The Damned Bolivia – Part Three

Unlike the majority who travel with sightseeing as their goal; I have no interest in museums, touristy spots, beaches, sky scrapers, nice roads, or historical sites. That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy all these things, I do, but the drive behind traveling for me is to know the people themselves not what they have created or destroyed.

I was going to Bolivia to try to establish a local branch of our organization so when another fiasco like the 2011 floods happened, we wouldn’t be at the mercy of the utterly corrupt and incompetent government of that country to give a helping hand to their victims. But many things changed that idea and it wasn’t the hot weather or the bad roads either. It was the Bolivian people themselves who did that.

What I’ve written and will write until the Bolivian chapter is done is my first-handed account of this journey, whether you find it amusing, unbelievable or naïve, it’s the reality and I won’t apologize or change a single word of it. So if you are looking for beautiful pictures of majestic mountains and Indians in colorful dresses, you are in the wrong place. Not that Bolivia is not a beautiful country, which it is, and not that there aren’t any pretty things to see, which are plenty, but when it comes to hospitality, warmth, generosity, honesty and decency, Bolivia fails on a grand scale.

Ad this is not an opinion of a gringo in a strange land, this is the opinion of most anyone you meet in their neighboring countries, with Argentina being the champion for a damn good reason too. From the southernmost part of Patagonia to northern Jujuy, there isn’t a place that hasn’t been taken over by Bolivian immigrants and when I say taken over I mean it literally. Imagine the immigration chaos in the united states with all kinds of people screaming that these immigrants are taking over our jobs – well, now imagine these same immigrants take over your land or your house when you went on a vacation, and come back to see another family living in your living room and you can’t do a thing about it. That’s the reality with the Bolivian invasion in Argentina.

Not only the Bolivian immigrants abuse the soft and too welcoming laws of their neighboring countries, they do it with utter disrespect, destruction and air of arrogance that I have yet come to see anywhere else in the world. From parks to residential buildings, there isn’t a day that a Bolivian family doesn’t occupy someone else’s possession unlawfully and take it as their own. Take a trip to Buenos Aires alone to see it in action for yourself.

I was aware of these facts by my numerous trips to Argentina and even witnessed it first handed myself one day when my friend Tati and I were going to his (empty) uncle’s house in Mar del Plata and we walked in on a Bolivian guy already living in the house. But I dismissed this odd behavior as hardships of immigration and desperation, but to come to witness the same behavior in their own country among their own peers is something you can’t ignore.
From the moment we stepped foot in the customs office at the border and being robbed right off the bat, to refusal of water at the military checkpoint, to when we stopped at the immigration office, 200km deep into Bolivia, my mind was just dismissing one shity Bolivian act after another for a few bad apples in a bunch until we met the whole family of Bolivians who were to insult us to no end, for no reason other than that they could.

Not only the immigration person (I don’t think you can call a no shirt fat guy behind a desk an officer) insulted, ridiculed and bullied us around, he was joined by his wife, a bigger bitch than himself, and two other con artists who joined the prey. I asked the guy to take out or void the visa out of my passport as I had no intention of going into Bolivia anymore, but he refused. He wanted money and refused calling the embassy as well. He kept calling us any profane word that he could remember and wouldn’t null the visa. Then the good cop bad cop started, one guy came over and said what valuable do you have on you? And this was my time to give them back a little taste of my land. They called me an Iranian terrorist not knowing that in 7000 years, among many things like art, mathematics, civilization, poetry,… which these jungle duelers were clueless about, Iranians have also mastered selling feathers to Indians and making them believe they got a good deal.

I brought out two video cameras out of my tankbag, one a worthless broken Canon that I should have trashed a long time ago, and another a good but cheap HD camera that worked. I told them that the canon was $250 (a big lie) and the small HD was $130 (also doubled the price), but I’m not giving them the Canon for $130. That automatically fixated their greedy eyes on the broken camera. But would they just take the camera? No way. They were worse than that. The negotiation took over an hour and Lourdes once heard them saying that they have some money, take the camera and all their money too! And she relayed the message to me in English.

