Day 110 - Mojon Con Cara

Mojon Con Cara

One of my favorite Bolivian stories is the Mojon Con Cara.  Here is my rendition of the old story.

In eighteenth century, the Calle Republiquetas was not what it is today.  This was one of the more remote and less crowded places in town.  Houses did not join side to side, but had empty lots filled with the colorful blooming trees of Santa Cruz.  There were sidewalks along the street.  It was a nice neighborhood to be raised in.

Not too far from the plaza was a quaint house where lived a vivacious young girl.  She was funny and very beautiful, with dark eyes and black hair.  Her mother though was very protective.  She longed for her beautiful daughter to marry one of the important men of Santa Cruz.  So the mother kept her inside and did not let her roam the streets.

Yet one day, the lovely girl was leaning out her window enjoying the town alive out of the window.  She saw a handsome young man, a mere worker, walk by.  She rolled her eyes at him in a flirtatious way and the young man was in love.  Every day he came by just to speak to her and tell her how much he loved her.  Quietly they talked, the window keeping them apart.

One day the mother noticed them talking.

“There is no way you will marry my daughter,” she exclaimed.  “Give up your quest!”

But he did not.  He stood at their door, day by day, waiting that a window might open or a door, in hopes he would get a glimpse of his beloved.

One day the mother said to him, as she was leaving the house and seeing him standing there waiting patiently, “I would allow my daughter to marry you, if this mojon grew a face!”  She laughed mockingly as she walked away.

A mojon is like a hitching post.  They placed these in front of houses.  They were also used to mark the property lines, and to keep street traffic off the sidewalks.

The distraught young man did not know what to do.  He looked at the mojon and came up with an idea.  He started carving it.  Day by day, he returned and patiently carved into the mojon, and the mother would laugh at him. 

One morning he was finished.  He had created a lifelike face in the mojon. The mother saw the face carved into the mojon, but the man young man was not there.  Curious, she looked up and down the street, thinking he was away for just a moment.  She shrugged her shoulders and went back into the house.  That is when she noticed her house was quiet, too quiet.  She looked in every room, but her daughter was not there.  They had slipped away in secret.

But the Mojon con Cara, worn with age, is still there, a romantic reminder of the Romeo and Juliet of Santa Cruz.

Translated and adapted from www.educa.com.bo

You can't imagine how long it took me to find this.  I searched two different times and didn't see it, even though it is 5 feet tall!  And you'll never guess where it was.  It was along a street I pass when I walk to the plaza.  I was about to give up looking and suddenly, there it was in front of me, on the corner of Republiquetas and Rene Moreno.  I have probably passed this 50 times since I arrived in July.  I am sure others pass by and no nothing of the story.

Come visit and I will show you the Mojon con Cara.

An Excerpt from My First Novel

A month ago I published my first novel, The Spartan Sisters.  It is a novel of the Trojan War, but not with the supernatural things you might expect from Greek mythology.  I wanted to introduce you to the novel, by giving you the prologue to Part I. 

Screams surrounded me as I ran. Terrifying screams.  Blood curdling screams.  I heard women watching the nightmare of their men dying and their children being thrown out of high windows onto the flaming streets below.  It did not stop the screams.  They grew louder and louder.

“He must not live!” A voice shouted at me.  I felt the baby in my belly writhe and squirm.  He wanted out of this horror.

I could not find my husband and that made me more afraid than I had ever imagined possible.  Where was a place of safety I could run to?  Why was he not with me?  I ran through the dark corridors lit with only the grotesque reflections of the flames on the walls.  I could not find him.  My husband was gone.  It happened.  They are here, bringing death and fire.

“If he lives, there will only be flames.”

The streets were ablaze.  Fire was exploding from one building and its sparks lighting another.  Fire was consuming the streets.  It flowed from one place to the next, like blood flowing from a wound.  The earth seemed to be belching fire from every exposed crevice.  People were dying by swords if they ventured out of their burning homes.  Children were being tossed off of the ramparts of the city.  I could see it from where I stood.

I saw a woman, a beautiful woman with auburn hair flowing in the wind, standing on the Citadel, kindling the fire before Apollo's temple, but that was not the cause of the flame.  Priestesses were gathering to her side, on their knees praying to the gods, who would not listen. A single man protected them, but demons pushed forward killing him and raping the priestesses.  Yet more fire poured from the temple.

The woman looked directly at me, with desperation in her voice, said, “If he lives, we will all die.”

I saw myself huddled around an altar with children and an old man, watching the blood pour from his belly and turn into more flames.  The flames caught the Great Hall; it burned in a mountain of flames.  None could stand near it.  I saw the children, boys being thrown to their deaths and girls raped.  And more flames.

