Santa Cruz, Bolivien

The international airport of Asuncion is pleasantly manageable. I love that. There are no queues at the counter. I booked the flight with LATAM, Asuncion-Santa Cruz-Asuncion. The switch is quickly found. The woman behind it kindly explains to me that the flight is operated by another airline. I have to go there and, following her outstretched finger, I look somewhere into the void.

This is all done in Spanish. Unfortunately, I only master it rudimentarily, in fragments. Once there I show my booking confirmation. “No-no, check-in LATAM,” explains a lady my age whose English skills are similar to my Spanish skills. So I go back to the starting point only to be dumped again. As it turns out, Paranair is operating the flight, but the counter is still unmanned. What a blessing that I don't have to check a suitcase!!!

The plane from Asuncion to Santa Cruz reactivated all my fears of flying. It takes around 90 minutes to Santa Cruz with a CRJ 200 from the airline Paranair, in a twin-engine jet from the Canadian company Bombardier Aerospace. The CRJ 200 is just 27 meters long, 6 meters high and 21 meters wide and has a range of just over 3,000 kilometers. The cruising speed is 786 km/h, the maximum speed is 860 km/h. The flight altitude is stated to be up to 12,500 km.

This aircraft can carry 50 passengers.

CRJ 200 von Lufthansa, Foto: E. Westendarp/Pixabay

Boarding begins for a few dozen passengers. No queues here either. I run after a young woman who seems to know her way around. She walks down a hallway. The machine is only a hundred meters away. The blow hits me. The aircraft from Sao Paulo to Foz de Iquacul was not big. But this plane is even smaller and reminds me of the air taxi in Kenya in which I was on the verge of collapse.

We go up a very short flight of stairs. Once inside, I'm worried by the fact that there are only two rows of two seats each on the left and right of the aisle. That means I will feel every movement of air. The very likeable, friendly smiling stewardess looks like the singer Paola. Only in young. As she begins her airline ballet, her previously friendly, smiling face suddenly becomes very, very serious. She shows the emergency exits almost theatrically and with great fervor. I'm waiting for the national anthem and I have to suppress a grin.

Hola - Bienvenido Bolivia

The airport is 15 km north of Santa Cruz.

The Santa Cruz airport is also pleasantly manageable. Two entry forms must be filled out and handed in: A friendly lady will be waiting at station 1 and will take the health form. Station 2 is the actual entry and passport control. As is usual in South America, the officer asks a few questions in Spanish. There is no English. Where I live in Bolivia, he wants to know what the name of the hotel is and whether I'm entering the country as a tourist. He takes a photo, stamps the passport and that's it. A woman is standing at station 3 and wants the form about any goods and foreign currency that may need to be declared. She complains about the missing passport number, which I quickly enter. To be honest, the information about the security situation worried me a bit.

I slowly walk down the hall, look outside and spot the taxis. A driver speaks to me and asks where I want to go. Center? This costs 60 Bolivianos. I show him the address and he adds 10 more because it's a hotel and not a home address. Of course that's a lie, way too high, as always. But I don't feel like arguing about 10 euros, that's how much that is. In this case: live and let live and he is happy to have found another idiot. Finally - that's all that counts when traveling - we arrive safely at the Hotel Senses Centro at Rene Moreno 247.

An art project with a South American flair

The La Federal cultural project at Ballivian 66 surprised me not far from my hotel. It slumbers behind an unassuming entrance that leads to a courtyard with cafes, a vegan restaurant, art objects and local shops.

An oasis in the middle of the city. Here I also find a WiFi connection among the 17th century buildings. A place of inspiration, in my opinion. Opening times are from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m.

I chat with Steffen, a friend from Germany, over a cappuccino in one of the small cafés. Unfortunately we lost sight of each other. The last meeting was at least 15 years ago in some café in Heidelberg, where we met for breakfast. At that time he had a Mexican partner.

That was ages ago now. He is surprised that I am in South America. Asks why I don't come visit him in Mexico. "I didn't know you ended up in Mexico. But I'll take you at your word and visit you," I type into my smartphone. He didn't want it any other way. Your own fault.

Holy crap

On my walk through the city, I pass the festively illuminated Cathedral of Santa Cruz de la Sierra, also known as the Cathedral Basilica of St. Lawrence. It was built in 1845 by the French architect Philippe Bertrés but was only completed in 1915 by the Italian Victor Querezolo.

I attend the Catholic mass and - because of my nearsightedness - look for a seat closer to the front. After all, I want to see something. A stern-looking middle-aged woman kneels next to me. Her glasses give her the aura of an owl. The row behind me is almost full. A mother kneels in front of me with her pubescent, slightly overweight son. Both raise their arms fervently. With the boy it seems a bit one-dimensional.

I don't feel like kneeling down, I'm more of a quiet, introverted prayer. And even if I felt like kneeling down; the spaces between the benches are designed for medium-sized Latinos. I would break my legs with my height of 190 cm.

There is a lot of life on the squares.

Of course I don't understand a word of the sermon, except what can be deduced from scraps of words. The Spanish words rattle out of the priest's mouth like a machine gun. And yet I can guess what he is preaching.

