Collisions

            I stuff a dozen leaves of coca into my mouth, slowly gnawing the bitter wad into the space between my cheek and bottom teeth. The ball of leaves rests there, and I let the warm buzz saturate my tongue. We are traveling from Sucre, the legal capital of Bolivia, to the mining town of Potosí- the birthplace of European capital development that rests at a staggering elevation of 13,420 feet. The view from the window blurs into a varying mosaic of felted polleras, dusted mountain caps and myriad furry friends.

           

The bag of coca circles back to me. For a moment, I could be back in Colorado as I again face a pouch of something ‘green’ and ‘medicinal’. I pick five pieces and add them to the wad. Coca is culturally revered in Bolivia, employed to heal the pains of fatigue, hunger and altitude sickness. My group hosts the leaves dutifully as we climb the 4,000 feet. I join the trend not really to ward off altitude sickness, but instead to create a physical barrier between my mouth and food. In the two hours of traveling, I have eaten two sandwiches, a few chocolate candies, an apple and honestly probably something else that I have already forgotten. I look down and wedged into the numerous wrinkles of my t-shirt are large orange crumbs. Oh yeah, Doritos. I know that a package of cookies is seducing me from my backpack, but I stay strong and let the bitterness of the leaves consume me.

~

            We turn the corner and enter the first bar we hear. Ellie Goulding is totally gettin’ jiggy with it, and while I know that I really should disdain the proliferation of American pop music, I am already bumping my shoulder to the beat. As we filter through the light crowd to make it to the outdoor patio and dance floor, we suddenly stop. Our mouths round with hilarious shock. Bria is the first one to say it, “Wait, isn’t this where we were this afternoon?”

            The ‘where’ in her question is MASIS, a community ethno-development program that works to teach children indigenous music and dance. Just hours earlier, our group had visited the Sucre program and watched the children’s performance of Andean songs. In fact, in the very spot a 9-year-old boy had been merrily playing the julajula a woman was now droppin’ it lo to da flo. My friend Zatio announces that she is going to request “Cake” by Rihanna and any lingering memory of children evaporates into the mood lighting.

~

            As our bus pulls into Potosí, I feel like I am being dragged through a time warp. The town is layered in various shades of grey, small stone houses slowly fading into colonial plazas. Breaking the gloomy skyline emerges the infamous red peak of Cerro Rico. When the Spanish arrived in the mid-16^th century, Cerro Rico was the richest untapped mine the world had ever known. In less than two centuries, the Spanish crown would exploit over 16,000,000 kilograms of silver from the mine, leaving an estimated 8 million corpses of indigenous and African slaves in the wake of their river of spoils. Today, the miners, both men and children alike, still work in the mountain amidst dangerous conditions. The mine is known as ‘the mountain that eats men’.  

            After spending the night in Potosí, our group enters the mines. We are dressed in traditional mining gear and sport an orange suit, thick black boots and a wobbly head hat and lamp. We split into groups of six to follow a guide dutifully to the opening of the mine. We each carry a bottle of soda and a bag of coca as simple (yet incomplete) gifts of reciprocidad. As we enter the mine, the sloshing noise of our rubber boots in the groundwater and the growing darkness begin to amplify. Almost immediately after we abandon the last remnants of sunshine a large rumble echoes through the mine tunnel. Our guide yells back, ¡suban! Frantically hugging the farthest edge of the wall, I look up only to see my light illuminate a jagged patch of splattered red liquid.

            The rumble grows and two miners heave a large wagon filled with fragments of rock. The wagon, propelled entirely by the men’s strength, is estimated to weigh one ton. Our guide sets one bag of the soda and coca on the wagon, and the men huff past us, sweat dripping and hands weathered. We continue.

~

           

            My shoulders are KILLIN’ it tonight. Crazy in Love blasts through the speakers, and I wiggle and shake my shoulders with you know, a more subtle (some might even say sophisticated) take on sex appeal. I even break out my signature move- the wiggle starts in my left shoulder and then I throw it over to the right all while curving my chest inwards in a totally Esmeralda-not-the-Hunchback-of-Notre-Dame way. The rest of my friends are salsa dancing, smooth hips and articulated footsteps. I pray to god that they don’t try to dance with me. I got my wiggle; I got my Birkenstocks and socks. Do I really need human interaction?

            Abby reaches out and grabs my hands. God damnit. Okay so here, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I am petrified of the human touch. I may say “Oh, I am afraid of heights! Yes, heights- that is my phobia!” to appear socially normal, but in reality, nothing gets my fight-o-flight mode pumping like a touch. This goes for hugs (YOU ARE SO CLOSE TO ANOTHER PERSON), hand-holding (what if I’m grabbing too hard) or even when a person sits close to me on the couch (can they feel my awkward fast heart beats). And of course, there’s dancing. The rhythm for sure does not flow through me- I was born with a dam. Abby spins me around and ah where does my foot go and I totally just brazed her boob and shit I just tripped on my pant leg and is the song over fuck just keep smiling and fake laughing Al you got this.

