The Airplane Door Opens... and then it Hits You

A normal oxygen level would be 96% not 73%

Our plane touches down gently on the bumpy tar mat just before sunrise and with the seat belt sign still illuminated it taxi's slowly to a small airport terminal. We lurch to a stop and the airplanes main door is opened and then it hits you.  It feels like someone is setting on your chest, you try and breath faster and deeper to try and take in more oxygen.  "Welcome to La Paz Bolivia" the kind stewardess with a thick accent announces over the intercom, "elevation 13,500 feet".  Simpy walking from the plane up the slight grade to the baggage claim area becomes difficult.  Your mind feels cloudy, your balance is slightly off.  I wonder if this awkward feeling is from the 12 plus hours of flying or is this higher elevation kicking my ass while I try and look semi normal in front of the armed military scanning your every move in the terminal. Some team members are receiving a sniff or two of oxygen from the O2 bottle our medical team had brought along.  No self respecting fireman would take a blast from the O2 bottle so neither did I as I tried to focus and just get through the Bolivian Customs shake down line without losing any of my gear. The young military uniformed lady in Customs let Naomi and I pass through with all our gear, other team members were not so lucky because Bolivian Customs have a rigid quota they need to meet... of bags they need to confiscate.

Once I'm outside the plane terminal this overloaded rig pulls in next to our bus,  unveils it's load and wants to begin unloading it onto our already overcrowded bus.   It hits me... Bill your not in America anymore let alone anywhere near Kansas.  All safety and common sense rules are thrown out the window for the rest of our trip. So with everybody huffing and puffing we begin one of many  loading's and unloading's of our supplies from the bus.  These people in Bolivia really need to learn the concept of wooden pallets, shrink wrap and motorized forklifts.  I have no idea how many pounds of gear we eventually moved over the coarse of the next two weeks but it was substantial. We carried thousands of pounds of gear up steep flights of stairs, across bridges, through ankle deep salt water, into small medical clinics in the middle of nowhere and then back to the bus for the next leg in our journey.  Setting sentinels often so our gear would not grow legs and run off on us. I don't think we actually had anything stolen from us except from the Bolivian Customs Department.


Naomi decided it was far too dangerous for us to sleep on the floor inside City Hall because it was freshly mopped with kerosene each day.  Zipping our sleeping bag up could have caused a spark igniting the flammable vapors so we moved to an outdoor corner of the court yard under a shade tree, next to an old friend, a red tractor. The process of making up the medical bags for each clinic began in earnest under my watchful eye.

Restroom facilities in Bolivia are ahhhhh... nasty to say the least.  Remember too I work at a waste water treatment plant.  Think of the worst smelling, vile, Forest Service bathroom you have ever needed to use in America.  99% of the restrooms in Bolivia are worse.  Besides the drunk guys peeing on the floor and walls.  Toilets that will not flush toilet paper, so it builds up in the open trash can next to the toilet. It was very interesting when we first got there and Ken and I had to clean them so the ladies could relieve themselves.  I knew my waste water skills would come in handy for this trip.