The Patron Saint of Ipita

It’s 10:30 in the morning and I’m already buzzed. I’m sitting across from whom I later learned are representatives of Camiri’s alcaldía (ie very important people). But right now, they are just a bunch of guys looking to booze it with the white girls. Someone says, “salud!” Cheers. Another chimes in, “seco!” as in, bottoms up and drink it down, folks. Emily flashes me a grimace and I grin back at her. After a year as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ipitá, she can say with some authority: “it’s all downhill from here.”



The fiesta for San Juan begins on Saturday and continues through Tuesday. The Ipiteños have been planning for a year and killing things to grill for a week. Extended family started rolling in at 5am from Santa Cruz, Camiri and beyond. Giant sound systems compete from every corner of the plaza as locals set up tables of handmade wares to sell. The tiendas display walls of beer, imported for the occasion. Tractors roll by and dump water on the dusty streets. “For the stock car race,” Emily explains. It amazes her to watch it happen. Every other day of the year, villagers use donkeys to haul jugs of water in for their houses.

After sobering up with some picante de pollo (spicy chicken), we meander over to the race where the mayor and the local school principal, both of whom are already tipsy, stand way too close to the revved up cars waving checkered flags. A lone police officer whistles at the crowd to get out of the way -- surprisingly they do, but it doesn’t last. Emily shakes her head. “Just wait,” she says. “This is going to turn into a shit-show.”



I should explain that Emily is my favorite Mennonite. I didn’t know that about her until the third time I met her and occasionally, like today, I still find it hard to believe. This is a girl who knows how to have a good time, to drink and dance and fall madly in lust with a man she refers to as “hot cowboy.”

But she’ll tell you how much she loves her town, and it’s obvious how much they love her. She knows almost everyone there, even the visitors. Kids from her English class yell her name from across the plaza and trail behind her wherever she goes. She has the kind of close girlfriends that I can’t imagine making in a foreign language and culture. They have no qualms about putting her to work; she moves tables and mixes cake batter and runs from one end of the fair to the other. It seems like nothing would function without her.



In the afternoon, we park ourselves on plastic chairs with some of the Santa Cruz people. The cold is setting in, or at least we’re starting to notice. We share Leona between our laps, and my poncho over our shoulders. Her friends offer cups of beer to help warm us up. We get colder but ultimately more cheerful. The boys pop open a few more bottles and fill our glasses. “I’m telling you,” she whispers in English. “It’s the beginning of the end.”

A Big Hole

The dirt is as tough as bricks but I hack away, eager for something productive to do and something physical to occupy my mind. This is the spot my host family designated for my compost project. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I hit another rock and try to pry it up using the shovel as a lever. It won’t budge but a centimeter, and it’s not a rock at all; I tuck my fingers underneath and heave with all my might. Archaeologists work here uncovering treasures. I uncover, quite laboriously, random scrap metal from the backyard dump. The book says to dig about a meter deep, which at first seemed easy but now is bordering on the impossible. My homemade shovel is durable but dull and small. Neither of us is quite up for the job ahead. A jackhammer would do it, maybe.

It helps to get a little angry at the dirt, so I think about how nuts my work counterpart is turning out to be and how my little brothers are about the noisiest creatures that ever lived. Chop, thwack! I mull about how I need to find a better flea control method for my dog, get her fixed before she gets knocked up by a dirty, half-wild street animal.

Oh, and yesterday we planted seven new trees in the school as part of an arbolization project and wouldn’t you know, it took about five minutes for one to get stepped right on and busted (and all my restraint not to bust the head of the child doing the stepping). Chop, scoop. There is nothing satisfying about the tiny piles of rocky soil as I toss them over the edge.

When I start to feel the ache in my shoulders and lower back – it’s been about two hours -- I sit down on one of the random metal pipes lying all over the place and take a slug of my noxious boiled filtered water. Leona abandons her stick, comes up and plants herself beside me with one paw and her whole nose in my lap. I look out at a tough morning’s work disdainfully but my lips curve into a half-smile. “Leona,” I say. “It appears that I have dug myself into a very big hole, here.”

Perfect Society

I had two thoughts when I boarded the micro (bus) at 6:30 this morning. One: this could be a complete failure on a number of levels, for example, this could be the wrong micro, it might not stop to pick up Emily, she might not be ready, or I might forget something important. Two: this could be fun, which should always be your backup frame of mind as a Peace Corps volunteer, whether things go as you planned or not. Thus, I sat myself down armed with a backpack full of warm clothing, some snacks, water and three giant packs of seeds.

