Last Chance Bolivia

On my last day in Bolivia I mingled with the rich, the foreign, the exotic. What better way to spend my last day in the South American continent's poorest country? After one last family meal with my coworker's cousin's family - with more delicious food on sushi place mats - I headed out to the Guembe Orchid and Butterfly Bio-Center, a resort like private park that houses (supposedly) the world's largest butterfly farm as well as several pools. The cousin told me about the butterfly farm on my first day as a suggestion for something to do. And, when I didn't bite, mentioned all the pools there. Jackpot.

The private park seemed to be a destination for the rich; the $10 entrance fee being steep enough to keep most locals out. But it was set up as a reserve to preserve the flora and fauna of the region. Although most of the locals can't afford to come in, they are offered jobs within the park - the park claiming this as one of the ways they give back to the community. Whatever the goal of the park, it provided me with something to do for my last day. We walked to the butterfly farm. Interesting enough. And yes, quite big. After chasing around a large, bright blue butterfly for 15 minutes trying to get a decent picture, we gave up and headed for the pools. The pools were what I had been dreaming about since I arrived in Santa Cruz: a shelter from the heat of the tropics. When we arrived at the pools we found a bar. That was the other part of my dreams and I lived those dreams when I ordered a rum & coke and then dove into the pool.

We killed several hours at the multiple level pools; gliding down the water slides, making trips to the bar, and avoiding the never ending gathering of bees around the edges of the pools. It was the first time I felt completely comfortable in Santa Cruz. All it took was a pool of cool water. The pools weren't terribly crowded. But the people sun bathing beside them and wading within them were certainly better off than the most of the city's inhabitants. Most a good deal whiter too. I heard several languages being spoken, most notably Germanic and French. We largely ignored our pool mates and enjoyed the empty spaces available.

My flight to Brazil didn't leave Santa Cruz until 4am, leaving plenty of time for a big dinner. And so we headed to one of Santa Cruz's premier places for Bolivian and Argentine beef & wine, as well as live traditional music and dancing performances: La Casa del Camba. I ordered the biggest cut of steak available. And I even tried the cow tongue dish my host ordered. The dancing was another Bolivian experience my coworker's cousin was eager for me to see and it was entertaining. Right up until the clouds opened up and rain swamped the open-air seating that was the majority of the restaurant. We quickly moved to a table under shelter and finished our meal with a torta tres leches. Then I noticed patrons could sign the wall of the restaurant. Signatures went back years. The servers couldn't produce a pen (I think the tradition is no longer encouraged) so we found our own and I signed the wall with a shout out to "autonomia", lest I have the cambas thinking I wasn't down with their cause.

Dinner ended late, with just enough time to go back to my hotel, pack up, and hunt down a taxi. The ride to the airport included windows down to keep the sweating at bay. There was a long line to the counter of my airline and it was here, while waiting patiently, I discovered my xerox of my now missing yellow fever card was not sufficient to get me onto the plane to cross the border. One of the requirements to enter Brazil, aside from a visa, is an official yellow card stamped to prove one has had the yellow fever vaccine. I was told to find the airline manager on duty to argue my case - the attendant manning the line was not going to let me through without the original card. The manager wasn't budging on the rules. Brazil would not let me into the country without it, and thus they would not let me on the plane without it. I had torn my bag apart earlier looking for it - now knowing it was not in there. My only option was to reschedule my ticket and apply for a new card. Defeated, I looked in my smaller bag for my spanish phrase book. I was looking for a phrase to convey the helplessness I felt. And there, on page 65, I found my yellow card.

An hour later I was on my flight bound for Campo Grande, Brazil. I slept the entire way, the air vent aimed directly at my chest. When we arrived in Brazil two and a half hours later, the third of the passengers not continuing on to Sao Paulo deboarded and headed into customs. I had no idea what the women in customs asked me. And when I asked her, in Spanish, to repeat what she said, she responded in English by asking if I knew any Portuguese. I did not.

And thus began my adventure into a country where the only word I knew was "non".

For pics of my time in Santa Cruz, follow the link below:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603952352167/