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.

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.

This Land is(n’t) Your Land, This Land is My Land

Pondering what to buy at the weekly market in Punata.

It's easy to be stay focused on issues most seemingly pertinent to life in the United States, and frankly there's a lot going on up there.  But US politics are constantly on the move in South America, and generally it's in the "best interest" of the US federal government and the thousands of US businesses that operate in Latin America to keep its actions quiet to American citizens.   

Perhaps you heard last month that Paraguay impeached its sitting president, former priest and Liberation Theologian Fernando Lugo.  The impeachment (or coup) occurred after a group of police officers were sent to evict peasants peacefully occupying a parcel of land near the Brazilian border.  Upon the arrival of the officers, another group of police snipers ambused the officers and peasants, killing seventeen people: 6 officers and 11 peasants.  What's the connection?  President Fernando Lugo had long been accused by Paraguay's land-holding elite of instigating peasant occupations of land parcels. Like many South American countries trying to reduce the harm of land displacement of indigenous people, President Fernando Lugo had instigated land reform policy in efforts to balance the inequality in Paraguay where 85% of its land is owned by the wealthiest 2% of the population.  

Friends Jason, Emily and Thomas overlooking the Koa "ingredients."
Bolivians make regular offerings to the Pachamama in the Koa ritual, and
especially practice the ritual every first monthly friday.
Walk the streets on a first friday...the entire city smells of the Koa.

Land inequity is a huge deal in South America.  Much like the United States, lands were stolen or "bought" from indigenous peoples, stripping them of their self-sufficiency and relegating them to poverty and dependence on wealthy land owners.  Most landowners in Paraguay use their land almost exclusively for industrial agriculture (where US companies Cargill and Monsanto have huge stakes).  Furthermore, landowners (many of whom are foreign) pay little or no taxes (property taxes account for 0.04% of the tax burden), despite the fact that agribusiness makes up 30% of Paraguay's GDP.  It's no shock then that the wealthy landowners and trans-national businesses like Cargill and Monsanto welcomed President Lugo's impeachment.  Several South American countries have denounced the impeachment.  The US and Brazil (both countries have substancial numbers of citizens/companies that own Paraguay land) have said they look to and trust in Paraguay's peaceful process of democracy, therefore "refraining" from any judgment.  But how shall we define peaceful process of democracy?  In a country like Paraguay, dominated by a population in poverty, are last month's events indeed democracy?  Who pulled the strings?  The people--the democracy--of Paraguay?  Shall we still call it democracy when the wealthy few percent and trans-businesses are calling the shots?

Perhaps my silent (blog) tongue these past few weeks can partially be attributed to my new and painful appreciation of who pulls the strings in Latin America.  It's not that I was completely blind before to "First World" meddling, but I was negligent, apathetic.  Now I smell the West's exploitation of Latin America every time I leave the house.  The sweet frankenstein of capitalism we've created in the West--on which our prosperity rests--is, at its worst, a monster terrorizing the world.  How shall we control this powerful invention?

Vendors packing up their goods for the journey home.

I've made friends with a couple organizations here in Cocha that have done tremendous work communicating with "the North" about the reality on the ground in Bolivia.  The Andean Information Network and The Democracy Center have shared Bolivia's stories in seasons of confusion and manipulation, but even more so have given a human face to the effects of US policies and trans-national businesses in the lives of Bolivian people.  The Democracy Center published a yummy book in 2008 called Dignity and Defiance (or Desafiando la Globalización in Castellano) that I highly recommend.  Using stories of Bolivia, it does a tremendous job exploring the effects of globalization upon the majority or "developing" world.  The stories are fascinating, infuriating, illuminating, and human. You'll find it a touch more gentle than swallowing Open Veins of Latin America, but written with no less heart.  If you're shy on buying the book, co-editor/author Jim Shultz and co-author Leny Olivera presented the book at the University of Washington in 2009, and you can watch their presentation here. You will be entertained (Jim and Leny are charming).  And inspired too ascertain the often hidden reality of American influence throughout the world, to let it connect to your heart, and to speak--out of our implicit moral obligation--helping our country be less oblivious to the harm we so casually commit daily.  There is an immediate connection between my country and its institutions, and the suffering of this world.  We cannot be blind or silent.

Emily and a Coca Vendor.  Both looking regal.

