"Why do I write? It's not that I want people to think I am smart, or
even that I am a good writer. I write because I want to end my
loneliness."-Jonathan Safran Foer
These past two weeks have been an epiphany of sorts. While traveling, a bad case of laryngitis, spurrned on by allergies, has forced me to become mute for over a week now. Horribly mute. Terribly, horribly mute.
There are some who would say this is a good thing; it spurns one one to self-contemplation and reflection. Indeed it has. That's an entertaining notion when it is voluntary and one is prepared for it.
I wasn't.
The hardest part of all this has been the absolute loneliness that has accompanied it. Accustomed to daily human interaction, this forced exile has become a prison sentence with an uncertain parole.
Reduced to to the point of uttering monosyllabic grunts and squeaks, the possibility of interaction with others has been essentially been eliminated. Normal conversation disappears. Faced with the only response being nonverbal, most cut it short or turn away. Well-meaning friends say "call me"--as if I could. These days I communicate by pantomime or by writing on a small erasable white board--when I have to.
But, all in all, I have been a better teacher this week. Forced to become the guide on the side, my students have all by themselves eagerly tackled the challenges I've silently offered. My inability to interfere with their learning has taught me a valuable lesson;
One of the things about coming from a less than traditional family is that, inspired by network television shows, I got to invent my own imaginary "family'. I lived on the Ponderosa with Ben and the Cartwrights; Mayberry with Andy Griffith, and New York City with the Ricardos. I used to imagine that Ben or Andy or Ricky was my dad, and that I was part of one of their "perfect" TV families. The glaring differences between these 'ideals' and my Foldinthemap reality were lost on me..Later, as I learned more and more about this mysterious man who gave me life, I was more able to create a picture of who this stranger was and what the gifts were he gave me. I was told he was an artist, famous in some circles; a wanderer with a penchant for seeing the world;
a creative force who could never control his bad habits: a "bad boy' who would never settle down; and an immature scoundrel undeserving and incapable of any love or affection-especially to a lost and lonely uncomprehending daughter. He was all of these and he was none of these. On this day, it's traditional to honor and remember the man who gave us life. In my case, I know life was all he was capable to give.
“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” --Mark Twain
I know so many people that travel in a bubble, isolating themselves from the authentic culture that surrounds them: it’s so much easier to insulate oneself at the comfortable five star resort, venturing out into the community only from the isolation of the fully chaperoned and air conditioned tour bus.
It’s so much more convenient to accept the Disneyland version of a place, complete with all its stereotypes than to have to deal with the authentic version with its smelly, noisy, nitty gritty messiness.
Not that I advocate going out of one’s way to be uncomfortable, especially on vacation; after all, that’s why we spend all that hard earned vacation money, to pamper ourselves and to relax. No one wants to vacation in a slum.
But there’s a lot to be said about fully connecting with the essence of a place and to experience the foreign as fully as possible, if even for just an afternoon, or just for an hour.
Go ahead.
Tuck into that “iffy” little restaurant. Smile and simply order a coke. People watch. Look open to whatever happens. Venture down that dusty little narrow street off the beaten path. So what if you get lost for awhile? You’ll discover that even with a language barrier, most human beings are friendly and delighted that you’ve been willing to explore their little corner of the world. You just might find, that in spite of a language barrier, most people are as curious about you as you are about them. You just might make a friendship in the bargain.
"Those actions or statements by a teacher that are designed to help students bring things together in their own minds, to make sense out of what has just been taught."-Madeline Hunter
“1. Leave home; 2. Go alone.” --Paul Theroux
People were always fascinated that I was traveling alone, without family. In fact, it was inconceivable to them. They lived with or very near to multiple generations, they slept crowded into single beds in tiny apartmentos or casitas, and they would do so their entire lives. For them, every night was a group get-together. I envied and was repelled by this at the same time.
“Where is your hombre?” asked a grinning toothless Bolivian man in a spotless white North Dakota Soybean Council polo shirt. “He let go you here all by yourself?”
“No”, I explained, “I mean, no man.” I replied, smiling.
“Where your family?” asked a cholita in a bowler hat. “Working, my daughters are working.” “No más.”
Whispers. “Insólita”. Looks of pity.
