I used to think that being an American of a different race gave me extra credibility in the eyes of Bolivians. Extra cred for what? of being more informed, concerned, and aware of the cultural and social implications of a first worlder in a third world nation.
My experience in the campo changed all that. It didn't matter that I was the same color as my host family. What mattered were my strange clothes, my fancy red backpack, my toilet paper, and the gifts I brought and gave to the family. The simple clothes on my back and the few material goods I brought with me was enough to create a large gap between me and the family. They signified a vast difference in economic and cultural backgrounds, so much so that any gap bridged by being of a darker skin color was only widened again, possibly further than before.
Never have I felt so out of my comfort zone. I had to ask myself, what takes priority in defining my identity? Skin color, gender, appearance, or economic/class background? I realized that it's different depending on where or what kind of situation I'm in. It's disempowering to think that others' perceptions of you determines your role and influence your interpretations of your purpose in a certain situation.
In el campo, it was clear that my nationality and economic background took priority over every other factor of my identity. It's funny because I definitely try to play down my privileged background because I feel like it lessens my credibility as a liberal student out to 'change the world', if you will. But I could not deny my higher economic status in the campo, just because it was so embarrassingly obvious. I need to acknowledge, due to my sheltered and privileged upbringing, that there will be some aspects of inequity and oppression that I may never understand, try as I might. But does it count that I try?
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Thoughts from rural Bolivia part IV
The family didn't treat their animals the way I expected them to. They kick their dogs and throw rocks at the puppy as a favorite pastime. When the father was milking their cow this afternoon, he nearly ripped the cow's nursing calf away from her udders, in order to obtain a bucket of milk from her. And then he would hit the calf everytime it tried to nurse with a thin switch. How can you hit a creature that is trying to do the most natural thing it knows how to do? I was appalled. They also have this tiny puppy, named 'negrito', that they kick around too. Rosa actually peed on the poor thing. I don't really blame Rose, though, because seh doesn't know that it was wrong. IT gives me hope to see that the other older kids seem more sensible and kinder than the younger ones. I actually really like all the children, with one exception: Yaneth. And even then, I can't dislike her, because she probably has some sort of behavioral problem that not being dealt with properly. Her kind and caring side shone through though, at the most unexpected times.
Let me tell you about one of the craziest days I had in the village: I was resting with the father abuela (the dad's mother), and the kids after harvesting some potatoes, when the neighbor came over to visit with her little son. She became very excited when she spotted my camera and asked me to take pictures of her sons. Being that I had a dinky old film camera that didn't zoom, I was taken aback, but agreed to do so anyway. So I went over, met her kids and husband, and stayed for quite a bit. I found the mother much easier to talk to, and I was a little desperate for a mature conversation, so I decided to stay for dinner. She was eager to feed me, and I was eager to eat something that wasn't potato soup.
I noticed something was up when the kids came to the house and tried to lure me back to the house with stories that they were all leaving to eat dinner at their aunt's. I believed them and started to follow, but the neighbor wouldn't hear of it. She said they were bad kids and that I shouldn't listen to them. So I just stayed, once again.
When I returned to the house, only Yaneth, Lisbeth, Eddie, and Rosa were there. They were all standing atop potato sacks, facing the road, and shielding their eyes from the sun. When I asked them what they were looking at, they told me they were watching their father leave. I received 3 different answers as to where he was leaving for: Santa Cruz, Peru, and Argentina. The reason? The mom was still angry at him for coming home completely snookered that one night. He took yon Kevin with him too.
Talk about a difficult situation. I was left alone with these kids. The father had left the family, and I had no idea when the mother would return. Thank god for television. I don't know what I would've done without the power rangers to save me.
The mother returned well after everyone had gone to sleep. She arrived with the baby and Vismar, brandishing a new DVD (Bambi 2), which he immediately popped into the player, much to my displeasure.
I let the kids break the bad news to the mom about her husband in the morning. It would've been difficult to convey this to her, as I speak no Quechua and she could never really understand me when I spoke to her in Spanish. I really couldn't read her reaction. It seemed a lot like apathetic indifference. She just went about her usual tasks as if nothing had happened. I felt so in the dark about everything. I had no idea what was going on in that house.
