We expected it. The lack of resources in Llapallapani, that is. But that doesn’t mean answers come easily at the job site.

With only 1 (finicky) power outlet, we need someone to hold the plug into the extension cord to get power to the drills. What we lack in equipment we must make up for in manpower.

I am told more planning went into this particular bridge than any previous Bridges to Prosperity project. Faced with a 128-meter suspension bridge, our work plans are full of well-researched process details. Photos of similar bridge erections. Fifty-four pages of work descriptions, crew make-up and support needs, material descriptions, tool requirements, PPE, estimated schedule, safety and quality risks, preventative/corrective measures, and more for each major component:

1. Scaffolding  |  Erect scaffold for tower trip and access and remove before launching suspenders
2. Towers  |  Assemble tower in horizontal position and trip to vertical
3. Main cables  |  Stage, install, anchor, and set sag in main cables
4. Cross beams  |  Assemble
5. Suspenders  |  Launch
6. Lifeline  |  Stage, install, anchor, set sag, remove lifeline
7. Decking  |  Space, stagger, and bolt
8. Spanner cables  |  Install
9. Wind guys  |  Install and hoist to remove sag

The crew making an evening push to finish the concrete for a wind guy base. The Volcano Method is used to mix the cement and aggregate into concrete.

But how do people manually trip 2-ton towers to vertical? For that matter, how do we move and hoist those same towers into saddles three meters off the ground in the first place? What can we do to make assembling 127 cross beams more efficient when we only have corded drills and 1 (unreliable) outlet? How long will it take to get more clips/clamps delivered to the site? How do we keep wind guy foundations dry with the water table steadily seeping into the holes and the one or two working water pumps busy serving local farmers? What does “launching suspenders” actually look like in action? How can we mix concrete reliably without a concrete truck or portable drum-mixer?

Each day we find a new challenge that we don’t entirely anticipate. Our solutions get more creative (desperate?) with each passing day.

I overhear Neil giving members a morning pep talk early on during the project. “Keep working hard,” Neil says. “We have experienced American engineers who are here now and only for a limited time. Seize the opportunity to build yourself a bridge.” I have to stifle a self-deprecating snicker. Experienced? Did Neil miss the “Bolivian hammer” (a.k.a., a rock) I just used to connect that suspender and cross beam? Or the way Adam and David have to “go fishing” each time they try and set a main cable?

Kenny employing the American Experience Stick to move launched suspenders down the main cables and make room for more suspenders.

We start to call the eucalyptus stick we use to push launched suspenders down the main cables the American Experience Stick.

Perhaps it is the lack of air, but everything seems so damn funny up here. We don’t compromise on safety at the site, and the seriousness of our tasks is not lost on us, but the laughter keeps us going. We feed off it.

I suppose it’s our way of tipping our hats to the fact that, though we bring the engineering and planning experience to the project, our role is as much about providing structure and a timeline. And consistent hands to assemble, legs to climb, and mouths to provide direction in (mostly) broken Spanish.

Llapallapani community members on site. This group of men were some of the most consistent volunteers.

But this bridge, it’s not our bridge. We are invested in the project, but the community—they’re invested in the life-changing benefits of such a bridge. We may have spent the last year designing and planning the bridge. But Llapallapani constructed the tower foundations, ramps, and gabion even before we arrive on site. They fed and housed multiple groups of Americans for months. And, perhaps most importantly, the community will be responsible for maintenance of the bridge. That takes ownership. Pride. Investment. Self-policing.

Community members painting the suspenders. These two women were on site nearly every day, tirelessly painting away.

I think this may be one of the biggest lessons I will take home. Community ownership is vital for project success. From ownership grows stewardship for a project once the attention of construction has faded. And that’s just as true for developed countries as it is for developing countries.

