Well folks, I figured I'd write...it's a little weird writing to an abstract page of words about only me, but I assume it's a summary of what I'm doing at least for me to look back upon when I forget what life was like down here. Because life is different down here but I would argue it is very small when you see more than one side of it.
I'll start with the weather as always. I'm experiencing what I first knew when I arrived in the altiplano...the fall or better known as a rather abrupt flip into cold, dry, brown, and windy existence. My layers continually increase, I watch the sun return to its spot that I first knew rising above the mountains, and today I saw the first ice in my sink form overnight (the water felt freezing the past couple of weeks, but evidence was needed). Sitting in my room, my fingers and toes chill, and riding my bike in the sun my back and forehead under the brim of my hat sweat, hot cold, sun shade, outdoor indoor. Extremes. That's the nick-name of this place.
About a house and a half away, a new cell phone tower antennae went up...in about a four days. It's huge, maybe 60 meters or so. I've watched the men from my patio working, scaling up the metal (without being harnessed in) and TYING a part of a pulley system to the built structure as it went toward the sky, all while yelling to each other in a jibberish sound to my ears of which I've been told it's Guaraní, the language of the indigenous people from the Chaco region of Bolivia and further into Paraguay. More evidence we live in a small world. Most people here speak 2 languages naturally, sometimes 3, and even have visiting construction workers speaking a 4th in our midst...naturally.
I write this on a Wednesday night before the 'big political event'. Apparently, there is something going on in Santa Cruz that would at worst, split Bolivia in two, and at best, past without me even knowing it occurred. I can almost guarantee the second option seeing as Saturday is another town festival where I am expected to dance and help my host mom serve food and meet more of my 9 host siblings that will be arriving for the first time and will have no access, need, or desire to search out a TV, radio, or gossip line about the situation. The day will pass, and Sunday I will wake up and go to my local gossip/news lady and ask what she's heard, that is if Peace Corps doesn't call first to evacuate us...but that is unlikely, although possible. Didn't I mention extreme as the name of this game?
Today I went to do a trash taller (workshop...although I don't think the english word quite defines what a taller is supposed to be like) at a campo (again 'out-in-the-country' just doesn't make as much sense as campo) school and everything went normally...meaning nothing as planned but expected as such...and left reflecting on my involvement in this school with a good odd feeling. I left feeling like I was a 'true' Peace Corps volunteer. I know that sounds weird, since I know I am, but sometimes it is all too familiar to me, or abnormal, or simply incomprehensible to me.
I rode away from the small town imagining pictures of Peace Corps volunteers in brochures and websites and trying to believe that the normality of what I do everyday is the absurdity of what I signed up to do. It is the constant feeling of being the novelty in a situation. The stares, and shyness. The broken "hello", "how are you?" or simply "gringa" spoken from a retreating face in the window and laughter that follows. Being the minority and struggling to break those lines everyday. Sometimes it isn't hard, when small children unabashedly run and hug me yelling my name and telling me not to leave. As I walked away from the school, a small crowd lingered at my heels until I reached the road and hopped on my bike, hesitantly I waited to see if they wanted to say something, but no they were just absorbing. So I pedal off, passing women swinging their skirts, aguayos loaded, spinning wool or knitting in their hands, herding sheep or simply walking to town, and the occasional face that knew me well and smiled, nodded, and glowed with recognition of this akward creature riding past in carharts and a timbuktu bag swung weirdly over her shoulder with sunglasses and a felt hat on wishing she had worn another layer to combat the cold wind coming around the mountain. So is my life. A life lived mainly to make a lasting good impression if nothing else.
1 comments:
great picture. at first glance it even looks like one of those old western photos with the girls wearing low cut dresses and holding bottles of bourbon and the men, stern, holding pistols.
you're right about things seeming "all too familiar, abnormal, and simply incomprehensible" to you. you mentioned that "your layers continually increase," which can be analyzed to mean more than wearing a few more sweaters. you're learning, and aware of it, triumphantly and tragically. it's good to stay aware, as you are, through writing (you are such a gently powerful writer) or sitting in your room or taking a walk outside in your felt hat. thank you for sharing with us.
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