Image Note: photos in this post are from a recent daytrip with friends to Punata, a small pueblo about an hour outside of Cochabamba.  I'm frankly not good about bringing my camera with me these days -- in part because this is simply my everyday life, and in part because it's generally rude to take photos.  But I nonetheless do want to share the images of my world.  Therefore, you're seeing the "subtly snapped" shots from our afternoon wandering the market.  As we walked, despite the obvious busyness of the market, we continually remarked on how relaxing and calm it was.  In comparison with the intensity of Cochabamba's Cancha market, this was a tranquil stroll in the park.  

On the bus ride back to Cocha we sat near two indigenous women, vendors, returning from the market.  Neither of them were young.  It's honestly hard to tell how old.  They could have been 50.  They could have been 75.  But whatever their age it didn't hinder them from hauling their large bags of remaining unsold goods or--as in the case of one--an enormous bag of maíz, which she'd traded for chuña (a Bolivian freeze-dried potato cultivated for centuries in the high Bolivian altiplano. Chuña, in many respects, makes survival in the altiplano possible.)  The woman from Cochabamba had a hat business.  The woman who sold chuña was from high, cold Oruro--a good 5 hours past Cochabamba.  Despite her advanced age, she travels to markets all around Bolivia every single week.  

The woman from Cochabamba (who's spanish was considerably better than the Aymara woman from Oruro) told us of her three children who all live in Italy, and who have brought her out to visit twice.  We of course asked her how she likes Italy, anticipating some response about the museums, the art.  "The corn there is very yellow.  They have hills too. Many beautiful hills." We skipped asking if she'd seen The David.  "'Muca' means 'vaca' (cow) in Italian," she recalled.  We asked if she likes the incredible Italian food.  "Eh.  I'm getting used to it."  

Because goats need to snuggle on the bus ride home too.

She spoke of how far away Italy is.  Twenty-five hour en "avión."  When you consider the financial distance she is from her children, it must seem like the moon.  Translating into Quechua for her friend from Oruro, she told her that it costs $1500 to fly there.  "$1500!!" the Aymara woman switched to spanish and snapped her head toward our friend Thomas sitting at her side, "Is that true!?!"   
Who could possibly have that kind of money?

Oddly, we never thought to ask the women's names. We simply helped them unload their heavy bags off the bus.  I wondered how the old Aymara woman was going to manage her heavy loads for the next many hours, until her arrival home in Oruro.  But she obviously had lifetime of practice.

Andean New Year

The imminent sun, on the first day of the Andean Year.

Friend and collective member Dani on the snare,
surrounded by members of his traditional Andean
Musical group.  In downtown Cocha, during the OEA
Conference (which meant the govt threw a bunch of money
and sprucing up the streets--and showing off the best of
Bolivia's culture and entertainment).

With the election of Bolivia's first indigenous president, observance of indigenous traditions, holidays and civil rights and dramatically increased.  Evo Morales is, however, loosing tremendous credibility among much of his indigenous base due to continually moving further and further toward the traditional modern neo-liberal capitalism model.   The most screaming example is a conflict over a highway the government (and the governments of various other countries) hope to construct through a Bolivian National Park and marked indigenous territory.  The TIPNIS highway would undoubtably make transport easier (including transport of cocaine), but it would cut down precious forrest and inevitably destroy the way of living for native people and animals in the area.  Despite Bolivia's constitutional law protecting mother nature, and a series of nine marches of indigenous peoples from the TIPNIS region to Bolivian capital La Paz in efforts to petition the government (the most recent IX March just ended after a few marchers in La Paz recently died.  Police sprayed adults and children with gas and cold water--in mid-winter at 13,000ft.), TIPNIS highway consultation continues to move forward.  Due to the TIPNIS debate, and numerous other issues, President Morales' indigenous support is waning.

Sunrise dancing and music to celebrate the near year.

(There's an curious connection between the high hopes placed on Morales and a certain other president of a historically-oppressed racial background -- both now finding themselves fulfilling a presidential role, entrapped in a system, perhaps at the cost of their former moral convictions.)

So Evo's record is mixed, but Bolivia does have a process of de-colonization in place thanks to the Morales administration, and one of the benefits is the recognition of indigenous holidays, which is significant for the enormous population who've celebrated these dates for centuries without government recognition.  For the secularists, capitalists and Christians, it means at the least--a day off work.

Hands raised, greeting the first light of the year.

Overlooking the lights of Cochabamba, on the hike up the hill.