First fear realized: the micro decided not to drive into Ipita, where Emily lives. I had all the stuff and no idea where we were going. I convinced the driver to stop at the highway and he blasted the horn until her blonde head appeared, ponytail bouncing. First crisis avoided. We arrived without a hitch in Taterenda Viejo, one of the community schools surrounding Gutierrez. Here all of the houses are mud and sticks; they have no electricity. No roads network this tiny town, just little goat paths that jut off in various directions. For all intents and purposes the school is the center of town and the language is Guarani.

The internados are students who spend the weekdays with families nearby the school because their homes are much farther away. With this group we proposed to start a huerto escolar, or school garden, to ease the burden of feeding extra children on the host families. Sixteen boys and girls from the afternoon group, grades 6-11, appeared with shovels and machetes in hand, flip flops on their feet. A local family donated an enclosed garden patch, so we crossed the highway and went up a steep path to a thatched roof home then descended on the other side toward a large field with misty mountains in the distance and the beginnings of a clear, hot day.





It soon became abundantly clear that the kids knew much more about farming and gardening than we did, something Emily warned me about. I was pulling up roots in my lovely blue garden gloves while they hacked away much more quickly with their tools. At one point I fell squarely on my butt with a small tree in hand and proclaimed, “Gané!” I won! A boy handed me a machete, which I stared at dubiously. I made a half-hearted attempt to use it for the first time in my life until he laughed and did it for me.

The biggest challenge was not clearing the brush, which was hard, or finding some “fertilizer,” which took a good hour as well. It was trying to keep the young teenage boys out of the nice family’s orange tree. “No sacques la fruta,” I told them. Don’t take the fruit. “No es nuestra.” It’s not ours! I continued muttering angry bits of Spanish until Emily discovered a much more effective methodology. She ran them halfway up the hill with a machete.



As we sat drinking the powdered chocolate milk the school had provided along with some animal crackers, one of the boys turned to me and said, “no quiere llevarme a los Estados Unidos?” Don’t you want to bring me to the United States? This is a common question among kids and adults alike, one that makes me uncomfortable. They all envision this perfect society in which everyone is educated, rich and powerful. It’s taken some time to realize, by comparison, how very right they are.

Dogs on the Bus go ZZzzzzzzz

In Santa Cruz I bought two seats on the flota (bus) back home for lots of reasons: one being I didn’t want any problems about the dog and figured they’d be more lenient if I paid double. Also I didn’t particularly want to carry her in my lap for five hours, as she’s getting quite heavy, and furthermore the price is cheap: just 20bs. That’s less than three dollars each.

So of course a family of three sat across from me and shared two seats. The little girl clutched a hungry kitten wrapped in a sweatshirt. The boy squeezed into the middle and the mom flashed me a warm smile from the window seat. No elbow room there, no room to wave. The little girl, whom I would find out later is called Iliana, was about to sit next to me before she saw the dog curled up (it was dark). “Oh,” she said, disappointed and a little incredulous. “¿Ud. ha comprado dos pasajes? You bought two tickets? I had literally put Leona’s name on seat number14 and had a good laugh with the secretary at the terminal.

I mumbled something about her getting too big and heavy to carry in my lap, but as soon as it came out I had to bite my tongue. Her little brother was probably about six, and far bigger than my dog. No one buys additional seats here, and more often than not they take the chance that an extra will open up somewhere so they can stash their kids.

I thought about putting Leona in my lap and inviting the girl to join us, which would be in effect buying her seat, but then I thought up a bunch of excuses before I got around to it. I spend a lot of time uncomfortable here, so I take my few “luxuries” where I can get them. I just wish I didn’t feel so bad about it.

My Bolivia: photos

La Paz, from the airplane; my first view of the mystical world in which I live. My heart was racing when I took this photo, and still does sometimes when I look at it. I wanted to capture the moment -- the anticipation and delight and fear -- forever.



To me this represents quintessential Bolivia, a mixture of tradition and a steady influx of modernity. We went back and forth all night from a traditional live band who played music for the cueca, a dance, and during the breaks loud Argentine cumbia music blared from the speakers like in an urban club. The woman pictured was my host grandmother in Cochabamba, Dona Magdalena.



I can't take a bad picture between Cochabamba and Santa Cruz; the landscape is so beautiful and the people are so diverse. This was taken in the high-altitude region of the Chapare where a cold wind kept people dressed warmly but the bright sun lured them out to picnic.



I lived in Barrio Kami San Jose, outside of Cochabamba, for three months. This is the only picture I have shown despite the many I have. The reason is that I am committed to showing you the beauty and energy and hope here, not the poverty.



This is me, my job and my life.

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.