Cobbled Streets and Coca Leaves

Slow Dance

From forever ago because I can’t be trusted to update blogs:

I hate to admit it, but over the years, my relationship with bathing has had some dark moments.  There have been instances in the last year when Logan gently sat me down and asked/begged me to wash my hair.  Upon my refusal, “WILL YOU AT LEAST COMB IT THEN??”  It’s not my strongest area.

Bug bites in Coroico.  Sandflies are the worst creatures…even though I secretly loved experiencing bugs again.

But these days, I’m a disaster.  After Coroico, I was covered in bug bites.  Well now I’ve scratched off my epidermis and coated the remaining layers of skin in a greasy film of hydrocortisone…, which I consequently refuse to wash off as a desperate plea for anti-itch protection.  My hair is matted into one very large dread and at some point over the last three months I applied mascara.  Welp, this mascara now lives in the deep crevices below my eyes.  I’ve washed my clothes but 3 times since I left home in May.  PS I left with a backpack.  Mind you, it was a large backpack, but still…I’ve washed the clothes I keep in my backpack thrice.  Sometimes I work out and don’t shower because it’s so cold that I don’t sweat.  And I wonder why I have struggled to make friends…

Hospital room at one of our worksites.

Hallway at Los Andes Clinic.

It’s odd though, that this behavior isn’t actually, well, odd here.  Washing your clothes after each use sounds crazy.  Being nervous about dogs in waiting rooms of the hospital is a sign of generalized anxiety disorder and it’s totally normal to buy bread on the side of the highway and carry it away in a previously used plastic bag. 

Random dancers outside my apartment.  They block all streets errwhere.

Alpacan road block.  TOO CUTE, I WANT ONE TO SNUGGLE.

I can only describe this “strange” (to the former me) manner in discreet events or actions and thus I’ll extend further—with no plans, turning up in cities that haven’t a single ATM and subsequently finding a place to stay—spending countless hours sitting in cafes, with nobody dropping the check for “whenever you’re ready, no rush”…but meaning within the next 20 milliseconds, please leave—prepared/unprepared street food errwhere, including live fish swimming in something reminiscent of a sewer.  In Coroico, we met a Brazillian that subsists by selling handmade bracelets and sleeping on the street, drinking HUGE caipirinha drinks in old Sprite bottles. Must be nice.

Dancers breakin’ it down.  I want to wear those skirts.

Mah dude. Droppin’ them beats.

Werk it, babay.

And this tranquilo attitude, this calm sea of spices is, well, confusing as hell to me. This Brazilian charmer was lovely and charismatic.  He was English speaking and had a smile that just.wouldn’t.quit.  He, well, seemingly captured this elusive concept of contentment, with a healthy vista of a life entirely foreign to the quick streets of a “busy,” “developed” America.  And to me.  In La Paz, I’ve been frustrated.  And in a clichéd way, it’s taught me the importance of clean air and quiet winds, fresh fruit, language and communication, the people you love.  I often fill my days with moments, but somewhat entirely lack the concepts of meaning and appreciation. 

Gotta get your day drink on when celebrating in La Paz with some Paceña beer.  I miss microbrews. #MichiganBeerFan 

But that’s what’s real.  If nothing matters, then why do it?  We preach quality over quantitiy, but that’s a lie.  Like errbody from Thoreau to TV producers tell us, we tend to resist a “simple life” in the States.  Now I’m not saying I want to hop off the “internet” and delete my facebook. (DEAR GOD NEVER.) So what I mean to say is that we really do sweat the small stuff in the States.  And for what?  What are you really going to accomplish in the 15 minutes you save by expediting the restaurant experience?  Did a little hair grease ever hurt anybody? Now, again, I’m not saying accomplishment and drive are irrelevant.  I’m not saying development is bad.  Lauren and Jennifer make fun of me for “texting while walking” and “surfing the net while jumping around my gym classes” (…that’s another story entirely.)  But, I’m just saying sometimes, in my past, present and future, I will be sucked into a life where “dancers break my flow” and road blocks are obstacles not stories.  But, I tell ya, they have a point down here in this confusing world of resistance to our resistance.  So I will take note.  Though hot showers would be nice…

The jungles of Bolivia.

From July 22, 2012:

My typical pre-departure shot. Go tigs.

Sometimes you just need to get away for the weekend.  And sometimes that “away” means to the jungles of Bolivia.  As it turns out, Lauren and I have been dreaming of the jungular city of Coroico since our first deep freeze (meaning our first night in Bolivia.)  See this tropical paradise was rumored to be but 3 hours South, or well, down, and yet a world away from our hemi-hometown of La Paz. Chock full of parrots, sun, pools, and transplanted groups of different cultures, this pueblo seemed to offer all that is good.  SO, Thursday night, we made a pact.  Coroico.  Leggo.  Now or never. 

Our tight whips for the trip.

Roads leading where?

Andes shot from the road.

Terrifying Death Road.

Thus, Friday morning, we readied ourselves, tossing some sundresses and hiking boots (not to be worn together) into a knapsack.  Then, at roughly 2 in the afternoon, we jumped a taxi to la Villa Fátima, where we would then catch a van to our beloved escape.  The journey didn’t take us the expected 3-3.5 hours, however.  Chauffeured by a man with a bag full of coca leaves (which he casually hid at the MULTIPLE narcotraficking control stations) and a death wish, it took us little more than a couple hours to race down the mountains into the stable comfort of a small town not on wheels. 