The June 20th Winter Solstice (summer solstice in the north) marked the Andean New Year.  At the urging of friends and my natural (and nearly obligatory) curiosity, I joined one of the traditional festivities.  We hiked a grand hill between midnight and 3am, preparing to meet the first sun of the new year.  From what I could tell, the ritual gathering I attended has become, frankly, fairly commercial.  Despite the Inca-era trail leading to the hill's summit and the continued practice of sacrificing three llamas (don't worry, I spared you those photos), the event seemed almost overshadowed by the late night campfires, BBQs and copious drinking.  Though the meeting of sunrise by thousands of raised hands is stunningly beautiful--such that one cannot help but feel deep reverence surrounded by such a posture--I couldn't help but suspect I was meeting a commercialized version of a spirituality to which most tipsy attendees did not devoutly and holistically embrace.  Even while nature spoke so powerfully all around us.       As a lover of ritual (and nature), I naturally am drawn to these ritual expressions.  My journey in understanding Andean spirituality continues.

Finally beginning to warm up in the 7:15am sun, after a night of freezing temperatures.

Sleepy (and some drunk) campers, tourists and devotees greet the new year.

The New Day.

Let me be Shepherd

A morning of sadness
A morning of grief
A morning of new light
even while I drag darkness
behind me.

Oh the pain of being far from oneself
from the true self
that is yet isn't God within me.

Why are you downcast, O my soul?
And why are you disturbed within me?
Espera en Dios, pues he de alabarle otra vez
La salvación de mi ser, y mi Dios.

Jesus how shall I reclaim
what is beyond my vision?
Yet I hear your gentle call:
Come! and be yourself, Come! and be mine!
Lighten yourself from this world
that in vain, in vanity, you try to carry.
Are not my arms open?
I love your curiosity
for I made it
I love your widespread evangelistic heart
for I made it
I love your desire for what you do not know
for this calls you to me

But I have recreated you for dependence
the beauty of your mechanism
the soft animal of your body
now rests in me
you desperately need me
as the water and air
that make up the rest

You shall not despair your housing
You shall not despair the weight of your work and more-than-work relationships
You shall not despair your confusion
You shall not despair nor fear your work
You shall not despair nor be ruled by your desire to accomplish something
You shall not let yourself be redefined when I have called you mine
from the beginning

Is not the world still mine?
Even in the season when I have given it over
so that each one chooses--
for I do not force love
But am I not still calling?
Let me be the shepherd
You have concerned yourself
with the others and the wolves and the terrain
such that you have ceased to be my sheep
Follow faithfully behind me
Walk in calm and trusting
Your hands cannot support my staff
and the others will not follow you
You visage will not deter the wolves
and they will devour you
You do not know the camino
Stay close to me
With a simple vision
Release the responsibility
of anything more
than trotting faithfully behind me

If you come to me every night
I will tell you who you are
So you never forget
So you become her



This prayer evoked the tender response of dear friends this week.  Their thoughtful responses are posted (anonymously) in comments below:

Puppets and Presidents

The visiting puppet artists and Colectivo Katari, pausing for lunch between
performances.  The three fingers aren't a Latin American version of the peace sign.
Those are the fingers that power puppets.

Colectivo Katari recently completed an eight-day International Puppet Festival.  Fourteen performances, artists from four different countries, a Puppet Fair offering basic puppet skills and puppet construction among other activities and resources.  On Saturday evening of the festival the performance was delayed because the President--yes, you heard me right--the President was in the building where we were presenting.  Children and families began lining the street in anticipation of the doors opening, adding to the crowd of press and media cameras already present.  

Katari uses a handheld loudspeaker to publicize on the street before performances.  (Days before we used the same loudspeaker in the Plaza Principal during the busy lunch hour to advertise the Festival.  Chelo advertised on the loudspeaker, I assisted by passing out flyers, and a large green frog puppet comically befriended--or harassed--every passerby...puppets can get away with so much more than actual people.)  Before every performance, collective member Grober stands on the street corner announcing the immenent curtain fall.  And it works.  People from the street walk in.  

That Saturday of the delayed performance, Grober was prepared for any circumstances warrenting the use of a handheld loudspeaker. The group of international puppeteers naturally jumped to the occasion:  puppets were on hands.  Bolivian President Evo Morales exited the building and his first greeting was not by the press or other politicians but:  "Hola, Presidente!  Titeres Elwaky and the Fesititeres International Puppet Festival greet you!"   A row of puppets waved and saluted.

Do you know what confuses presidents?  Being greeted by a crowd of puppets.

Of course this was the performance that I skipped, staying behind to help facilitate a workshop at Katari's homespace.  The day the puppets meets the president.  

