Evacuation 2008: Phase 2 (we had tshirts made)

Yeah, in retrospect, that was pretty cool.



The belly of the beast -- it is sooo loud in there! And no windows, really, so three hours later we landed and it was a surprise to everyone.



So we landed, were greeted by the American ambassador to Peru, who was great, the embassy and Peace Corps Peru staff who helped us out so much. But what we really needed after all that stress was a little party ... which turned into a roadblock. The second group of us arrived laughing, crying and carrying their luggage through all the while singing Bolivian folk songs and chanting 'Vive Cuerpo de Paz!" Que viva ...



And later, Allison plus two of my lovely roommates ... one of whom faceplanted, lost her flag (nope, nothing under there) and skinned her knees something fierce. The other managed to switch out her outfit with one of the guys, not sure where or when.



City of Lima, 8 million people. The downtown is very modern -- we have every convenience and there's a Starbucks and a McDonald's across the street from me. The other day I had a dunkin' donut, and that moment of truth made me realize that some things I really missed from home just weren't all that good in the first place.

*photos courtesy of Emily Rupp*

Evacuation 2008: Phase 1

Part of my Chaco crew at Emily's place a few weeks ago. Wes, Mike, Gina, Me (and Leona), Anna and Emily.



On our way to the "airport" in Camiri. We found out after dinner (and for me, after a bottle of wine) that we had to go. It's just starting to sink in.



Gina, me, Wesley ... walking through the Camiri blockade with luggage!



Still going ... we were told the airport was on the other side. So we asked a few people if we could walk there.
Where?
To the airport.
The airport?
Yeah, sure, you can walk there. But no one really flies out of there. There's no plane.
One will come (we hope).



Baggage check? After walking for 20 min on a dirt road.



Waiting for our flight. Some very cool birds flying around but no sign of a plane.



The lone air traffic controller, who was actually using morse code to communicate. Sooo cool.



The waiting room is a lot dirtier than it looks -- we didn't want to sit!



Our chariot arrives!



Umm .. are we going to fit?



Airport security.



Airport tax. (pretty sure the guy upstairs just wanted to get some lunch, but who knows)



Gina the co-pilot.



Me, in flight. Trust me when I say I was not smiling after two hours of turbulence, dips and drops.



Wes, eager to get to Cochabamba. Emily and I are snuggled together because we were freezing, and in the event, would have to share the lone barf bag. It has been a long, long day. I will not know anything more until Monday, but for now we're fine, uncertain, bored. And my tummy is still recovering.

** Photos courtesy of Emily Rupp, as my camera broke about two weeks ago. **

Free Ride

Free Ride

After more than three tries, we finally made it to Camiri on Sunday. We took a taxi early in the morning to the bridge, walked across the blockade (really no more than a mountain of sand, some sticks and a few cars at this point) and hopped another cab on the other side. We had been stuck at site for more than two weeks; I needed wine, milk and dog food, but mostly Internet, paperwork and some quality time talking English. I was beginning to seriously question my sanity and just about everything else.

My friends Mike and Wes live in Camiri. Emily came with me and Jacqui was visiting as well. We were all lounging around at Mike’s place, and I think it was he who said, “do you ever just wake up in the morning and think, Man. Fuck. This.” As in your job, your site, your inability to communicate or make plans or like, leave. I couldn’t have said it better myself (and probably wouldn’t have). We’re thinking of having t-shirts made.

All the prices had gone up in Camiri and the bank ran out of money. Luckily I took out a bunch the first day so didn’t desperately need more before leaving, though it would have been nice to have. Still, we drank beer and played Frisbee down by the river. We found a place that made tacos (score!) and I ordered the chicken. Out came cold, fatty beef tacos, and the kid just looked at me dubiously when I asked why he brought us carne instead of pollo. “No hay pollo.” There is no chicken. Of course not; hey, thanks for letting us know. Later I think I got some mild giardia from the food there. While sitting on the toilet I thought: Man. Fuck. This.

The next day I had some better luck. After some phone calls home, a late night chatting away online and a rare and elusive hot shower, I felt much better. I knocked out most of the errands on my list and opted for a fruit salad over another plate of mystery meat. We ran into Emily’s work counterpart in the market and he offered us a free ride home (score!). He planned on driving through the river to avoid the blockade entirely; we said we’d meet him on the other side at 3.