The power dynamics in my relationship with the family felt pretty one-sided. I was completely dependent upon the kids to help me understand what was going on. They definitely knew it too, and often took advantage of this to tease me. I wonder what they really thought about me. Am I just another crazy gringa? Or am I an intruder in their intimate private world? The way they treated me, I felt like they saw me as a crazy gringa, trying to understand life in the campo. And I suppose that's pretty accurate.
It really bothers me when people idealize country life and poverty. Yes it's admirable and remarkable how little you really need to live your life, but at the same time, it's easy to idealize an existence you yourself don't have to live every single day. It's really difficult. 8 yrs olds cooking their fathers dinners. I don't every want to make my child to that. But I feel like I have a life philosophy that's completely different and almost incomparable than this family, due to the vast material and cultural differences of our backgrounds.
Every night I was there, I dreamt of my family, my friends, my home. That alone tells me that it was not the place for me.
It's pretty strange because my father was raised in a small village outside Bangalore. This existence and lifstyle isn't that distant from me. Or at least, it shouldn't be. But when my father came to the states, he left his village roots behind him. Sudha and I don't really know too much about his life in the village. We used to tease him about being a village boy, collecting cow patties and walking barefoot. He is not ashamed of his village background, but he definitely could not re=live it. In fact, he's quite the germophobe. This stay has made me certain that I will visit my father's village once again.
Wednesday, March 19th
I spent nearly the whole day sitting with the abuelas, drinking chicha (a beer brewed from corn) at the neighbors. They were bad mouthing the childrens' father, chastising him for leaving his wife with 7 children under the age of 15 to feed. This was all in Quechua, so I simply smiled and nodded and continued to be bored out of my mind.
There was a man also sitting with us who questioned the fact that I was from the U.S. He thought I was Bolivian. So I began my prepared spiel about why I was brown and from the states. He asked me other uncomfortable questions such as:
1) How much did your plane ticket to come here cost?
2) Do your parents send you money?
3) Can you buy me chicha?
4) Did you know that Suma means "to add" in Spanish?
I did exactly the opposite of what I planned to do when asked these questions. I blatantly lied. I used to think that was unethical to do so, but I felt very uncomfortable, like I was in an interrogation room. I didn't want to seem like a clumsy, spoiled, privileged little rich kid. Which is, sadly, what I am...but trying to change. I don't know how. This was definitely more difficult than I thought it would be.
But MAAAAAAAN, abuelita arrived super borracha (totally smashed!) at the end of the day. She danced around the house, chased and slapped the kids, and threw me around the room while the kids forced a pollera (traditional dress) on me. She screamed at the top her lungs in Quechua and threw her head back and cackled. She was delightful.
Thursday, March 20th
My last morning in the village. I began thinking about how I must seem to them, my family for 5 days. I show up, with my boy clothes and expensive boots, a seeming neat freak who's littered the field near the house with bright pink toilet paper. She washes her hand too much and doesn't even bother to learn Quechua. She hogs one whole bed all to herself and can't even peel a single potato properly. She makes faces when we blow our noses and thinks she's too good for the food we give her; she's never finished a whole plate! Why should we bring her into our home and put our intimate lives under her scrutiny? We don't owe her a damn thing.
And they would be right to think all those things. Who am I to judge them? They were kind enough to take me into their home and open their lives to me for 5 whole days. I'm grateful for that.
Let me tell you about one of the craziest days I had in the village: I was resting with the father abuela (the dad's mother), and the kids after harvesting some potatoes, when the neighbor came over to visit with her little son. She became very excited when she spotted my camera and asked me to take pictures of her sons. Being that I had a dinky old film camera that didn't zoom, I was taken aback, but agreed to do so anyway. So I went over, met her kids and husband, and stayed for quite a bit. I found the mother much easier to talk to, and I was a little desperate for a mature conversation, so I decided to stay for dinner. She was eager to feed me, and I was eager to eat something that wasn't potato soup.
I noticed something was up when the kids came to the house and tried to lure me back to the house with stories that they were all leaving to eat dinner at their aunt's. I believed them and started to follow, but the neighbor wouldn't hear of it. She said they were bad kids and that I shouldn't listen to them. So I just stayed, once again.
