Everyday (The adventure and un-adventure of still living in Bolivia)

A mild-tempered, "cute, sweet" blockade--that's to say nothing
compared to the 10 miles of stacked semi-trucks we had to pass through
(on foot and on various motorcycles) the following day at dusk.

I realized many of my recent blog entries have come from times of travel—the times away from the everyday.  That's in part because I have the time: laying in a tent after sundown, or an all-day bus ride, or even being stranded an extra two days because of blockades—suddenly there is time and the journal waiting for me.  The other piece is, of course, that it's generally more interesting: adventure and culture and crazy stories of crossing 10 miles of blockaded highway in the middle of the night (not as cool as it sounds) – that is what the readers want!

Me, preparing with two student volunteers for a workshop at Kusikuna,
the alternative school where I currently work.  Cochabamba's foothills behind.

The everyday is just that: everyday. It's getting up at dawn when it's cold (it's winter now) and lonely (my roommates still sleeping).  I make my tea and fruit with yogurt which—refusing to anxiously scarf down breakfast in the morning rush—I take with me.  Sleepily I wonder why am I doing this?, feeling alone and unconvinced that my efforts make a difference.   I load up my backpack with my computer, materials for my workshops or classes, my breakfast (and sometimes lunch), water and tea, and hop on my bike.  I ride north ten minutes toward the mountain range (a bit of morning grace) bordering the north of Cochabamba.  I park my bike by the produce stand (hoping, once again, the bike won't get stolen), and say good morning to the Casera who is uncovering fruits and vegetables for the day's work.  I wait at the corner of Rene Moreno and America for my school van – then, a 40 minute ride to the rural alternative school where I work.  I teach classes, or I meet with the principal and other teachers. I feel confused and lost, or/and excited and proud.  I come home absolutely exhausted.  [You can read a slightly glowier description of my school here, a document I recently wrote to help promote the school and fundraise.]

Sharing breakfast with Becky after one of our "cow runs" to the country.
In addition to long rural runs, I have found a friend as obsessed with fruit,
yogurt and the sacredness of breakfast as I am.  In spirituality, in music,
in silliness, in hiking,  in love of nature, Becky has become a life-long
friend these past months.  After 6 years in Bolivia, we say goodbye to her
today, as she returns to the US to begin a doctorate.  She will be so missed;
her friendship has been a great gift.  In November you can meet her in MN!

Teaching groups of students at a Book Fair in Sucre
(Followed by blockades in the attempted return to Cocha)

On Wednesdays and Fridays I'm luckier.  Sometimes I sleep in (recovery from the other days). Sometimes a morning run to the campo with Becky to salute the cows.  We pass by my favorite Tiquipaya farms, savoring the fresh morning air, the endorphins, and the views broccoli, potatoes and the once-green mountains.  After a shower and (more-relaxed) breakfast there may be a mid-week rehearsal, singing classes to teach, contracted translation work, lesson planning, shopping, cleaning, errands, or –well, I'm not really sure – life stuff.  I might share a much-longed for cup of coffee with a friend, make a meal with my roommates, write a letter home, or try to pray.  I try to keep it productive yet restful – try to avoid another Wednesday afternoon cry because I'm so tired or frustrated or demoralized from pondering my "purpose" in life (or lack there of), or from going to the immigration office in vain once again.  I try to sink into that freedom of being less important and more grateful, which Bolivia has taught me, letting go of the great American illusion pumped into us that we are the greatest and the key to saving the world.  I'm one of seven billion people; let gratitude and simple integrity suffice for today.