First they wanted all the money (we had just enough Paraguayan money for a tank of gas), and both cameras in exchange for the visa. I said hell no. Then they said that deal was off again and we were captive once more. Then the negotiation went on and finally we agreed on the gas money and the Canon camera. I handed them the camera and the change, got my passport back and told the guy one last time to at least say welcome to Bolivia. His reply was “you are not”. I wished them happy filming with their wonderful new camera and we jumped on the back of the bike and got the hell away.

They had a smile on their face as we left and we had a bigger smile on ours. I wonder if they ever understand why they got screwed, but I doubt it. I wonder if they ever figure out why their next event is filmed on a broken old camera with no sound that cuts off with the smallest shake. I doubt it. Best of luck to them anyway. When you deal with hyenas, you got to put the decency aside and treat them the way they treat you. That’s the law of the jungle and in Bolivia it’s the only law.

Now that I had my passport, I decide to put as many miles as I could behind us so I rode like a bat out of hell. Instead of going on the detour road again, I hopped on the fresh asphalt of a new road on my GPS and rode straight-shot without stopping until we came to a disheartening stop. The road was blocked completely over a bridge, and this time there was no going around. To the left was a giant drop off and to the right a jungle. Going back was not an option as we had to go all the way back to the immigration office to take the other road and even if we could sneak by them, we had no gas left to double back the past 80km.

We looked around and found a blue tarp in the jungle with a family living under it. These people turned out to be the only nice and helpful Bolivians we have met on this trip. The women got to work with a shovel to bring down the wall but it was too risky to go over that 10ft hump as if the bike rolled back, I would fall at least 50 ft into the bottom of the jungle below. Then a cheerful drunk old lady came along and suggested to bash through the jungle on a single track and go around the obstacles. Everyone thought she was crazy but frankly that was a much safer and somewhat doable alternative.

So I turned around and headed down the hill on the single track. It was hell maneuvering this giant bike through, but I came out the other side in one piece. I gave the lady a couple packs of cigarette, dumped the last bottle of reserve gas in the tank and bid farewell to the north, away from the immigration office.

Low on gas, transmission gear oil and with no money we made it to the town of Villamontes. The only gas station in town didn’t accept credit card of course so we went bank hunting. Two ATMs were out of cash, and the third one only had American dollars which I happily took. I exchanged $60 USD to local money and headed back to the gas station to fill up. The gas pump said 3 Bolivianos (name of the currency) per liter and I got 23 liters which should have come out to 69 B or roughly $10 USD. But I was charged 207 B or $30 USD, that’s $6 dollars a gallon. No this wasn’t the gas station attendant being a crook (nice for a change); this was the set price from the government of the West-hating Evo Morales to overcharge the gringos with foreign plates triple the price for gas. (See, Bolivia has a lot of good ideas for attracting tourists)

And to clarify something, I have no problem paying the extra “tourist tax” at poor countries for different commodities as the money compensate for the cost of the living difference, but in Bolivia? Extra tax for what? For the amazing roads? For the non-existent hospitality? For the daylight bribery at the customs or for the world class welcome we received at the immigration? You could have stabbed me and you wouldn’t see a drop of blood.

This is getting a little too long so stay tuned for the next part.

__________________

Isn't it true that to understand a group of people, you need to look at their history, the environment they live in ( natural or man made) and the political structure they live with in. *All these element can be found in museums, touristy spots, beaches, sky scrapers, roads, historical sites and art galleries. Meeting people from other countries is one thing, understanding them is another. We can't put our selves in there shoes because of our own preconceived ideas through our own experiences, we need to talk, look, learn, and help where we can.