When I returned to the house, only Yaneth, Lisbeth, Eddie, and Rosa were there. They were all standing atop potato sacks, facing the road, and shielding their eyes from the sun. When I asked them what they were looking at, they told me they were watching their father leave. I received 3 different answers as to where he was leaving for: Santa Cruz, Peru, and Argentina. The reason? The mom was still angry at him for coming home completely snookered that one night. He took yon Kevin with him too.
Talk about a difficult situation. I was left alone with these kids. The father had left the family, and I had no idea when the mother would return. Thank god for television. I don't know what I would've done without the power rangers to save me.
The mother returned well after everyone had gone to sleep. She arrived with the baby and Vismar, brandishing a new DVD (Bambi 2), which he immediately popped into the player, much to my displeasure.
I let the kids break the bad news to the mom about her husband in the morning. It would've been difficult to convey this to her, as I speak no Quechua and she could never really understand me when I spoke to her in Spanish. I really couldn't read her reaction. It seemed a lot like apathetic indifference. She just went about her usual tasks as if nothing had happened. I felt so in the dark about everything. I had no idea what was going on in that house.
The power dynamics in my relationship with the family felt pretty one-sided. I was completely dependent upon the kids to help me understand what was going on. They definitely knew it too, and often took advantage of this to tease me. I wonder what they really thought about me. Am I just another crazy gringa? Or am I an intruder in their intimate private world? The way they treated me, I felt like they saw me as a crazy gringa, trying to understand life in the campo. And I suppose that's pretty accurate.
It really bothers me when people idealize country life and poverty. Yes it's admirable and remarkable how little you really need to live your life, but at the same time, it's easy to idealize an existence you yourself don't have to live every single day. It's really difficult. 8 yrs olds cooking their fathers dinners. I don't every want to make my child to that. But I feel like I have a life philosophy that's completely different and almost incomparable than this family, due to the vast material and cultural differences of our backgrounds.
Every night I was there, I dreamt of my family, my friends, my home. That alone tells me that it was not the place for me.
It's pretty strange because my father was raised in a small village outside Bangalore. This existence and lifstyle isn't that distant from me. Or at least, it shouldn't be. But when my father came to the states, he left his village roots behind him. Sudha and I don't really know too much about his life in the village. We used to tease him about being a village boy, collecting cow patties and walking barefoot. He is not ashamed of his village background, but he definitely could not re=live it. In fact, he's quite the germophobe. This stay has made me certain that I will visit my father's village once again.
Wednesday, March 19th
I spent nearly the whole day sitting with the abuelas, drinking chicha (a beer brewed from corn) at the neighbors. They were bad mouthing the childrens' father, chastising him for leaving his wife with 7 children under the age of 15 to feed. This was all in Quechua, so I simply smiled and nodded and continued to be bored out of my mind.
There was a man also sitting with us who questioned the fact that I was from the U.S. He thought I was Bolivian. So I began my prepared spiel about why I was brown and from the states. He asked me other uncomfortable questions such as:
1) How much did your plane ticket to come here cost?
2) Do your parents send you money?
3) Can you buy me chicha?
4) Did you know that Suma means "to add" in Spanish?
I did exactly the opposite of what I planned to do when asked these questions. I blatantly lied. I used to think that was unethical to do so, but I felt very uncomfortable, like I was in an interrogation room. I didn't want to seem like a clumsy, spoiled, privileged little rich kid. Which is, sadly, what I am...but trying to change. I don't know how. This was definitely more difficult than I thought it would be.
But MAAAAAAAN, abuelita arrived super borracha (totally smashed!) at the end of the day. She danced around the house, chased and slapped the kids, and threw me around the room while the kids forced a pollera (traditional dress) on me. She screamed at the top her lungs in Quechua and threw her head back and cackled. She was delightful.
Thursday, March 20th
My last morning in the village. I began thinking about how I must seem to them, my family for 5 days. I show up, with my boy clothes and expensive boots, a seeming neat freak who's littered the field near the house with bright pink toilet paper. She washes her hand too much and doesn't even bother to learn Quechua. She hogs one whole bed all to herself and can't even peel a single potato properly. She makes faces when we blow our noses and thinks she's too good for the food we give her; she's never finished a whole plate! Why should we bring her into our home and put our intimate lives under her scrutiny? We don't owe her a damn thing.