            Mid twirl, I chug the rest of the neon green liquid in my glass. Medicine. Abby lets go to throw her hands in the hair, and I am euphoric. I am Rose and Jack is right beside me bursting in all his elation. I slowly edge out of the circle and reclaim my shoulder wiggle. There’s really no place like home.

~

            We have been underground for 40 minutes. After climbing into a rugged enclave, our guide announces that he wants us to feel the mines without light. One by one, the members of my group reach up to voluntarily plunge us into darkness. My switch sticks and soon I am the only light remaining. The guide slowly approaches me, reaching up to grab my light. He grins wickedly, engulfing us all in black- and then he is telling ghost stories…

            In the blackness, I have never felt more ‘foreign’. The guide hushes tales of workers getting lost in the maze of the tunnels. The lost workers can scream for help but often they are left forever in deafening stillness. I realize that I will only be left in the darkness for a few moments, and I am suddenly so angry at myself for believing that I had any right to be here. Moments pass drenched in ebony. One by one, our lights flicker on, sending brightness into the stillness. We trek back to the opening and as the lighting of the tunnel fades from midnight to dusk, I walk steadily toward the sliver of clouds in the distance.

~

            In Bolivia, I have been two travelers: a dance floor wiggler and an invasive outsider critically pondering my place in the world. So I must ask… How should we travel? Should I merely tour or can I see deeper? World- I want to taste you, I want to know how you cuddle up at night, and I want to see how you both hunt the light and banish the dark. Do I tread with light feet and a lighter heart or can I bathe in your ugly underbelly? We often believe that the only way to experience the fullness of humanity is to search for those elite moments- the travel ‘superlatives’. The most fun, blissful memory. Or the most difficult, uncomfortable moment. What’s the sweet spot in which travel can connect humanity?

            I think the answer is in collisions. On Monday, I again flagged down a trufi and found myself wedging into the final spot in the back row. As I jumped inside, I reeled toward the back with way too much force. My backpack flew into the arms of a Bolivian woman, and I threw my side hard into her body. In this moment, I was invasive, foreign, ‘other’. But the whole exchange left me breathless, and I finally let out a huge puff of air. A collision. I am about to apologize when the woman starts laughing uncontrollably. And then I am laughing, and we are hugging my backpack together as we fly through the traffic. And isn't it small and wonderful and sweet that I collided right into her world? 

The Head and the Heart

December 3, 2012

I stand waiting in a human traffic jam. Twenty-four Indonesians, seven Americans, one door. As we slowly file into the Indonesian ‘fast-food’ restaurant, I again feel so out of place. I tower over the huddle of Indonesians, and in the midst of their artfully colored kerudungs and ebony locks my rust-shaded curls spring in every direction (my hair color was recovering from a more than mild identity crisis in which I had decided to ‘discover myself’ in a box of L’Oreal café-colored hair dye). We finally make it to the table, and I nestle myself into a hard red plastic chair. Almost immediately, two rows of fifty small traditional dishes are delivered to the table. In front of me, various types of what can only be described as soft orange lumps wait expectantly. My friend Ocha dives right in, carving off half of one of the orange lumps and scooping it into her mouth with a satisfied mmmm. She swallows and with brown eyes wide and expectant, says: “You need to try this!”. I mean, it was an orange lump not a chocolate-banana milkshake, but hey, her enthusiasm couldn’t be for nothing, right? I scoop up the other half of the dish and toss it in my mouth. I bite down hard and my tooth falls on something chewy, wet and (I swear) a little wiggly. I immediately reach for my water and wash the whole bite down without another taste. I eye Ocha incredulously, wordlessly pleading for enlightenment.

She shrugs and answers: “It’s the brain of a cow.”

~

I turn off the lights, snuggling deeper into my comforter as I open my book and promptly stuff five pieces of Dove dark chocolate into my mouth. I savor the taste as I turn the page. God, will Remy and Dexter just get back together already? The past thirty pages of my novel have been romance-less, and I have slowly stopped trying to avoid my daydreams in which I give Remy a good talking to for letting the love of her life go. I mean he sings, HE IS ADORABLY CLUMSY and god he always…. My phone rings, interrupting my perfectly outlined discourse of the reasons-why-Remy-should-love-Dexter. I roll over to see that my host mom is calling me. 10:02 pm. I answer, and she rambles quickly in Spanish. I hear something about dinner and give my standard, ¡por supuesto mamá!