The Damned Bolivia – Part Four

We made it to Villamontes and after an early dinner of really bad chicken and rice, we found a lubricant shop to buy some gear oil. As I was coming to stop in front of the shop, my left arm went completely numb. I could neither move it nor hold it up, and an excruciating pain started to shoot up from my wrest. I pushed the kill switch and stopped the bike and got off holding my arm. Lourdes thought I was having a heart attack and was hysterical, but I had no chest pain. It was just my arm that was a dead limb and I had no idea what was causing it. After about 15 minutes some sense started to come back and I could move my fingers again. I filled up the transmission and called it a day as I couldn’t risk riding with something like that happening at high speed.

Our options as finding hotels weren’t great, there was a whorehouse for $8 a night without a fan (I really felt sorry for the whores), a rundown Favela looking motel with fan for $10 and a Holliday-Inn looking hotel for $150 a night. We settled in the Favela as it at least had a yard with a gate for the bike. After a shower under a cold 6-trickle-a-minute showerhead, I headed downstairs to take care of the poor bike after this hell. I pulled out the air filter and with it came out the whole Arabian Desert. How this bike survived through this dust and sand is beyond me but special thanks goes to Jeff at Z1 Enterprises for sending me a K&N air filter instead of the original foam one. Not a particle of sand was anywhere passed the filter.

I washed the filter with soap and toothbrush for half an hour and hung it to dry, topped off the oil, cleaned the bike as well as I could, and crashed in the oven-like room to the sound of the mosquitoes whizzing by.

Now that we were inside Bolivia and well rested, we went out for lunch before heading north. On recommendation of the locals, we stopped at a little seafood (actually just fish from the muddy river below the bridge) restaurant and took the first swing at the Bolivian cuisine. We kept it simple, fish, rice and a salad of lettuce, tomato and onions. We ended up with cold fish, salad with rotten tomatoes minus the lettuce, and a bowl of boiled cold popcorn that was impossible to eat. We asked the waitress for the rice and got an evil eye and she disappeared and never came back.

Note to self: Never ask for food recommendation from locals in Bolivia again.
The road going north was paved with a nice coat of asphalt which was refreshing. The scenery started to change as we climbed up to higher altitudes and the weather cooled off. We rode passed herds of horses, wandering cows and beautiful pastures with the mountains in the distance. But something kept bothering me. Every so often I would start to smell a strong stench and shortly after a village or a town would pop in the view. It took me a while to figure out the pattern but it was horrible. I would start to smell the garbage before the city sign was in view and long after the urban area ended. My goal became racing for the countryside as soon as possible for some fresh air.

The triple price for gas was getting on my nerve, and I being still pissed off at the treatment we received so far, decided to not obey the gringo pricing. We found a few empty 2 liter coke bottles (not a hard task at all, considering there’s a pile of garbage at any given human settlement in Bolivia) and we set to work. I would park the bike out of sight and Lourdes would go to the gas station to fill up the bottles at a normal price. Then we would dump the gas in the tank and repeat the process until it was full. We needed a few big jugs to be able to fill up the 6 gallon tank in one shot so we looked around for some. The first 4 liter jug we found was an empty oil jug, and the guy happily gave it to us. We thanked him and we were about to leave as he stopped us and said, $2 for the jug. $2 for a used plastic oil jug? From then on, I learned a very important lesson. As a tourist, you are a walking dollar sign in Bolivia.

The next jug shopping proved to be the same, this time a 7 or 8 year old girl asked for the extortion fees for useless plastic jugs. I wonder if it ever occurred to these people that giving away a piece of their garbage for a reasonable price or god forbid for free would help out another human being?
Armed with 2 five liter, 1 four liter, and three 2 liter coke bottles, we solved the gas prices for good. Although I wouldn’t pay a penny for the industrial sewage they called gas in any modern country, we had to live with it. It broke my heart every time I dumped this dirty gas into the tank as I could see the stuff floating in it that didn’t belong in refined petroleum. I would let the bottles settle down and I always dumped the last part out as it had way too much crap in it.