I saw Athena leave her temple, shaking her head in sorrow, as she vanished in the flames.  The city fell in ruins around me.

I woke screaming, the pain in my belly a fire.  He was coming any minute.  I could feel him burning as he came.

“I saw flames!” I screamed through my pain.

“It is just the baby coming,” comforted Xanthe, my Scythian slave.

“No!”  I screamed in pain worse than I could imagine.  None of my children had left me with so much pain.  Was I dying?  “Call my husband.  Call the priest of Apollo.”

Xanthe hurried from the room.  Chloe, a slave that was but a child of ten, brought in warm water and washed my face and neck.  Iolanthe, a slave that had seen me born, sat beside me, holding my hand, humming a comforting lullaby.

It was ten minutes until my husband came.  I told him the dream and he looked at me puzzled. 

“It was just a dream,” he said.  “You are having pain because of the child.”

“It is an ominous dream,” the high priest announced.  My husband scoffed.  “There was an earthquake today.  You know this, my king.  Athena’s statue fell in the quake.”

“I saw her leave,” I said.  “There were flames everywhere.  Men were being killed by demons and women being raped.  The little boys were being thrown from the city walls.  There were flames everywhere, and I saw Athena leave our city.”

“Does this have a true meaning,” my husband asked, slowly seeing the connection.  “Or is this the pain from the baby being born?”

“It portends destruction, but how it relates to the baby I am not sure.”

“The woman standing in front of Apollo’s temple kept saying, ‘if he lives, everything will be in flames.”

A young initiate of the College of Seers spoke up.  He was a Greek.  “It means if this baby lives, the city will be destroyed by fire.”

“We must protect my baby.  He will be a son.”

My husband pulled the high priest aside, conferring in hushed voices.  The pain began again.  It burned inside me, as I heard the words “die,” “fire,” and “destruction.”  What did this mean?  I didn’t care.  The pain ripped apart my insides.  It was more than I could bear.

“He’s killing me!” I screamed, as I lost consciousness.

I awoke, feeling rested.  The room was quiet.  Iolanthe slept in a corner.  I could see splatters of blood on her apron.  Where was he?

“Iolanthe?” I asked in a weak voice.

Xanthe came in when she heard me speak.  Iolanthe woke up and came to my side to hold my hand.  “It is time to rest, my queen,” Iolanthe said fussing with my covers.  I was cold.

“Where is he?” I asked weakly.

“Your husband, the king, has gone to tend to matters,” Xanthe said tearily.

“My son?  Where is my son?”

Xanthe looked at Iolanthe for support.  “Leave, child,” the older woman ordered.   The girl left wiping tears from her eyes.  “Now is the time to rest, my queen.”  She took a wet clothe and brushed my brow.  It was cold.

“Iolanthe, I bore a son?”

“Yes, you had a son,” Iolanthe answered in a broken voice.

“Where is he?  I want to see my son.”

The old woman could only cry.  I knew he was dead.

The young man studying at the College of Seers, was from Mycenae in Greece.  He had been here since the death of his king.  He loved Troy.  Even now he was courting a girl who was a niece of the king.  He loved Troy, but often had premonitions.  He knew danger approached.  He did not know what, until he stood in the queen’s bedchamber.  Then he knew.

The city was going to die because of a boy; this baby he held in his arms.  The high priest had consulted signs of the earthquake, birds, and strange clouds at sunset.  He ordered him to sacrifice a lamb, only to find it infested with black cancer in the belly.  When he showed the high priest, it was agreed the birth of this boy portended destruction.

The king would not have his son killed like some vermin.  He ordered him to carry him out of the city and dispose of him in a wild spot.  If the gods will it, his son would live.  If not, he would die.

He found himself walking up a lonely path in the rocky expanse of Ida.  The winter winds blew around him.  The baby had never been fed, yet he did not cry.  He was silent.  From time to time, he stopped and looked at him, wondering if he was alive or dead.  Each time the baby squirmed in his grip, but did not make a sound.

Finally, he found a hidden spot on this forsaken mountain.  It was deserted.  Nobody would find the baby, but wild animals.

“If there is a god in heaven,” he prayed tearfully, “let this baby live.”  He laid him down beneath a scraggly, deformed oak, wrapped the blanket carefully around the babe’s face, then ran down the mountain.

He did not see a young woman, hidden in the bushes.  She was easily not seen, being the color of the land around her.  Carefully she walked over to the bundle.  She nudged it with her feet and was startled when it moved.  Her dog sniffed it and whimpered.  She bent down and uncovered the baby.

