Bolivia: Off The Map (cont.)

Carlos turned off the radio, and those of us in the back of the jeep sat in silence for the final 50 minutes of the ride. Out the window to our left was the long pyramid-like shadow of our jeep against the hard pink ground. The sun hovered just over the hunched shoulders of the Bolivian horizon to our right. Carlos accelerated, and the gentle sways of our heads turned to sudden jerks as the jeep careened down the rocky path.  We came over the crest of a hill, and a verdant valley crisscrossed by blue arteries of streams revealed itself.  The mountains grew higher; the streams bent in new directions;and the shadow of our truck grew and shrank with the undulations of the terrain as it hopped down the path.

“!Ya llegamos¡” Carlos yelled from the front seat.

The American girl sardined next to me jumped up from surprise. I turned my attention away from the side window and turned to look out the front windshield, trying to get a look at the town through the gaps in between the other’s heads and the wet streaks of mud on the windshield.

“!San Antonio de Lipez¡” he added with a train conductor-like yelp.

Carlos said the name, and I rifled through my Bolivia guide book to check the map. It was not there. The small village set atop a small grey slope, a cigarette burn on a tie-dyed shirt.

We followed a tire-track path through a field of harsh shrubs into the village, a square settlement of antique brick and thatch-roofed houses. Small pipes protruded from the rooftops with ribbons of smoke snaking out of their openings. The sun was hiding behind the hills in front of us. The orange sherbet colored sky had windblown clouds stroked across it. We came up the main road and were greeted by soot-covered children running alongside the jeep, one child kicking a half-inflated soccer ball ahead of us. The children peered into the jeep, their dark eyes set among dirt-patched faces with pearl smiles of curiosity.  Carlos turned the truck, and we followed the curve onto the dirt square, which was surrounded by nearly identical gated small houses on three sides. Carlos turned off the car. A collective exhale was emitted from the group. We gathered our belongings, stretched and spoke on matters of hunger and thirst.

Carlos was pleased that we made it to the town before sunset. He stretched, grunted, and mounted the top of the Land Cruiser to unload our packs. I collected my backpack and was eventually lead into a bedroom of one of the small houses where I heaved it onto the top mattress of a squeaky bunk bed.

The six of us got settled and decided to venture out into the town before dark. Outside our little fortress the same kids we saw earlier stood in a line with a soccer ball. We asked where their field was. They said nothing and ran down the sloped street. We chased after them, passing open doors of families sitting around small tables. Additional children came to the entrance ways of their houses to investigate the commotion. Some of them extended shy, short armed waves, while others pointed seeking their parents’ approval and ran after us.  Eventually at the end of a small alley a court appeared. It was a concrete rectangle set in the middle of a green plain.

The last of the suns rays shot up from behind a hill in the distance.  The moon was low in the sky, but it provided adequate light to play. The children challenged us to a game and said that the loser had to buy the winners bottles of Coke. There were five boys and six of us. I volunteered to substitute, and took a seat against a wall behind a goal where one of the boys stood guard between two candy-cane striped posts in red, white and blue.

A group of more kids shuffled towards me from down the narrow street. They giggled when I motioned them toward where I was sitting. One of them approached and stood next to me. We exchanged greetings, and I asked him what his name was.

“Patricio Guemes,” he said.

We talked throughout the game, and I showed him my travel guide for Bolivia. I showed him the map of Bolivia and asked him where San Antonio de Lipez was. He pointed to a chunk of white in the Southwest corner. He flipped to a page of photos, and I told him he could tear out a picture that he liked. He leafed through the book, examined maps and pictures, and pointed out cities that he could pronounce.

The game was finished, and the team of Bolivian boys led the five members of my group to a store where the young victors would receive their prize of lukewarm United States import. They shouted at me to join them, but I told them I would meet them back at the compound.

I stood over Patricio while he looked for a favorite picture. Night dressed the town in a gown of darkness. The shouts and laughs from the band of kids died off into the earthen walls. I looked down as Patricio fixed his eyes on a picture of green hills with a man seated on the edge of a cliff in the foreground. He asked if the man in the picture was me. I laughed.

“Esta,” he said.

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