Someplace Real

My host mom jokes that everyone in the plaza can hear her kettle whistle. More often than not, a crowd appears at the doorstep just in time as she pours the first püro full of maté for the day. The people I meet always ask me, sabe tomar püro? Or occasionally remark with surprise, sabe tomar püro?!

Literally: you know -- to drink -- püro. Could be, you know how to drink püro? But I doubt they’re surprised by my uncanny ability to suck tea through a straw and pass it along. More likely, you know about drinking püro? In which case, everything sacred about the daily ritual and the people involved. It is how to welcome friends into your home, how to relax. It is a much healthier conversation lubricant than a bottle of whiskey (although no me falta the occasional foray of that nature) and thus the well of local chisme (gossip).

In any case, I reply with a sí, me gusta. Yes, I like it. Their acceptance becomes evident with a slow nod, a smile and the passing of the püro my way. They watch me the first time around to make sure I do it right, so I’m careful not to wince when I inevitably burn my tongue on the hot liquid and not to notice if I spill a little on my shirt.

Dona Vicky drinks it first thing in the morning, last thing in the evening and several times in between. As I venture into the kitchen half-asleep to slurp down my Nescafe she perches next to me, sips from the silver bombilla and winks. “Mi desayuno,” she says every day without fail. My breakfast.

Another token catchphrase, when one of her friends cracks a joke, is “vaya, che!” In Spanish, vaya means more or less get out of here, and che, in Guarani, friend. Then again, she tipped over the ketchup and mayonnaise at the table one time and I heard her say it to them, too. That’s my host mom, friend to all, and always telling them to get out. They’ll be back when they hear the kettle.

Over püro we discuss everything and anything. The other day she told me she got married at age 15 and had her first baby that same year. She became a grandmother at 31. This is not uncommon here, and from her tone she may as well have been discussing the weather, just stating facts. She has been widowed and remarried, almost lost her son to a car accident, and now she has three kids away in Spain – she cries when they call -- and two little boys to raise. Still she tells me from time to time, especially when she’s complaining about some pain or other, that I am “so young.”

When there’s something she doesn’t know, usually trivial (adding minutes to her cell phone, for instance), she blows it off by saying she’s just a campesina, a country girl. She teaches me which herbs and flowers make tea for fevers and sore throats, which leaves make good compresses for pain or congestion. She knows where the chickens lay their eggs; she says she can hear them do it. We made cheese together last week and humintas, tamales of cheese and corn, yesterday. My clumsy hands ripped the husks in all the wrong places, too thick to tie, too narrow to hold. But her fingers know the humintas; they know püro; they know how to knit entire sweaters while her mind is free to be mother, friend, neighbor and wife.

Some days I think because I’ve traveled so much, read a ton and earned two college degrees that I’ve lived a couple of lifetimes already. And then there are days when I feel just as she says, so young. My life in Bolivia feels kind of like summer camp, like those field trips to fake Amish villages where the grown-ups dressed in costumes and taught us to churn butter, milk cows and grow seeds. At the end of the day we all came home to our microwave ovens, our waterbeds and cable TV, to the real world. A part of me still believes that the poor people in my village, who live in huts made of sticks and mud, eventually go home to someplace utterly different. Someplace surreal.

New Address

My new address and care package ideas:

Erika Kelsey, PCV
Cuerpo de Paz
Casilla #3998
Santa Cruz, Bolivia
South America

Cellphone: from the US dial 001-591-7-310-4000. Same time zone as NY.

Please don’t feel compelled to send me anything! I have plenty to eat, layers to wear and lots to do. Given how few resources my town and school have, I feel almost sick requesting things for myself. But many of you have asked me, so here’s what I came up with:

Needs:
1. World maps. If someone could find me a blow up globe, that would be amazing. Most people here have no concept of geography, so it’s hard to explain where I’m from, where I’ve been and on which continent is that country on the news today.
2. Plastic balls from the dollar store for my teething pet. She adores them; they keep her occupied for hours (and keep me amused). Furthermore, we’re down to our last one.
3. Chewable children’s vitamins, generic brand is fine. I hate the horse pills Peace Corp provides.
4. Oil-free sunscreen, spf 45. I am almost out of my Coppertone and the PC version wreaks havoc on my skin and generally makes me feel dirty in a land where I can’t shower it off every day.
5. Magazines!!! I am so out of the loop. What’s happening with the election? The world? Time, Newsweek, Week in Review, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Economist, Harper’s, New Yorker, Mother Jones etc ad infinitum. National Geographic in English. I will scrutinize every page, pass them on to other volunteers or cut up the photos to use in my English class.