Hecuba woke in the night again dreaming of the city on fire.  While writhing in agony, she screamed, “His name is Paris, because I know he lives.”

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Whether you have an Amazon Kindle or not, you can buy this for your computer or whatever device you normally use.  If you look under the picture of the book cover, there is a link that says, “Read on any Device.”  The app is free to download and then you can read my book on your home computer, iPhone, or tablet device.

You can find it easily on the link below:

Spartan Sisters by Mark Potter

Day 109 - Paying Bills

Paying Bills

I wrote a blog once before on paying bills here in Bolivia.  As the months have gone by, I have become more accustomed to the system and paid attention to little things.  Now I have less of a problem.

I have five local bills I have to pay and here is how I do each.  Most I can do on the same day, so I can kill several birds with one stone.

First is my rent.  My apartment is owned by a lady named Alejandra.  She prefers to be paid in dollars, because it is still more stable than the boliviano.  So I have to change my bolivianos into dollars.  I’ve gotten into the habit of going to the ATM about once a week.  It gives me a mixture of 10s, 20s, 50s, and 100s.  I use the 10s and 20s, and a few of the 50s, to pay for taxis and grocery shopping.  Almost every 100 I save for the end of the month.  The first month I was here, I thought the only place I could change money was on the plaza.  Now I can go next door, literally next door, to the Banco Fassil and change my bolivianos into dollars.  They need my passport to change the money, which makes it a bit harder when your passport is in the Immigration.  But I can get it done now.

Then I walk a block away to the Banco Ganadero.  That is where my landlady has her bank account.  When you first walk into a bank there is a machine that you punch in the service you need.  If you don’t do it right, they will send you back to start over.  So I learned my ticket needs to start with a B.  An F or E will get me sent back.  I give information to the teller and give her the dollars, and I am done.  At the Ganadero I often have to wait a bit, but never at the Fassil.

I have Internet too.  I get it from COTAS, which I was told was the most reliable.  The COTAS office is near the plaza.  I said something to someone about going all the way there to pay my Internet on the first of the month.  I was told I can pay it at any bank.  So I tried next door at the Fassil and I can do it there.  Woo-hoo. 

Here is an interesting thing about Santa Cruz Spanish.  If you want to pay a bill, they use the word cancelar, which means cancel, instead of pagar, which means pay.  So the first time I was asked if I want to cancel my internet service, I said no!  I tried to explain I just wanted to pay the monthly bill.  Eventually I understood that they mean to “cancel” the debt.  It’s the little things that make a culture unique.

My gas and electric bills arrive around the 10^th of the month.  Neither are very expensive.  When I was told my gas bill might be $3 or $4 I couldn’t believe that.  It isn’t that much.  Usually it is around $1 or $2.  The electric bill is higher, around $20.  I have started using my air conditioning more, so I won’t be surprised if it is a bit higher than that.  Both bills I can pay at the grocery store behind my apartment building.  Five minutes and I am done.

The last is the condominium fees.  I wasn’t told about that, but in the back of my mind I knew that those things existed.  So when I got the first bill of around $60 I just took a deep sigh and went and paid it.  In September, when I went to pay it again, I was told that my landlady already paid my fees, as part of my rent and they gave me a two-month refund.  Nice!  My landlady called me the other day to confirm that I do not pay those fees.

So that is basically how it is done.  Not do difficult after all.

Since I wrote this a few weeks ago, I have added another bill.  After three months, I got my iPhone unlocked.  You might not understand that from a US standpoint.  The iPhone you have is locked into the service carrier until you have completely paid off the phone.  I paid mine off a few weeks before I came to Bolivia, but for some reason ATT wants to hold you to them forever, so they would not unlock my phone until October.  I have since gone to TIGO and gotten a chip for my phone so I can use it here.  Everything works Ok, except Facebook doesn't connect well.  Cost?  About $20 a month.

Day 108 - My Favorite Bolivian Foods

My Three Favorite Bolivian Foods

There are many great foods in Bolivia, and many great foods in the United States.  America makes the best hamburgers in the world, though there are a few places here that make a good burger.  Tex-Mex food is to die for and I am sorry to say, Bolivia lacks a great Mexican restaurant.  But there are some things Bolivia has that you can’t find in the States. 

First of all is sonso.  It is a simple dish cooked, pureed yucca with cheese blended in.  Yucca is also called manioc in English, though both are relatively unfamiliar in the States.  Here in the city, I most often find it baked in an aluminum tin, but in Cotoca, I had it wrapped on a stick and cooked over a grill.  I don’t care which way it is served; it is so incredible.  It makes me wonder why yucca has not become popular in the States. 

