It says so much

My cab ride from La UPSA takes me along a rutted dirt road and over a bridge spanning a narrow channel. For the past couple of weeks there have been four or five men standing at the bridge with shovels shaking down drivers for spare change.
For a few bolivianos, they fill the deepest holes so drivers can avoid snapping an axel. Everyone pays before they pass. I suspect if they didn't, the shovels would be used to crack windshields (or skulls). After each driver passes, the "road crew" then re-digs the hole so to not make their very career obsolete.
Drivers are essentially paying a tax that allows them alone to pass. But the money only goes toward making the road passable for them. And it rewards an unproductive venture. Without this money, though, these men and their families would likely go hungry.
The problem is the basic institutions needed to feed these men, educate them so they can fit in as productive members of society, to make the roads passable, and even to collect taxes needed to fund road projects are all broken or nonexistent.
I am hoping one of my political philosopher friends (everyone's got one -- paging Dr. Brettschneider! ) can throw a little Hobbes or Rousseau this way to help explain what the hell is going on.

Sad news

My grandfather, Milton Belson, died Tuesday. He was 92. Grandpa: I hold no grudges for your attempts to steal Sonya from me. We will both miss you a lot.

The 20% rule

I've conceded that no matter how well I understand the language spoken in a foreign country, how long I live there or how many locals I get to know, about 20% of what goes on around me will remain a mystery.
Here in Santa Cruz, I had learned not to hold my breath when someone we meet asks for our phone number and promises us to invite us out to dinner or visit them at their weekend home. The intention is good, but life gets in the way. I get it. I've made the same flimsy invites myself.
So I didn't expect a functionary from the city's budget office, who I met briefly as we were on the wrong side of an angry mob, to follow through with an invitation to see her neighborhood.
A week later, my new friend Adela actually called. Wanted to know when I could drop by.
"This week won't be good," I bluffed. "How about you call me next week."
We met on Saturday, outside the same office we were trapped in a few weeks before. We took a 20-minute bus ride to her sister's beauty shop. After a bit of polite chatter, the two incongruously asked to see what my driver's license looked like. Always accommodating, I pulled it out and answered all 25 questions they had about the holographic New York seal, the birthdate, eye color, weight, etc.
The two then took me for the promised walk around the neighborhood -- to the tented outdoor market where locals played fooseball, ate rotisserie chicken and watched soccer games; to the bus and train station, where thousands of brightly-dressed campesinos from across the country were waiting to return to their pueblos with arms full of packages; and to a photo studio.
"Do you want to take a photo?" Adela's sister asked me.
"Sorry, I didn't bring my camera."
"No, they take our picture inside."
We walked through a curtain to the inside of the studio.
The two sisters picked out a background for our portrait -- a blue tartan -- and the three of us posed. I stood in the middle, towering over the two sisters.
After the shot, and another quick walk, I said goodbye and hopped a taxi home.