Around 7 pm we arrived in a remote village and bought some very questionable meat from a lady with no teeth for dinner, and hit the road. The plan was to camp out that night in the countryside and we started to look for a suitable spot. Both sides of the road were farm lands with a few shacks here and there. We stopped at one of the houses to ask for permission to camp on their land and the answer was no. So we went further down to the next farm and asked for the same and the answer was no again. Not only we weren’t welcome in the country from the start, now the regular people would deny a 4 foot by 6ft ground to travelers for a night sleep in their own tent. Something so uncustomary in Latin America.

Needless to say, we had no luck finding a spot to camp and quite frankly I was hesitant to camp anywhere knowing how inhospitable these people where. I saw a sign to my left for Vallegrande, where Ernesto Guevara was killed some 40 years ago and wondered about the very same people who ratted him out. Hospitality and decency is a rare commodity in Bolivia so we stopped searching for it.

We made it to another stinky town called Cabezas, and looked for a hotel. The only joint in town was a big open style motel with a courtyard in the middle. It had a safe spot with gates and the rate was 25 Bolivianos per person. We took a room and I went from the back alley to bring in the bike. The alley was filled with the all familiar soft sand and I fell on my ass right in front of the gate. When the bike fell, my tankbag was pressing against the horn button and the hotel owner, a very big guy (equivalent of a Bigfoot sighting in Bolivia), walked out to see what was going on. He saw me struggling with picking up the loaded bike, took one look at me and without a word turned around and went inside. I suppose I would be expecting a help in any normal country, but by now I was used to it. Lourdes came out and we picked up the bike and settled in.

Our room had no fan, the water was shut off, the beds were filled with moldy corn husk, which were harder than rock with a permanent hole under our backs, and as a lullaby you could hear the bugs moving under the sheets. Still better than begging a Bolivian peasant for a grave size space on their land for a night. I always thought that posted signs in countries are the best indicators of human development. These signs always show the level of civility, ignorance and social issues and Bolivia is full of signs. The sign behind our door read:

“Forbidden to take the covers or sheets
Do not stain the beds
Do not scratch the furnitures or the walls”

As much as I tried to like this country, they always came back with something more to change my mind. Stay tuned.

__________________

I have just came across your trip Chris. Your website, Non-profit, blog post and pics. After reviewing during the last hour, I see an angry, frustrated, resentful motorcycle traveler. Much of the feedback has been what I might have said too.

But really Chris, it might be time to re-think what is going on. It is your life. Things change in life and adventure. It just seems like you are not having much fun.

There has got to be some way of taking better care of yourself in all ways.

Anger and resentment saps your needed energy and positive attitude you need. It may be hard to get this stuff processed out, but it may be important to do so. Again your peace of mind in important to all of us, yourself most of all. Consider trying to find that again. I don't think the answer is out there anywhere... How well we cope with life and its challenges, is about how we choose to respond to lifes challenges...

I am about to embarke on a RTW trip myself and will travel with a cause, but I am backing down from that a bit because it exhaust me and i need to focus on the proper planning and have a good time on my adventure. Kent Rides The World | Facebook
I hope I don't find myself in the state you seem to be in lately and I hope somebody would say something if I was, and I could not see it. I hope I could hear the feedback from those that may care.

You are a tough caring guy. Thanks for all you do. Now take good care of yourself.

Kent

Chris,

You need a break, man.

Thanks for clarifying the money issue regarding how you fund your travels and what the donations do and don't pay for. Probably many people, including me, had wondered about that - not necessarily in a negative way, but people always like to know where their donations go and what they get spent on.

Ride on. After a good rest to recharge your own batteries.

The Damned Bolivia – Part Five

As you can tell from the last four posts, I grew steadily more skeptical of finding a trace of hospitality in Bolivia, but as everything in life, we don’t evaluate the facts at hand and we always search for a better or more acceptable answer. To not believe the duck syndrome, we went deeper and deeper into Bolivia hoping to prove ourselves wrong.

