mess kit, and cooked my meal. The little boy came in my room with his little sister. We started drawing pictures with my colored pencils, and then I played chess with the little boy. He played well for his age. Afterwards, I checked the shower. The electric water heater didn´t work. Three days without a shower wasn´t bad. At least the bolivians made an effort to install an electric shower. I then lay down to sleep.

Her skin always felt cool to my finger tips, and I would feel her temperature, as I slid my fingers on her soft skin, from her long, slender legs, up over the curve of her hips, down the valley of her slim waist, and then up again over her shoulders.

I drifted between fitful slumber and intense dreams. Dreams of deliciously warm skin, long, soft, dark hair, dim visions of sensuous kisses, and a slender, curving body. When I woke up, I looked at the poster of the Magnifica. Was it the poster? Bolivian women were among the most beautiful women I ever met.

I washed up and made breakfast, and prepared to leave. As I exited, I noticed how several buildings were unlocked. This was small town Bolivia. During the rough ride, the rack bolts that I rigged up snapped. The terrain was too much for the thin steel. I spent an hour lashing everything together with rope, before heading down the road. The road to Escoma was blockaded by the aymara during the weekend to protest President Evo Morales. They reopened the road the day I arrived in Porto Acosta. They didn´t completely reopen the road though. Large boulders were left there, and I watched a bus make the deft moves to maneuver around them on the dirt road. As it passed by, a wake of dust settled low in the air.

I climbed back up to 4000 meters again, this time, through rocky dirt, stones, and river beds. In the evening, a full moon sat above the hamlet of Escoma. I stopped on a bridge to look at it. The mountains sat behind the small town, and the moon hung over the mountain and over the cathedral, which was the center of the town.

We met in the plaza, as we always did, in front of the cathedral. It was a full moon again, which meant one thing.

I checked into a newly built hostel in town, and I was their very first customer. I then followed the owner to her home, where she let me access her shower. Fire works exploded into the air as I left her house. There was a festival in town, and many of the aymara women were dressed in their best cholita dresses, with elegant bowler hats. All the women had on dresses that shimmered in the dim light, as they danced with their men in a drunken revelry. I ate fried cheese, empañadas, and rice at the festival food grounds. Afterwards, I passed by children playing in motorized go carts, carnival rides, and shooting games, before going to sleep.

Next morning, I washed and lubed the bike before leaving. The front rack was in bad shape, and I hoped that I´d last until La Paz. Except for a few sections of flat, packed dirt, the road was asphalt, and at the end of the day, I rode past 60 kilometers. I camped out along the shores of the lake, and watched the sun set over the placid waters. A light breeze touched my lips. The next morning, I watched as flocks of water fowl flew and swam along the lake shore. After packing up, I decided to do something I wanted to do ever since I first saw the lake in 2001.

I stripped down do my bike shorts, and in a furious dash, ran into the lake. The icy cold water shocked and numbed my toes. As I waded in further, stringy, tough, and smooth aquatic plants caught my feet, toes, and brushed my sides. Then I plunged in, and the shock was complete. I got up, and sprinted back to shore. My skin was numb as I walked into the thin air, and let the sun warm me back up again.

After drying out, I mounted the bike, and cycled past the giant, snow capped peaks of Illimani, and the Cordillera Real. By nightfall, I reached Huayna Potosi, and stayed in an alojamiento. After cooking dinner, I went to call an old friend, Chyang and his wife, Claudia, a bolivian couple I met in 2001. It´d been too long.

¡Hey Chyang!

!David! ¿Are you here?

Almost, I´ll arrive tomorrow.

¿Where are you?

In the town of Huayna Potosi.

¡Good! I´m glad you´re safe. When you get to La Paz, call me on my cell phone. I´ll pick you up.

Great. ¿Oh, Chyang, are you ready for a chess match?

Yes. ¿Why?

Because I´ve been practicing to beat you this time.

I could feel him smiling over the phone.

You´re obsessed. I´ll see you soon. Take care.

I smiled as I hung up. I looked at the phone in the booth.

My hands shook the phone as I listened to her crying.-¡I don´t deserve you! ¡I don´t deserve you!- I heard her scream. The scream chilled my body, and I shook as I listened to her.

Memories.