Packing for two weeks in Llapallapani takes careful consideration. With four flights over a 30-hour timespan to reach La Paz (hell no, I’m not checking a bag), followed by a four to six hour drive with limited vehicle space, necessity supplements my usual motivation to pack light. My two bags—a small backpacking pack and a sport camera pack—carry:

• 2 sets of sturdy work clothes for construction (one shirt is white. Mistake. I wear the dark shirt for two weeks straight to hide the dirt and grime)
• 1 set of travel clothes to be kept clean for my return trip (whoever’s flying in 13A and 13C, you’re welcome in advance)
• 1 set of clothes to change into in the evenings and for sleep
• 1 pair of worn-in work boots (imprudent is s/he who trusts new boots not to cause blisters when the nearest boot store is a day’s round-trip travel away)
• 1 pair of sandals for the evenings
• 1 sleeping bag (the $20 compression stuff sack from REI is well worth the space freed up in my pack)
• 1 sleeping pad
• 1 water bladder with in-line Sawyer filter
• DSLR camera body, two lenses, two batteries, two 32 GB memory cards, cleaning gear
• GoPro and mounts
• Passport, immunization records, crisp US bills for visa and money exchange, and other documentation necessities
• Duct tape (tie dye), flashlights, and miscellaneous camping items
• Protein bars
• Toiletries (minimal. Bolivia is a good excuse to leave my daily routine behind)
• Pens and my fox notebook (if the plans sets don’t show it, sometimes the book has answers)

The locals got it, keeping their feet free in sandals. Most of the male community members wear these sandals made from reused tires.

Critical item? Water filter.

Second best? Sandals. Freedom is feet aired out after a 12-hour day in work boots.

My fox notebook provides solutions throughout our time in Llapallapani. I take my feverish notes from Mairi and the remaining Team 1 members during the one day we have them onsite (they catch a bus across the river at 1 am the next morning…maybe it was The Cruise of The Love).

Pork chop. /pôrk CHäp/ n. a device used to grip cable and hold it in place; shaped like a pork chop of the swine variety.

Most of what I wrote down that first day did not make sense to me at the time. There’s how many different lengths of 5/16 inch wire rope? Never saddle a dead horse relates to construction? We have pork chops onsite? Why does the backstay we are to measure on the pull cables differ on each side?

“The Cruise of the Love”—one of the buses that stop on the road across the river from Llapallapani. The buses have different artwork and words along the exterior in hopes of enticing riders to choose their bus.

“The Cruise of the Love”—one of the buses that stop on the road across the river from Llapallapani. The buses have different artwork and words along the exterior in hopes of enticing riders to choose their bus.

I call it Brain Dump Day. Just like the best way to learn a language is to immerse yourself among native speakers, one of the best—or at least quickest—ways to learn to read plan sets and understand construction terminology and techniques is to have an entire community rely on you, your team, and your ability to make the drawings come to life.

Llapallapani has been prepping the site for its bridge since November 2014. Community members constructed the pedestals and ramps (all that concrete and no concrete truck or even a small, portable mixer drum). They’ve dedicated countless volunteer hours (many of them backbreaking) and significant resources to feed and house the B2P and corporate teams.

Mairi reviews the plan set with Team 2.

One of the first questions I asked when onboarding to this project was why my money was best spent personally traveling to the site rather than donating that money to the local community for the bridge. I was told that having our team onsite lent authenticity and authority to the project (whether that was well-placed is another discussion). We also provided a clear timeline and sense of urgency to stay on schedule—after all, our return flights were leaving regardless of the bridge’s state of construction.

Kenny (estimator, Kiewit), Jolene (engineer, Kiewit), Kirsten (planner, Parsons Brinckerhoff). My dark shirt and camera pack on full display.

So here we are, a team of engineers, an estimator, and a planner (any guesses to which one I am?) We have bridge experience. Project management experience. Even some experience with international travel and Spanish. But we soon learn that nearly every decision we make onsite is a combination of that experience and a healthy (or unhealthy, depending on your perspective) dose of improvising.

Where are the 1/2 inch clips? Which wire rope is the handrail cable? How do we launch the suspenders? What spacing do we mark the pull cables? How do you say “caution” in Spanish?