When we arrived in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, the city was in high fever for the upcoming carnival, the most extravagant event of the year. (I have to mention that Santa Cruz is a center of all things happening in Bolivia. It’s the most “modern” Bolivian city and supposedly this city holds the most educated, most open minded Bolivian population.)
Every year in Bolivia, people from all over the country organize the biggest party of the year, an ancient 40 days long Andean religious ceremony which with time has turned into a Catholic driven Virgin worshiping madness. And of course the Bolivians celebrate the last few days with incomprehensible amount of free flowing alcohol, nudity, fights, destruction and to cap it off, by showing their immaturity and rudeness in the truest possible way.

Watching this display of pandemonium on TV is one thing and being caught in the middle of it is another. Whether to blame these odd behaviors on Aldehyde Dehydrogenase Isozyme deficiency of the Bolivians who can’t have a drink and not be walking on their heads, or their general assholeness, this is a party to be avoided at all cost. It sorts of tries to mimic the famous Rio Carnival, but not really, as at least Brazilian girls are not miniature sized nor implausibly revolting. The performances are poor at its best as the whole group of dancers run wild with no imaginable coordination or grace, and to enhance the madness, children and adults of any age stand ready with water cannons to spray toxic un-washable paint at every living soul. The religious and ancient meaning of this event gets lost in devil dances, virgin miracles and other imaginary acts of valor from nonexistent figures that Bolivians wholeheartedly devote their life and respect to.

The biggest and most famous version of this lunacy happens in the piss-poor mountain town of Oruro, where the legends all come together to make the basis for this embellished event. This carnival costs hundreds of thousands dollars in each city and according to the locals; it’s not uncommon for the participants to spend 400 to 500 dollars on their splendid costumes – a big fortune in a country like Bolivia. A country where 80 percent of its population live under poverty, 23 percent of the entire population sufferers from severe malnutrition, and is second in human development, corruption, diseases and mortality rate only to the post apocalyptic Haiti in Western Hemisphere. I guess coming second to a country ravaged by earthquake calls for a celebration of this magnitude.

The city of Santa Cruz was a fascinating city and not in a good way either. Leaving the ungodly stench aside, the city is cut with an invisible line. One part is filled with the lower class, selling anything and everything from cell phones to chicken milk with their malnourished children either begging or eating garbage off the ground wearing shredded cloths with their stomach the size of a blimp, and the other side, only a few blocks away, the rich drove their Mercedes, talked on their iPhones, and snaked on the food that they would throw at the poor like the pigeons. It’s no coincident that Bolivia is a high roller when it comes to income inequality to add to their distinctive “qualities”.

In this mayhem, we found a somewhat decent hotel and checked in. The constipated looking receptionist could have not been less rude or helpful. She downright refused to let us park the bike inside the garage, reasoning that there was not enough room to get passed by the only car that was parked inside and when we asked her that if she could move it, she claimed that it was broken and it never moved. After 15 minutes of arguing she finally agreed with an attitude that I could bring the bike inside only if I could get it in from the front door (so she didn’t have to move here ass off the chair). There was no way I was leaving the bike in the jungle outside so I cleared it with only millimeters on each side and parked it close to our room. (The next morning the broken car started right up in front of my eyes with no problem.)

If you remember, my camera box broke from the constant potholes in the first 200km in Bolivia, and I had been strapping it down and keeping it light until I found a shop that I could get it fixed. The problem was that I had an expensive camera in that box, and with the walls of the box collapsing, the strain was on the camera and with every bump the walls came in a little further. While riding around Santa Cruz, I found a metal and welding shop five blocks from the hotel and asked them if they could fix it, as I wasn’t going another mile with the box in that condition. They said “of course”, “no problem”, they even gave us a quote and told us that they would be open until 9pm.

As soon as we arrived at the hotel, we got to work and unloaded everything inside the box, unbolted the million bolts that were holding the box on the rack, and took it to the shop for repair right away. As we walked out of the hotel, one of the obnoxious drunken Bolivians that were standing on the corner sprayed us with his water gun full of paint. He saw us coming with a giant box in our hand, we had no carnival clothes on nor did we have any painting on our faces or clothes, yet he proceeded to shower us with paint.

