Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Es una barbaridad!

This blog's name and this particular post refers to something Mrs. Natalia Mendoza, our gracious host on Isla del Sol in Ch'alla , said to Sierra and me while staying at her house. Every morning, we would drink hot sweet tea and a piece of white bread, while Senora Mendoza made the morning soup. That's right, soup for breakfast! Living on the island is no piece of cake, and you need your energy. But the only problem was that neither Sierra nor I drink tea with sugar. In fact, Sierra had cut processed sugar completely out of her diet before coming to Bolivia. So after a few days of sickingly sweet tea (I mean half a cup of sugar in my cup of tea, no joke), I asked for tea without sugar.

Senora Mendoza: "No azucar?!" (No sugar?!)
Me: No, muy extrano, yo se (No, very strange, I know).
Senora Mendoza, shaking her head: No azucar, no azucar! Es una barbaridad! (No sugar, no sugar!? It's a barbarity!)

As she shook her head at us, she gave us two spoonfuls of sugar anyway. She laughed and tromped out of the room, as she usually did.

I miss Senora Mendoza.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

I have a mullet.

My mother allowed me to study abroad in Bolivia under two conditions:

1) That I do not fall in love with a Bolivian
2) That I shan't cut my hair.

Fair enough, I thought, considering she didn't list don't do headstands in the middle of political protests or hitch-hike into Brasil or graffiti the streets of La Paz with an anarchist feminist group or get arrested. Unfortunately, I failed to live up to my promises. I strayed from the path of a good, polite, and considerate Indian girl and put my family's honor to shame.

I cut my hair.

To be more accurate, an Italian ex-hair stylist from Germany cut my hair in the back of a bar in Copacabana. His name was Sergio, and he was the first friend Sierra and I made on our independent study adventure. He was born and brought up in Germany to Italian immigrants. He and his brother shared a passion to beautify the world and chose to assist in this tremendous goal by going to cosmotology school. For proof of his talent, he had brought with him a photo album of his work. He seemed pretty legit. He was also the best dressed hippie in Copacabana, not to mention the cleanest-looking.

So we met up with him at the said bar, and we got to talking. He told us he was traveling all around South America and cutting hair along the way to fund his trip. I figured, when the hell else am I going to have this opportunity? So I asked him to cut my hair. He had already cut 3 other's hair in the bar that night and they looked amazing. He got all excited and immediately got his supplies out. I made the mistake of telling him to do whatever he wanted.

....3 hours later (or what seemed like 3 hours later) my shorn hair had collected in the corner of the room, like a dead possum (or five). Sierra and Cari were looking at me funny, and Sergio looked exhausted. I was getting a little nervous by now because Sergio, halfway through the haircut, had said, "I just don't GET Indian hair!". I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to get out of that??

Once he had finished, I reluctantly pulled myself to the bathroom mirror. Even in the dim light, I knew this was the WORST haircut I had ever gotten. It was a mullet. that's right, a genuine, bona-fide business in the front, party in the back, uncle jesse MULLET. But Sergio was so sweet and he had just told us about his paragliding experience today where he got electrocuted and nearly escaped death, that I didn't have the heart to tell him I didn't like it.
So I just smiled and handed him 50 bolivianos (equivalent of $7, which I think was the most he'd gotten for a haircut).

Oh well, hair grows back right? Until then, I can break out my neon pink tights and headband and pretend I traveled in time from the 80's.