Drive-by Slapping (Or, What I Hate About Bolivia)

La Paz, at the feet of the the 21,200ft Illimani

Amidst the moments of cultural awe, the exotic charm of laughing Cholitas, the triumphs in language, there is so much crap.  One ought to tread lightly around the word hate, but (let's be honest) I apply in under my breath here; I curse in my thoughts.  Far to often the not-so-beautiful in Bolivia (or simply the different) brings out the not-so-beautiful in me.
  

The peace corps gives its volunteers a enculturation timeline, projecting their adjustment into a new culture -- much like as University Resident Assistants we projected the enculturation process of new college freshman: when the honeymoon with roommates would end, when the heartache for home would spark, when they'd break-up with their high-school sweethearts.   A friend who began his five years in Thailand with the Peace Corps shared his surprise at how accurate the Peace Corps projections were.  Month-by-month his love, fascination, bordom, or hate of his new surrounding culture was prophesied. 

I'm not sure this morning's episode fits on the chart.  I hate machismo culture as I did 8 months ago, though I'm trying to be more understanding.  I still encounter men who lack the guts to say to my face "yeah, that was me who whistled at you" (like all oppressors, Bolivian men fear women) but sometimes I encounter a soccer field of men who, after my explanation that I feel like an object, like an animal, like garbage, alter the expressions on their faces, geniunely seeming to care about my human feelings and ask my pardon, "va a discuplar."  I've learned that my aggresive anger doesn't help them, nor me.  A little empathy and sincerity does.  

Still not finding my empathy for the man who drove (at significant speed) inches from my body this morning so that he could drive-by slap my ass.  Beyond the sexual harrassment and degredation, getting slapped by a moving object--hurts.   I yelled at him (words I won't repeat), but by the time I realized what had happen, his car wasn't in earshot.  So (oh so logically) I took out my anger on two men in the park "WHAT KIND OF A PERSON WOULD DO THAT?!  WHY ARE THE MEN IN BOLIVIA SUCH ANIMALS!?!"  (That poor chico who was just trying to read and listen to his music.)  

I am no Saint Martin Luther King.  My response was far from forgiveness and non-violence.

Thank God for my (new) roommate.  I was four blocks from home (a fast four blocks, unconciously sprinting in fury), so she heard the heat of my venting with her fueled compassion.  I yelled to her.  Then furiously cleaned the stove.  Both which helped tremendously.

Getting sexually slapped is at least concrete.  With a child's grasp of morality, I can articulate that what that man did was bad, which is why I now feel bad.  The emotional fragility stemming from constant transition in the recent year of my life is more vague, more profoundly confusing and therefore more painful than a one-time drive by.  Being in a different world, it's hard to know what to "blame" on my new country, and sometimes it's painfully easy to make this country the scapegoat, piling on the frustration, discomfort, loneliness, insecurity and anger. 

The last few months have been rough.  They've been marked by intense transition which now (Thank God) is slowing and stabilizing.  If transition sucks in "regular life" it's even less fun in a world and culture that isn't one's one.  Sure, it's in part because this is a "developing country" (I really am tired of walking past the array of cow body parts in order to buy myself some affordable furniture).  But more significantly it's not my country; it's not my culture.  I am so very tired of Bolivian dogs.  Of Bolivian men.  Of Bolivian piles of garbage. Of Bolivians smoking and throwing their cigarette butts on my yard.   Of not understanding what is going on because the culture bewilders me.     

Yeah, even this charms me.  

My Bolivian Resident gringo friends assure me that returning visits to the USA--despite all the sweet delights--are what assures them they want to live in Bolivia.  My memories and longings highlight all the good things I dearly miss.  I've not had the luxury of returning to the USA, immersing myself in all the offensiveness of American Culture to balance my perspective on the charms and foulness of Bolivia.  (When I'm charmed by Bolivia I take photos like all the ones you see here.)

The centuries-long exploited "Cerro Rico" in Postosi, and a parade through town.