Beautiful view from our horrendous hostel in Coroico.

Quaint village life of laundry.

Me with them Bolivian flags.

Bidding adieu to the van of a quiet morenito, 2 cholitas (aymara women) and a 12-year-old girl, with whom I shared a 12-inch wide seat, Lauren and I wandered to a recommended hostel.  Dropping our bags, we got dinner, took a meander and found some delish chocolate before heading home for “sleep.” 

Foggy view, morning after.

But, unfortunately, our recommended hostel left many things to be desired.  Not one to complain about dirtiness (sorry, I’m the worst roomie ever), this place was bug infested and very cold for tropical paradise, with a slew of roosters and drunkards wandering around after hitting the neighboring bar (the drunkards not roosters.)  Everything was noisy, everything was crazy, everybody, including the red-eyed and frustrated Lauren was awake. 

I could live in a little blue hut in the mountains…maybe.

More mountain homes.

One of the main roads.

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Me loving fútbol.

Our palace Hotel.

Needless to say, the next day we ran from that hostel like a couple of narcotraficantes crossing a border and made our way to a new hostel.  This one was more like a palace, however.  Beautiful views, stunning pool, wifi room, adorable bedrooms, porches, billiard tables, and an in-house gourmet restaurant with free breakfast…this place, Hotel Gloria, was glorious.  So, after weaseling our way into a room (about 7 hours before check in), we continued on to a great breakfast and a tour agency.  We came in with the idea of horseback riding and/or whitewater rafting that first day.  Unfortunately, due to survival rate or money shortages, neither is really an option anymore.  Meaning there are literally no options for these promised activities.  Luckily we’re amiable gringitas and charmed a man into taking us to the Afro Bolivian town of Tocaña, for a daylong party.  Holla.

We didn’t die here.  Though it was close.

Coca leaves!  We spotted a farm and had to stop.

Coroico on top of the mountain, our van on the road.

Clear sailing.  From here, we’ll live.

Visiting this town was something we’d been scheming, but our timing was impeccable.  On Saturday, the town was celebrating the death of one of their local youths.  This may sound morbid, but it’s not.  He’d died a year ago to the day and thus, this was the eve from whence his soul would be released from his buried body.  To celebrate this event, the town had a gathering, a Catholic mass, a dance party and a day of joy and merry libations.

Sociologist’s hut.

Burning bush of bees.

Rolando told me they use this plant for lipstick.  I still don’t know if he lied, but I did rock those orange lips for a minute.

Unbridled beauty.

Rolando and some fresh oranges.

So in the glow of early afternoon, we mounted another tool of mobility and risked our lives on winding, one-lane, ill maintained car paths.  Fortunately for us, it’s dry season here and thus the dust prevented visualization of what danger we were truly in.  So then, still living/scared sh…a lot, we more tranquilly wandered our way through rivers and into the house of a local sociologist.  Here, in his little hut on the side of an Andes mountain, he presented us with a brief history of the formerly enslaved population (aka until the 1950s…yes I meant 19), which we were soon to visit.  Following suit, we continued up the mountainous paths that lead to Tocaña. 

Village clinic made by USAID.

Celebration timez.

One of the paths we scaled.

DOLL BABY.  I need her to be mine.

Cruisin’ the streets.

We observed and delighted, but as the party doesn’t stop until, well quite late in Bolivia, we missed a bit of the extravaganza.  We were offered a go-home-later-by-hitching-a-ride-with-some-unknown-“friend” option. But…we made the safer choice and went home to our glorious Hotel Gloria before dark, stopping only for empanadas and hot chocolate with our new friend along the way.

When Lauren and I got locked in our room because nothing works here…including door handles.

My reading spot.

Our inviting dinner spot.

Not a bad place to breakfast.

After the best night sleep, we spent the rest of our time in Coroico enjoying fantastic coffees and juices, scenery and a bit of sun and relaxation.  Taking a mini-bus home with our friends from La Paz, the only things we were left with from this weekend were bug bites, sunburn (me not Lauren the Latina) and many fond memories.

Audrey asleep.

Isabel and Ari asleep.

WHO SAID THE AMERICANS CANT BE THE ONLY ONES UP AND READY TO PARTY ON THE MINIBUS???

When, upon our return, our power went out…romantic? Annoying?  Ain’t nobody sure.

Back.

From July 14, 2012:

Well, kids, I’m back.  I’m drinking tea on a Saturday night, jamming to some sassy Prince Royce hitz and shaking off the stale air of a trying time.  It’s been said that you learn a lot about yourself in travel.  And in being single. And in losing your job.  So, hey, let’s do all of it (sort of, I’ll explain) at once and maximize learning potential. Ready. Set. Go.

