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?