We were still twiddling our thumbs at 4, but the sun was out and there was a nice breeze. Emily pulled out some fresh mandarin oranges and I had bought along some wicked homemade cookies made with coconut and dulce de leche (Sweet milk? More like caramel). Finally Profe Pedro, whom Mike once dubbed ‘the father of the world,” rumbled down the road and we mounted up. He put on some mariachi type music and we yelled and laughed over it. There’s a tollbooth along the way that was closed, but some guys let the gate down for us to pass by and Pedro joked, look how jealous they are! Here I am with my two beautiful choclitas! Then he proceeded to lecture us on how we should get married and stay in Bolivia forever.

A little ways up the road, he told us about a party for the Virgin Guadalupe we’d pass by on the way home. “Vamos a parar un ratito,” he said. Just for 20 minutes so he could pay his respects to the virgin. We reluctantly agreed given that we had little choice in the matter. The family we visited had built an entire little house for their delicate statue, who was adorned with flowers and offerings for the occasion. A smattering of people milled around. We visited briefly then sat down as Pedro lit his candles and prayed. He then stopped to talk to an old woman whom he referred to as the abuelita – not his grandmother, just the grandmother. He said he was going to walk her up to the house and greet the family then we could go.

So he starts walking with this ancient woman up the hill, and she takes these tiny, wobbly steps leaning heavily on his arm and a cane for support. It is evident that they will not reach the house anytime soon. We watch their painstaking progress. A man strides over with a bucket full of chicha, homemade beer, and obliges us to drink a cup. We talk him into letting us split one and agree not to make eye contact with anyone else for fear of beverages. Then we decide it would be less rude to just go sit in the truck.

Finally we see Pedro making his way down the hill. He’s out of breath but excited. “Vengan!” he says. “Come up to the house and drink some chicha with the family. They want to meet you!” We give him weary looks and doubtful replies. “Just one and we’ll head out. I told them you’d come.” So the three of us make our way up the hill toward an old adobe house where an extended family, some ducks, chickens, dogs and cats are seated in the sunshine. I am handed a dirty glass filled with thankfully non-alcoholic chicha, but I’m pretty sure there should not be a greasy film on top. I beseech Emily to split one but she thinks it would be rude. They hand her one, too, and we sip and make small talk as the women cut vegetables. We finish our glasses and thank them graciously. Pedro fills up a second glass. The women peel boiled potatoes. I am exhausted. The music gets louder and couples start dancing chacarera; the women flare their imaginary skirts and the men jump from side to side tapping their boots to the beat. We’re up and headed toward the car, Emily ostensibly for her glasses and me for a sweatshirt. We’re down and seated again; “no chicas, ahorita vamos.” No, girls, we’re going now. Right after we eat.

I am pretty close to saying you-know-what, but not quite there. Pretty soon the whole situation just becomes riotously funny. A never-ending plate of beef and rice and beet salad appears in front of me and we’re sharing one knife between all of us. Pedro is thinking hard about whom he should marry Emily off to so she’ll never leave and I’m thinking, good lord we’re probably never going to leave this party, let alone Bolivia. All in all it took us three and a half hours to get home from Camiri, which is an hour away. And believe it or not, that’s making pretty good time.

Day in the Campo

My little brother, Jhonicito, in Altillo. My host dad said we'd be there for half an hour. Four hours later ... I had some fun with my camera anyway.


Sair, 6, with a "hot chick." He loves animals.


The two boys peering through an upstairs window in the old farmhouse. Don Yonny says he wants to move out there. Home sweet home, eh?


At least three Guarani farm workers live at the house currently, along with a slew of chickens and some very, very skinny dogs.


Packing up the chickens to head home. In the Jeep? Don Yonny at the wheel, Sair on my lap for a lovely 40 min of campo roads, Jhonicito crammed into the middle and regularly leaning over me to stick his head out the window. In back, a bag of fertilizer for my school garden, a spare tire, some large tools, two men and a boy and about 12 squawking chickens. You can imagine (actually, you probably can't ... )

garden/party

We finally rocked out the school garden today. Of 12 students, only four showed up but in the end I think that was a really good thing. By comparison, four hard-working students beat 20 goof-offs hands down. Before in the schoolyard, we had dirt, ants and garbage. Now we have seven trees, six roses and three vegetable gardens, plus five large and freshly painted metal trash bins. I’d love to put in a jungle gym and a beach volleyball court, but anyway, it’s a start!