When we tried to go to the MegaCenter, we got lost.  This is where we ended up.  ”Luckily Napoleon Dynamite’s girlfriend found us.”-Lauren

Living in La Paz was nothing I’d expected, or, well, hoped for.  In one form or another I’ve whined about the bitter cold, the thin and polluted air, the filth, the lack of relationships, the racism, the crowded streets and the inefficiency of a broken system on Latino time.  I didn’t sweep in and save a country from malnutrition.  I didn’t immediately grace the dance floors with my mad skillz nor meet the welcoming embraces of NGOs all over the city.  I came to La Paz with one other American girl and then got scared, got lonely and got paralyzed in the fear of improper career selection and inutility.  In the first 2 weeks, I realized that I’m the MOST useless, desperate, psychotic and undirected MPH candidate this country has ever seen.  In my defense, I’m pretty sure about 7 Americans a year run the hilly streets of La Paz, so chances were pretty good.

The Po, chillin by the bridge.

Speaking of limited contact with Americans, I can’t explain the feeling of not only being out of country, but being in a country with such little American influence.  I met government workers that don’t speak English and the immigration officials didn’t know a desperate word of English upon my arrival (like half the most underrepresented countries I’ve crossed through.)  I forced my new friends (!!!) to listen to Biggie Smalls because (a) it would explain a lot about me and (b) they had no idea who he was.  What a sad life!  This cultural isolation, on top of the fact that I had no contacts here but Lauren and a research PhD in another zone, am seen/judged only as a “gringita” (American girl) and have such strained tools of communication (restricted speech and internet, no phone, do hand-written letters still exist??) that I may as well be in a padded room.  Clearly, I’m exaggerating and my life is not that bad. But the truth is, I’ve never felt so isolated in a country so far, far from my birth. 

Wanderlust beauty.

Yet I have to be honest, the experience is a rare vista into the lives of immigrants or really, anyone who has ever felt like an outsider.  Even if my experience is brief.  Shoot, there are SO many things I now get.  The fear of going to a pharmacy, having no idea what you’ll end up with.  Ordering food (LOGAN) and having only the slightest clue what/how much of whatever you’re going for.  What is a “plato paceña” after all?  I thought a paceña was a local woman?  I refuse to consume a human. 

And more.

My mom just started working at the University of Michigan Hospital, where people from all over the world journey for medical savior.   She declares my experience will better her sensitivity to such patients, the ones that are lost for more reasons than direct confrontation with mortality.  My experience, to be sure, is about understanding and expanding…for more than my small, singular existence. 

I live here.  LOLOLOL

But what else is uncomfortable? Unemployment.  What I’m getting at is that is my original project down here is, to be blunt, failing.  A mess of factors ensued, but my focus groups in the clinics of El Alto have not been run.  They have not been transcribed nor analyzed and reformatted into glittery and gleaming educational materials that are culturally sensitive and specific, at a proper literacy level and, yo, AWESOME.  Research and ethics are super complicado and thus, it appears our project may need revision.  And though it has literally nothing to do with me as a person, I can’t help but feel like I was fired.  This past week, our mentor came into town.  We had meetings, where I dropped a bowl of candy in an attempt to offer Bolivia’s past Minister of Health a sugary treat.  We had discussions, we had dates with NGOs, we had conversations and brainstorms that have lead to the development of a new project.  I’m back in bidnas (business).

National pastime.  

So, for those who care about this stuff: Lauren and I will be designing a curriculum to inform women about nutrition for themselves and their (future) children.  We will be teaming up with a variety of NGOs and hospitals around town to facilitate the teaching of women some of the most important skillz they will ever learn.  What’ssss up?

The hospital where we work!

SO what was the point, then, of me coming down here for 3 months?  If I’m not gracing the hearts of Bolivianos near and far, if I’m not changing the face of social research, if I’m not collecting my tribe of children like I’m consistently plotting then WHAT, may I ask, am I doing?  I’m reformatting myself, it seems.  I’m not great at failure.  It’s sort of one of those things I’d rather not see in myself.  But was this experience failure?  Maybe it was and it wasn’t.  In the words of my dear friend, “Tell me about adversity.“  Now I can.  (PS He also said I have “Latina gangsta charm”…so there’s that.) 

This experience is great because I get to experience a new way of life.  But this experience is also great because I get to experience a new way of seeing myself. I’m the MOST useless, desperate, psychotic and undirected MPH candidate this country has ever seen, but now I’m going to whip out that “Latina gangsta charm” and remix my sitch into one of public health creation, personal development and lots….and lots of dancing. 

Wherever you go, you’re never really alone.  GO BLUE.

Me llamo Erín.

From July 4, 2012:

These buildings seem to stand out in the middle of a city.

A couple of interesting things happened to me today.  First, Cotton Eyed Joe came on the loudspeaker at the gym.  I just barely resisted hillbilly kicking my legs from side to side.  But THEN, after about a month of semi-uncomfortable interactions, the gym man, the same man I stuttered to and crossed my first real language barrier with, asked me my name.  See, if I was to pull a 2^nd grade maneuver and rank all my friends here, he’d actually probably be in the top 5.  With that said, I paid about 400 Bs and struggled to run lord knows how many kilometers (because I just don’t get that form of measurement) to reach this point with him.  

Though La Paz is odd in itself.

Anyway, he asked for my name.  And since I’m terribly awkward, I gave him my last name.  So, when he said, “Keyes, it’s good to actually meet you.” I had to laugh and tell him, “Well, that’s my last name.”  “Then what’s your first name?” “Erin.” “Hello, ERIN.”  He said my name.  He didn’t mess it up.  He didn’t tell me it was odd. He said, “Hello, ERIN.”