Fuck. I really should not have smuggled those last eight pieces of bread. I slide into my Birkenstocks and softly consider putting a bra on, but in classic Fat Amy fashion, I eventually decide hmm, better not. I climb the five floors down to my family’s restaurant. We eat every meal in the restaurant; in fact, our apartment only hosts a half-full liter of Coke, a couple rolls of bread and a few pieces of dog feces. I sit at the family table as I wait for my host mom to join me. The restaurant is cluttered with a few dozen tables, each dressed in orange and green flourishes with white plastic seats. A Brazilian telenovela plays on the TV. My host sister (a fabulous, beautiful 23 year old) is adamant that Brazilian soaps are far superior to their more popular Mexican counterparts. To me, they all seem a little over-dramatic. I mean how many sneaky mistresses and evil twins could there be in the world and the music really is so overdone and … On the screen, the main character shoots and kills a man. AND NOW HIS GIRLFRIEND HAS THE GUN. I take back everything I’ve said. This show is life.

My host mother eventually interrupts my newfound state of hypnosis by placing a plate of food in front of me. So far, the food has been great. Fried chicken, various forms of potatoes, this one perfectly seasoned steak and of course, more chicken. I look down at my plate and see one skewer of a chicken and pepper kabob. Yum. The other skewer hosts five pieces of dark meat, and I can only assume it’s carne de vaca. I start with the chicken kabob, savoring every bite of pepper (vegetables are few and far between here). As I chew, I glance at my host mom. She’s really a great woman: sassy, spunky and fiercely independent. She points at my other skewer and tells me the meat is of the heart of the cow.

And suddenly I’m back in that ‘fast food’ restaurant. I almost believe Ocha is sitting in front of me, brown eyes and orange lumps glistening.

I take a deep breath. Trying new foods abroad has always been difficult for me. I have continually fallen prey to the seduction of travel- a simple wanderlust that has tugged me across the globe. But in this moment, the tug from deep in my stomach did not feel so seductive. The heart is a delicacy in Bolivia and a specialty of my family’s restaurant. I really wish I wasn’t so into labels, but right now, those titles of praise were the only things pushing me to pull the skewer to my mouth. I take a piece and bite down.

A burst of flavor floods my mouth. The spices are sweet with an innate saltiness; the two taste compounds swirl into something only slightly short of divine. I chase the piece with a grilled potato, and the flavors merrily engage in a foreplay riquísimo. (Okay here, I do admit that perhaps I have been reading too many romance novels). The texture is dense and chewy- the only trigger to remind me of what I am actually eating. I hesitate a little as the growing, pounding image of a beating heart competes with the pleasure of my taste buds. A crossroads.

Late last night, I took a taxi home. Taxis, unlike trufis, do not have a fixed route. The streets are often littered with numerous legitimate radio taxis (company names splattered on their flanks) and other, rusty white cars with neon stickers claiming “TAXI”. One can only guess which taxi leads to home and which leads to a closed dark alleyway; so thus, hailing a taxi becomes a life-sized match of Russian roulette. Anyways, in my (hopefully) legitimate taxi ride home last night, my taxi driver began to ask questions about my life and my time in Cochabamba. Another crossroads. My practical memory recalls years of safety trainings, and I tighten up, too aware that this man could drive me into darkness. Yet, another piece of me- that simple wanderlust- wants to fall into this friendly conversación... So here’s the question:

Do I follow what I ‘know’ or what I never thought I could know?

Do I give a clipped answer (wrapping further into myself and the binds of insecurity) or do I meet culture with the beautiful informality of a giggling head nod? Do I eat the heart?

~

I start the conversation: Estoy estudiando a la Universidad de San Simon, ¿y tú?

I take another bite of the heart and finish the skewer whole.

Trufi Oofs: A Compilation

I stare out the window as the Bolivian man next to me subtly thrusts his elbow deeper into my side. He’s holding a large silver bowl filled with traditional sopa, and his son nestles close, solemnly looking at his feet. I turn my attention back to the window and smell something sweaty and spoiled. Just as I am about to claim “cultural differences” and skeptically eye the soup sloshing next to me, I sniff deeper and realize the smell is me. As we pass by a colorful women selling fresh-squeezed orange juice on the corner of the calle, I suddenly and vividly remember that I did in fact forget to put deodorant on my left armpit… But was it really my fault that Wicked’s ‘Dancing Through Life” called for my deodorant stick to be used as microphone during the final vocal arc? I scoot closer to the door and hope that the warm flavor of the sopa is strong enough to beat out my only-growing cloud of BO.

