Writings By Phil

Thoughts On This And That

On The Road Again

October 4,1978

We hitched a ride in a dump truck headed back to the big city. It was filled with city workers from Santa Cruz. Apparently they had used their Sunday to travel to the end-of-the-road town of Puerto Grether for a day of R & R. Many of them bought a stock of plantains (cooking bananas) to take home. With so many bodies, plus all the added fruit, the truck was crowded, standing room only!

As the truck creaked its way over those rough roads, we were rocked to-and-fro. It was hard to keep our balance. There was a 55 gallon barrel on board, too. I was able to grip the rim of that with one hand. Originally it contained tar, some of which still clung to the rim. Holding on to the barrel helped me maintain my balance, most of the time, but its aid was not free. I paid with a hand blackened by tar that could not be cleaned off in our present circumstances.

They were a good-natured group on men, laughing, and joking with each other, and hurling verbal insults at the highlanders walking along the road! There was a bit of prejudice and sometimes not so friendly rivalry between lowlanders, those who were there first, and highlanders. The latter were migrating into the jungle by the thousands, leaving the Andes mountains, hoping to slash a living out the the rain forest, The newcomers were not always welcomed, hence the insults.

Some men in the truck threw trash at people in the backs of trucks going in the opposite direction from us. Did they do that to all people or just if there were lots of highlanders in the back? I did not know. It seemed highlanders filled all the incoming trucks. The men enjoyed this infantilism. I wasn’t sure about their victims!

All of us, Bolivians included, lost our balance now and then and ended up falling on a stock of bananas. The men laughed when Alan told them that if we kept on crushing the plantains the fruit would only be good for making mansaco. That was a Bolivian dish made from fried bananas, cheese and sometimes meat, all pounded and mashed together with a mortar and pestle.

At some point during the morning we got off that first truck. We were looking for information about the nomadic Yuqui. Had anyone been into the wildness from this side and found something of the people we sought? A sighting? a campsite? We wanted to hear rumors, too, but especially we wanted facts of any encounter that oilmen, loggers, or lowland farmers might have had with the group.

We soon found a flatbed that let us climb aboard. It was filled with highlanders, mostly women. Even though they had left the cold of the Andes, some of the women wore too many skirts and blouses than needed in their new-found climate of hot and humid! I guessed that traditions died hard! They wore their hair long and in braids. Many wore their regional hats, the shape and style of it told where they were born. Each highland department or area had its own unique hat. Some wore the traditional aguayo, a colorful blanket used for carrying a baby on their back or firewood, and everything in-between.

The front of the truck bed was piled with big bags of cargo. These people were probably on their way to the big city to sell their jungle-grown produce in the open market. Yuca, papaya, and corn peeked from the open tops of some of the bundles. Some women sat on their bags. The rest, the men, and us three gringos, stood in the empty area behind the cargo. Of course, those of us standing filled it almost to capacity! I was glad I found a place to the outside of the group and could hold on to the side rails to keep my balance.

We had not gone very far when the driver stopped the truck in the road. I did not know why. Perhaps he was expecting more passengers. While we waited, a lowlander walked into the middle of the road. Close by, and in full view of the women he exposed himself and urinated. No shame! He laughed as he walked away. There was no reaction from the passengers in the truck, male or female. I was a stranger in a foreign country and did not understand the conflicting cultures I was witnessing that day. Was that depraved gesture the best insult the man could give to a bunch of unwanted highland ladies or was he just a pervert? I did not know.

Soon we were on our way again. Roads were better than the dirt track we had started on back in Puerto Grether, There was even pavement now and then. We were not tossed back and forth as much as before. Arriving in the town of Comando, the driver let us off on a dirt street just off the highway,

It was Sunday, and market day. People milled around everywhere We felt all eyes on us. I could not blame them. We were a strange trio- ragged, dirty, packs on our backs, and me, que alto! One thing I could never do well in Bolivia was blend in with the populace. I stood head and shoulders over most of the inhabitants of Every Town, Bolivia!!

We found a restaurant and asked for a liter of pop apiece and supper. I ordered fried chicken, rice and salad. I wasn’t sure about the salad. Lettice, even if it got washed, would probably be washed with untreated water. Once I got over thinking about hepatitis, it tasted really good! Our plan was to spend the night in Comando and visit a Phillips 66 oil camp in the morning.

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