*shrugs* What does the fox [notebook] say?

Note: More photos of the journey can be found here.

It’s 3 am and I’m awake. Again. But rather than navigating a bustling airport, I’m now lying in a small room with little protection from the rooster crowing. Exhaustion to the rescue; I’m not awake for long.

Our first full day in Llapallapani sets the stage for our stay. The stories vary each day, though we follow the same schedule:

During the dry season, this pedestrian bridge is used to cross the deepest flowing section of the river. The community fords the river for vehicles and farms the sections of riverbed where the water has receded.

Each day, Dog (yes, that’s his name) hung out at the site waiting for his person to return from school across the river.

Ishmael’s house, which sat across from “the office.” Most of the homes in the village had metal doors, which we were told lent a feeling of security to the occupants. Behind Ishmael’s door sat cerveza and singani for sale.

Different days, same schedule. There’s never a dull moment and always something needing to be done. The task and companions are fulfilling.

Sometimes I’m engrossed in the moment and forget where I am. Wait, Kirsten, look where you are. What’s around you. The impact of your actions. This reality that feels so unreal.

Deep breath (at least as deep of a breath as the altitude allows). Notice the mountains and their colors bleeding bright. Notice the varied vegetation—cultivated and wild—that’s evolved in this climate. Notice the way an engineered vision is coming to life right before your eyes. From your hands. Notice how alive you are in this moment.

If I only learn one thing being here in Llapallapani, let it be the ability to just be. Here. Now. No nagging feeling that I have to do something else. This is my task at this instant. No emails, texts, phone calls needing response. I couldn’t even reply if I wanted to. Remember to enjoy this. It will draw to a close sooner than you realize. This is how content feels.

Note: More photos of the journey can be found here.

“¡No! Más a la izquierda!” shouts a woman as we pull our vehicles to a stop overlooking the Luribay River valley. Mairi is a staff engineer for B2P and has been on site for a couple months overseeing bridge construction activities. After arriving we have just over a day to gather as much knowledge as possible about the current status of the bridge before Mairi and two remaining members from Team 1 hand over the reins. Whoa.

The towers erected and some main cables hung. Blue and white for Club Bolivar (the community favorite and on the Llapallapani side) and black and yellow for The Strongest (also Kiewit’s colors).

Team 2 is six strong and like Team 1 split between employees of Kiewit Construction (the project’s corporate partner and sponsor) and Parsons Brinckerhoff. Our project manager, Tom, has been on site through Team 1’s work and will stay with Team 2 throughout our time working on the bridge (the continuity he provides is reassuring).

It’s a Saturday, so help from community members varies. They have been working on site preparations since starting construction of the pedestals and ramps last November; we’ll get a few helping hands on weekends, but upwards of 20-30 people during the week.

Our party exits the main one-lane road along the river, winding down to the riverbed where the Luribay side tower shines against the dusty landscape. We call it the Tiger Tower, though the yellow and black striping is more of a bumble bee. Give the tiger majesty, though—a more fitting association with the mountains towering above.

The tiger has fleas crawling down it. More specifically, Mark and Chris from Team 1 are climbing down the scaffolding to greet us. Where do I sign up for that job? I do like to climb things.

A quick tour around the site and we learn we’re behind schedule. Scaffolding delivered without a list of parts—let alone instructions—and erecting 2-ton steels towers without heavy equipment will do that (I still haven’t quite figured out how Team 1 raised towers using only peoplepower and an occasional loader and backhoe). Team 2 will get to hang the main cables after all, which means more time to climb scaffolding. Bring. It. On.

Team 1 and 2 together have four weeks to complete a bridge that normally would call for at least six weeks to finish.  Barriers—technical, physical, and social—are bound to factor in throughout the project. They already have. But for now, our focus is on settling into what will become our home for the next two weeks. And it’s welcome: I still haven’t completely shaken the throbbing that’s replaced my brain since landing in La Paz.