And they would be right to think all those things. Who am I to judge them? They were kind enough to take me into their home and open their lives to me for 5 whole days. I'm grateful for that.
Thoughts from Rural Bolivia (children are insane) Part III
Tuesday, March 18
The nights were unbearably chilly. After that first night of dreamless, death-like sleep, I didn't have a single peaceful slumber. I woke up every so often in the middle of the night, and in the mornings, I awoke, cramped up because I spent every night curled up in a ball trying to stay warm.
I didn't feel very healthy there. I was always tired, never the perfect temperature, and always hungry. Even though they always doubled my portions, I can never eat more than a couple of spoonfuls of potato foup. I felt feverish all the time.
The act of eating can make anyone seem vulnerable. But when I saw those children squatting on the floor, diggin into their tasteless potatoes as if they were kids meals and crying for more, it made me lose my appetite. I felt so disgusted with myself. I have the world at my disposal, yet why do I still complain?
I hope someday I'll be able to come back to this family. see how they're doing, see if they remember me. On my first day, Vismar told me he wishes to come to the states. I hope he does.
Children have so many different facets. I really think it's true, that saying that children are like sponges and soak up everything around them. All of them are so sweet with the youngest, Leni, the baby. They kiss her over and over and often carry her around the house singing songs. But the next moment, they are throwing rocks at the dogs and slapping each other's heads. Your actions around your kids matter so much, because they pick up your habits. It shows how much you represent your upbringing (although this is very debatable).
I was and still am confused about the school situation. All the children go to school normally, but Yaneth didn't go to school the whole time I was living with her family. This is troubling because 1) she was going to fall behind in school
2) her parents were letting her for my sake
3) she is absolutely intolerable at times.
Already she has made me promise to get apples for her. She also repeats the same facts over and over again: that I am fat, and that she is skinny, that she wants to wear and keep my glasses. Not to mention her habit of constantly asking for gifts. I just felt incredibly uncomfortable around her.
That day, Yaneth locked me out of her house and refused to give me the key. I was running a fever and could barely stand. She wouldn't talk to me or look at me until I said I was going to leave for Cochabamba. Bad idea. She was terrified that I would leave and that she would be blamed for it. So she hid the key and went to go get her father (this all occurred over the course of an hour and a half, approx.). To my embarrassment, the father came and made her give me the key. Yaneth and I were at peace once again when I made her understand that I wasn't actually going to leave. We watched Kung Fu Hustle, which kept order for a little bit. THEN, yon Kevin, the other little one, ran outside and refused to come to me. So I sat there, waiting for him to get sick of the game and return to the house, when Yaneth came to try to control the situation. She aggressively attempted to force him into the house, causing him to fall. Yon Kevin's nose began to bleed and he began crying uncontrollably.
I ran into the house for my tissues, and when I came back, Yaneth took them from me and promptly assumed the role of responsible older sibling. She shushed him, cleaned him up, and tucked him neatly into bed. These kids never ceased to impress me.
The nights were unbearably chilly. After that first night of dreamless, death-like sleep, I didn't have a single peaceful slumber. I woke up every so often in the middle of the night, and in the mornings, I awoke, cramped up because I spent every night curled up in a ball trying to stay warm.
I didn't feel very healthy there. I was always tired, never the perfect temperature, and always hungry. Even though they always doubled my portions, I can never eat more than a couple of spoonfuls of potato foup. I felt feverish all the time.
The act of eating can make anyone seem vulnerable. But when I saw those children squatting on the floor, diggin into their tasteless potatoes as if they were kids meals and crying for more, it made me lose my appetite. I felt so disgusted with myself. I have the world at my disposal, yet why do I still complain?
I hope someday I'll be able to come back to this family. see how they're doing, see if they remember me. On my first day, Vismar told me he wishes to come to the states. I hope he does.
Children have so many different facets. I really think it's true, that saying that children are like sponges and soak up everything around them. All of them are so sweet with the youngest, Leni, the baby. They kiss her over and over and often carry her around the house singing songs. But the next moment, they are throwing rocks at the dogs and slapping each other's heads. Your actions around your kids matter so much, because they pick up your habits. It shows how much you represent your upbringing (although this is very debatable).