Around the corner from my house is Teconté, a small tea restaurant/bakery.  They make fabulous sonso, so at least once a week, I buy some.

Here is a recipe from boliviabella.com:

Ingredients

4 pounds of yucca (manioc) peeled, boiled and mashed
2 round white cheeses, crumbled (fresh mozzarella works well)
2 tablespoons of butter or lard, melted
1/4 to 1/2 cup of milk
2 eggs
Salt to taste

Instructions:

Peel the yucca, cut into medium-sized pieces, and boil in water with salt until they are soft. Remove from water and strain. Mash completely.

Add in the eggs and melted butter or lard and mix well. Add in 1/4 cup of milk and mix completely. What you want to obtain is a mash of yucca that can be handled and shaped with your hands - not too dry to crumble and not so wet that it won't hold its shape. If the mix is too dry, add more milk, one tablespoon at a time.

Add in the crumbled cheese. Mexican queso cacique works well (you'll have to grate it) but I found fresh mozzarella (the kind that comes in a jar with water) works better for this recipe. Mix vigorously with a wooden spoon or simply with your hands to incorporate the cheese completely into the mashed yucca.

TO BAKE IT

If you plan to make baked sonso, your mashed yucca can be a bit more wet if you like (however, don't make it runny). Grease a glass baking dish and spread the mashed yucca into the dish. Try to use a dish that isn't too shallow. You want your sonso to be rather deep and have the consistency of mashed potatoes. If it's too shallow, you may end up baking your sonso into a thin crisp. Bake at 350 Fahrenheit or about 180 Celsius uncovered until the cheese forms a nice toasty golden brown top. Serve hot.

TO GRILL IT

To grill your sonso on a stick, your mashed yucca should not be too wet. You need it to be pliable and smooth. Scoop some sonso with your hand and shape it around your stick. You can either grill it directly on the grill, or wrap it in tin foil initially, then after a few minutes you can take off the tin foil and grill it until the cheese toasts to a golden brown. Be sure to turn it around every once in a while, so it bakes on all sides.

My second is fried yucca.  One of the reasons I visit La Pascana once a week is to enjoy their fried yucca.  I even go there and get only yucca and a soda. 

It is simple to make.  Cut off the tough outer bark of the yucca, cut it into bite-sized pieces, and deep fry in oil much like you would potatoes.  Don’t cook it too long.  It should be tender on the inside and crispy on the outside. 

 My third is cuñapé.  In Brazil they are called pão de queijo, so it is not a Bolivian recipe, but a South American recipe.
Begin by preheating your oven to 305 degrees Fahrenheit

1 cup yucca (manioc) starch
(you can get this in Latin or Mexican stores)
1 Round (3 cups) of Mexican cheese like Queso Fresco
1 egg
SALT, Water, and milk, as needed and only if the dough is too dry.

Crumble the cheese into a big mixing bowl (it should crumble easily) and add the yucca starch and egg and a pinch of salt. Knead it with your hands until you have a dough-like consistency. At this point, if it's too dry, you can add some milk or water.

Make them into little balls and insert your thumb into the bottom to make a hole in the bottom (this helps for it to not stick to your pan). Place them on top of a nonstick pan or a floured pan. Let it sit for 15 minutes.

Place them in the oven between 15-20 minutes.

Do one batch first. If it comes out too cheesy, then add more starch.

All recipes came from Boliviabella.com

Day 106 - Cañoto

Cañoto

This was my favorite statue when I was here in the 1980s.  Today, an older and maybe a little more jaded, I don’t think it is one of the best made statues in the world, but I still love it.  I like the jaunty cowboy looking fellow carrying his guitar and gun.  He speaks to me of the old west.  In Bolivia, that would be the old east.

But who is this guy?  I never thought to ask in the 1980s.  Now I want to know, so I can share it with you.

His name is José Manuel Baca.  He was born in 1790 in the province of Santa Cruz, sometime between October and December.  As a child, he studied grammar and letters, as well as some of the native Indian languages.  He developed a talent for the guitar, and composed his own songs and poems.

He gained recognition during the War of Independence in the 1810s.  He fought in the Battle of Pari in 1816 and maintained a guerrilla struggle against the loyalists throughout the war.  When the war was over and Bolivia gained its independence, he was sent to garrison a post in the east as punishment, because he was outspoken in his ideas of the new government.   He was a man who wanted freedom.

Eventually he was forced out of the military, so he retired to a farm to live out the rest of his years.