Wants:
1. Rawhide bones and chew toys for the pooch. Milk bones. All virtually impossible to find here.
2. Spices! This is more of a fervent desire than simple want. Can’t seem to find allspice, dry mustard or a decent curry. Happy to cook with whatever else you deem appropriate including sauce packets (gravy, tacos, alfredo).
3. Long sleeved shirts, size medium usually. Plain colors are great. Old Navy and Target are good options. It’s surprisingly cold here at night.
4. Can somebody send me a simple recipe for making my own bread? I have no temperature gauge on my oven and limited resources. Snail mail or email.
5. Crystal light packets to make my filtered water taste less gross.

Guilty Pleasures:
1. Good, dark chocolate would cost me more than a month’s rent here. Lindt, Ghiradelli, Godiva … lord. I am drooling. York peppermint patties. Gummy snacks (Yeah, Emily! The wine gummies rocked).
2. Girl scout cookies: Thin mints. 20 postcards to whomever actually finds me these.
3. Dentyne or otherwise sugar-free good for your teeth type gum (Good choice, Tommy and Joan!)
4. Books: Read something lately you thought was good? Pass it along, and I’ll donate it to the library afterward. Highly recommended read for you all is the Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (Dana, thanks for the tip!)
5. Letters. I want these more than anything on this list. They don’t have to be epic, just tell me what you did today, what you had for lunch. Enclose a photo or two, a caricature or a silly article from the paper. I miss being a part of your daily life.

As a reward for reading this far, two funnies:

For real, my host mom here is an Avon lady! And it’s so awesome to me that the whole catalog is in Spanish, prices in Bolivianos, yet the women here have no idea what to do with half of the items especially the cooking stuff. For example, that contraption where you cut eggs for egg salad … no one here can figure out why you would want to slice an egg up like that.

My host parents are friends with a man who goes by Don Booby. He’s super nice and here all the time, but I can’t say his name without smirking. I explained it to my host mom using the appropriate gestures and now we both crack up every time he comes in.

Also, the reason that the cup for püro is rounded on the bottom is because it’s not wood; it’s a big old seed! Mystery solved … stay tuned for more.

Day of the Dead (it's not what you think)

Here’s what died in my house the other day: a goat, two chickens, several birds (pretty parrots, because apparently they eat the corn) and my desire to eat meat, or eat at all, really.

My host dad arrived home in his old jeep that he says is as old as him and he’s not joking. The floor is thin, at best, and in places missing altogether. It starts about every other time he wants to go somewhere. He doesn’t get frustrated. “I like old things,” he jokes. “My wife, for instance.”

So the old jeep comes careening into the driveway probably shedding parts along the way. Out steps Don Yonny and then his son, Orlando, who lives and studies in Camiri. Orlando is on the handsome side of things with a dazzling white smile, a rarity in Bolivia where the excess of sugar rots your teeth and chewing coca leaves makes them all fall out.

However, I’m a little disturbed by the tied-up bleating animal he yanks out of the trunk. They let it flop around for a while and watch them sharpen knives. A nephew arrives to join in the fun. My host mom insists I go watch, and I go out of curiosity, and to make sure Leona is in not involved.

Stop reading here if you want. I don’t blame you.

First the nephew drives some sort of stake into its neck, and the goat is flailing but not dying. They argue a bit over the best way to kill a goat and who’s better at killing goats, meanwhile the goat is flopping around in the dirt in a total panic. Even Leona crawls into my lap and averts her eyes. Orlando takes charge, slits the throat and blood pours out into a pot ‘for the dogs’. Ahem. Except for my dog. She eats Purina puppy chow.

They string the thing up by its legs and Orlando actually manages to skin it without getting a speck on his decidedly non-farmer clothes. I am impressed but have already decided this man is entirely too manly for me. Later the innards appear in a bowl. Turns out we eat those. And the head complete with eyes and skull. Ahem. Except for me. I have a new stove in my room and one last precious box of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese.



The thing is, I really respect the way Bolivians do not waste food. They raise their own animals without hormones or chemicals. They kill what they need to survive and use every part of it. Anytime someone kills an animal in the community, others purchase portions for their families so nothing goes bad, either. Local gossip includes who has the meat today, and whether we’re buying portions to cook or plates of ready-made lunch.



There is always more demand than supply. Prices are relatively stagnant and those who cannot pay are occasionally invited, for example, we have a lady who comes once a week to do dishes and laundry and clean. She has lunch with us.

Regardless, I can’t bring myself to even take a bite of goat face. And much later, when I find Leona in her newly purchased dog bed nestled in with what remains of the skull, I’m thoroughly mortified. That same afternoon Doña Vicky saunters in with two live, squawking chickens by the legs, one in each hand. I raise my eyebrows. She shakes her head and smiles. Guess we’re having chicken tomorrow.