We made it to the shop and to our disbelief (well we should have known by then), they refused to fix the box. Claiming that they didn’t have the right material first, and when I pointed at the pile of aluminum angle that they “didn’t have”, they just said we don’t wanna do it. When we asked them “so why in the hell did you say to bring the box here?” they just put up their shoulders and went back to drinking. This was new to me as refusing paid work takes a different kind of assholes than the ones I’ve already got used to in Bolivia. We walked back the five blocks, box in hand, and the same son of a bitch sprayed us again with paint gun.

There are a few times in my life that I truly hated a place, but I can’t think of single place that even comes close to Bolivia. I was done spending another dollar in this shithole of a country, we were going to get the hell out or at least try by sunrise.

When it’s in front of your eyes, don’t try to reason with it, fight it, or sugar coat it. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, swims like a duck – it ain’t going to be what you hoped it would be – it’s a ****ing duck.
Stay tuned.

__________________

Reading this ride report reminds me of the most valuable lessons I've learned in my years of travel.

The importance of maintaining a positive mental attitude in the face of adversity.

Compassion and tolerance for those less fortunate.

Having a stubborn and determined spirit.

This fellow seems to have one of those characteristics. Probably the most important one. Without the other two a journey of discovery can become a tedious affair.

Seeing the world through ethnocentric eyes makes for interesting reading.

Kindest regards,
John Downs

__________________
South America and back on a 250 Super Sherpa Minimalist Adventure http://advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=831076

Chris ...

Good to hear you are getting out of this country. Find a nice place, rest your soul for a couple of days and have some s.

On a historical perspective you have probably experienced the beginning of a kind of Indio reconquista of Bolivia and neighboring territories. This might explain the generally rude attitude.

We had an Argentinean exchange student here in Germany last year. She obviously was not happy with Bolivians as well.

I am going to have a cold one on you and your friend this evening, Chris. You will soon see greener pastures.

Happy trails and take care.

Mate. You've got a few things wrong.
I've been following your blog since Alaska, and I'm a bit pissed off about how you label Bolivia.
Buddy. You're on the wrong bike and on the wrong expectations.
When you do something like this, expect everything. And if you're meeting the wrong people, ask why.
If you get covered in paint, laugh, ffs.
Your attitude ain't gonna do you any good like the way you are going.
God bless Bolivia!

Chris,

It's your right to write about Bolivia the way you experience it. It's a pity you don't enjoy Bolivia but I sure hope the next country is treating you better.

Looking forward to your next photos and stories!
Have a safe trip.

Gr Edwin

I agree with BigAl and BugonmyBoard's comments mate. Despite having found your recent posts rather amusing due to their tone filled with incredible anger and cynicism, I am puzzled by your lack of understanding of the very things you are claiming to "fight": poverty and hunger.

Seeing how you are faring in a place where roads and good food are nonexistent--despite carrying a lot of US dollars in your bank account--I'm wondering why you don't understand how the very people you are verbally abusing throughout your posts might feel living in this situation 365 days a year.

As BigAl also mentioned, your motorcycle is totally unsuitable for the trip you are taking, and you are obviously ignorant about local road conditions, the availability of ATMs, gas, and other such things.

Additionally, I'm not sure I fully understand what exactly you are doing to eradicate poverty or hunger, especially considering your mindset, cultural arrogance, and virtual racism (calling people names because of their physical appearance, for example). Your website claims that huge amounts of money are spent every year on military spending and other such things, and you make it look like poverty eradication is as simple as showering dollars on people rather than armaments, and then hoping that poverty and hunger will somewhat magically disappear.

Perhaps you aren't aware of this fact, but large international organizations such as the UN and the World Bank donate, every year, billions of dollars in aid to so-called Third World countries, yet poverty rates, especially during the 1990s, have actually grown or been maintained. Giving money to people does not provide incentives for sustainable development and for long-term growth. You make it look like the problem of poverty is so simple, and one is appalled by your apparent lack of education (for starters, work on your typo. "Quite" and "quiet", only to give one example, are two different words). If you are truly serious about poverty eradication and about economic and social capital development for underdeveloped countries, I would suggest (re)turning to university and perhaps looking forward the completion of an M.A. or Ph.D in developmental economics. That would make you look smarter and more equipped to understand what people who have nothing on their names go through every day.