People who are outspoken about what is right never make it in a world of politicians.  Cañoto was no different. He had ideas of what is right and what is wrong.  He spoke out more times than the government wanted.  It took another 100 years for him to be recognized for his participation in the struggle for independence.

To me, he will ever be the singing cowboy.

Adapted from an article on es.wikipedia.org.

Day 105 - La Pascana

La Pascana – My Favorite Restaurant

How I never met this restaurant in the 80s I will never know.  I think it was because it was more hidden.  The Plaza was more enclosed by trees and the streets facing the Plaza were not as pretty as now.

But when I visited in March of 2016, with the intent of moving back to Santa Cruz, I stayed at the Senses Boutique Hotel.  It is about $90 a night and worth double that.  It has absorbed the La Pascana Restaurant into the hotel and expanded its size.  The hotel also includes the Nice Cream ice cream parlor I wrote about recently.

The hotel has some funky artwork, and some of that runs over into the restaurant.  They have to keep the Spanish Colonial feel, but like the Manzana 1, they make it feel chic, modern, and funky.

Staying here in March, I decided to get a few meals here, since I could bill it to my hotel room.  The burgers aren’t that great, but get away from North American foods and the restaurant excels.  I had what are called Argentinean empanadas and decided this was my restaurant.  Empanadas are what we would call turnovers.  They are not sweet, but savory.  I prefer the chicken over the beef, but both are so good.

One of the reasons I wanted to live near the Plaza was to visit this little restaurant.  I have been back at least once a week since I arrived in July; in fact, it was my first meal back in Bolivia in July.  Frequently I just go to get a meal of fried yucca and a coke.  Not a real meal, and maybe not that nutritious, but it satisfies the hunger.

I like sitting in the courtyard between the hotel and the restaurant.  The service and prices are the same, but the ambience is better.  You have a beautiful view of the Cathedral and often there is a nice breeze.

Last week I visited.  The young man, who is one of the three that usually waits on me, came to the table and said, “La usual, Señor?”  That means, “The usual, sir?”  Well, that is what I came for, so I said yes.  That is how you know a restaurant is yours, a place where everybody knows you. 

Day 104 - Mercado la Ramada

Ramada Market

Bolivia is becoming more and more modern all the time.  If you want to, you can live like someone in North America: malls, fast food, movie theater, good restaurants, nice cars, Starbucks, and air conditioning.

But if you want to experience the real world, you’ve got to leave your comfort zone from time to time.  More than 90% of the world does not live like we do in North America.  Bolivia is no exception.  I would guess that 10% are trying to live the American dream in Bolivia, but for the remaining 90% it is out of the question.

Places like the Ramada Market sell just about anything you can imagine.  It is like a giant open-air Wal-Mart.  But it is more than that.  It is a barrio.  A neighborhood.  A community.  At first it seemed strange to me that there would be 25 or 50 little booths side by side selling the same thing, and I still don’t quite understand it.  If there is something specific you want, they might ask the neighboring stall or one down the way.  If someone is away from her stall, the neighbor takes care of the merchandise.

Today on the way home from school I stopped at the Ramada.  The rotunda at the Second Ring and Avenida Grigota has the statue of the Chiriguano, a fierce Indian.  I always thought to meet this Indian in real life would be terrifying.  On the southeast corner is a small plaza with a Catholic church.  It is not the prettiest plaza in town, but it serves this community well.  Every time I pass it, even at 6:45 in the morning, it is crowded.

All along Avenida Grigota, from the First to the Second Ring is packed with stores and stalls, on either side of the road, selling everything you can imagine.  Clothes.  Bicycles. Car parts. Vegetable and fruits.  Cell phones.  Watches.  Hats.  Shoes.  Dishes.  Furniture.  Toys.  Things for the kitchen.  Things to clean your house.  Things you have no use for at all.  And things you desperately need.  Like I said, it is a giant Wal-Mart.

You can eat here too and cheaply.  I saw a sign that said two hamburgers for 35 Bs – that is $0.50!

There is no reason to be afraid here.  The majority of the people are poor, some desperately poor.  But a poor stall keeper will give a coin or some fruit to a beggar.  They are kind people.  If you don’t like crowds, you might be freaked out a bit.  It can get crowded and people will touch you by accident.  It is not a place to leave your wallet lose in your back pocket or set your purse down while buying a pair of shoes.  But trust me.  If you are kind, they are kind in return.  A friend told me the other day about buying a coin purse and the lady in the market adding to her purchase.  They do things like that.  People are seeking to be loved the world over and will love you in return.

This is a place to see how people live in the real world, not the world of malls and TV.  I have other places to shop in Santa Cruz and will go to those more often, but at times, I will venture into the Ramada.