Campo Dog

I picked up a book on dog training from the Peace Corps library. I read it often for amusement, mostly, and occasionally to keep from killing my dog when she craps on the floor. I’m happy to say this is not happening quite so often anymore, so at least one thing has proven successful. The book says: “if you catch a pup making a mistake, make a startling sound by clapping your hands. This will often stop him midpee. Then scoop him up, take him to the right spot and praise him when he finishes what he started.”

That was really fun the first 15 times we did it. Never did she stop in the middle even though I swear I always caught her right in the middle; I think I probably scared the rest out of her in a hurry. Soon the delightful clapping turned into a snarly, growling LEONA!!! NO!!! and then finally a solid swat on the nose, which the dog bible positively condemns. But guess what? She hasn’t had an accident in three days at least.

There is a whole chapter on ‘puppy-proofing’ your home. I could not stop laughing, as it is obviously written for the comforts of a Midwestern suburb. There are no ‘common household dangers’ in Bolivia, but plenty of uncommon ones. “Any bone your dog can crunch should be kept away from your pet. Use sterilized bones from the pet store …”

We don’t have pet stores. The rest of the dogs in town subsist on bones, thus it’s a virtual bone yard in my backyard and in the street, too. In the beginning, I was pulling gross things out of her mouth left and right including the skin of that goat she keeps finding in the garage, dead possum like creatures on the street (which, thankfully, she does not roll in like Emily’s dog), the trash that my host family refuses to put up out of the way and the chicken bones the other dogs leave lying around. Now I just don’t bother or we’d be arguing all the time. I bought more de-wormer and I just pray she doesn’t eat something that’ll kill her.

I feed her puppy chow three times a day, per The Book’s instructions, but she’s always hungry. My host family leaves out alternately pots of the bloody water they used to rinse meat, a corn-based soup with a week’s worth of bones in it or suero, the sour remnants of the cheese making process that gives her diarrhea every time. Leona, of course, is first in line for these specialties. I am slowly training myself to refuse dog kisses.

There are a few tips that are spot on. For example, FRAP, Frenetic Random Activity Periods, a behavior I had already labeled “puppy spaz.” It happens when she’s walking along just fine and suddenly starts leaping in the air, spinning in circles, rolling and running. At least once on our daily constitutional she goes nuts and it’s truly hilarious. I am sad to read that she’ll outgrow it, as well as her propensity to lie with her back legs straight out in the “flying frog” position. If you catch her in the right minute, she’ll even crawl over to you on her belly. It’s not in the book, but we call it “stealth mode.”



She was getting really good at table manners and not jumping, but I’m sort of stuck in that my little host brothers are forever encouraging her to beg and jump and roughhouse. I often ask them to stop or scoop her away for a while, but I always catch them again later when they think I’m not looking. I wonder how their parents would feel if I gave them each a solid swat on the nose.

The 3-7-9 Plan

When you come and visit me in Gutierrez, here’s how it’s going to go. We’ll rumble off the highway onto the bumpy main street. The driver will blare his horn to announce our arrival (and the following departure) no matter what ungodly hour it is. We’ll wave to everybody I know, which is everybody, and shout buendía, bueñas tardes or bueñas noches depending on the time of day and whether it’s before or after lunch.



Later I’ll introduce you to my wild cast of characters. They have names such as Doña Flaca (Mrs. Skinny), Doña Pancha (Mrs. Tummy), Doña Negra (Mrs. Black, with the short black hair and dark eyebrows) and Doña Uva (Mrs. Grape). My host parents are called Don Yonny and Doña Vicky.

Do not be surprised if you see something dead and eventually edible hanging in the parlor; it’s normal. Likewise try to contain your excitement when Don Yonny shows you the giant boa he killed in the backyard with a shovel this morning; just because it’s twitching doesn’t mean it’s still alive.

If we’re lucky, Don Yonny will invite us to some of his homemade cheese, mild and soft like fresh mozzarella, with wild honey. It’s incredible. He’s also bound to show us photos of his family, as if to assert, look: I have a history here. No one exists without roots. The photos only half-aid in the process of naming one’s kin, as families grow large here. Between them, my host parents have nine children. My host dad comes from a family of eight. Everyone in town is related through blood or marriage or both.

Doña Vicky has a crown of dyed-blonde hair and flowers painted onto her toenails; she calls herself ‘reina de las ollas’: queen of the pots. This morning I asked her what her plans were for the day. “Sweep and cook,” she replied, chuckling, shaking her head goodheartedly as if I had made some big joke. Then she added, “and drink püro. Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow.”

Inevitably, we’ll share in some püro, otherwise known as hierba mate. We will sip slowly from a brown wooden cup with a rounded bottom through a silver, studded straw. Be careful not to burn your tongue. I always ask for mine without sugar, or ‘sin dulce’ because I worry about my teeth after drinking this concoction twelve times a day, but since you’re only visiting you might want to go for it. Don’t say ‘gracias’ when someone passes it to you, though. You only say that when you’re ready to leave the circle. I have been well trained.