An afternoon delight: a garden work date with Becky & Alder at my house

Adventure here is not always as charming as it sounds – though, as a friend of mine says "It's not really an adventure unless you want to be home while it's happening."  The 33 hour detours, the amoebas and diarrhea, the robberies, getting stung and bitten, the endless bureaucracy, the Bolivian concept of "on time" -- could all be called part of "the Bolivia adventure experience."  Or, we could call them hassles that complicate life and exhaust you.  The "adventures" I enjoy most are the small things: the everyday.  It's the adventure of joking with the women at the market, the adventure of talking with my boss--dreaming about the future of our school or hearing him tell stories about Bolivia, the adventure of the big communal meals we cook in our kitchen or a surprise afternoon coffee, it's the adventure of a lazy breakfast with my roommates, the adventure of the music or story-telling circles that often accompany a dinner party, the adventure of my regular runs to the countryside.  These are the little adventures that make life sweet and bearable.  They are the words of Solomon in the Jewish scriptures that ring true across time and cultures and continents: "So, I decided there is nothing better than to enjoy food and drink and to find satisfaction in work. Then I realized these pleasures are from the hand of God." (Ecc 2:24)  No matter the futility, vanity or frustration of the days, simple sweetness and gratitude can be found in the un-adventurous adventure of the everyday.

Gaia, the birthday-girl, speaking to her guests.  Sadly Gaia returns to Europe
next week to finish her doctorate.  With her departure we also lose the
regular presence of her boyfriend Rodrigo (also standing) who we've come
to love as a fellow housemate.  But she's intent on returning soon for love
...and to open a  bakery! The best bread in Cochabamba is found in our kitchen!

Transition (again) is here.  These weeks have been rather intense (though, I feel I always say that about Bolivia – there's always something).  Recognizing that my current job is not financially sustainable for me, nor do I think it's the right fit, I applied to work for a study-abroad program that teaches summer and semester courses here in Bolivia.  I was offered work for the Fall 2013 semester (which would have included a flight back to the States now for their annual training).  However, I turned it down.  After a year and a half away, I'm dying to set foot on American soil, but I didn't want to do so in the rush of summer, while neglecting my other July and August commitments in Bolivia (at my school, in music, and pursuits in local sustainable food production).  

The delights of everyday. Cooking dinner for my roommate's 30th birthday

Amidst the intensity of these recent weeks laden with saying goodbyes, interviewing for new work, contracting new roommates, getting robbed, getting stuck in blockades (again),  I also bought my first flight home.  On September 9^th I arrive on American soil.  I turned down the job offer with the study abroad program as an act of faith—following my gut instinct that I need to be home this fall.   On December 5^th I will return to Bolivia (whether for the long-term or short-term I still do not know), but during the 89 days at home I will work, I will visit, I will reflect and reflect, I will take an EMT course, I will share numerous cups of coffee with people I dearly love and miss, I will try to make sense of the past year and a half in relation to the rest of my life, my community, my faith, and the modern globalized world in which we live.  

I will be so, so excited to see you.

What we then called "crazy" but now call "adventure":  preparing to board
the "ferry" (2 large canoes nailed together by large planks) on
our long blockade detour .

The "Ferry" turned out to be much more enjoyable (and safer) than the "bridges" we crossed (not picture because we were too busy trying not to pee our pants in fear) on our long detour to get home (including 12 hours on one of the worst roads in all of Bolivia--for that matter, maybe in the world).   At least, if the "ferry" breaks, there are no broken bodies, and, we can walk across the river--one of the smoothest most peaceful parts of the detour!

Christmas in June

December falls at the heart of our South American Summer, so--in the spirit of "summer," here are some pictures for you...from our Christmas 2012 Brunch.

Better late than never.

Anders & Christiam making two essential Christmas morning beverages: fresh OJ and homemade eggnog 

Is Andres sleeping? Or playing guitar? Either way, best to be quiet so he has no idea you're taking his photo.

Everyone lingering and making themselves at home

Even cleanup is a party: me and roommate Luciana

What we sometimes call the "dining room" or "living room" our "4th room": the garden.  Home.