The path between “the office” and the bridge. Tom, Adam, Jolene, Kenny, and Jazz (one of our consistent canine companions).

Llapallapani is nestled up and along the mountainside. We’ll be staying up the mountain about a 10-minute drive from the bridge. It’s the last ride I take up to “the office” until the end of our stay—I end up preferring the walk back, which peels off the road and meanders up the mountainside. Past big pig, left at the large pile of soil (fertilizer?), through the abandoned chapel’s courtyard, left at the big cactus, left at the little pigs.

Various community members band together to house and feed us during our stay. “The office” is a one-room community center that serves as our team’s morning and evening meeting place in addition to the sleeping quarters for the four men on our team. Here, we gather each morning to boil water for coffee (a necessity), discuss the day’s work plan, and wait for breakfast delivery—a piece of pan for each of us.

The other woman on the team and I share a comfortable room across the dirt road in Freddie’s house. Our room is accessible via steep, uneven stairs through a hole cut in the second-floor concrete that requires a not-insignificant amount of body-contouring to get through. I note I must go to the bathroom right before bed to avoid risking a spinal injuring in the middle of the night. I am a giant here.

Ditching our gear in the room, we return to the office to hear what’s in store over the next two weeks. I feel like I’m back in undergrad at a 6 AM basketball practice trying to keep my eyes open while our coach is lecturing us (at least here we don’t have wind sprints, burpees, or other instruments of torture character building). My body has yet to forget its lack of sleep the past two nights: best be getting to bed. Tomorrow is an important day—the last before Mairi, Chris, and Mark leave.

But first I sneak outside to catch the sunset. It’s breathtaking here, in all senses of the word. Welcome home.

Sunset in the river valley.

Note: More photos of the journey can be found here.

“The left engine won’t start,” is not something you ever want to hear from your pilot. Fortunately, we were still on the ground when we heard that announcement at 12:45 AM this morning and it was followed by an uneventful flight a couple hours later.

So began our 4-leg, 24-hr flight from Portland to La Paz, Bolivia. As I write, we still have a long journey ahead of us before we can begin the work we set out to do: build a 120-meter suspension pedestrian bridge in the remote valley of Llapallapani, Bolivia, to connect the community to essential health care, education, and economic opportunities. During the rainy season, the river becomes dangerous and residents must walk hours to cross over the nearest bridge. The design was engineered in-kind by employees of Parsons Brinckerhoff and Kiewit. Team 1 is wrapping up tower erection and cable installation as I type. Team 2 (that’s me!) will take their place over the weekend to oversee completion of the bridge, including decking and guy wire installation. We will also be on-site for inaguration, which I’ve heard is a moving and memorable experience.

Equipted with a couple sets of work clothes, my trusty sleeping bag and pad, and all the camera gear to my name, we’ll land in Bolivia in the wee hours of tomorrow morning to embark on an adventure quite some time in the making. We were told not to expect internet, so this is likely going to be my only post before arriving in Llapallapani. I honestly don’t know what to expect beyond a kind community, accomodations outside my normal, and the building of bridges beyond the physical. Oh, and stories. Many, many stories.

And so we go!

Feeling inspired and generous? Support the trip here.

The outdoors is a classroom. Roaring rivers, snow-capped mountain peaks, and flowering valleys have much to teach about the workings of the world and our place, as humans, within it. Childhood summers spent outside playing, hiking, and camping encourage self-awareness, personal efficacy, and an ethic of care. E. O. Wilson’s work speaks of a subconscious pull that humans feel towards other living things—an innate, biological love of nature he termed biophilia.

Miles Ranch, Livingston, Montana

And yet, opportunities for nature-based experiences and learning are becoming less accessible.

Challenges, however, can present new opportunities. The stories of our natural spaces do not have to be heartbreaking. How about heartwarming instead? Encouraging? Inspiring? Living testament to the kindness of humankind? One such story is right in Portland’s backyard.