I was and still am confused about the school situation. All the children go to school normally, but Yaneth didn't go to school the whole time I was living with her family. This is troubling because 1) she was going to fall behind in school
2) her parents were letting her for my sake
3) she is absolutely intolerable at times.
Already she has made me promise to get apples for her. She also repeats the same facts over and over again: that I am fat, and that she is skinny, that she wants to wear and keep my glasses. Not to mention her habit of constantly asking for gifts. I just felt incredibly uncomfortable around her.
That day, Yaneth locked me out of her house and refused to give me the key. I was running a fever and could barely stand. She wouldn't talk to me or look at me until I said I was going to leave for Cochabamba. Bad idea. She was terrified that I would leave and that she would be blamed for it. So she hid the key and went to go get her father (this all occurred over the course of an hour and a half, approx.). To my embarrassment, the father came and made her give me the key. Yaneth and I were at peace once again when I made her understand that I wasn't actually going to leave. We watched Kung Fu Hustle, which kept order for a little bit. THEN, yon Kevin, the other little one, ran outside and refused to come to me. So I sat there, waiting for him to get sick of the game and return to the house, when Yaneth came to try to control the situation. She aggressively attempted to force him into the house, causing him to fall. Yon Kevin's nose began to bleed and he began crying uncontrollably.
I ran into the house for my tissues, and when I came back, Yaneth took them from me and promptly assumed the role of responsible older sibling. She shushed him, cleaned him up, and tucked him neatly into bed. These kids never ceased to impress me.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Thoughts from rural Bolivia part II
Sunday, March 16th.
Fresh cow's milk tastes like thick cream to someone who's only drank skim milk her whole life. I just can't believe I drank a whole cup of milk straight from the udders of a cow. I even saw the mom milking it. I gave most of it to Lisbeth.
I had gone to the river yesterday with Vismar, who turned out to be my little guide for the rest of my stay. We went with Yaneth to wash the children's clothes. That bolivian soap is STRONG, let me tell you. Nearly took of my skin.
I really wanted to go back to the river, (one of the most beautiful places I've seen anywhere, wedged between the motherly mountains and filled with greenery) and waited until Vismar came back home to take me. When Vismar came back from selling bread (fried dough to be exact), we went down to the river, met his mother washing clothes on the way, and picked up his little brother, Eddie, on the way. While they swam, I sat and watched them, while trying to clean my shoes (they had already started to emit an unpleasant, goat-like odor).
On the way back, Vismar decided to make a pit stop at my 'amiga's' house. He kept asking me what her name was, but I had no idea which 'amiga' he was talking about. 'Mi amiga' as it turns out, was Julia Schute. Her family has a number of apple trees in their yard and the apples were soo delicious. Their house was also much nicer than the house my family lived in. More property, plaster walls, and nicer furniture.
It was nice to see someone I knew, a friendly face that I knew that wouldn't laugh at me for not knowing how to wash clothes by hand or peel potatoes with a blunt knife. This stay in the village definitely made me realize how privileged a spoiled I really am. While Julia and I exchanged stories of our families, the boys played futbol outside and munched on applies.Her family, at least the younger children, refer to her as "gringa", and often forget her name. She, like me, had problems in knowing what her role is at the house. Unlike me, she wasn't able to help the mother around the house, and instead, resigned herself to being the babysitter, a role she enjoys, although she was mostly bored, like myself.
Vismar and I headed back to the house. No one was there and Vismar left too. to where? I had no idea. But I found Lizbeth in the back, harvesting potatoes, so she got me a harvesting thingies and we did it together. I had never farmed before, unless you count my family's square foot chili pepper garden. Harvesting papas was quite the experience for me. I really enjoyed it because I finally felt like I was being helpful. I was actually disappointed when they called me inside. I then helped them peel papas with the mather. The mom peeled about 4-5 papas for every one of mine. Even the 8 yr old came in for a bit a peeled more papas than I had total, and then left to play with her siblings. I was grateful that they didn't laugh at me too much.