When I'm charmed by Bolivia, the Cancha is an enormous, exotic market, brimming with Bolivan energy, creativity and urban-campo diversity.  When I'm not, the Cancha is the most overstimulating, filthy, filled-with-garbage-on-the-streets-and-for-sale--lousy with theives and dogs and bacteria from decomposing animals parts.  When I'm charmed by Bolivia, a "paro" (of all public transit in the country) or blockade is a beautiful chance to enjoy a tranquil morning run through the center of town, pausing to watch the 7am soccer game of Trufi Drivers who've blocked the surrounding streets with fifty "103 Line" trufi vans.  When I'm not charmed, I curse the 103 trufis for honking at me for being a pedestrian .  ["Días del Peatón" (Pedestrian Days) are a lovely idea in theory.  But for the remaining 362 days of the year, the pedestrians can bow low to the loud, crowding, contaminating machines.]                

View from my old house (one of them) up the hill in Frutillar

In seasons of fragility we look to (and are disappointed by) the little comforts of life which--I'm realizing--can bigger than we think.  If only the bike seat on my (generously lent) bike didn't feel like a rock against my crouch on the less-than-smooth streets of Cochabamba, then I could be happy.  If Cochabamba could only adopt a law (like sensible California) strictly limiting the quantity of fumes allowed to any funcioning automobile (though in 2005 I cursed that $60 California emissions test) so that the micros would quit spouting foul exhaust in my face as I athletically puff and peddle to work -- then I could be happy!  If only the men would stop whistling and the dogs would stop barking, and our landlord's dog would quit peeing in our house, and if they'd only serve a few vegetables instead of disgusting mounds of meat, and they'd quit throwing the remains of a cow head in the street I must pass to buy a table for our kitchen which has counters made for midgets, and if they'd stop talking to me like I'm dumb when really my perspective is just different, and if meetings wouldn't be cancelled 5 minutes before and if it weren't 90 degrees and forcefully sunny every single day, and if they'd only stop drinking Coca-Cola which uses contaminates 7 liters of water to produce every 1 liter of product in a country whose population is suffering tremendously from global warming and water shortage, then  --obviously-- I would be happy!

"In another land, I would be your pet."

How we cope with the regular trials, inconveniences and disappointments of life is rather a huge part of living.  Learning to view oneself and the surrounding world with grace, with patient acceptance, with forgiveness-- is quintessential for doing life well.  Nearly all spiritual traditions invite these trials into the process of spiritual growth.  And, crucially, we're invited into gratitude.  We're invited to walk around to the other side and intently observe the gifts.  Which is hard for this perfectionistic white middle class american.  It's hard to calm the grumbling in my heart even as I note the the filling nutricious dinner sitting in right front of me. Or to be thankful for all the wonderful kitchen and household items rolling in from generous friends, colleagues, and my roommate's grandma, while I constantly stress about all the items we still don't have in our empty new house.  But, starting the morning with hot water for tea and yogurt (kept in a fridge in your very own home so that it doesn't go sour! amazing!) is in fact, a gift. So as I leave behind the tumult of transition and the nastier parts of myself it stirred to the surface, I hope to live with more awareness of the gifts: an orderly furnished kitchen, a hot shower, pretty plates and a new "casita" I can bike home to even at 11:00pm.  Even while I am suspicious of our dependency on such things as a grasping replacement for internal joy, I hope to be better at every day acknowleging them for the gifts that they are.  

My friend "Chocolate" dancing with the Saya dancers in a
local parade of traditional music.

The gifts include the people behind them.  The (chef) friend who lent us her knives(!) while she's out of the country (and I do love knives).  The friends lending all their storage items, and even the sofa-bed from their guestroom.  The friend who sold me pillows and a comforter and breadpan for $8, and gifted us a beautiful vase.  My roommate's boss who's lending us quality pots, pans and silverware.  And the friends who've accompanied me on my numerous Cancha runs to by chairs, wastebaskets, a drying rack, utensils, tablecloth, nails, glasses -- who've carried the weight of tables and clay bowls and 25 bananas with me, as well as the emotional weight of wandering the crazy Cancha in the way-too-close-to-the-Equator-and-far-from-sea-level heat of day.  I look around the house, and realize it's a home made by the help of many people -- even though I often felt so tired and alone in the transition.  So Lord, even though my gratitude was lined with so much tired complaining for months, hear my thanks.  As I sit down to morning coffee on the table Jorge helped me carry, with hot water from the fixed-up stove from Luciana's parents and from the coffee pot Thomas and Nathalie lent us, in the clay mug Christiam helped me pick out at the Señora's home in Tarata, with bread baked in the gift from Guerillo and toasted in the gift from Leon -- hear my many thanks.