Flashback to our trip to Bolivia.

August, 2023.

Salta City, Salta, Argentina

March 19th, 2025

Dear Reader,

A friend emailed me last week with the following comment: “I’m baffled by three words...commodity cropping operations? What do they mean?”

I wasn’t sure I knew what commodity crops were exactly so I looked it up on the World Wide Web, and here’s what I found out from PlantedDetroit: Commodity crops are traded worldwide, and are major agricultural goods whose production and distribution are indispensable for the working of our food system. Consider basics such as corn, wheat, soybeans, and rice; these make up for a huge web of food companies.

The commodity cropping operations we are involved with north of Salta, and in Bolivia, are big swaths of land where crops such as cotton, chia seeds, sesame, and soy, are cultivated using big time machinery for exportation throughout the world.

Adrien took off for Bolivia early on Tuesday morning to go check on things. On the way, he stopped at the lands north of Salta.

Here’s a photo he sent of the cotton.

Adrien’s photo of the cotton.

In August of 2023 I accompanied Adrien on our first trip to Bolivia. It was arduous for lots of reasons. But I’ll get back to that later.

Since that trip, Adrien has made the journey solo. He’s come up with a system that seems to work for him. He parks his car at the border, since he can’t take it out of the country until he’s had two years of residency, and hops a night bus to Santa Cruz de la Sierra.

He assures me the bus is very comfortable, but when he called me last night before taking off, I could hear the screams of a baby nearby, and the commotion of people chatting and settling…it made me wonder…

When he arrives in Santa Cruz the next morning, he is picked up by a driver who takes him to the farms located about two hours away.

He either stays the night there, or in this case, goes straight back to the city to take the bus back to the border.

But let me get back to our first trip together in 2023. We’d been in Argentina for one month and a half. We’d gotten the scoop on how to go to Bolivia.

Everyone said “Take a plane from Buenos Aires. You don’t want to deal with the border as foreigners.”.

We figured they were being overly protective. So, we decided to venture the drive.

We left Salta and arrived in Tartagal, an uninteresting town near the border, in the evening. There, we found a hotel to stay the night. The room was sparse and smelled strongly of bleach.

We had dinner at the hotel restaurant. The lights were neon bright, yet the food was surprisingly good, and the service pleasant.

The next morning we rose early and arrived at the border by the time it opened, at 8am.

What we didn’t know was that it would be impossible to get our car into Bolivia. We also had no idea how difficult it would be to get a visa as a US citizen. Adrien used his French passport. I guess the Bolivians like the French.

But me. Different story. First, I needed a yellow fever vaccine. I took one look at the hospital the border guards directed us to, and figured we’d either forge the certificate, or I’d hitch a ride back to Salta. There was no way I was going to be jabbed with a needle in this wretched border town.

Then, we had to prove that we were married. Sharing the same last name and wearing wedding rings wasn’t enough. I had to reserve a separate hotel room, and print out my bank statements to prove that I was independent.

So we pushed through the thick, sweltering heat, and the swarm of merchants and passersby, to a shabby internet café. Adrien googled “yellow fever certificate”. He downloaded and printed a copy, filled in my name and the date, and politely asked the staff if they would laminate it.

“Of course.”, they replied. This wasn’t their first rodeo.

Then, we printed up my bank statements.

We went back to stand in what looked like a never ending line. An old lady wearing a Bolivian skirt with a hat and long braids, came around selling hot coffee and pieces of cake. I gratefully bought a coffee which the woman served to me in a plastic cup, and a piece of cake.

Like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I dipped the cake into my milky, sweetened coffee, looking not at Tiffany’s but at the hot, dusty streets, and the people, dark and strong, bearing loads of goods on push carts.

My view of the border.

Hours later, I was granted a visa good for ten years for stays of up to 90 day stays. Thank you, Bolivia.

My visa issue was solved, but how would we get to Santa Cruz de la Sierra? A taxi, of course. There were many drivers milling around looking for a job. Adrien negotiated a fair price with a swarthy fellow, and we hopped into his cab.

We loaded our bags, and set off on the eight hour drive to Santa Cruz. There was no air conditioning, and no suspension in the taxi. Through the open windows, the air, like that of a hair dryer, whipped our faces, and from below we felt every bump.

Adrien sat up front and I, in the back. Evening began to fall. A great wave of tiredness came over me. I lay down across the seats, and fell asleep.

I was awoken by the abrupt halt of the vehicle. I sat up and looked out. We were in a city with tall modern buildings, palm trees, and stop lights. The rickety old car pulled up at to classy looking hotel, where a valet opened my door. My hair must have been sticking straight up, and my eyes felt puffy and half closed from the dust and hot air.

Inside the hotel, a huge white orchid sat on the reception desk and a magnificent crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.

I exhaled in relief. We checked in to our room. It was past midnight, but we straightened up and headed to the bar for a nightcap anyway.

I was so exhausted from the trip that I didn’t go to see the farmlands the next day. Instead I relaxed at the peaceful hotel, meandered through the air conditioned shopping malls, and enjoyed city life.

The orchid in the hotel lobby.

Hanging out by the pool at the hotel in Santa Cruz.

I figure I’ll wait till next August when I’ll have been a resident for two years, and we can make the trip again in my own car.

Next week the cosecha, the harvest of the grapes, starts at Gualfin. We’ll be heading up there this weekend.

More to come.

Abrazos,

Mariah