Riding the trufi (a glamorized compact taxi with a fixed route) is my favorite part of the day. The ride- a crazed speed race filled with should-have-been accidents and merely suggestive traffic laws- is a 30 minute collision of color. Splattered graffiti, tangled telephone wires and dozens of meticulous trenzas whizz past me as I stare out the window and get a deep, uneven sunburn on the right side of my body. While I am sure that many profound things have happened during my first two weeks in Cochabamba, Bolivia, I am going to instead share all of my awkward, totally MLIA moments on the trufi- because hey, even in South America, I walk with two left feet, a really unfortunate resting bitch face and the grace of a pig without legs.

Trufi Oof #1: The One Where I Almost Kill a Man

So I might be just a tad bit uptight. While Cochabamba culture might call for a deep tranquilidad, I still have my super-fast internal clock that winds faster and faster, even as I sit here, heart-racing while writing this blog post. I’m working on it.

A note about catching/exiting a trufi- there are no stops and successfully entering and exiting the car is a process only gifted to those who understand the unspoken trufi culture. I am not one of the gifted. My second day traveling to school, the trufi pulls over to the side of the road, ignoring the gaggle of school children standing in the way (I’m sure it’s fine), to let a man in the second row out. I am in the third row, and the woman to my left taps my shoulder and gestures that she too is going to exit. Okay, I take a deep breath and decide: I AM GOING TO BE A HERO. The people in this trufi are going to work, they need the ride to go fast, they are depending on me to let this man out quickly. Grace, charm and personality- I shall be their hero.

The man in the second row begins to exit, and in my classic, over-analytical fashion I begin to calculate the exact moment at which I should lift my leg to momentarily exit the vehicle and let the woman next to me out. But then the woman is already pushing into my side and I get nervous and I can’t think straight and oh my gosh I’m delaying everyone and they all probably hate me already and god do I even know Spanish? I hurriedly stick my leg out. My shoe sticks to the exiting man’s shoelace and he flings out the side door, falling face first toward the large fruit stand on the street…

He only just catches himself. I look at him shocked and then start to giggle uncontrollably. I realize that I really should be mustering an apology, but by the time I start to blubber out the lo to my siento the man is already on his way. The woman next to me pokes me again, harder. I barely make it out of the car and let her pass without a stumble. As soon as I place my first limb back into the trufi, we are on our way. 

Trufi Oof #2: The One Where I Close the Door

Another side note: I have been studying Spanish for nine years. But there is no way in hell that I ‘know’ Spanish. I may ‘know’ Spanish when a teacher speaks slowly with minimal vocabulary. I may have my answer to ¿Cómo estás? on lock (¿Bien, y tú). But Spanish in the real world? Um, I’m working on it.

I stand outside my apartment building waiting for my trufi to pass. I find my lucky route 131 and raise my hand to hail it to my corner. The trufis never really stop, but this one continues right on by me and stops at the corner across the street. I decide to give the driver the benefit of the doubt (I mean, I may have been waving my hand like a crazed blonde fumbling through a rendition of the YMCA). I run across the street and jump in, closing the door with an exuberant ¡Buen día!. The trufi doesn’t move. Instead of pushing on the gas, the driver reaches back and opens up my side door, mumbling a verse in Spanish. I assume he said something to the effect of: “You didn’t close the door all the way, tonta”. I give myself a mental high-five and slam the door shut. You rock at Spanish, I mentally congratulate myself.

I look to my left, and a woman is looking at me incredulously. She says to me, in a slow Spanish drawl: “No, the car broke down. We are supposed to be getting out.” Awk. In a last ditch effort to re-gain everyone’s approval, I announce: “Lol, estoy nueva.”

Nice, Aly. We all tumble out of the car (It seems I didn’t make any new friends this trufi ride), and I stand on the corner to await a new trufi. As I’m waiting, I look down the street and see the “broken” trufi pick up five new passengers. It's fine.

Which brings me to “Trufi Oof #3: The One Where I Hope the Soup is Smelly Enough”. I’m sure for the average Bolivian (and the other Americans here in Cochabamba with me), a trufi ride is just a way to get from point A to point B. However, even through my myriad awkward mishaps (and I am sure there are only more to come), I still love my 30 minute slices of adventure. Today, in a stunning victory, I had a successful, mishap-less trufi ride. The older man next to me started up a conversation, and for those few minutes, I understood every word of his Spanish. He ended the conversation by asking: Is your life comfortable? Not great or superb or even amazing, just comfortable. I realized that life is really just a big oscillation between ‘profoundly comfortable’ and ‘profoundly uncomfortable’. I might not make it from Point A to Point B in one, linear swoop, but hey, everyday I am trying to take on the little curves and hard turns in comfort. And you know what, that’s enough for now.