I always miss a few words: the Catholic-Aymara-Gringo World

Last night we walked along the Titicaca lakeshore to the Tocoli schoolhouse. The one-room schoolhouse had been temporarily converted to guesthouse. There we found Katy, Heidi (who both work for a US study abroad program), Calixto, Teresa (a married couple who were the hosts or "guides" for the US students' homestay in this small indigenous village), and a woman everyone soley addressed as "abuela" or "abuelita" ("grandmother").  What Abuelita lacked in teeth she made up for in coca--such a cheekful that even had I spoke Aymara (her only language), I wouldn't have been able to understand a single word she said.  But she cheerfully invited us to 'chupar' coca: an outstretched arm--the language of the body, which I speak.  I learned to say "thank you" and "delicious soup" in Aymara to thank Abuelita for the delicious meal she'd made and shared.  The seven of us sipped soup, sucked coca, and bounced between Spanish, Aymara and English--always returning to Spanish when translation was important.  I have learned to live  in a world where I always miss a few words.  We, both gringos and Bolivians, continued to speak to Abuela in Spanish even though we knew she couldn't understand.  Because that is what human beings do. We try to communicate with whatever tools we have.  "Look up at Heidi, Abuela!" we called. Calixto and his wife translated to Aymara: "Open your eyes when she takes the picture."  Abuela has no experience posing for pictures.  (Is there an Aymara word for "camera"?)

Lighting the Advent candles on our "table" for our Christmas Day Brunch

Calixto is both a Deacon in the Catholic Church and an Aymara Shaman, apparently the only Bolivian uniquely fulfilling both spiritual leadership roles.  In this lakeside indigenous pueblo, I wonder how he connects the two worlds, or if he feels them as separate.  Does he find contradictions? Does he struggle to reconcile beliefs and practices?  I wonder where he sees them agreeing and amplifying one another, where disagreeing and undermining.  I pound he and his wife with questions.  They respond generously, and what's more, offer to hold a ritual ceremony for us on their next trip to Cochabamba.   My mind spins as they share their story, as I connect it back to my own struggle and wondering how this all-encompassing love of God--expressed in God's incarnation, life and death--relates to all the spiritualities around the globe practiced by this species which is "made in God's image."

Where Everything is Measured in Fish and Sunsets

We hike to the next village over, descending to their Titicaca lakeshore pueblo where we encounter a family setting out to fish. "¿Hablan castellaño?"  Yes, they speak some Spanish.   I skip a few rocks with las niñas on the beach while the Viejito and his eldest granddaughter lay nets: a small half moon near the shore, spreading its fabric to hug the fish. Haul it in.  Empty.  No hay ahora.  Espera hasta mañana.

 They offer us a ride back to Tocoli by boat, and though I'm quite sure we could return faster walking, how could we refuse?  With Grandfather and Youngest Granddaughter we set out on the waters of Lago Titicaca at dusk.  We try to make conversation, despite Grandfather being hard of hearing and Youngest Granddaughter's shyness.  Their Spanish carries a heavy Aymara influence--difficult to understand.  Laying five nets for tomorrow's 4:00am fishing, we pass our shoreline tent.  We point it out to Youngest Granddaughter:  "Our casita--inside we have everything we need! A kitchen, living room, cows, sheep, everything!"  Youngest Granddaughter sizes us up, then cracks a smile.

 We consider offering 10 Bolivianos--about $1.40--as a thank you, but decide against it.  After hearing from Heidi and Calixto about the goals of the village, I sensed that individual payment to this man--however appropriate it seemed to us--would in fact go against what this community was trying to preserve.  Giving money to one man so that he's richer than his neighbors is an occidental, capitalist principal; it is "el mercado" (the market), as the Tocoli community called it in their pueblo meeting. El Mercado of dollars and cents, which is not how things are measured here.

Customer Service, Boredom (and touching the Sun)

 Illampu (Bolivia's 2nd highest at 6.368m/20,892ft) from Lago Titicaca

The high-altitude sun finally peaks around the corner, warming me on my lakeside rock.  So fuerte is her glow at the highest large lake in the world.  Never, it seems, have the clouds been so near--the wide expanse of sky across this enormous lake. Clouds so close to the earth, clouds so close to my hand.  One has a real sense that the rest of the world is beneath us--all around, but farther down.  Farther from the clouds, the sun. This is the top of the world.  
We walk down the lakeside to the one-room schoolhouse where friends share the generous extras of lunch: quinoa soup.  A discussion with Heidi and Katy regarding their university students tiring of discussions on privilege and colonialism: "They 'get it' as an academic topic, yet they complain about 'boring tour guides' at the Casa de la Moneda," completely unconscious of their privilege:  the luxurious upper class privilege of boredom.

