The Artist & The Witch

Every day, I think this is it, my life cant get any stranger. Every trip, I think this is it, I’ve found the end of the world. But tomorrow always comes and it’s more bizarre than yesterday. And each new part of the country I visit, seems more isolated than the place before.

For two days, I rode shotgun in what I swear was not a Land Cruiser, despite its markings, down an oh-so-long, oh-so-lonely dirt road in the Bolivian Chaco. Vegetation so encroached upon the kaki colored path that certainly a few rains and a week without cars would erase it from history – creating yet another indigenous myth.

Dozens of small Mennonite farming communities sit along the path reminding passersby of humanity’s existence. They’re friendly in their buggies, lifting a hand in greeting, but look both foreign and hot in long sleeves and overalls. Their presence seems welcome by the locals, whose children run along side the Mennonite buggies hopping on to steal a ride.

If you survive the heat on day one, the climate improves on day two, but just as one problem often gives way to another, your next obstacle will be the grit. The dirt. It’s everywhere. Is it dirt or sand? It doesn’t matter; it’s in your teeth, in your bottled water, between your toes and behind your ears. Best you try to forget about it if you ever want reach the land of pregnant trees and butterflies, where reside the Guarani.

As promised a witch and an artist were waiting for me in Isosog, with a dirty bed and propane-powered refrigerator. The whole village says she, the witch, killed the artists’ former wife with her black magic so she could have him for herself. Even my travel mate claims one can sense a certain energy coming from her. I don’t feel it. I just see a gorgeous older woman who has likely had a difficult life, is somewhat reserved, but still has a bit of confidence beneath her layers. Besides, to hear the artist tell it, his first wife died some four years before he even met the so-called witch. I figure it was either a jealous ex-girlfriend who started the rumor or more likely a group of local men who fear feminine power. Or maybe she really is a witch, she did give me a special herbal infusion, to help my tummy ache. Either way I eat her cooking – hesitantly at times- but it goes down none-the-less.

He, the artist, paints scenes from Isosog (the community) and Guarani people and their traditions. He paints lots of those pregnant trees and all the livestock that wander around freely in the community. He understood my Spanish well and takes care of the solar powered light fixtures and pumps the well every morning. What a beautiful life. If I were an artist, I’d like to just paint scenes of Texas and portraits of Texans all the time.

The Guarani of Isosog seem to be doing okay as far as rural Bolivian living goes, but my informal surveys show they feel betrayed by their king. He’s not exactly a king, but it’s true he wasn’t elected, and he’s got the gig for life, and his daddy had it before him and appointed the son upon his deathbed (as if they didn’t all know that was coming). Anyway the traitor left the pueblo, and lives in Santa Cruz. My informants tell me he’s well involved with the Santa Cruz elite, and often pays the Guarani to rally and demonstrate with the opposition (that is, with the Santa Cruz elite) against government initiatives such as land reform. The artist says they lie to the locals saying the government wants to take their land, but the truth is the policy would help the Guarani. The point is that while each tiny Guarani community changes its leader (in this case, its “captain”) every two years, the aforementioned king has it for life. Of course they all liked his father – a common grievance of dynasty. But, despite my rabble-rousing it seems they would never revolt from his leadership or even ask him to step down (just kidding about my rabble rousing). On the other hand there is a suggestion floating around that Isosog, which is currently divided into “High” and “Low”, could perhaps let the traitor keep the north and find a new leader for the south. Hmmm, sounds like biblical Israel or the Incan empire at the time of its fall.

Each afternoon I spray down with 40% Deet repellent, look for some shade beneath a pregnant tree, throw cookies to the scraggly dogs that follow, try to let the sound of children playing block out both the cows’ mooing and the horror soundtrack of insect noises, spend a few moments holding my breath so a bright green butterfly might land on me and then I open my so-out-of-place Mac and attempt to write about the Urus. But it seems unnatural to be writing about the Altiplano when I’m in the Chaco, or about the Urus when I’m with the Guarani. So I usually give up pretty quickly and go see Doña Eugenia. She explains about her weavings, shares the history of her women’s group with me and then teaches me a few words in Guarani: “Pooama” = “Good Morning”. After that I go for a walk but stop for all unsuspecting victims keeping watch over livestock (usually a teenager) to harass about the potential of going to college in the city or see if he really knows how to use his lasso. Eventually I end up back at the witch’s house where people come and go from the makeshift store they have in front. Their biggest income is from the popsicles they make in the gas-powered freezer. They’ll sale over a hundred on a good day! I like how the artist and the witch fill the plastic bags together each morning and take turns getting them from the freezer for customers.

Sometimes when it’s raining, and there’s nothing to do (which is most of the time), the ever-curious artist will ask me questions about America, “Did Superman really exist?” “Can two men really marry one another in your country?” Then its my turn, “Why does your medicine man blow smoke in your face?” “To whom do the Guarani really pray, when not in church?”

It’s always mind-blowing to be so completely immersed in another people’s reality, but when its time to go, its time to go. A girl can only eat rice and eggs for so long (7 days is my personal limit, though I made it 8). In the end I was anxious to get out, and “the spirits of the fields” (who they really pray to) with their terrible rain on my poor dirt road, were not cooperating. Thankfully the Land Cruiser did cooperate with its precious 4-wheel drive and accompanying winch. Despite my initial prejudice against it, now, I wouldn’t trade it for a Porsche, a Hummer, or a Mennonite buggy.