Naturally I could not find the school director today, nor my alcaldia counterpart, both of whom I needed to talk to about projects. But I was invited to the English professor’s birthday party, the second of three I’ll go to this month. I wish she had given me a little more notice so I could find her a nice present; here it’s pretty customary to wrap up whatever you have lying around your house. It’s also almost required that the birthday boy or girl “bites” his or her birthday cake – ie they stuff your face into it after you blow out the candles. For both reasons I’m hoping to head home for my birthday this year … but if I do end up staying I have such a plan. I’m going at that cake full force. There’ll be none of this bashful reluctance; I’m going to get whiplash with my mouth wide open, and I might even plunge myself in for round two, for the love of icing. Hah!

For the dinner, we had pig (they call it ‘coochie’ here; har har) with the usual rice and potatoes, tomato and onion salad and mote, which is a greasy fried corn concoction that I’m not particularly fond of. At one point the birthday girl was out back stirring a large, black cauldron over a little bonfire with a dark oar-like wooden thing. Complete with her long black hair, the scene was so Halloween! I couldn’t help telling her she looked like a witch. She took mock offense and handed me her oar. As I came to discover, the whole pig was inside the pot and nothing else, bones and all. It was pretty tough to stir those big, meaty chunks around. The only thing missing was my pointed black hat (and, like, some candy corn would have really hit the spot).

I ducked out early when the sweet wine and singhani (vodka) pitchers started coming around, the music got louder and the respectable people (or at least the ones with young kids) hit the road. It was a dark and quiet walk but I have never once been afraid here. In keeping with Latin culture, I have quite the extended family in town, and I do feel sort of like I belong to them, and vice versa. The verb they use to denote belonging here is pertenecer – to pertain. So at the very least, I pertain to my host family, their families and friends, our neighbors, the market stall where I buy vegetables and the tienda where I get my toothpaste and laundry soap, the teachers and the students and everyone who works in or with the local government. From a Peace Corps perspective, this whole town belongs to me; a big responsibility and sometimes, like today, an amazing gift.

ups and downs

Wednesday

[PHONE RINGS]

Emily: Hey, you! How’s it going? Did you get your garden done?

Me: No, of course not. Right now I’m busy reading magazines and hating on my town.

Emily: Aw, don’t do that! What happened?

Me: Well, I couldn’t find Profe Hernàn (the director/principal) yesterday, and when I finally found him he was too busy to talk to me so he said come back tomorrow at 7 am, of all times, to talk about where to put the plants. So anyway, I got up early and went. We talked. But then I saw Laura, the president of the class that wants to do this garden, and she said that her whole class had a music test at 9 am that the professor had just announced (usually they don’t even have school in the morning). So I said, okay, come and get me when you’re done with the test and we’ll work. But she never came! Maybe because there was a big “hooray literacy” party in the school today that we had no idea about.

Emily: Yeah. That happens.

Me: Well, it gets worse. The girls invited me to play volleyball with them tonight and Laura was supposed to let me know when … so here I am waiting around in my gym shorts and a sports bra. I just went to her house and her brother said she was in the school playing volleyball! And my dog? Is chasing chickens. This is a new hobby and my host mom is rightly pissed about it. I yelled at her when she did it this morning, but just now I gave her a good whap over the nose and tied her up. She was so mad she ate more of her bed (most of which she tore apart the day I left for consolidation). So I swatted her again, took it away, and now I can’t help but think, geez, does everyone hate me today?

Emily: Of course not! We all have days like that, trust me.

Me: Ugh. I’m sorry you had to hear all about it. By the way, how do you say ‘go to hell’ in Spanish?

Emily: Umm … I don’t know. Probably better that we don’t know.

Me: Yeah. I’m going to bed with my magazines and a Dove bar. I’m done with this day.

Emily: Sounds good. Tomorrow? Are we going [to the campo]?

Me: If I don’t ET (early terminate my service) by then. Or like, kill myself.

Emily: Don’t talk like that! Nobody’s ET’ing and you’re not going to kill yourself.

Me: [sigh] I know. See you tomorrow.

Thursday

[dial up the office]

Me: Anna! (our 3rd year volunteer support staff)
It’s your new best friend in Gutiérrez.
(I told her she had to be my new best friend because I can call her at the office anytime for free)

Anna: Heya, what’s up?