During dinner, Yaneth grabbed my arm and said, "Mira! Papa esta borracho!" (Look! Dad is drunk!). OF course, I did not follow her to gawk at her drunk dad, and continued to eat my soup as if nothing had happened. It certainly was a strange atmosphere. All the children were whispering to one another and giggling. They then gathered in the kitchen, quiet and still. I couldn't tell if they were scared or amused or both. I just hoped he wasn't a violent drunk. In the end, he stumbled around the yard a bit, sang a little diddy, and passed out for the night.
The next day, I was told that I would accompany the kids to school and was excited to do so. Better than just sitting around the house, for sure. But as it turned out, I was to stay at home with the 3 youngest kids (not including the baby) and the father. The mom had gone with Lisette to drop her off at the high school in the next town. So I was left at home, the reluctant babysitter, once again.
Yaneth drove me absolutely CRAZY. Everytime I tried to write in my hournal, she would ask to draw in it. I would give it to her, delighted, but then she would scribble a bit, and give it back, saying she was tired. This cycle happened several times. Then, she told me that her mother had told her to cook. Being that she was a tiny 8 yr old, I didn't believe her, and tired to distract her from cooking. She insisted upon cooking, and in the end, I let her do whatever she wanted, and just tried to make sure she didn't hurt herself in the process.
This is one competent little girl. Before I knew it, she had boiled a pot of potatoes and friend 5 eggs. I just couldn't believe it! Considering I still barely know how to make a pb and j sandwich at the age of 21, this little girl really took me aback. She called her father out from the field where he was harvesting papas and brought him a plate of them. Crazy, no?
I was so nervous the whole time, that I would get in trouble for letting Yaneth do whatever she wanted to in the kitchen, but her father silently took the plate from Yaneth and ate quietly in the corner. It was very strange...although now that I think about it, I bet my father would've been delighted if I had made a meal for him at age 8. A good housewife in the making.
After playing with the kids a bit more and slipping the ducks my extra food (I couldn't eat that many potatoes! I felt like I was turning into a potato), I helped the father harvest more papas. It's back breaking work, but it was so satisfying to catch a glimpse of red potato skin amongst the mountain of pure black soil.
I felt very uncomfortable when Yaneth asked me if I had brought more toys. In all honesty, I believe I brought more than other on this program, but I wished I had brought more. In addition to the customary fruit and bread, I had brought nuts, raisins, a harmonica, playing cards, and temporary tatooes. But nothing I could've brought would've seemed enough.
Fresh cow's milk tastes like thick cream to someone who's only drank skim milk her whole life. I just can't believe I drank a whole cup of milk straight from the udders of a cow. I even saw the mom milking it. I gave most of it to Lisbeth.
I had gone to the river yesterday with Vismar, who turned out to be my little guide for the rest of my stay. We went with Yaneth to wash the children's clothes. That bolivian soap is STRONG, let me tell you. Nearly took of my skin.
I really wanted to go back to the river, (one of the most beautiful places I've seen anywhere, wedged between the motherly mountains and filled with greenery) and waited until Vismar came back home to take me. When Vismar came back from selling bread (fried dough to be exact), we went down to the river, met his mother washing clothes on the way, and picked up his little brother, Eddie, on the way. While they swam, I sat and watched them, while trying to clean my shoes (they had already started to emit an unpleasant, goat-like odor).
On the way back, Vismar decided to make a pit stop at my 'amiga's' house. He kept asking me what her name was, but I had no idea which 'amiga' he was talking about. 'Mi amiga' as it turns out, was Julia Schute. Her family has a number of apple trees in their yard and the apples were soo delicious. Their house was also much nicer than the house my family lived in. More property, plaster walls, and nicer furniture.
It was nice to see someone I knew, a friendly face that I knew that wouldn't laugh at me for not knowing how to wash clothes by hand or peel potatoes with a blunt knife. This stay in the village definitely made me realize how privileged a spoiled I really am. While Julia and I exchanged stories of our families, the boys played futbol outside and munched on applies.Her family, at least the younger children, refer to her as "gringa", and often forget her name. She, like me, had problems in knowing what her role is at the house. Unlike me, she wasn't able to help the mother around the house, and instead, resigned herself to being the babysitter, a role she enjoys, although she was mostly bored, like myself.