Anyway, good luck with your trip, but I can say for sure that I will not spend a single dollar of my hard-earned money to encourage your "organization." I hope you will soon start to enjoy traveling again, and that you will perhaps tone down your anger and verbal abuses towards the people you are purporting to help.

I have to disagree with some of the previous posters.

Being rude to foreigners has nothing to do with hunger or poverty. I have met people who were very poor and were struggling to get food for their children every day but they were friendly and helpful to us "strangers'.
As you also may read in other travelreports on this site, poverty does not make people bad, but a bad attitude makes people poor. (For example: if you are not friendly to tourist, tourists will not spend their money in your town)
A rude and corrupt customs "officer" who tells you that you are not welcome has nothing to do with poverty.

I understand the frustration and hope you get out of that country soon, to a nicer country with friendly people.

__________________
Jan Krijtenburg

My bikes are a Honda GoldWing GL1200 and a BMW R1200GS

My personal homepage with trip reports: https://www.krijtenburg.nl/
YouTube channel (that I do together with one of my sons): motormobilist.nl

Maybe it comes as a heavy shock to some people that the world is not made of marshmallow, all bees don’t have honey, or people are not all equal, or even grasp the idea of Santa Claus not being real. I don’t see the world from behind a computer screen in a Lazyboy, nor do I see it through rose colored glasses. I write they way I see it, wrong or right, it’s my narrative, my experience, and my journey. If you wish to see it differently, by all means, get out and see it for yourself and then throw in your towel.

And to call short people “short” is not bigotry, as it’s not calling tall people tall or white people white. It’s a form of descriptive language and if you find it offensive, you have deeper issues and a racist mind to take it that way. A melon is just a melon to a kid, but becomes giant knockers to a perverted mind. I don’t use euphemism and I don’t bu!!shit myself, so if you don’t like the way I describe things or people, there is that pretty little X on the top corner that you can click on and get lost.

And most importantly, these blog posts are my travel narratives, they have nothing to do with my humanitarian work nor am I begging for donations here. You keep your pity money, I don’t need it, and on behalf of the poor I work with I can say to shove it.

And my sincerest apology for misspelling a few word here and there. I promise to pay utmost attention the next time I’m writing 3 pages for your amusement in a tent, in the middle of nowhere on low battery. Maybe I should send my posts to a professional editor to refine and hone them so you can have a print-quality story to criticize.

And please, have the decency not to sanitize your comments by “good luck”, “we love you” and “be safe”. I have more respect for those who say what’s on their mind even if it’s a simple “fvck-off” than those who try to be holier than thou.

Forgive me if I’m cutting this short, but a “vertically challenged person”, who happened to be “big boned” (or hefty if you may), who seems to have “un-comb-able hair” is waiting impatiently behind me to use the magic box to access the World Wide Web.

To those of you who really wished me well, thank you sincerely and please stay tuned.

__________________

Good for you!
It's your journey, you have worked hard to make this trip happen and most importantly you are out there doing it!
As a previous post says, poverty isn't an excuse to be rude. The vast majority of 3rd world countries experiencing poverty are nations full of friendly, generous and helpful people.
I look forward to experiencing Bolivia myself at some stage and through your posts and that of others I find myself better prepared. I now know that fuel prices for tourists are set by the government (86 pence compared to £1.40 in the UK, sounds like a bargain...), and I can expect the locals to be unwelcoming. So when I am fortunate enough to be there I can hopefully have a smile on my face and be mentally prepared for a similar level of courtesy to you and hopefully have a better experience.
Freedom of speech, it is the cornerstone of our society. Keep it up!
I look forward to the rest of your journey.

Even crossing a simple border crossing such as the US to canada crossing border workers have been known to check forum postings.