Public Transit

Anyone who has played MarioKart probably has a pretty good idea of what the roads are like here. Sand traps, obstacles (also known as pedestrians), and an earnest desire to hit every straight zone as fast as you can without losing control or tipping over when your bus is already top-heavy with too many passengers, so many that a couple of them are probably hanging out the door, and hopefully still hanging on. Just yesterday we were jam-packed into a trufi (public transit van), and a bus (called a micro), sped by and clipped off our driver’s rearview mirror.

So, welcome to Latin America. Grab your ‘oh shit’ handles; it’s a wild ride. Our driver proceeded to hit the gas, catch up to the bus at the next stop and swerve in front of him so he couldn’t move. He jumped out of the trufi and stormed off to the micro. Much obscene gesturing and many shouts later, our intrepid chauffer reappeared, yanked open the van door and said, “Quien tiene un boligrafo?” At which point it was unclear whether driver #1 was going to use the borrowed pen take down information, or just stab the driver #2 in the face with it.

Most micros in Bolivia are red, white and blue with orange and yellow flames painted on the front and along the sides. Really. But they’re little buses, so it’s more comical than badass (though I assure you, both drivers 1 and 2 are wholly badass). Most have themes emblazoned on their windshield and/or rear window. The “Urkupina,” or local miracle-granting virgin (whom I learned about in church, for all of you thinking dirty thoughts right now), is pretty popular. This morning I had a ways to go. I hopped “el poquito volador” (little flyer) to the “chico malo intocable” (untouchable bad boy). We passed by the “si me ves no llores”(if you see me, don’t cry), and I thought … nope, wouldn’t cry. Might take care with my mirrors, though.

Life in mi barrio

I wake up to noise; I sleep to noise. I talk over it and listen under it. Awareness begins around 5 am when car horns blow on every corner to call the vendedoras to market. On Sundays, church bells clang soon after. Babies cry, and the roosters begin to crow. Dogs contribute a good portion. One begins and they all chime in with yips, yaps, woofs, whines, growls and squeals. The intensity grows and fades and disappears periodically – after a while one notices the lack of barking, not the barking itself.

We have Spanish class at my house this week. Yesterday, while my professor was explaining an activity, the radio blared and the family chattered away at the next table. The TV upstairs is almost never turned to off, even when all are asleep. (My family has a giant stereo, DVD player, cable TV and a computer. We do not have a shower, or a toilet that flushes.)



Well before the 8 am hour (and long after my host parents have gone), random strangers holler from the bottom of the stairs, “Dona Erlinda! Esta aqui?” My host father, Cesar, doesn’t tiptoe around when he leaves for work (or when he gets up to use the bathroom). I wake up seven or eight times before I actually get up.

Quiet is as elusive as privacy, a foreign concept in this foreign place. This house has four bedrooms, but still Kelly’s bed is in her parents’ room. I occupy one other room and the rest are for guests, or empty. I do my homework downstairs, where the family likes to “help” me. If I say I want to rest, they immediately assume I’m deathly sick.

We eat together three meals a day. I’m not entirely certain if vegetables are a rarity in Bolivia, or if Peace Corps regulations on food preparation (soak in iodine and rinse with filtered water) discourage my family from offering them. Starch is the primary component. It is normal to have rice, potatoes and pasta in the same dish. It is also common to have steak, sausage, chicken and (let’s call it) pork in one meal.



Latin machismo is evident at mealtime. When the men aren’t competing to out-eat and out-drink one another, the women still hover over with more food. Cesar is more than a little overweight, but he has no choice in the matter. When he tried to refuse seconds at dinner the other day, first Erlinda asked him if he was ill, and then she demanded to know why he didn’t like her cooking. Then she put another dollop on his plate!

As part of an assignment, I asked my family what they thought the primary difference was between the eating habits of Americans and Bolivians. My aunt Carola emphatically replied: “We eat from our gardens, from our animals. Americans only eat from cans.”

Erika, Vamos!

My life is hilarious. More often than not, I have no idea where I’m going, what I’m saying, what people are saying to me, or what I’m eating. I am learning a lot about Bolivia from my host family; they tolerate me well. They laugh at me often and with me occasionally, since I’m pretty good at laughing at myself. My new favorite thing to say is “no comprendo nada.” I don’t understand anything. Yet they still talk to me.

All the same, in the past three days, I’ve been to a wedding, to the market, and met the entirety of my “small” family. I had to show Kelly, my host sister who is 12, my underwear because we were playing a very girly board game. Thus, I consider us quite close. She loves my camera; indeed, my whole family pretends to hate having their photos taken and then demands to see the digital image.

Because it’s Carneval, everyone is free from work and school. In the mornings, we have tea and breakfast together: Cesar, Erlinda, Kelly and me … and the family of Argentineans whom I think are related to mine in some way, and are visiting here for an undisclosed amount of time. I pretty much hang out with Kelly until someone tells me it’s time to go.

We go from 0 – 60 immediately. No one tells me we’re going anywhere for the entire day, and suddenly, we’re in a big rush. Oh, but then there are the dishes. Oh yes, and first let’s wash the car (Bolivians are nuts about having clean cars, even during the rainy season. They will polish in the rain. Even cold rain.) So maybe an hour later we hit the road. I rarely ask where we’re going, but sometimes I ask when we’ll be back. Erlinda has a pretty standard answer, “about an hour,” which I’ve come to understand as five hours or more.

We went out to eat on Sunday, a process that took an entire day. I thought we were eating at Carola’s (Erlinda’s sister). However, this was only our first stop. We soon piled into the back of a truck and rumbled off to the market (presumably to buy stuff for lunch). After that, we stopped at another house that belongs to Carola (to eat?) but the keys wouldn’t open the front gate. Apparently this is a house-in-progress because the “painters” were there and also locked out. So instead, they jumped into the truck and we moved to the car. We cruised on down to the abuelos’ (grandparents) place (somebody feed me please) where mass confusion ensued. By the time we were moving again, it was 3:09 pm and we were supposed to return home before 4 pm to receive my luggage from Peace Corps. And we were headed into the city?

I should mention that Bolivia has carpooling down to a science. Seat belts and car seats and limits on occupancy DNE. Most small cars carry between six and eight on a regular basis. In a small truck and a small car, our final count was 16.

I checked my watch, and inhaled. Bolivians don’t wear watches much. Apparently there’s no point unless you’re waiting for your stuff to arrive. I looked at Dona Erlinda and said, “mi equipaje.” She made a call to the girls who work in the store out front and assured me no one would steal anything, but I was pretty sure Peace Corps wouldn’t release my bags without me, and furthermore would be none too thrilled about finding bags with my name on them amidst 60 others.

You see how much my dilemma doesn’t matter at this point. I saw it, too. So instead of worrying, I had a fabulous lunch. I learned one phrase in Quechua, How are you?, and used it to impress the grandparents. The men challenged each other to drink chicha, the local beer, and grandma kept right up with them just for the hell of it. I couldn’t have cared less about my bags, which arrived late and without a hitch, anyway.