“Insolita”, that multilayered Spanish word that conveys so much more than being single, implies a person unhappily alone, lonely, sad, a thing to be pitied. How do I explain a philosophy of travel, of life, of kismet, to people who have never ventured more than a few miles from home and never, ever by themselves? I decide not to try.
“You like girl?” I knew this one was coming. “No. not like that.”
“Where your man, then?” “Why no man?” “Not safe for lady travel insólita”. “Nice Bolivian man?”
“No.”
“Where you go next?” “Not safe for lady travel insólita”. “Yeah, I know. It’s OK.” “I’m going back to La Paz.”
More whispers. Incomprehensible buzzing in Aymara. Concerned looks. More pity.
I’d been raised in such a different situation and was used to so much personal space and privacy. The chasm between me and everyone staring at me made me feel that much more alone and hungry for a genuine connection that I certainly wasn’t getting much of this gypsy summer. I became immediately homesick.
Even the most remote parts of FoldintheMap are connected by highways, cell phones and the Internet; they are how I define the world. But there are millions of people who live in tiny hamlets like this; no roads, no electricity, nothing but clouds and mountains and llamas and scrub brush. And each other. Day after day, through good and bad, they always have each other, no matter what.
The villages of rural Bolivia were tiny universes as far removed from the Internet and the rest of the world as Mars. I was a loose neutrino, ricocheting around the planet. A teeny tiny speck on the face of the earth. A bug on the windshield. I just wanted to go home. And soon enough I would be there.
The Altiplano. The high altitude plains that begin their incline at 13,000 feet above La Paz in Bolivia. This land of llamas and cholitas is home to my sponsored daughter Belinda and her family. I’m in Bolivia at the end of a South American Fulbright exchange to finally get to visit her face to face. I’ve been sponsoring and writing her since she was five: she’s now twelve.
We’ve been planning this meeting with the sponsoring organization, Plan International, for six months; the kernel of the idea came a year ago. I knew if I got an exchange to South America, come hell or high water, I would somehow get to Bolivia and meet her and her family face to face.
I had been told that Bolivia was an unstable and dangerous country, especially for a woman alone; and that there were robbers and murderers and narcotraficantes and worse on the highways of the Altiplano, especially in the area where I was headed on the border of Peru and Bolivia. I was advised all manner of things, from packing a handgun illegally purchased from the black markets of La Paz, to hiring ex-marines as bodyguards to accompany me.
I am greeted at my hotel in La Paz by Maria, a volunteer translator for Plan International. Although I speak Spanish fluently, the community where we are heading speaks Aymara, an ancient native language dating back before the Inca. Maria introduces me to Norma, the field representative and to Fernando, our driver. No one speaks English. We clamber into an aging Toyota four wheel drive and begin our adventure.
We fight our way through the congested streets of La Paz, dodging pedestrians, garbage, dogs, road construction, more garbage, discarded furniture and rocks. One way streets that are meant to have two lanes are compacted with five; no one pays attention to traffic lights or stop signs. Children shoot out from between parked cars as if daring the oncoming traffic to hit them. Garbage falls from open pickup truck beds into the streets. Packs of feral dogs scavenging for a meal, oblivious to the oncoming traffic, dart into the street risking their lives for a scrap of food.
We stop at what I think is a convenience store but turns out to be in Bolivian terms a supermarket; I’ve asked if we could find a place to buy some gifts for the family. We roll out of the Toyota and into the market, throwing provisions into the tiny toylike cart. Rice, powdered milk, salt, flour, sugar, pasta, all become part of the gifts I’m bringing for Belinda and her family. Wait. School supplies. How about some scented lotion? She’s twelve now, after all. I toss a pair of berry flavored chapsticks into the mix before paying and heading out the door. The bill for ten huge bags of food and gifts is less than $50.00 US. There’s enough here to eat for a year, I think.
We rearrange ourselves back into the Toyota. With all the groceries, there’s not enough room in back for Norma and Maria. Fernando and I take a few bags up front but Norma and Maria still have to share a seat. They do not complain. It feels like they’ve done this before. No one has working seatbelts.
Into the Altiplano. Bolivia has about 27,000 miles of highways but less than 1,200 miles are paved. Highway travel is arduous and dangerous. Many still do not have guardrails, lighting, shoulders, fencing, and other safety features. Signage is minimal. Gas stations are few and far between. But the worst danger is other drivers. It is common to speed, to pass on curves and blind spots, to drive at night with no lights, and in general, exhibit a blatant disregard for anyone’s life.