What is this?  Police phone?  Got my work phone, my bro phone, my po-po phone.

Weird looking dogs.

You’d think that this pronunciation practice is, like signing up for a gym, a simple accomplishment.  Erin: the most common name in the world, 2 syllables, half vowels, half consonants, easy as 3.14 (Pi, people, easy as pie).  But you’d be surprised.  Nobody here can understand or pronounce my name.  They stare at me like I’ve taken a brief hiatus to Greek when I say “Me llamo Erin.”  At first I thought it was because I was white.  People refuse to understand my broken Spanish and they can’t seem to comprehend my name, my height, my eyes, my purpose for leaving Malibu, California because that’s what America is.  But truth be told, Lauren and I ran into a blonde haired, blue eyed Dutch woman in Copacabana and upon introducing ourselves, she remarked, “Erin?  How do you write that?” confused as can be.  Lauren, once again, fits in perfect. “Hola, Lorena” is the closest she’s come to epic failure. And once again, I stand out.

The best looking kids.

Hot damn, so cute!

So, in the glow of this momentous day of Independence for the States, what does my unavoidable American branding mean for my future? Well, I’ve decided it’s okay to be American.  If I want other people to rejoice in their culture, why should I not celebrate mine?  Part of participating in cultural exchange is, well, sharing your own culture.  I’m a bright and, between my skin tone and eyes, red-white-and-blue sign for America.  But, I’m sort of getting into it.  The girl who is always trying to be something else, I may as well use my skillz to bring something new to the Bolivian table.  More specifically, something tolerant and educated, ridiculous and sincere.  I believe in equality and opportunity and many other brilliant ideals of Mama ‘Mericah.  And I want to share them.  Of course, I’ll need to be on a team of locals to complete any culturally competent task, but I should never discount the great tools and styles of thinking the US has given me.  I’m just going to run with it, try to be a pale, and yet somehow sun burnt, vestige of an American humanist.

Partner toilets without stalls?  Hmm….that’s a new level of close I’m not ready for.

Hey Spiderman, what ya doin’ over thurr?

Escapé (Parte 3)

From July 2, 2012:

View from the bus ride back to La Paz.

The other day I was off on one of my most terrifying Bolivian adventures: using a public bathroom.  Usually this, as mentioned, requires me peeing in the middle of a yard.  But this time, I was in a building, a land of endless (free) toilet paper and sans-urine floors.  Yet, as I was skittishly pushing the stall door closed, I was slammed into, knocked blindly backwards and approached rapidly by a woman dressed all in black.  Clearly terrified, I shrieked silent notes of panic and stared wide-eyed at my assailant.  Turns out, she just really had to pee and had no malintent.  But this got me thinking. 

Imagine living here.

I’m pretty sure I’m the baddest thing La Paz has ever seen.  With that said, my first words were, well, “peanut butter” because it’s my favorite food.  And then a close second must have been “world peace.”  I read books on Buddha; I don’t eat meat partly because my heart moans thinking about baby animals growing up to die.  I cry over everything: hatred or intolerance of gays, Bambi’s fallen mother, demonstrations of evil, demonstrations of good, animal movies, love stories, births, deaths, weddings, apologies, graduation speeches, anytime Obama comes on screen, when I think about my upcoming marriage to Tupac (he lives) and the list continues.

Lake vista.

Once again, odd farm lands.

But how lucky am I to have a South American experience so far from acute cruelty and dangerous maneuvers?  Yes, we’re usually on fire and booming with protest.  Yes, there were attempts of coup d’ état creation last week.  And yes, there are warnings on the US State Department website of robberies and kidnappings (I am in South America.) But the truth is, here, I can go out at night.  I can walk to a coffee shop with my laptop and without a spike in heart rate.  I can wander out my door and find my way by asking honest people for directions.

View of the Andes in the background.

I’ve never appreciated this more than when on a cross-country bus.  Bolivia is safe enough where we can travel at our leisure, unguided, without concrete plans.  I’ll let you know when I get there because, well, I will definitely live to get there.  So today, on our journey home, my only worry was falling off the side of a cliff.  Okay, it’s not entirely safe here and that does often happen.  But as I ruminated over how Bolivian roads are better than those in Michigan, I appreciated the fact that I can sleep on top of all my belongings, while tied to them, guarding my money in my underwear, in peace. 

Escapé (Parte 2)

From July 1, 2012:

Boat ride over to la Isla del Sol

Tim Cahill said, “A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.”  And, under normal circumstances, I’d have to agree.  A couple years ago, I strolled into a lovely Ann Arbor pub to meet my beautiful Aunt Kathy.  By the end of our extended stay, we’d chatted up half the place, had our drinks bought by a regular patron and earned a mess of names and phone numbers from a handful of misfits.  In her words, we are the type to “never meet a stranger,”  and, I swear if ever needed, I could maintain an awkward conversation with a brick wall.  Because, well, life is too short—so just do the damn thing!  Move it, shake it, feel it, you know?

Yet for one reason or another, this trip has often left me lonely and scared.  My first week, I met the son of an acquaintance.  When I saw him on the street, several days later, I didn’t run up to him in exuberant joy like I’d usually do.  When a group of, seemingly, nice, Brazilian men walked up to me in a park, I quite quickly mumbled gibberish and sprinted away.