The priest, in his ivory-colored robe and the huge golden cross on his back, reads out a few names, bows towards the altar and kisses his Bible. Then he solemnly raises his arms, the congregation stands up and crosses themselves. I try to imitate them under pressure from the owl (it stares at me), but I use the wrong hand when I make the sign of the cross.

The organist on his electronic keyboard plays some melancholic pieces, stops, the congregation answers “Amen.” They repeat this several times: priest – organist – congregation.

Please do not bend too low

Two community helpers give a short speech. The priest is resting. After the speeches of his helpers, he carefully places a chalice on the altar and carefully covers it with a cloth. I close my eyes briefly, open them again and am deeply shocked.

A picture of horror presents itself to me. The priest stands headless in front of the richly decorated altar. I blink unnaturally often to get my contact lenses in the right position. Where is the holy man's head? Is that a sign?

No, it was the big trophy that covered his head. As the priest lowers his arms, he regains his face. This must be how stories about miracles came about. After his magic number, a hunky, muscular altar boy steps up behind the priest. He turns to him with a deep bow. For a brief moment I hold my breath and sincerely hope that he doesn't bow too deeply. At least not during mass, in front of all the children here.

The festive cathedral from the inside.

Two other helpers walk through the rows with their long sticks to which bags are attached. When one of them comes to me, I reluctantly throw a coin in. A little later I receive a tasteless oblade in return. The priest drinks the wine alone.

At the end of the ceremony, believers flock to a painted wooden figure wrapped in a white robe. Some take pictures with their cell phones and encourage me to do the same, which earns me another dirty look from the owl next to me. Some touch the female wooden figure with a reverent bow. Most likely it is the Mother of God.

The believers simply stare at them, saying a silent prayer while standing or kneeling. This unreflective devotion to a wooden figure that embodies something that I don't want to understand triggers ambivalent feelings in me, it touches and frightens me in equal measure.

It touches me because people are longing for an all-encompassing truth that gives them perspective and comfort, the search for a supernatural power that will fix everything for them and promise improvement in whatever. For these people it is probably the lack of material goods.

On the other hand, I don't think much of projecting all personal worries and needs onto a saint who absolves them of responsibility for this earthly life. This devotion has all too often been brutally abused by the earthly representatives of the churches, not just the Christian ones, in the past centuries.

Plaza Metropolitana 24 de Septiembre.

After mass, I sit outside on the steps of the cathedral and watch the hustle and bustle in the Plaza Metropolitana 24 de Septiembre. Christmas is in a few weeks and the trees are decorated with lights. Families, couples, street vendors, the surrounding cafes and a few torusts fill this place with life. It's pleasantly warm. If you want, you can have your photo taken with Santa Claus for a small fee, which someone here must have cloned. Batman is there too.

A four-person music group exudes South American joie de vivre with their loud, spirited songs. A grandfather dances to it with his eight-year-old granddaughter, who is clearly enjoying it.

Very dynamic!

Two dissimilar butterflies

Starbucks, always an option for internet.

Outside the cathedral I'm listening to the music and enjoying the bustling life when a young man approaches me. He introduces himself to me as Juan, who is in his first semester of studying biotechnology here in Santa Cruz. Because I don't have internet for my translator and typing seems too cumbersome, I invite him to Starbucks for coffee. It is not very busy at this time, which is unusual. Most of the time you can't get a place there.

To this day I still don't understand why people usually line up there. When you purchase the coveted brew, you also receive an access code for the WiFi. A conversation with the translator is now possible.

We talk about traveling and that Bolivia is the last stop on my tour. He imagines it exciting. He would like to get to that point in his life: travel wherever he wants. There are people with whom you have an instant connection, where the chemistry is right, regardless of age.

Each other's lack of language skills force us to use simple sentences to avoid misunderstandings. It seems to me that he cares about an issue. Juan reports that he lives with his sister. As a child, he was often bullied by others because he was fat and dressed differently than the usual sports clothes.

When is a man a man?

His stepfather often beat him up. He wouldn't be a real boy because he wasn't interested in football. He couldn't expect any help from his mother. She was ashamed of him. According to Juan, parents in Bolivia try to teach their children respect by beating. But fortunately that is about to change for the younger generation.

His stepfather has since died. He feels comfortable here with his sister, she accepts him. Juan tells me - a stranger - that he is now agnostic and asexual. He has no longer been interested in sexuality since he was sixteen. He wants to concentrate fully on his studies. Later he would like to develop medicines that help people.

I think again of the fair I attended before. Of all the screwed-up morals of the major world religions, the Christians, the Muslims and the Jews. His parents, themselves presumably victims of a pathologically excessive religious upbringing, did a great job. How much fear and violence does it take to rob a young person of their sexuality? Did they psychologically and physically beat out every lust, every desire, every need?

Juan asks how homosexuality is dealt with in Germany. I answer him as best I can about the situation in Germany, including the historical background of church and state. Juan answers me that he is happy that he no longer feels any sexual desire. He gave up religion and sexuality. I find it hard to believe that. But who am I to doubt that? I ask if I can tell him a short story. He agrees. The story goes like this:

Two butterflies sit on a flower. One asks: "Why don't you enjoy the sun, the wind, the scent of the many flowers around you? Why don't you fly?" The other butterfly then answers quietly: "Because I'm a caterpillar."