Vismar and I headed back to the house. No one was there and Vismar left too. to where? I had no idea. But I found Lizbeth in the back, harvesting potatoes, so she got me a harvesting thingies and we did it together. I had never farmed before, unless you count my family's square foot chili pepper garden. Harvesting papas was quite the experience for me. I really enjoyed it because I finally felt like I was being helpful. I was actually disappointed when they called me inside. I then helped them peel papas with the mather. The mom peeled about 4-5 papas for every one of mine. Even the 8 yr old came in for a bit a peeled more papas than I had total, and then left to play with her siblings. I was grateful that they didn't laugh at me too much.
During dinner, Yaneth grabbed my arm and said, "Mira! Papa esta borracho!" (Look! Dad is drunk!). OF course, I did not follow her to gawk at her drunk dad, and continued to eat my soup as if nothing had happened. It certainly was a strange atmosphere. All the children were whispering to one another and giggling. They then gathered in the kitchen, quiet and still. I couldn't tell if they were scared or amused or both. I just hoped he wasn't a violent drunk. In the end, he stumbled around the yard a bit, sang a little diddy, and passed out for the night.
The next day, I was told that I would accompany the kids to school and was excited to do so. Better than just sitting around the house, for sure. But as it turned out, I was to stay at home with the 3 youngest kids (not including the baby) and the father. The mom had gone with Lisette to drop her off at the high school in the next town. So I was left at home, the reluctant babysitter, once again.
Yaneth drove me absolutely CRAZY. Everytime I tried to write in my hournal, she would ask to draw in it. I would give it to her, delighted, but then she would scribble a bit, and give it back, saying she was tired. This cycle happened several times. Then, she told me that her mother had told her to cook. Being that she was a tiny 8 yr old, I didn't believe her, and tired to distract her from cooking. She insisted upon cooking, and in the end, I let her do whatever she wanted, and just tried to make sure she didn't hurt herself in the process.
This is one competent little girl. Before I knew it, she had boiled a pot of potatoes and friend 5 eggs. I just couldn't believe it! Considering I still barely know how to make a pb and j sandwich at the age of 21, this little girl really took me aback. She called her father out from the field where he was harvesting papas and brought him a plate of them. Crazy, no?
I was so nervous the whole time, that I would get in trouble for letting Yaneth do whatever she wanted to in the kitchen, but her father silently took the plate from Yaneth and ate quietly in the corner. It was very strange...although now that I think about it, I bet my father would've been delighted if I had made a meal for him at age 8. A good housewife in the making.
After playing with the kids a bit more and slipping the ducks my extra food (I couldn't eat that many potatoes! I felt like I was turning into a potato), I helped the father harvest more papas. It's back breaking work, but it was so satisfying to catch a glimpse of red potato skin amongst the mountain of pure black soil.
I felt very uncomfortable when Yaneth asked me if I had brought more toys. In all honesty, I believe I brought more than other on this program, but I wished I had brought more. In addition to the customary fruit and bread, I had brought nuts, raisins, a harmonica, playing cards, and temporary tatooes. But nothing I could've brought would've seemed enough.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Thoughts from rural Bolivia
I realize it seems a bit backward to begin a blog after you come back from a trip, but that's exactly what I'm doing, so suck on that. Unreliable internet access as well as limited funds (internet cafes are not expensive, but it adds up) and time kept me from keeping a virtual diary of my experiences/thoughts/feelings/all that good stuff on my study abroad in Bolivia.
This entry (and possibly many of the following entries) consists (or will consist) of excerpts from a journal I kept during my village stay in Bolivia, an experience I believe to be one of the most valuable I had in Bolivia. I began the journal as part of a homework assignment, which are generally in Spanish, but I chose to write in English for privacy reasons. The family I stayed with would often flip through my notebook, and ask me to translate what I had written. I depended on this journal to help me process the overwhelming differences in lifestyles, philosophies, and behaviors of the people around me and in the end, it grew to be my closest friend in the 5 short days I spent in Tiraque, a rural village 2 hours south of Cochabamba, or as the Bolivians call it, "el corazon de Bolivia" (the heart of Bolivia). Here are some of my thoughts during my stay in the village:
Never in my life did I think I would be watching Kung Fu Hustle dubbed in spanish in a Bolivian village with two small children climbing all over me. But it did indeed occur my firstday in Tiraque.