The things you see when stepping off the dock to la Isla del Sol.

Just too pretty!

Lawd knows I love kids.

And cows.

This could be my house.  I’d be fine wit that.

Beach shot.

Burros, chillin’, doin’ their thing.  Adorbs.

Radiating rays.

I’ve never seen similar farm land.

But there’s something about hiking to the most northern point of la Isla del Sol (Sun Island), following a native guide with a radiant smile, a warm and comfortable sense of humor and a zest for life that lets you throw off the bowlines and sail away from the safe harbor.  Jorge was his name, of course.  And he was kind and charming and though it took 45 minutes for our first exchange to ensue, our conversation became some kind of wonderful over our time together.  As Lauren put it, to a backbeat of my snorting laughter, “In the words of Blink-182, I’m feelin’ this.” Sun Island makes you want to run away and join the alpacas.  If you’d been there, you wouldn’t think this declaration the least bit odd.

Yours truly, loving life.

Climbing to the top.

Jorge, my friend.

Small kids playing on big rocks.

From the North of the island.

Entering the ruins.

More ruins.

So pretty and sacred.

So today, we visited ruins, we hiked all over the island, we ate lunch on a balcony overlooking the lake and made a new friend.  Continuing home, via boat, we made our Sunday visit to another beautiful Bolivian Catholic Church, took a brief rest at the paradise hostel and ventured back out to Mexican food.

Love this beast.

Women herding burros.

The locals and a boat to the Island.

Army dog.

Then we ran into Sammy, who like any good peddler of narcotics, is consistently seen wandering the main drag, and settled into a bar.  Here, sailing on a high of recent camaraderie, we were blessed with another new friend, travelling by herself.  Not surprisingly, I also fell in love with a dog that waddled its way into the bar, and thus our hearts.  However, as Sun Island requires early departure, we soon retired to our beds…with minds liberated of fear and doubt. Renewal, here I come.

Sunset view from paradise hostel.

Path to our hostel.

Me and my new bffl.

Pisco sours.  So sour.

Hotel breakfast.

My best friend Leslie said “Oh she’s just bein’ dirty.”

I want to be this woman when I grow up.

Escapé (Parte 1)

From June 30, 2012:

This is literally the dirtiest I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t think I have a ponytail in.  My hair just stays that way now.

La Paz is actually the worst.  Okay, I take that back.  Not the worst.  But sort of.  See, La Paz is crowded, polluted, cold, anonymous, lonely, hopeless and cement covered.  It is a faded dream built upon a foundation of long lost gold mining.  It is dual-classed and surrounded by the entrenchment of slums.  La Paz is literally situated in a valley of despair, a mess of hills and broken sidewalks and downed power lines.  ‘Tis poisoned and dirty, commercialized and inconvenient.  It is sad.  Or maybe I am.

Terminal de bus.

In the pursuit of happiness, Lauren and I took the opportunity to escape the heavy airs of a wasted city and wander away to Lake Titicaca this weekend.  We bought our $4 bus tickets and set off to Copacabana. 

Crossing a Titicacan inlet on the way to Copacabana.

How our bus crossed said inlet.

Lauren making friends.

Due to my obsessive travel blog reading, we immediately found our way to La Cúpula, a fantastic hostel comprised of a fleet of domed buildings, gently nestled into a hill overlooking both the city and the enticing curve of Bolivia’s rare beach.  And with this stunning view, we ate fresh trout and drank sun-warmed, sweet sweet juices.  We took real showers, shed our overcoats and then, coffee in hand, frolicked to the water. 

THIS IS SPARTA, or well, COPA.

Fresh-squeezed juice in the sun of Copa.

Fresh caught trout from the lake surrounding Copa.

Our living quarters for the weekend.

Our hostal (hostel in Spanish, I ain’t dumb.)

Our neighbors.

Letting the sun dry my hair. So gooooood.

Boats relaxin’ on the beach.

Random large faces/masks? In stone.

Sitting on fallen stone walls, we stared into the deep blue depths of el Lago Titicaca.  Then, as we started to stroll, a wrinkled, old man approached us to offer an exclusive, VIP ride on an old boat.  Accepting, we drifted across our sacred lake to the backdrop of stunning vistas.  Hitting happy hour and then bed, our day was finished.  No computers, no worries, just fresh air and water.

Maritime dreamer.

View of Copa from ze boat.

Clearly, from the moment we arrived, Copa treated us unlike La Paz in almost every way.  It’s “tranquilo,” you feel me?  There are no fucks given in Copacabana.  Sorry to be blunt.  People are…friendly.  They smile at you.  They don’t run you over in mini-buses and they don’t hate you to start.  Sometimes, they even offer you “recommendations on the city, marijuana, travel advice” or whatever else you might need.  (Sammy, waist-length hair, from Argentina.) Though we’re too old and tired to get wild, Copa felt like a fresh drink of freedom.

Bolivian street shot.

Just your average cart of meat.

There were many homeless men and women living outside the Church.

View from the Church.

View of the Church.

Delicate building.

Fresh plátanos and chocolate dessert. 

Timbs for my hooligans.