Puppet Workshops with los niños

This story is all hearsay from my housemate, but I couldn't help but regurgitate it for you all.  Even if she made it all up, it's worth sharing.  Though puppet-president stories are hard to fabricate it, so I doubt it.

Tonight I returned to the show by an Argentinan and Peruvian, titled Principes.  The puppet show is based on a dutch childrens book, and follows a familiar journey:  a prince who must find a spouse so as to become king.  To please his beloved mother he hosts a line of potential matches, each with comic "defects":  one is narcoleptic, the other the height of a young child, the other outrageously tall and able to completely bend in half backwards (which is why one uses a puppet instead of an actor) with a propesity for breaking...well, everything.  The final princess arrives escorted by her brother, Pablo.  While the princess runs offstage to bring a gift for the prince, Pablo and the bride-hunting prince begin to talk, to play with his motorized throne (think motorcyle meets jeweled chair), innocently laughing and delighting in each other's company.  Later, as the prince considers all the potential brides, the image of Pablo interrupts each consideration.  Suprisingly, he listens to this instinct and tells his mother has chosen Pablo as a spouse.   The puppet mom laughs outrageously, as do certain members of the audience.  But the puppet isn't joking.  The prince's mother gently--impressively--comes around and Pablo and the Prince marry.  Now, I've lived in San Francisco, and even in Minneapolis this play is no shocker--likely there's at least a couple children of same-gender parents in the audience.  In Bolivia, the tension and energy in the audience after two puppets share a matrimonial kiss is incredibly intense.  In all my years of theatre, I'm not sure I've ever felt such an energy from the audience.  (Ten Thousand Things prison shows come close).  It took a children's puppet show.

Friend and brilliant theatre artist Polly Carl recently described the experience of seeing herself on stage in her article A Boy in a Man's Theatre.  The anomoly of seeing her story had her memorizing every song from the show, weeping in rehearsals, and left her with an appetite to see the production 100 times.  She writes: 

"I've always said that the American musical hasn't meant much to me. I don't really connect to most of those stories told through singing and dancing. Then I saw a workshop performance of the Lisa Kron/Jeanine Tesori musical Fun Home...and though it wasn't my exact story, it was my story.  And well, it happened.  I understood the power of the musical."

Los Principes

A few Bolivians approached Katari afterward the Principes performance, thanking us.  (A few others stormed out or demanded we close the festival): "My child's uncle--or father, or godmother--is gay and we're trying to figure out how to discuss this with our child.  Thank you so much for helping us talk about this as a family.  Thank you for helping us feel less silenced."  

In a society of silence I cannot imagine the gift this play was to families and children for whom this was their story.  For those who had absolutely no connection to this story except by social silencing, I imagine it was equally important -- to see through the eyes of others.  To understand--a little bit, a little more--the perspective of another and to feel it for a moment with them.  To root for them, as the audience of children rooted for the happiness of the principe.  Empathy is one of the great gifts the arts give to a society--a society torn by polarization and demonization of "other."  What beauty can we make by asking "I wonder what it's like to be her? to be them?  I wonder what brings them joy.  I wonder what brings them trouble or sorrow.  I wonder what would happen to my heart if I tried to imagine life from their perspective."  

Turning 30 in Bolivia

Overlooking Cochabamba from Parque Pairumani

Well.  Here it is.  The day talked about since one reaches awareness that it is in fact coming.  May 30th, 2012.  I am 30 years old.  For months or years there's been enough buildup that its arrival doesn't feel a shock.  I am ready to celebrate the new era.  I think any panic is done.  I'm also entering my "second half" here in Bolivia---armed with new housing,  better language capacity (though still wanting), a sketch of what life here is like and therefore what I want to do with my remaining time.  Armed with friends, a touch more understanding, and hope for the next 3 months. Perhaps--as I've been recently inclined--another 6 months or year.  

I'm ready for the next phase.  The first three months, in a sense, are violent.  So much change.  It's a little laughable that I anticipated tremendous personal (even spiritual) transformation, instead of just to emerge black and blue from the storm of change.  Now, though trees still are down, I can walk amidst the beautiful rubble of my new world with a little more understanding. 

Not my birthday, but some of the same people
helped me celebrate.  This photo's from
4th of July (Dia de los Gringos!).

I failed to pull my camera out for my birthday (which means I'm no longer a tourist?), so for those interested in how the B-day passed, here's the scribed slideshow:

7:45am  My morning birthday run.  Along the river near my house that is much smaller, browner and garbage-filled than the Mississippi.  But lovely to be there. And just my birthday luck--this run is whistle-free.

