Transition Weighed in Kilos (or The Cholita Who Laughs)

I live on a hill now.  Temporarily.  I don't really live anywhere.  I have a suitcase here and I've even put some of my books on the shelves.  I shoved my clothes into the spare inches of the cupboard so that the suitcase on the floor could be a happily disorganized container: my headlamp, my computer chord, the clothes from last night I ripped off in an exhausted blur.   But it's not really my home.  I don't have one of those.

About 4 hours in on the long summit up Mt Tunari, highest peak in
Central Bolivia, which overlooks Cochabamba.  
6 hours and several thousand feet to go.
(All subsequent photos are from the climb).

The majority of my material belongings are in a basement in North Minneapolis.  My frugally-minded friend tells me that before heading to the store to buy a new household item, she and her sister go "shopping" down below.

Some of my items are in a casita in Cala Cala (North Cochabamba, but fewer black people than North Minneapolis), where my friends Thomas and Nathalie live.  I housesat there in July and knowing I would be moving soon, decided it wasn't worth lugging two bags across town--up the hill--to Frutillar.  So my keyboard, some books, a backpack are there, as well as the food I left--which helps me justify every time I make dinner at their house and help myself to their fridge.  

A man I loved used to cheekily tell people that he lived in Minneapolis, his books were in New York, and he left his heart...in San Francisco.  

Other members of my new local hiking group
"Sendas Libres" trekking in the morning light

I'm not sure my articulated division is so clear (or so poetically satisfying), but I am undoubtedly in many places.

This morning I led a physical/vocal warm-up in Minenapolis (by speaker phone) for the dearest colleagues in the world.  It's Upstream Arts' annual training week, so I called the office just as I knew they'd be finishing up coffee, yogurt and pastries before the long-day of participatory training.  Voices I have dearly missed greeted me.  I noted, in particular, the beauty of those voices together.

Tomorrow I will teach a workshop for Mosoj Yan -- a Cochabamba home for adolescent girls that are victims of sexual violence-- where I am now committed to teaching Tuesday and Thursday mornings.  I will probably use at least one activity I learned from Upstream Arts.  I will undoubtedly use the spirit of teaching I learned from Upstream Arts -- which translates in to sound, shapes, movements, and even Spanish.  Go Upstream Arts Bolivia.

Despite the strange peace I feel about staying here in Cochabamba for months (or years?) to come, I am so very tired of transition.  I love adventure, travel, new things, sure, whatever, but I want a place that looks and feels like home.  I want a routine of meaningful work and relationships.  I want to hang my clothes and plant my fresh herbs, and set the table to invite over guests.  To welcome them into my home--in our home, our world.  Because home and community (and fresh herbs) are often too similar to separate.

   Passing other hikers

The apartment in Frutillar (Northeast Cochabamba) where I and my one suitcase currently reside is up the northern foothills.  At 9000ft we overlook Cochabamba's downtown, with an excellent view of the Cerro del Christo as well as the line of smog roofing the city--particularly in the dry season.  Some mornings curiousity or andrenaline or anxiety takes me up up up the hill to the tiny Pueblito where I hover above everything and the mountains feel so close.  I descend on dirt trails, winding through the wild catcus thriving at nearly 10,000ft.

My host Katie Stewart (who has generously taken me in during these weeks of uncertain housing) is the only gringo in the neighborhood.  After living here for nearly five years, she's well known.   "Katie's sister!" people shout, greeting me me as I run the rocky neighborhood roads.  Either I'm Katie or her sister (after all, how many running gringas can there be in one indigenous neighborhood?).  As my friend Christena says, "White people all look the same to me."

One morning I rounded the corner greeted by the most delighted laughter.  A cholita sat on the ground surrounded by bags of papas (potatoes) from her family's land up the hill, selling to faithful customers in this remote Cochabamba neighborhood.  She looked up at me from beneath her cholita sombrero and laughed and laughed and laughed.  "You're running!" from within her giggles.   What fool would run on these rocky steep streets?  Why would one run at all?  Never have I been so glad to be laughed at--the morning of the cholita laughing, selling papas--overflowing with delight.

The summit.  Kate had just arrived to visit--a reunion trip
with me and Bolivia (where she worked 5 years ago).  With only
5 days to adjust to the altitude climbing to 17,000ft nearly killed her.
But look at that smile.