Everyone that loves Bolivia is inclined to mention its resounding richness in the arts.  Traditional music and dance, oil paintings, open air theater, opportunity for exquisite photography, even the biorhythms of la madre tierra (mother earth) quite figuratively shimmer in an unearthly contrast to the daily struggles of Bolivian life.  See, this Bolivian life is a bipolar fiasco of el mal y el bien (bad and good.) And, straight up, I feel weird about it.

Ain’t no clean and shiny streets in El Alto.

After dropping our American friend Jennifer off at the airport, Lauren and I were quickly back to our old, bad habits: wandering the streets like band of juvenile delinquents.  We drink mini-cups of cappuccinos and relish in Contemporary Art Museums like it ain’t no thang.  But the truth is, the hidden beauty in this main street staple, this building of creative expression, is the accuracy of its suffering.  I promised myself (and probs Logz) that I would refrain from dressing this blog in chains of angst and black nail polish, but when was the last time I upheld such a promise? 

Contemporary Art Museum Hall

You know, life here is hard.  For the most part, people are poor and have no options.  Women don’t have rights; coca farmers have to storm the streets and light things on fire underneath their rainbow flags, just to be noticed.  Yet, dreams don’t die and almost 50 years later, this is still the country of Che Guevara. Here, we dream of freedom.

Coca Farmers Marching…like Pride, only more bombs.

Lighting things on fire down on the Prado.

Peaceful protest campers.  Been here for several, several months.

Lauren and I joke about the measured calmness of the protesters.  Though they burn and bomb, the flatness and patience of their movements are, actually, almost frightening.  We muse that passersby exchange congratulations and favors: “Excellent work with that last smoke bomb, think I could get the recipe?  I’m marching with the teachers next week.  Oh, you’re on vacation next week? Maybe I could get it to march with the Quechans the week after?” Everyone is in struggle.  We all got needs.

Another group of protesters under my window.  These ones were the police.  They had big guns.

But this also, partly, explains how I’m received here.  We all know that a lot of people hate Americans because we’re in many instances, well, assholes.  However, Lauren pointed out that many people also hate Americans because of the limitless opportunities of our birth.  How can a woman, a victim of domestic violence, of poverty, of malnutrition and absolute desperation not hate a bright-eyed, bushy haired girl of immeasurable prospect and relatively few obstacles?  How can I not hate her?

Woman earning her daily bread.

I’m getting it wrong, though, and I know it.  The point of experiences like this is not to fall into shades of gray (NOT bestselling book-style) and give up on world savior.  It’s to find your small part and rock dat ish.  Where I’m getting scared is that I don’t know what part that is for me.  If not a grandiose dream of equality, I don’t know what I want.

At the Contemporary Art Museum, there was a room full of paintings and sculptures of indigenous populations.  There was also one picture that has resonated so fiercely within me that I’m now questioning my own identity and the purpose of the human condition.  I should have sought the name of the artist, because he or she will from this day forth, be pivotal in my development. 

Mt. Illimani chillin’ like a villain.

The painting was simple, abstract.  It was the outline of Mt. Illimani, a constant guardian of La Paz and a beautiful and startling backdrop.  But etched within the strong boundaries of such a fearsome presence, was the outline of an Aymara woman.  So what about this has shaken my core?  Simply that I recognized what this painting sought to share. 

Aymara woman unknowingly walking into the foreground of her precious watch mountain.

4 weeks ago I would have seen an amorphous shape hidden within a pretty mountain.  Now I see the backbreaking weight of a life toted in canvas, the struggle of a woman’s whole world subsisting on simple, though beautiful, craftsmanship and an intergenerational memory of culture.  I see the cold, the tradition, the lack of dentistry, the cruelty, the entrapment of poverty.  I see the desperation of a harsh, harsh world that I will never know.

Aymara woman and kiddo.

When we think about developing countries, we often think about the lack of warm showers, the worms, mayyyybe, even the lack of education.  But what about the lack of hope?  In Public Health we throw faceless words like self efficacy and independence into models.  WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?  I can get on a TACA flight tomorrow and run away.  I can change the channel when starving, brown eyed babies stare at me and ask for as little as $1 a day.  I can get an MPH and then change my mind and get an MBA.  I can. I can. I can.

But what I can’t do is give these people what I have.  We can’t throw money at the issue and watch it go away.  We can’t sponsor a child and expect the economy of La Paz to turn around for his or her children.  We can’t go to Cancun and understand the ways of Mexico.  We can’t read books and study theories and expect that to change health seeking behavior.  We can’t treat all populations and people the same.  We can’t make quick changes or 2 year rotations and expect the world to be a better place forever.  We need systems, we need resources, we need sustainability, accountability, and operational compatibility.

Not that I think books/theory are all bad, of course…

So what can we do?  I wish I knew, and maybe, this summer, I’ll find out a bit more. I want to find my marching group, the cause I feel as deeply as that painting.  Yep, this is an incredibly tall order and won’t come all at once.  But hopefully, (and ideally in addition to well-designed educational materials and a verified survey) this summer will help orient me in a general direction.  We shall see, no ve?

Dancing at Dawn with Sun Worshippers

From June 21, 2012:

Una niña linda at the ceremonies.