10:30am  A morning mocha while I spend some quiet time reflecting simply on the day's landmark.  

1:30am Lunch with the collective, as on all Wednesdays.  

2:45pm I teach a voice lesson, then begin preparing for the evening.

4:45pm My housemates make banana bread and a birthday carrot cake.  I prepare a large, delicious, hearty salad.

6:00pm  The two Vanessas call me, and watch my "rehearsal" with Chelo via skype.  They clap after each song, and it's a delight to have them "in the room" while we sing.

6:30pm  The party technically starts, but this is Bolivia, so I'm not expecting anyone for a least another 30 minutes.  Likely an hour. I get a text from a friend who says he'll arrive "en la hora Boliviana"

6:50pm  My first guest arrives (why are you so early?).  As a reward she gets to assist carrying food upstairs and help me change my outfit (I'm a messy cook--food everywhere).

7:30pm  You could call it a party now.  Guests from my various new communities have arrived or are trickling in.

8:00pm  The Cala-Cala household--Sol, Eliana, Thomas and Sophie--arrives, carrying stuffed roasted peppers and gallons of Guava refresco (juice).  Nice.

Again, 4th of July.  Gringos sharing some Independence
Apple Pie with the Bolivianos. Got to take advantage of the
one day in which I felt validated flaunting my gringita-ness

8:05pm  Aliya freaks out: "there's Coca-Cola on my table -- I can't handle having Coca-Cola in my house."  (I wonder who the 'eff brought the coke?  Even my friends here are too cool to drink coke, aren't they?)

8:10pm  I find out Eliana---ELIANA--the jewish lesbian vegetarian Oberlin student brought the Coca-Cola.  "I found it in my house" she says, "and no way am I going to drink it so I brought it here."   I thank Eliana for bringing us her trash.

9:00pm  My spanish teacher Chi-Chi calls to apologize for her absence but that she's sending me "una torta"--by radio taxi.  I walk outside to greet the desert dish and taxi.

9:30pm Eusebio arrives with Rum.  We bring the Coke back out.

9:35pm  My new amazing friend (and Whitworth alum) and her brother need to head out.  So they can catch the music, I call Chelo over and we sing two songs, La Pascua and Summertime, with Chelo on guitar.  It's delightful.

9:45pm  The jamming begins -- a few others grab the guitar, and the various percussion instruments sitting around the house (I note to myself that one should always leave percussion instruments laying around at parties).  There are some awesome musicans at the party, and a few of us feel free to play or dance along.  It's lively and beautiful.

10:30pm  The cake comes out.  Happy Birthday is sung to me in eight languages:  Spanish, English, French, Quechua, Hebrew, Irish, German, Portuguese.   

A man I met the day before somewhat awkwardly prays for me; I'm grateful, but simultaneously I suspect he's kind of a fundy, so I hope he doesn't say anything too rash.

"Sopla! Sopla! Sopla!"...I blow out my candle.  "Muerde! Muerde!"...I bite into the cake and they smash my face into the frosting, as is the tradition here.

11:15pm  The computer music and dimmed lights begin to shape the party.  The dancing begins.  Aliya and Chelo (the people who actually live in the house)...go to bed.  I hope we that we won't wake them.

11:30pm  Lara bikes to her house to fetch her computer -- with the superior dance music.

11:40pm  The superior dance music (and thus inspired dancing) begins.  We dance hard and wild and silly.  It's a blast, and (I think) everyone feels free.

Views from Parque Pairumani, NW of Cochabamba

12:30pm  "Salsa" is requested, and amazingly a few couples get going--none of us good at it, and none of us well acquainted with our partners--but it's fun and we're learning and I find myself so grateful for the crowd of people who have gathered.  

1:15am  I go into the kitchen to boil more water (hot water isn't particularly refreshing after hard dancing but it's better than no water).  I return--after a couple distractions and conversations--to find the dancing crowd nearly dead.  Everyone splayed out, exhausted.  Alexia is awkwardly sideways on the couch, like someone sliced her in half.  Gabo is literally face down on the floor--with his backpack on--he had tried to leave, but didn't quite make it out the door.  I say to myself:  this is one of the perfect ways that a party could end.   I consider what an amazing party--as far as parties go--that it's been.  It had all the right ingredients.  "The only flaw," I thought to myself:  "I don't know these people."   

But new as this community is, I was very glad to have celebrated the marker with them.