Bolivia: Heading Further South

I began my journey south, ironically, by heading north to Florida.  My last few hours on US soil, before the long flight to South America on Aerosur.  Bolivia began on the airplane.  I was surprised at how much a savored those brief interactions with citizens of my own country--the people in customs were my best friends.  

I made a last minute goodbye calls while Aerosur called my flight in fast Bolivian spanish, and with intense delight I bought the The Times, Harpers, and a snickers bar (a mistake on a empty stomach) before boarding the plane.  Heavy paper on my lap, heavy sugar knot in my stomach, but the winged heavy ton of metal was liviano in the air.

Cochabamba.  Day One.

Sitting at the desk in my bedroom of my new Bolivian home.  
9,268 feet above sea level.

I unpacked my two bags--finally in one place--and decorated my wall with textiles I picked up in Guatemala.  Home.

It seems I attract festivals.  I began my travels with the (anything but sweet) “Sweet Name of Jesus” festival in San Antonio.  The explosions continue tonight...fireworks immediately outside my bedroom window.  Impressively, the celebration in this city of a near million hasn’t been half as loud as the ten-thousand population pueblo party in Guatemala.

My new home on calle Garcilazo de la Vega

I’m alone in this spacious yet simple “quadplex”--I’ll call it.   My plans to fly down from Miami with my main contact, Aliya, were interrupted.  Aliya rebooked her flight for Sunday due to a teething, sick baby (Teva).  Marcello--“Cello”-- Aliya’s husband, is in Santa Cruz, so oddly I have my new house to myself for a couple days.  

In my jet-lagged state I know almost nothing of this city.  I eat lunch with my new colleagues in the Artist Collective (“Colectivo Katari”) so there’s still human contact (and spanish-immersion), but for now it’s just me and the itunes album (of my host, Cello) accompanying the window-framed fireworks show.

From Guatemala to Bolivia.

  

Two Latin American countries, both with a plentiful mountains (and the accompanying high-altitude curvy roads) and large indigenous populations.  But don’t go serving tortillas and beans in Bolivia -- not their style.  To many, beans are considered pig food.  (And they take forever to cook at this altitude).  

Cochabamba's central plaza, 14 de Septiembre
Central to the 2000 Water War protests

I’m learning new words, and new meanings to old words. It’s not “Español” here.  Español is for España--the oppressive, murderous colonists Bolivia technically overthrew.  Here they speak Castellano.  

“Gringo” possesses some the same backhanded charm as it did Guatemala, but with the full weight of all the gringo nations and businesses that have grasped at Bolivia resources and manipulated its government.  Thanks to pressure from the World Bank, the same gringos who, 12 years ago, owned all the water here in Cochabamba--even the rain--until massive street protests convinced the Bolivian Government to throw out the transnational company and return the water to public, Bolivian, ownership. There are a few less weighty changes too: palta, vos, hueco. Every place has it’s own word for "pig" so I won’t even go there.

I’ve transitioned from rainbow bright to earth-tones, both in colors and personalities of the people.  Guatemalans embrace every one of the world’s brightest colors (often clashing together) in one splendid outfit.  Bolivians mellow out their beautiful textiles with more earth-tones.  Plenty of browns.

The accents are noticeably different than Guatemala, though I couldn’t yet tell you how.  There’s a particular person in the Colectivo Katari who is especially difficult for me to understand.  I felt slightly better when Aliya (the one American in the Bolivian Collective) told me it took her two years to be able to understand his speech.  Breathe.  Long road ahead.

Knock yourself out with the highly entertaining Academy Award nominee Even the Rain (También la Lluvia), spanish hollywood’s take on the 2000 Water Wars and their own colonial past.  Enjoy some glimpses of my new Cochabamba home, the stunning beauty of rural Bolivian, and a revision of the 1492 that I studied in school.  Even with all its good heart and entertaining charm, watch the film aware of how it may be limited by its own colonial hall of mirrors.  It is not a Bolivian film.  And one can't help but suspect that the indigenous actors hired were underpaid -- just like in the film itself.    http://www.tambienlalluvia.com/en/