Circa 4 AM I voluntarily jumped into the back of a white van parked in a plaza known for taxi kidnappings…conveniently, this is also the plaza where I live. As the van sped away, dodging the uneven stream of borrachos (drunkards), I introduced myself to an Israeli and a Frenchman.  The latter spoke great Spanish, the former none at all.  We ducked and weaved, racing time, and chasing the sunrise to Tiwanaku. 

Lauren and Jennifer waiting outside our apartment for our ride to roll up.

As mountains faded in and out, we saw a warm light in the distance.  Slowly inching closer, the guttural bump of Latin music echoed, laughter rose in steady projection and dancers, more borrachos, children, old men and women, tourists, tribal leaders, classic Aymaras and more surrounded fires of celebration, cafes of coca tea and pay-50-centavos-for-use bathrooms.  We had arrived at the historic ruins of Tiwanaku and though the sun had not yet risen, our hopes and daydreams of true, indigenous celebration had definitely been awakened. We were at the epicenter of the Aymara’s new year celebration, on the day of the Winter Solstice. 

Waiting for the sun to make moves.

I think many a life was saved by those fires. #frostbite

No, but real talk, the energy of people was phenomenal, especially for pre-dawn.  Youth and old alike had gathered in earnest to welcome a new year’s sun.  As the day began to break, we all assembled at the gates of the ruins.  ”¡EMPUJA!” was shouted (push!), people jumped and jammed into each other and I felt like I was at a very cold, very South American Woodstock.  Masses of people jostling, screaming, fire burning, and generally misbehaving were fought with jostling, screaming, fire burning and generally stressed policía. 

All of us, throwin’ them hands up.

Finally, we broke forth and went careening in various directions throughout the ruins.  Collecting at the far end, we waited for the sun, hands flailing in the air, children running through our legs, indigenous music roaring and whole bodies shaking with excitement (and mostly bitter cold.)

Me, just moments before my hands fell off in blocks of ice.

Aymara flag.

Dancing/drumming natives, celebrating the new year at sunrise.

With the arrival of the sun, cheers were yelled and the party re-began.  Wiphalas (indigenous flags) were raised, chants were chanted and quickly, Lauren, Jennifer and I were snatched up into a circle dance around the sacred flag. As we twisted and bounced, yelling gibberish because we don’t speak Aymara, the New Year began.

Madre, why are you afraid? There’s five-oh errwhere these days.

Following this celebration, we toured the ruins and offered sacrifice to a roaring fire.  Though historically things were probably far more gruesome, today candy or coca leaves (for us) were sacrificed to bless each of our oncoming years. We continued on to a late breakfast, slightly thawing and very tired.  Oddly and awkwardly enough, we ate fried eggs without plates.  Between my shivering and general lack of grace, I spilled absolutely everything within a five foot radius of my person, but made it out alive, with enough dignity to trample my way into some pretty cool ceramic museums.  Everything from pots and jewelry to medical tools and keys were found in these museums.  Hundreds of years old, the history in the objects and surrounding fields of ruin were stunningly juxtaposed against the celebrations of modern indigenous people.

Ruin walls.

Po-po standing up on them ruin walls.

Praying to the rock for strength and health.

Me getting in on that action.

We got that fire burning.

After museums, we shot the breeze with some ridiculously wasted Bolivian youth, who spent a lot of time foaming at the mouth and talking about electronica.  Then, we continued on to the main plaza, glimpsing at normal things like a sacrificed donkey fetus and/or seemingly dead Bolivianos passed out to the background of indigenous music and dancing.  We strolled around the square, got caught in a parade and explored the quaint streets and stunning views of the tiny, historic town.  Upon the end of our wander, we stopped back for lunch in the sun, complete with a cold beer and hilarious stories from other Americans and Europeans.

Donkey excavation, complete with fetus and full head.

Blacked out, passed out…next stop Waffle House.

I will be returning with: (a) a baby, (b) an alpaca, (c) both.

Parade members. I think I was standing on souvenirs at this point to avoid getting run over.

Scenic backdrop.

Women walking down the lane. (FYI this is one of the main roads…)

Chillin’

Heading back home, I once again crawled in bed for a siesta, stirring only for a full circle return to American habits: New Years Day movies.  The girls and I trudged our way through the streets to Alexander’s for some coffee, Mi Tierra, where they weigh your plate and charge by gram, for dinner, and to the MultiCine to see Prometheus.  Not going to lie, wasn’t my favorite work of art, but when you pay less than $10 for a movie, soda and popcorn on a weekend, it’s hard to complain.

On the drive home.

First view of my little town, coming down from El Alto.

These have been all over the city recently, I’m not exactly sure what they mean…

And just because I think infirmaries in fields of worshippers are cool.

Week in Review

From June 17, 2012:

The age I felt upon our return to La Paz. She looks less haggard than I, however.

The truth is, after returning from our fiasco in the mountains and the brilliant city of Sucre, I was kinda done for.  Though I slept more than 8 of the 15 hours of my trip en bus, coming home from the Best City Ever lead me immediately to a 3 hour siesta.  Perhaps I was stressed, or something of the like, but, Sunday’s regimen found me taking care of bodily needs: hydration, food, sleep, and SHOWER. And that’s…well…about it.

From June 18, 2012:

Los Andes Clinic entrance.