Outside are brown fields. A few mud houses. Bare trees. The snowcapped Andes look cold and foreboding in the distance. What if the narcotraficantes stop us? I wonder. I try not to think about it and try to engage everyone in conversation. We talk about Belinda and her family. We make small talk, tell stories, and share memories.
We stop for a bathroom break and a Coka Quina in the tiny town of Laja. Literally a one horse town. We are driving the only vehicle. I am told in Laja there is only one public telephone. We find the only store, stretch, and cram back into the Toyota to resume our adventure.
Shortly thereafter, we turn off the main highway and begin to drive deep into the Altiplano. The road turn to gravel; unhurried farmers herding their livestock to the fields look annoyed as we lumber down their road.
Look! There’s Humberto! shouts Norma. Humberto is Belinda’s father. We have arrived.
Bolivians have a very indigenous and superstitious culture. This is one country that the conquering Spaniards never really were able to win over. To this day,native beliefs continue to thrive right alongside modern ones. A family will have their new baby baptized by a priest, and then visit the Mercado de las Brujas, or the Witches Market, to have a yathiri, or medicine woman, construct an offering to Pachamama to bless the new arrival.
Curious, I wanted to see the old 1500’s cobblestone Calle Linares and the famous Mercado de las Brujas, or Witches Market. On this street, Medicine women, or Yathiri in Aymara, sell medicinal herbs, llama fetuses, dried armadillos, and all manner of potions and talismans for every malady and condition imaginable. There’s a puzzling assortment of statuettes and cloudy old yellowed bottles with potions concocted from animal parts like boa constrictor heads and bat feet.
One of the most popular items is a cholla, or an offering featuring dried llama fetus to bury underneath any new construction for protection.
I bought a pachamama (earth mother) statue which the Yathiri inexplicably wrapped in yellow and red yarn before giving to me.
I also bought an Ekeko to show my students. The Ekeko is a little statue of a traditionally dressed Andean man completely loaded with bags and baskets of food, household objects, currency, and basically anything that a person is thought to need to have a comfortable and prosperous life ; He is said to evoke a full year of prosperity. Every Bolivian household will have an Ekeko in some corner of the home.
Little did I know how much these indigenous beliefs would touch every corner of my visit to Bolivia..
La Lucha Libre is Bolivia’s professional wrestling with a twist…the contenders are women who wear Cholita dress: a multilayered skirt, flat shoes, shawls and traditional bowler hat. The matches take place in El Alto, the poorest and toughest district above La Paz. For 25 bolivianos (about $3.50 US) you get a ringside seat, a drink, snack, souvenir, and two passes to the rest rooms across the street--and some of the best Sunday evening entertainment in La Paz. Lucha Libre is a lowbrow slice of Bolivian culture that few gringos get to experience.
I’m next to a Canadian father and son who heard about the Lucha Libre from a poster in their hostel; the father is having a blast; Son looks like he would rather be having a root canal. They’ve been trekking the Andes together for two months and will be heading back to Quebec soon before Son has to start university.
We try to get Son to embrace the moment; he can’t get past the tackiness of it all to have any fun. We give up and join in with the locals who emphatically throw the remains of their snacks at the characters in the ring; “good” cholitas and “bad” wrestle for cash prizes. I get chucked in the head with a rib bone and respond with an orange peel in the offending direction.
The food fight becomes a full fledged fracas when it becomes evident that the referee has been bribed by Juanita the Bad. The crowd emphatically hurls insults and the remainder of their lunches at the referee; I translate the swear words for the Canadians; Son perks up a bit. Finally, Rosa the Good slams the crooked ref into Juanita the Bad and the match is over.
Five more matches go on like this--sometimes it’s difficult to tell who is good and who is bad -- we side with the crowd to be safe.
The merriment continues until a pair of armed military police show up and order everyone out. I say adios to my Canadian friends and remind Son he’ll have some great stories and a whole new raft of dandy swear words to impress his Spanish teacher when he returns to University. He smiles for the first time that evening.
We all happily spill out into the winter Andean night, and tumble into the warmth of our waiting micros that take us back to our hotel.