Me: Here’s the scoop. We can’t go this weekend (to the rodeo, or to our secondary plan, a hike/party in Camiri). Blockades on both sides of the highway now; I’m totally stuck. Peace Corps is sending us a car with supplies. Tell me you’re coming.

Anna: Oooh, I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything about it yet.

Me: Yeah, I just got off the phone with Ivan (head of security). I told him I wanted cooking gas, milk, money and a phone card. But what I really want is WINE!!!!

Anna: [laughs] (no alcohol is allowed to be transported in Peace Corps vehicles)

Me: No really. I’m gonna go stark raving mad here! How about a bottle of Malbec? A nice Cabernet? Hook me up, girl.

Anna: Can’t you just buy a box of whatever in your site?

Me: Ugh. I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a connoisseur!

Anna: Okay, I’ll see what I can do.

Friday

Switching tracks in a major way: Stayed up half the night reading The Alchemist. I’m giving you an obnoxiously long passage because I think it might have changed my life. And I think you’ll see how it applies.

“Whenever we do something that fills us with enthusiasm, we are following our personal calling. However, we don’t all have the courage to confront our own dream. Why?

“There are four obstacles. First: we are told from childhood onward that everything we want to do is impossible. We grow up with this idea, and as the years accumulate, so too do the layers of prejudice, fear, and guilt. There comes a time when our personal calling is so deeply buried in our soul as to be invisible. But it’s still there.

“If we have the courage to disinter dream, we are then faced by the second obstacle: love. We know what we want to do, but are afraid of hurting those around us by abandoning everything in order to pursue our dream.

“We do not realize that love is just a further impetus, not something that will prevent us from going forward. We do not realize that those who genuinely wish us well want us to be happy and are prepared to accompany us on that journey.

“Once we have accepted that love is a stimulus, we come up against the third obstacle: fear of the defeats we will meet on the path. We who fight for our dream suffer far more when it doesn’t work out, because we cannot fall back on the old excuse, ‘oh,well, I didn’t really want it anyway.’ We do want it and we know that we have staked everything on it and that the path of the personal calling is no easier than any other path, except that our whole heart is in the journey. Then, we warriors of light must be prepared to have patience in difficult times and know that the Universe is conspiring in our favor, even though we may not understand how.

“I ask myself, are defeats necessary? Well, necessary or not, they happen. When we first begin fighting for our dream, we have no experience and make many mistakes. The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and get up eight times.

“So, why is it important to live our personal calling if we are only going to suffer more than other people? Because, once we overcome defeats – and we always do – we are filled by a greater sense of euphoria and confidence. In the silence of our hearts, we know that we are proving ourselves worthy of the miracle of life.

“Each day, each hour, is part of the good fight. We start to live with enthusiasm and pleasure. Intense, unexpected suffering passes more quickly than suffering that is apparently more bearable; the latter goes on for years and, without our noticing, eats away at our soul until one day we are no longer able to free ourselves from the bitterness and it stays with us for the rest of our lives.

“Having disinterred our dream, having used the power of love to nurture it and spent many years living with the scars, we suddenly notice that what we always wanted is there, waiting for us, perhaps the very next day. Then comes the fourth obstacle: the fear of realizing the dream for which we fought all of our lives.

“Oscar Wilde said: ‘Each man kills the thing he loves.’ And it’s true. The mere possibility of getting what we want fills the soul of the ordinary person with guilt. We look around at all those who have failed to get what they want and feel that we do not deserve to get what we want, either. We forget about all the obstacles we overcame, all the suffering we endured, and all the things we had to give up in order to get this far. I have known a lot of people who, when their personal calling was within their grasp, went on to commit a series of stupid mistakes and never reached their goal – when it was only a step away.

“This is the most dangerous of the obstacles because it has a kind of saintly aura about it: renouncing joy and conquest. But if you believe yourself worthy of the thing you fought so hard to get, then you become an instrument of God, you help the Soul of the World, and you understand why you are here.”

Paulo Coelho, 2002 (The Alchemist)

Saturday

Hermel from the office arrives with my goodies, sans wine, but later tells me if I just call his cell phone and keep quiet about it, he’ll pick me up some next time. I love Hermel. I also love Allison, Tom and Joan, Erin and my stepdad, Dan, whose packages made it through the Bolivian postal service AND several roadblocks (Hermel said he had to drive around on some crazy campo roads to get here). Yesterday I was too bummed to leave my room; today I am too excited to leave my room where I am currently stuffing myself with chocolate bars, listening to country music, slurping pink lemonade and nestled in with a mountain of magazines.