A hike near Cochabamba with Becky & Thomas (and
others who weren't pretty enough to make the photo)

As I clocked in over 200 hours of pure travel between Colombia and Bolivia, I couldn't help but admire the great patience of Colombians, Peruvians and Bolivians making their journeys.  I distinctly remember the men (and a few women) simply staring off the port and starboard sides during the 3½ day Amazon journey: never with a face of complaint or boredom—rather a sense that  they "should" be there.  Nor did they fill all their "free" time (which is all 3½ days...what else do you have to do?) with fascinating books, journaling or poker:  a few games, a few conversations, but mostly gazing off the side of the boat.  Almost any Bolivian the age of my friend's American university students would be awed by the Casa de la Moneda in Potosi.  Potosi!  Famous city of silver, violated by the Spanish who sucked enough silver from the bowels of its hills to "build a silver bridge from Potosi to Spain."  I had the privilege of sharing la Casa de la Moneda with a Bolivian friend, fascinated by her homeland's history.  At 31 it was her first visit.  We didn't discuss the tour guide.

La Paz at dusk - looking up at El Alto from the home of a MN-Bolivian friends

During a recent week in La Paz I swung into a shop where I encountered a gringo tourist, a "mochilero", with an open ice cream in hand.  He was attempting, in his non-existent Spanish, to reason with the casera (shopkeeper).  I came upon them, the gringo pointing at his somewhat melted ice cream, and the casera  staring blankly at him, confused.  I stepped in as translator. 

English to Spanish:  "It's melted. It's not good."

Spanish to English:  "It was in the freezer."

English to Spanish:  "Can I exchange it for a different one?"

Spanish to English:  "Yes, you can buy another one."

English to Spanish:  "I can't just exchange it?"

Spanish to Engligh:  "You already opened it."

Gringo to Me:  "But it's kind of melted."

Me to Gringo:  "It's Bolivia."

My first time picking oranges on the trail,
with Gallo & Don Augustín.

I doubt it ever really registered with shopkeeper what the young gringo was requesting. Can she return a half-melted ice cream to the producer?  She must earn 5 Bolivianos off that ice cream: that is survival, that is business.  What do you mean exchange it for another one because it's not good enough? 

I won't scoff at North American excellence and efficiency, nor even its customer service; I miss the hell out of it.  But making melted ice cream and boredom "smaller" is (sometimes) worth it -- to be that much closer to the Sun.

Descending to the Amazon from the Andes in the La Paz province

Where Spirituality Takes Place

Hiking in Yungapampa. Not 40Km (as the crow flies) from Cochabamba . . . but worlds apart

Bike Shop in Tiquipaya

(Feb 29, 2013)

Inca paintings in Yungapampa

In times past -- just recently, perhaps--Western Christian spirituality made its home in churches and cathedrals.  But now in its "teenage years" (dare we call them) spirituality's relationships at "home" are a little tense.  Sprituality wanders the world, and is inclined to do more as it pleases, combating the rules laid down by parental cathedrals and religious institutions.  Spirituality dresses in formally unrecognizable clothing, putting mother modesty and father tradition on edge.  Spirituality stays out lates, sometimes till closing hour at dingy bars, other nights simply lingering in the conversation between mouths and hearts, and another pot of midnight tea.  

Jesus tried to explain to "the pueblo" of his day, that Spirituality was making a new home--new wineskins.  And the religious people and institutions of the day would have to adjust, to lay aside their prized old wineskins and religious certainty, so as to listen to the new evolving home of spirituality.  

I am not suggesting we wipe out religious institutions altogether--though perhaps that option should always remain on the table.  But that we recognize the evolving home of spirituality, and we set aside insistence in the wineskins of then, for the home spirituality is making now, and the ultimate home where she will rest. 

Like any adolescent, it's natural that Spirituality spend more time outside the home of her parents, testing the waters of the world:  where'll she'll be accepted, where she'll be useful, where she will blossom into her fullest self.