Today began at 7 AM and found me in the clinics of El Alto!  We started off with a meeting to refine our methods and discuss remaining issues with the food recall instruments. Then, we wandered the streets in search of my dear friend Charo.  Finally we found her and subsequently jumped a mini-bus to Los Andes clinic.  The director wasn’t in, so we strutted our stuff into the “sala de espera,” or the waiting room, to execute questionnaires.  See, today was about piloting, trying out the nutritionists’ sea legs at survey running.  Basically all I did was hope for the best and follow them around like a puppy to ensure it.  

By the 12 PM almuerzo (lunch) break clinic closing, things had gone okay.  Because, well, it’s becoming readily clear that research is hard.  A thorough understanding of background, methods, resonating and acute issues, philosophies, techniques, scientific protocol, cultural competency, social skills, organization, intuition and flexibility are all necessary at every level of design.  Turns out, this is rough to come by.  Fortunately, our nutritionists are hard working and offer a great many skills.  With practice, things will definitely get better, faster, stronger.  But today was scary and overwhelming for everyone.  Alas, I’m confident in mah girls. We dealt with questions, we critiqued our methods and set goals, both short and long in nature.  We got dis. Come at me, bro.

A Che statue in the background, ever representing the struggles of our past and present.

Yet, after our morning in the clinic, Jennifer, Lauren and I wandered back down to San Francisco to lunch and explore options for the Winter Solstice celebration on Thursday.  Turns out this was a more dangerous expedition than expected, as cannons were quite literally blowing in protest, outside the window during our entree and mandatory Bolivian dessert course.  However, we did survive and we did find a tour group to take us to Tiwanaku to celebrate the Aymara new year.  For this, we are leaving in the middle of the night Weds/Thurs, arriving at sunrise and dancing with locals until we just can’t do it no more.  But, girl, I’m ready to werk.  I think I’m acclimating to the million holiday set up we have going! Sorry I’m not sorry.

From June 19, 2012:

Today, I made my way back to Los Andes clinic.  This time it was just Marianela, my favorite nutritionist/Bolivian BFF, and I.  I slipped on my white coat, put on my best non-native English speaker accent, and ran around the clinic talking to mothers, fathers, nurses, doctors, stray dogs that chill out in the waiting room (not even kidding) and just about anyone who had any thoughts on nutrition, motherhood, research, or, well, all things remotely similar.  Luckily, this meant I also got to play with a hoard of adorable, ruddy-cheeked, black-hair/eyed babies that cling to you like you’re the best thing to ever happen to them and/or the warmest. My life is charmed.  

At the end of the day, my friend did a fantastic job of surveying and bonding with mothers, I did a more or less fine job of not looking really dumb and illiterate, and we had a great team dynamic.  Thus and therefore, we felt really successful.  To celebrate, I bought us a round of “bolsitas de jugo”…yes, that means little bag of juice.  So, walking the dusty streets to catch our bus, we bit the bag and enjoyed our peach-flavored sugar water…victory is sweet.

From June 20, 2012:

Waiting room of Senkata Clinic.

Sign directing to Senkata Clinic!

This morning Lauren and I found our way up to El Alto, exchanged important documents with our study staff on the side of the expressway like hoodrats and jumped in another mini-bus to head to the Senkata clinic.  This clinic is where Lauren and I will be conducting focus groups on use, perception and knowledge of vitamins and the acceptability of micronutrient powders in women of reproductive age. We spent a bit of time waiting around for the director, but once we actually sat down for the meeting, things went as smooth as Luther Vandross’s voice.  Awww yeah.  When presented with our protocols, cronograma (timeline might be the English word? I forgets these things in the days of now), and letter of intent, our new friend/director was probably the most supportive person yet.  The meeting was quick and not at all dirty. We were on our way into the frigid air of La Paz in no time.

Makes me think of Barbie (?)

So, with our free time, Lauren and I wandered the streets of La Paz, ate some street food and drank Coke out of glass bottles sold from carts.  We got very lost, loved it and eventually found our way home via a main street.  ’Twas a lovely afternoon of peace and quiet…UNTIL:

Jennifer required several hundred copies of her 10 page survey instrument for the summer.  This seems simple enough, right?  WRONG. We took the originals to a couple stores for pricing and stumbled upon a little place that promised a cheap deal.  Unfortunately, after Jennifer and I wandered the streets, I went to the gym, showered, played several games of Monopoly and watched Titanic four times, they were still not finished copying.  Finally at 10 PM, they were.  Also, at 10 PM I got into my first fight.  

Lauren said that if you can argue in a foreign language it means you’re fluent.  Well, people, I sure as the day is long will pass that Spanish as a Second Language test.  The copy store upped their price by roughly 6X.  Not that I blame them, it took them literally 7 hours to make the copies.  However, that’s not proper business etiquette and social research isn’t made of gold.  Though I stuttered, turned red, almost burst into tears, visibly shook and almost spit my heart out onto the desk, we made a compromiso.  After being berated, threatened and asked for our passports and/or addresses of living, Jennifer and I made it home with half the copies and a promised return to finish the exchange.  

However, one point memory is me trying to say “five hundred,” or well, “quinientos” and stuttering so hard that I was told to “breathe and calm down.”  It’s fine.  I lived.  I’m changed, but I survived.