It rained last night. And the night before. All night, pretty much, and when I woke up, the whole place was within the clouds. I’m up in the jungle mountains of Bolivia right now. Semi-tropical (which means lots of beautiful flowers in ridiculous colours and even some testicle trees, which I will show you if I can ever download the images, though seriously, complaining about internet speeds when you’re both up a mountain and in a jungle is not on). Done, but not on.
It’s nice within the clouds. It’s like still being in a dream and the smells that come from the flowers are suspended in the air right there, ready to entice you with their sweetness. There are big fat drops that magnify petals and bugs alike. There is ‘not much visibility’, which means you can see the clouds and the close things, but not the mountains, or even the next bit of this mountain.
This afternoon, on the other hand, everything was clear. There were clouds. There are always clouds. But they were right the way over on the other side of the valley and they were dividing and dissipating, giving glimpses of serious, white-capped ranges hidden behind the green mountains in front. The garden I was sitting in, which belonged to the most delightful Swiss artist-homeopath-art therapist massage client, was full of lemon trees and brightly coloured flowers, which Dionysis, the man who let me in, was just giving me a tour of when she arrived. I love that his name reflects the orgy of natural voluptuousness that makes the garden stickier than a siren. I’d have happily hidden in the bushes and stayed there all night, watching birds fly as the dusk set in, listening for creatures I can only sit and imagine shouting, singing, choiring in the dark.
I’m holed up in this semi-tropical semi-paradise in an ecolodge called Sol y Luna, doubly recommended to me by Julian and wonderfully-named Wolf, fron Germany, so his name sounds like the kind of bark a tired and curmudgeonly old dog might make, if it could be bothered. I have a room that’s straight out of what I dreamed of (apart from the shelf at the bottom of the writing table, but as details go, that’s a small one). A bed beset by bookshelves at either end. I only have four books (two of them the same, but in different languages), but I appreciate the thought that I might have brought 500. There’s room for them.
It has a complex shelf/hanger/shoe rack unit made of wood and a gap to hide a bag. The bed is high and comfortable. It’s single (I prefer a double every time) but I’m unlikely to have company up here. There’s a poetry in its simple singleness too. I even like the bedclothes. It has a little bedside unit in which I hide vegetables and occasional biscuits (or the other way round). It has a bedside lamp, a mirror and a window onto lushness, clouds and birdsong (see above).
The town itself’s a little dull. It’s a long way from anything. There are a few tourists and a lot of people from here. There’s an honesty about this place (Bolivia so far, I mean by that) which means that sometimes, when I speak to someone, they glare at me as if they hate me (because they do, but it’s not personal). They’re not just a bit indifferent, they’re actively, aggressively, defiantly rude. I’be felt the ‘you’re a gringo’ thing a lot in Peru, and here, it’s up a level. It’s the first time I’ve ‘got’ what it’s like to be black in a white dominated world. I’m not saying I get it completely - how could I - I’m still part of a privileged race and very much conscious of it - but the contempt of racism that doesn’t give a shit who you are, just what you are, that doesn’t give you a chance to be anything but what they see and what they judge, whatever you do. And all I can say is fuck, I’m sorry. Just this level of it sucks, so what you go through in the States if you’re black, especially if you’re black and poor, is shit in a bag and it never goes away and I’m sorry you have to swallow that all the time.
And then there are other people who are gently, softly open, whatever, whoever. They just accept, speak, look, ask, ignore, nurture. All those things combined and separate. Take Trudi. The first time I spoke to her, I wasn’t sure. She seemed wary. She runs a shop which is the open door of her home, wider, with stuff to buy. She and her husband sit in the back with the telly and come out when you call. I bought something there on the trek back up the hill a few days ago. We talked and now each time I go, she offers me not only warmth and conversation, but some little freebie, a cake baked by her daughter, warm biscuits wrapped in kitchen roll, some bread. I took her flowers today, great ostentatious pink ones, just to say thank you for such kindness.
I have SUCH beautiful photos for you. I’m aching to share them, but they just won’t post. It’s too much for the tiny modem to handle. Let’s hope this goes and if not, I’m thinking of you. Thanks for reading. Thanks for taking a little bit of Bolivia with you in your mind, even if it’s British Claybourne flavoured in its filter. I’m delighted to be able to share it with you. Love love love.
x
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