Why does Mom always have to be right when I really don't want her to be? When we disagree, which isn't very often actually, I think were about 50/50 in terms of who has the most fact-based opinion in the end. But every time I really, really want to be right, or really, really think I'm right, she's right. When I completely blow her off, say, "duh" or don't let her finish her sentence, karma bites me, seemingly changing the laws of the universe to counteract whatever I'm so firm about. So when I rolled my eyes during our first skype conversation when I mentioned I was planning to travel through Bolivia and she progressed to whip out a laundry list of reasons not to enter this god-forsaken boobie trap of a country, starting with road blockades and ending with fatal altitude sickness, I should have remembered this bizarre pattern of her being right when I know I'm right, and stopped the eye roll-subject change in its tracks. But I didn't and here I am reading about breaking news of large scale protests, worker strikes and road blockades in La Paz, Rurrenbaque and Santa Cruz.
Maybe we really should rethink this whole Bolivia thing given that I almost laughed when my mom mentioned fatal altitude sickness.
With this knowledge uneasily in mind, we tentatively continued to sew together a route through Bolivia last night, knowing that our entire quilt will unravel if this civil unrest continues. The alternative of Northern Chile just seems so dry and flat and....well, dry and flat sums it up. I'm thirsty for the rugged selvas, indigenous villages, and chicken buses, and only Bolivia can quench it.
So what are they protesting, anyways? Voy a averiguar...
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