A Thousand Little Things (that makes 12)

Here I am.

Back in Bolivia.  One last time.

At least, one last time returning back to my house, my bedroom — all of which I built up from bareness. The cozy homeyness and basic furnishings that I’ve slowly acquired over two and a half years time.

"Critical Mass" is a global biking initiative (bikes traverse the city every
last Friday monthly).  Cochabamba's crew is small but enthusiastic!

My current return to Bolivia is about preparing to leave. Savoring the thousands little things that make life here so dear:  buying red bananas in the street from the slow-coasting truck, “Plaaaataaano!  maaaandarriiinas! paaapaya!” all morning long from a muffled loudspeaker.  I don’t even have to get off my bike to purchase my dozen bananas and 25 oranges.  “Papaya no hay,” says the driver-seller, “only if there’s an excess of papaya are we carrying them on the truck.”  Floods in the Beni have driven up the price and scarcity of typically ubiquitous papayas.

Alpacas and Mount Sajama

The fruit trucks (or sometimes cars with the back hatch open) drive a few miles an hour announcing their produce to the barrio (cover your mouth with your fist, then shout “Papaya, Mandarina, Platano…” and you’ll get the idea).  They’re some of the cheapest fruit you’ll find since it’s so direct from the growers.  For all I know, the truck just got off the highway with this morning’s harvest, three hours (and a mountain pass) down the road.  The fruit-truck seller in my barrio knows me. When I moved two years ago, the seller in my former neighborhood asked where I’d gone.  Buying off the trucks is one of the daily simple things that makes me love this place.  

Passing thousand year old tombs on our trek in Parque Sajama.

What are the small patterns that you cling to and love in your life?  The walk home from work, the woman on the bench at the park you pass who never fails to give you a smile, though you don’t know her name.  The man from whom you buy your flowers, who always throws in “a little extra” though you hardly spend enough to justify it.  Hearing the school band play from your window—the music’s rarely good but you hear their growth and feel their camaraderie.  What are those small golden things?  And what happens when they’re taken away?

Hanging off the Chilean border at 5000m

Urinate on Chile (comically supporting the anti-Chile sentiment of Bolivians)

As I think about the people I leave behind, and the challenges of maintaining friendships at such distance, I’m tremendously sad.  I’m leaving a life and a community here.  But for now—perhaps because I’m “transitioning back” simultaneously while preparing to leave, my mind is caught on those thousand little golden things that trigger my smile. 

[Those thousand little things of everyday trigger my smile, but not always the camera.  Posted photos (mostly) are of more notable not-so-every-day events.]

Biking through the beautiful "campo" en Tarija

A true vacation.  Thomas & I toast in Tarija wine-country.

Eating small crustaceans in Tarija

I got on the 106 Trufi this morning after my usual run to Tiquipaya, the farming community just west of Cochabamba.  I ran slower than usual, feeling the change in altitude between Minnesota and the 8500ft Cochabamba valley. I stretched my calves and quadriceps at my routine corner where the country meets the city, waiting to flag down a less packed trufi so I could secretly stretch in the back seat during the 15 minute ride back to the city (Cochambambinos are Minnesotan in that way— far too shy to look back in direct curiosity, What IS that sweaty gringa doing back there?).

  

A bit of the everyday (sort of): making cookies with Raymundo
(his first time ever, to celebrate his first oven/stove!)

Not so everyday.  I was convinced into doing the craziest of marathons:
26.2 miles (42km) in La Paz (12,500ft / 3600m), climbing up to 4095m.
I was not quite as energetic 26 miles later.

The trufi I climb into is a sort of large hatch-back, like a Subaru Forrester. Its size doesn’t deter Bolivians from happily cramming nine people into the three narrow rows of seats, double what we’d call full capacity in the US.  With children included, I’ve seen these small vehicles hold twelve, without ever a complaint.  The other reason I like the back seat is to watch the passengers climb in and out (a pretty awkwardly amusing process considering how tightly we’re packed in).  It makes little sense to me, but most people will cram three in the front seat (shared with the driver) or middle seat (where only half a butt cheek of passenger number 3 will fit) before they choose to be the second passenger in the back.  Which means there’s always plenty to watch.  

In true Bolivian style, including his (large) bag of coca leaves to
"pijchar" along the 42km route.

The only time I’ve witnessed three full sets of hips successfully jammed into the back seat was aided by significant force.  One evening months ago I flagged down a trufi and scouted out the only empty space: spot #3 in the back.  Typically passenger #3 in the back sits forward on the back seat since three pairs of hips (particularly female hips) will never condense into that supposed three-person bench.  That evening instead of scooting over as usual, the two persons in back moved to either side, passively demanding I occupy the middle space. Inconveniently I crawled over passengers and floor objects, a process cumbersome as it is timely.  “La puerta, por favor” I say, begging that someone close the side door, since with my ass in the air, my head on the ceiling and my hand still grasping my grocery bag, there’s no way I’ll reach the door.  Impatient and satisfied with my degree of settling in, the driver jerked forward into traffic, thrusting me into my seat, but more impressively: wedging me between the two pairs of hips on either side.  We three sat stunned and awed: something we hadn’t before thought possible—it’s a miracle! Securely wedged as we were, we could be the example for generations of the capacity for Bolivian squish, since no attempt to pry us free would have success until our bodies began to atrophy and decay.

Finally with the finish line in site: turns out I'm gonna make it afterall

After this morning’s run, I’m passenger number 2 in the back row seat (passing up rows 1 and 2 for their less superior hamstring-stretching potential), next to a cholita with seriously broad “cheeks.”  She gets off after a few minutes; I hop out to allow her exit and hand her the brooms which had been at our feet.  She extends an effusive “gracias” and I’m delighted by our brief but tender encounter.  And now I can really get to my hamstrings. 

An aguayo strangely in a kewiña tree, on a hike above Cochabamba

The 106 Trufi always carries an eclectic mix of cholitas, young professionals and working class. A healthy cross-section of modern Bolivia.  You’re as apt to hear Quechua spoken as Spanish, since Tiquipaya (where the 106 runs) was traditionally an indigenous farming community (though quickly, lamentably changing).  In the 106 we share intimate space but our ways of living are distinct; beginning a friendship would be more difficult than squeezing the other half of your bum onto the seat. Compressed as tightly as we are, one might think we had more in common.  Hips together, worlds apart.  I say thanks for this moment—this is not “my” Bolivia, but this moment I count as mine.  I breathe in and love where I am, and the privilege of squish.  The fresh morning air from the open windows coaxes me to transition from my meditative run among farms and cows to the work day ahead in the busy city.  Another passenger flags the car and jumps in up front, scooting the passenger seat occupant onto the makeshift bridge-seat between driver and shotgun.  I smile and count: that makes 12.  

Overlooking Cochabamba on a run/hike in the northern cordillera foothills.