Writings By Phil

Thoughts On This And That

English Spoken Here

October 5, 1978

Yesterday evening after finishing our supper, we inquired where we could set up camp for the night. Our restaurant host directed us to a soccer field about a block away. He also told us there was a public water facet 15 yards down a side street. Matt found the water first. When he returned, Alan and I went to look for it. The distance was more like 75 yards. Later we found we were on the wrong side of the street and that there was a closer one! Oh well!

There was a bar of soap at the faucet. Was it free to use, or did someone leave it by mistake? Though was had doubts, we used it to clean up a bit, at least our hands and faces. I wanted to wash my hair, but didn’t. Why were those people watching us? I hoped it was because we were gringos and not because we were doing something offensive!

Next morning, we went back to the restaurant and ordered eggs and toast. Then we climbed aboard a logging truck that was headed for the Phillips 66 drill sight. There was no jungle close to where we camped and no bushes in that soccer field. There was a wall around most of the houses that bordered the soccer field. That was where Bolivian men would go in an emergency. However, I was too shy to “do it” the Old Testament way and be one that “P_____ against the wall,” so I held it, much to the disapproval of my bladder.

The road was rough, and we did a lot of bouncing around. After twenty miles, we passed a bunch of Phillips 66 drilling equipment, but kept going believing the site we wanted was farther away. Another fifteen miles down the road, we got off the truck and were directed to the oil camp. We walked a quarter of a mile to get there. The morning was already hot and the road was covered in thick dust. Our shoes made little dust clouds with every step. I did not care, because there were lots of bushes along the way!

We walked into camp only to learn that it was the wrong place! Back to the road we walked and caught a ride in a pickup truck. It was the most comfortable ride we had on the whole trip. It was also free of charge. The driver let us off back where the drilling equipment was parked along the road.

We soon found ourselves in the office of J.C. Pruren. He was from Texas and was overseer of all Phillips 66 was doing in lowland Bolivia. My ears were delighted to hear someone speaking English for a change. A big fan was blowing in the room. I did not care if the breeze was artificial, the wind on my face was wonderful!

He told us where their new road would go through the jungle. It would be a very good road when finished, he said. The route would intrude into the area close to the wild Yuqui. From our point of view, it was not a good thing for the nomads. Besides the oilmen, it would also bring in the loggers, cutting down the trees of value. After them, the colonist would follow and cut what remained of the rainforest so they could plant bananas, rice, corn, yuca, and coca. The more outsiders entering the area, the bigger the chance of deadly encounters between the two sides.

We shared with J.C. what we were doing and why. He claimed to be a believer in Christ, and seemed in favor of missionary work. He handed each of us a can of meat, and a can of Dinty Moore beef stew. It was his way of treating us to lunch. Then he thought of another idea and fixed it so that we could eat with the Bolivian workers in their “dinning hall.” We got to keep the canned goods to eat for supper or save for an emergency if our will power could resist its delectable allure. I liked canned beef stew!

We said our goodbyes to J.C. and found another pickup going our way. The driver dropped us off at the camp of United Geophysical. Again, I was surprised to hear someone speaking English. Not just English, but British English or some dialect of it. I looked around and found the speaker. He was a red faced man with blond hair combed back over his ears and collar. He wore a bush shirt with lots of pockets, cutoffs and flip flops. Derick Watson was his name and he was from Kenya, West Africa. He was a surveyor.

We told him we were looking for wild Indians. He said his Bolivian workers reported seeing signs of the Indians just a few weeks before. That would be about the same time we found their prints and campsites on our helicopter survey. That was the information we wanted to hear from this neck of the woods. We decided to head back to Santa Cruz. He told us to wait half an hour and we could ride with him as he was going “quite a piece down the road” we would travel. That half hour stretched into over an hour, but in the meantime, we found out where all their trails went.

Derick Watkins was a very likable fellow, I thought. I loved his accent and thought he should be in the movies. He didn’t think much of loggers, though. He opinion stated, “They are the curse of Bolivia. I’ve never seen such parasites!”

We were dropped off at a small town on the highway to Santa Cruz. There was a street vender with a snow cone machine. The afternoon was hot and something cold sounded really good to me. As the lady was grinding ice for our cones, I noticed she was also cleaning a big glob of mud out of the block of ice. Where she got her ice, and how that much mud got frozen in it, I will never know. I almost didn’t eat mine worrying about amoeba, hepatitis, or some other tropical disease that might live in the contaminated water. I ate it anyway and barely had time to finish it before a dump truck came down the road. We clamored aboard and made really good time as far as it went.

We flew through a town where lots of school girls were out and about. School must have been over for the day. I wondered if it was the hometown of the girls we met in Puerto Grether. Then I recognized the quiet one that watched us eat in the Pension Beni. I thought she was prettiest among her peers! When she saw us, she pushed her hair back and waved wildly, a big smile breaking across her face. We waved back and flew on down the road.

When the truck turned off the highway to go its own way, we were left at a gas station. Late in the afternoon, very few cars and trucks came our way. We tried to wave down everything that passed. Finally, a red pickup pulled in to get gas. We asked where he was going and he offered us a ride all the way to Santa Cruz. A Bolivian asked for a ride, too, but was told to take a “rapido,” The driver rejected his countryman, yet he picked up three gringos that were beyond dirty and who looked like the scum of the earth!

I was so thankful to arrive at the mission home and get a hot shower. I felt so grungy from days in the jungle and eating the dust of the road on the way back! Finally, I got some gas on a rag to dissolved the tar residue from my hand. Sleeping on a real bed and clean sheets, oh, that was luxury!

We took the bus to Cochabamba the next day. There was highway construction going on outside the city. As if that didn’t make enough delay, at the first check-point our driver was ordered to go back to the bus station and get the proper paperwork. I think the he was a bit frustrated because he ran a truck off the road and almost sent two wheel barrow pushes to their graves on the way! Both jumped to safety just in time.

More Tales From Green Hell

Something Different

Phil Burns

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