We’ll do a project while you’re here – why not? I’ll call a meeting just so you can get the full experience. We’ll set it for 4 pm and invite all the padres (parents). You and I will show up at 3:50. A few people will trickle in at 4:30, 4:40 and insist on discussing some possibly unrelated issue in rapid fire Spanish that, I do apologize, I probably can’t understand nor translate. All in all, the primary result of the meeting will have been to set a date and time for a follow-up meeting.



Afterward, we’ll get some fried chicken in the plaza because that’s all there is and slurp down some watery beer. Guaranteed, quality aside, it will taste fabulous. The volunteers here call it the 3-7-9 plan, and it applies to just about anything (beer, food, members of the opposite sex, projects). When we arrived, we turned up our noses at the Bolivian brews and thought, ick, three out of ten at best. After training, we poured a tall foamy glass and slurped it down with seven out of 10 satisfaction. Here in my site, at the end of the day when the hot, dry sun descends over the foothills and a cool breeze sweeps the dusty streets, a cold Taquiña can turn any day into a nine.

Puppy Love

Well, I feel a little guilty about this but not guilty enough to change my mind. Let me give you some background first. Dogs are not friends in Bolivia. They live on short chains on concrete floors, if they’re lucky. I have seen them eat their own feces. If fed, their diet includes dog soup, made from chicken heads and other delectables, and bones from table scraps. They are skinny and often abused.

The rest roam the streets, angry and mangy, until they are hit by cars or poisoned or killed in fights with other dogs. Dog orgies along the sides of the road are not uncommon. One turns off the ability to see these things.

I had it in my head to adopt one of these such dogs, to rescue him or her and make an example to my future community of how rewarding it can be to have relationship with your pet – and also to abate my own loneliness once I get to site. I didn’t anticipate that my dog would choose me.

So meet Leona, the exact opposite of what I was looking for but everything I wanted. I nursed her back to health when one of the other dogs tore at her neck with its teeth. After much adieu, I bought her from my host family who couldn’t believe that one could train a dog to retrieve a plastic ball (evidence of our special bond; she’ll only return it to me) or that a dog would stop eating because it was depressed, as she was every time I left for a tech trip. They bought her to breed, but in the end agreed to send her along with me because they were truly afraid she would die when I left!

Yesterday the world got very big for Leona, who’s barely left the backyard in her three months of life. First my language professor, Alex, donated his time and his car to take us to the vet Saturday morning (btw, I tested out of Spanish at Advanced Low, the biggest jump in my group). That thing where the dogs stick their heads out the window and smile is totally international.

Then she came to our going away barbecue at the training director’s house and played with his kids for two extra hours while I took a bike safety course. Last night, she was a perfectly behaved lady for a 12-hour bus trip to Santa Cruz. No barking in a very crowded bus station, where I was toting her plus everything I own, no accidents and lots of cute sleeping positions – mostly half draped over me (oh great, you got me two seats! But where are * you* going to sit?)



I have to go. Somebody just dropped a slobbery ball in my lap.

Wandering in Circles

This morning on the way into the city, I sat next to a scrawny, weathered, dirty but not quite scary old man. He was wearing two hats (one for cold and one for sun, presumably) and chomping away on what I thought must be nuts or chips, but on closer look discovered were definitely coca leaves. Just crunching away there on the bus, high as a kite without a care in the world.


Across the aisle sat a middle-aged cholita woman in the usual garb: lacy button up shirt, long black braids and stiff, flowery hat … save that her traditional, ruffled skirt (called a pollera) was made from fuzzy leopard print fabric (Mom, Mike, a la Lise?). This is why I love Bolivia. I’m not sure I can elaborate on that, but I’ll keep giving you examples.

The cancha in the city of Cochabamba is a market the size of an entire neighborhood where they sell everything under, over and to the left of the sun. My friend Helen nearly purchased a sleeping child in a bedroom store this afternoon. You’d be amazed how many of them you randomly stumble over while shopping, in the strangest places (and anyway, she really just wanted a travel pillow). We spied a cat asleep inside a glass cabinet alongside various breakable wares. Yes, a real cat.

Ask two people for directions in the cancha, and they’ll point down opposite roads. It is possible that they’re both right (ie two stores that carry the item), that one person knows and the other person is lying to save the embarrassment of not knowing, or that neither have a clue and just don’t want to admit it. To get somewhere you need to go, your best bet is to take a poll. Ten people, at least, before you put any serious effort into walking in a particular direction. Unless you’re like me and up for a stroll anyway, or care to turn it into a game: how many Bolivians does it take to find the kitchen utensils?

Meanwhile they’re playing, hah! Let’s see how long those ridiculous gringas will wander around in circles.

Author’s note: I later discovered that one could mash potatoes just fine with the bottom of a Nalgene bottle, anyway.