I really didn't know what to expect before I arrived in the village. I wasn't nervous, but I wasn't excited either. My mind was a complete blank, although I told myself I was just keeping an open mind.
When I arrived at the house of my new host family for 5 days, the first thing my new mom did was give me an overflowing bowl of potato soup. I actually enjoyed it, before I knew that that's what I'd be eating for 5 days straight. The family had 8 children, all under the age of 15. They were:
Lizeth - 14 yrs
Vismar - 12 yrs
Lisbeth - 10 yrs
Eddy - 9 yrs
Yaneth - 8 yrs
Rosa - 6 yrs
yon Kevin - 4 yrs
Leni - 2 months
The parents, Felisa and Fredi, were surprisingly young, too, only in their 30s. When I told them how old my parents are, they nodded gravely and said in Spanish, "Very old, your parents. Like grandparents."
I knew that I was going to have to be very patient and flexible in a house with so many young children. I'm a bit of a germophobe, brought up in my plastic-wrapped disposable world, and was somewhat horrified by the children blowing their noses into their sweaters and throwing their garbage every which way. Not to mention the 'bathroom', a hidden clearing behind the duck house. I wasn't so bothered by the fact that I had to 'nature pee', so much as paranoid that someone would see me.
They asked me when I first arrived if I wanted to stay in my own room (they had cleared out a small area in the potato shed). I decided to sleep in the same room as the rest of the family, because I felt that would truly bring me closer to them. Although the roof leaked, my bed was filled with fleas, and the youngest cried all night long, I slept really well that first night.
More to come...
This entry (and possibly many of the following entries) consists (or will consist) of excerpts from a journal I kept during my village stay in Bolivia, an experience I believe to be one of the most valuable I had in Bolivia. I began the journal as part of a homework assignment, which are generally in Spanish, but I chose to write in English for privacy reasons. The family I stayed with would often flip through my notebook, and ask me to translate what I had written. I depended on this journal to help me process the overwhelming differences in lifestyles, philosophies, and behaviors of the people around me and in the end, it grew to be my closest friend in the 5 short days I spent in Tiraque, a rural village 2 hours south of Cochabamba, or as the Bolivians call it, "el corazon de Bolivia" (the heart of Bolivia). Here are some of my thoughts during my stay in the village:
Never in my life did I think I would be watching Kung Fu Hustle dubbed in spanish in a Bolivian village with two small children climbing all over me. But it did indeed occur my firstday in Tiraque.
I really didn't know what to expect before I arrived in the village. I wasn't nervous, but I wasn't excited either. My mind was a complete blank, although I told myself I was just keeping an open mind.
When I arrived at the house of my new host family for 5 days, the first thing my new mom did was give me an overflowing bowl of potato soup. I actually enjoyed it, before I knew that that's what I'd be eating for 5 days straight. The family had 8 children, all under the age of 15. They were:
Lizeth - 14 yrs
Vismar - 12 yrs
Lisbeth - 10 yrs
Eddy - 9 yrs
Yaneth - 8 yrs
Rosa - 6 yrs
yon Kevin - 4 yrs
Leni - 2 months
The parents, Felisa and Fredi, were surprisingly young, too, only in their 30s. When I told them how old my parents are, they nodded gravely and said in Spanish, "Very old, your parents. Like grandparents."
I knew that I was going to have to be very patient and flexible in a house with so many young children. I'm a bit of a germophobe, brought up in my plastic-wrapped disposable world, and was somewhat horrified by the children blowing their noses into their sweaters and throwing their garbage every which way. Not to mention the 'bathroom', a hidden clearing behind the duck house. I wasn't so bothered by the fact that I had to 'nature pee', so much as paranoid that someone would see me.
They asked me when I first arrived if I wanted to stay in my own room (they had cleared out a small area in the potato shed). I decided to sleep in the same room as the rest of the family, because I felt that would truly bring me closer to them. Although the roof leaked, my bed was filled with fleas, and the youngest cried all night long, I slept really well that first night.
More to come...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