Over ten years ago, West Linn residents Ed and Roberta Schwarz discovered that a tower of Himalayan blackberries (Rubus armeniacus) in a deserted chunk of their neighborhood blocked a sweeping view of the Willamette Narrows. That 20-acre stretch between Salamo Road, Tannler Drive, and Blankenship Road is a White Oak Savanna. Over one hundred years ago, the Valley was covered with White Oak, also called Garry Oak (Quercus garryana). Today, it is estimated that less than two percent remains. So when Ed and Roberta discovered their hidden hiking oasis was slated for development, they decided to do something about it.

Oregon iris (Iris tenax). Photo credit: Roberta Schwarz

Roberta has championed the effort to save the White Oak Savanna for over a decade now by rallying support throughout the greater Portland Metro community. Her goal? To make the White Oak Savanna into a public natural park and wildlife habitat. The upper 14 acres have been restored and preserved with matching fund grants received in 2009 from the City of West Linn, Oregon State Parks, and Portland Metro. The White Oak Savanna has benefited from over 6,800 volunteer hours stemming from a variety of individuals and organizations, including Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, high school and primary students from several schools, church groups, the Northwest Youth Corps, neighborhood organizations, and SOLVE. Most recently, the Schwarz’s dining room table was covered with materials for sending out 10,700 mailings to community residents and businesses in a fundraising effort to match Portland Metro’s second Nature in Neighborhood grant. The $500k grant, awarded this time in 2013, must be matched two-to-one—that’s right, they need to raise $1M by mid-2015 to seal the deal and they are right on track to achieving it. Over two dozen fundraisers are planned for 2014. Metro’s grant and the matching funds will provide the means to purchase the remaining six acres of the savanna for conservation, ultimately preserving habitat that supports hundreds of species—deer, ferns, and humans alike.

The While Oak Savanna in West Linn, OR. Photo credit: Roberta Schwarz

You read that correctly, humans. Homo sapiens sapiens. We do, after all, rely on Earth’s ecosystems for our own survival. We inhabit the earth. And there is something cardinal about the physical immersion of ourselves in nature that research is just beginning to capture. Take Dr. Geoffrey Donovan’s research that found a correlation between healthier birth weights with increased access to trees even after accounting for other differences such as socioeconomic status. Or the German biological studies led by neuroscientist Dr. Andreas Meyer-Lindenberg that compare the mental health and stress of people living in rural, amenity rich areas compared to those in our cities. Richard Louv focuses on the connection between childhood obesity rates and outdoor play. Then there is Dr. Todd Rosenstiel’s research into the benefits that lichens have on decreasing asthma rates. Google some form of “health benefits of nature” and you will find countless more examples. It all points to what our bodies already know: access to the outdoors is fundamental to our well-being. There is no substitute, no nature pill we can take as a replacement.

View looking down at the Willamette Narrows from the White Oak Savanna after a recent snowfall. Photo credit: Roberta Schwarz

Health impacts aside, being outdoors is fun! A visitor to the White Oak Savanna can hike the meandering one-mile round trip trail, swing on one of the tree swings, absorb the vistas from one of the ten benches (made of reclaimed wood), listen to the birdsong from one of the over 75 avian species, and witness a deer bound through the grass. With the recent snowfall, an adventurer can add snow-play onto the long list of possibilities.

It goes without saying that the White Oak Savanna is a gift. Roberta and those she has mobilized around the savanna have acceded to the role of stewards of the land. They have accepted the responsibility for its care amongst the hustle and bustle of urban living. With the restoration, they have not only saved a wild place from being paved—their theme song is fittingly Joni Mitchel’s “Big Yellow Taxi” (re: “…they paved paradise and put up a parking lot…”)—they have strengthened the community around it. They are loving and caring for the land. They have planted trees under whose shade they might not ever rest. The story of the White Oak Savanna is one of a challenge-turned-opportunity. It is community-based and it is just getting started.

Indeed, sometimes the gifts we tend to overlook most often are the ones that grow when shared.

The While Oak Savanna is waiting to be explored.