So, don’t worry about me. It is my choice to be here every single day, the privilege of my American passport. This life does have its ups and downs but I surrendered myself to them long ago. I will be here tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after that (blockades or not); I will be stronger tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after that, closer still to whatever it is that I’m here to accomplish. But feel free to send more chocolate. A little fortification now and then never hurts.

White Girls Like You

**still no luck putting up photos but I'm taking lots so stay tuned!**

During the election they put us up in a NICE hotel – like, nice by international standards, not just nice for Bolivia. Of course, the hot showers were cold and the sauna was closed and the food at first was almost sans vegetables until we complained, but hey. The beds were comfortable; the pool was fabulous and I got to play beach volleyball and learn to salsa dance.

Most importantly, I met some of the most amazing people. I can put it very simply: everybody dances, in that cheesy “I hope you dance” sort of way. We are diverse and talented, funny and fun, driven and successful. We are in love with our lives. The collective knowledge, pride and creativity of this group makes me feel so blessed to be a part of it, and intensely patriotic. This is America in Bolivia, and it is awesome.

All 120 or so of us were consolidated for about a week; we were especially grateful to be there after hearing about what happened in Georgia (invaded by Russia; luckily all of the volunteers were located and evacuated soon afterward). It was a reminder to us that as tranquil as it seems, we do live in a developing country that can and will be unpredictable at times.

For example, we had to stumble through tear gas to get to dinner in Santa Cruz the other day. Our eyes burned; our throats ached and we struggled to breathe. We walked down Calle Arenales with our heads bowed down like a herd of horses in the wind. We were far enough from the actual event; it started several blocks away where a group of disabled people was on a hunger strike. From what I understand, the president had promised them a government compensation of about 3,000bs per year (about $450, not even a livable amount). No one got paid.

The police came with tear gas; the people began to attack with crutches and throw things from wheelchairs. The sad part is that the police themselves are underpaid and probably completely agree with their supposed opponents. I only hope nobody saw anything about this on the news internationally; I can’t even imagine what the world would think. I want to tell you it’s not like that, but I’ll have to settle for, there are great things about Bolivia so don’t close your eyes just yet. It is young and impetuous and eventually, that energy will be channeled in the right direction. At least, I hope so.

* * * *

I was away from my site just more than two weeks. Our project design workshop took place in the city after consolidation and one of my professor-friends from Gutiérrez came to be my work counterpart. I wasn’t sure if bringing a professor was the right choice, as teachers (especially women) don’t have a lot of power here. My fears proved unfounded. Rosa not only held her ground among the representatives from local governments and school officials, but she impressed both our workshop facilitators and me more than once. I was so proud of her!

During one of our last lunches together, I was sitting with Rosa, Carla and Christa (our awesome facilitators, and they were technical trainers from before so I knew them), and several other orphaned work counterparts whose volunteers had lunched elsewhere … so basically a table full of Bolivians and me, though I hadn’t thought about it that way at the time. We were joking (in Spanish) about my lack of a love life and other ridiculous things when Carla, who has worked with probably more than a thousand volunteers, grabbed my arm, looked me in the eye and said, “You know what? I love gringas like you.”

“Umm … thanks?”
“Really,” she said, shaking her head. “No todos son asi.” Literally: not everyone is so.

Later, my host family called. First Don Yonny put Leona on the phone (his idea; he says her tail was wagging like crazy). Then I chatted with my little brother, Sair. My other brother, Jhonnicito (the annoying one) stole the phone and the first thing he said was, “te extraño.” I miss you. Not wanting to waste all of their phone credit, which is expensive here, and very much wanting to finish my lunch, I asked Don Yonny to say hello to Doña Vicky for me. No such luck; in half a second she was on the phone and asking all about my trip. My reluctance to return to site abated more than slightly.

Once my friend Gina told me that after being here a year, her biggest accomplishment was that her town liked her. While politically this country might never like “us,” I feel like the people in my town (plus my very extended host family, Peace Corps staff, taxi drivers, the owners of the hotel in Santa Cruz and the waiters at my favorite restaurant) already most certainly like me -- not a bad goal at all.