I'LL TAKE THE BUS

Being In

2009-12-06T16:40:00.003-05:00

Culture Shock, is a slippery term that I've been trying to properly define since my first extended period abroad some 5 years ago. Yet, its allusiveness is sometimes a blessing in that it allows the term to broadly cover an array of strange experiences and feelings when both abroad and returning home.

I remember after spending a good while in Central America, coming home to perfectly even-paved streets, nicely groomed median gardens and huge supermarkets felt strange, almost too bright and sometimes even wrong. I didn't want to go out to eat and I felt guilty for almost everything.

But I got over that, and being in and out of the country in the last few years, I was always happy to be home and comfortable. This time, after moving home, not just visiting, I didn't feel that same guilt and over-brightness but there were some "adjustments" and feelings of not-belonging that did happen. Feelings that made me want to run, with destination unknown.

This week, however, something the opposite of culture shock happened. Something even the opposite of reverse culture shock happened. I was at my first yoga class since I've been back. (I wish the story didn't have to be about cheesy yoga, and that the "something" took place in another context, but alas...) The class was tough enough to make my legs quiver embarrassingly, which is the first time that has happened in a few years, since yoga classes in South America haven't felt like yoga at home. When I looked around, I only sorta fit in. The rest of the class seemed either too perfectly sculpted and dressed OR too tattooed and dreadlocked for me to blend. But at the end of class, this surfaced: "Yes..this is the yoga I like, they get me. I belong here."

Wow. How often do you think that? I belong here. Instead of feeling OUT Looking In. Or IN looking Out. I felt perfectly pieced into a mutually satisfying part of the whole. Can it be?

Poetry

2009-10-10T16:06:00.000-05:00

And it was at that age . . . poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, not silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among raging fires
or returning alone,
there it was, without a face,
and it touched me.

I didn't know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind.
Something knocked in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first, faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing;
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
the darkness perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire, and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.

taken from Isla Negra, a notebook

Wretched City

2009-08-17T16:05:00.005-05:00

Going down Javier Prado I started choking again on the sorry excuse for air coming in my taxi’s window and I thought:

Why is there always traffic in this wretched city?
Why can’t I find your redemption?
Beaches should redeem but clouds and pollution fall short.
How many shades of grey could possibly exist?
Your billboards are unbecoming.
Your air is unbreathable.
Wretched, wretched city, If only I could treasure you
As the campesino immigrants havening from the war.
If only I appreciated your survivalist spirit.
But I resent you…for wanting a future and not carefully preserving your past
With tissue paper, packing peanuts and romanticism for the cholitas that still live
Instead of those defeated Incans, torn to the four winds.
With regret for my bitter heart and your heavy grey sky, I take the best of you with me.
But Burro’s Belly, why couldn’t I love you?

And disappointed I asked the driver to roll up the window. Just then we passed by their little Pentagon. Admiring how its neighborhood had become an exercise zone with running trails and chin-up bars. The mere existence of its well-kept grass is surely the envy of other neighborhoods. I had heard that during terrorism, the president had once barricaded himself inside its 5 walls. Certainly he must have feared the treason of his own blood-thirsty military as much as the ruthless terrorist outside. It must have been frightening for everyone I thought. It somehow made smog seem less important and my opinions about the city’s ascetics too.

before the cups

2009-07-21T16:56:00.014-05:00

Before the teacups, but long after the kitchen table, there were others who had come. In a moment of great need I had learned the woman's secret. I always had mommy, but my grandmas were few and far. It never seemed important that I didn’t have them around me until one night my prayers didn’t feel appropriate for god, at least not my god. But oh how I needed to pray – and we all do you know. So I did it. I invoked them. I asked them for help as surely as if they too had been on the cross – and they loved it. The pure scandal of it made them laugh.

First I went to Nanny. I salvaged all the tidbits I knew about her, and the few memories I had of her late in life and feasted on them. Sometimes I confused her with her mother, of whom I knew only one story; but knowing that at some point we are the reason our ancestors have existed, I thought it acceptable to combine the two women. They were so daring that I knew they’d come to my aide. Nanny, in particular, I knew to be a survivor. She may have insisted on being tidy, but she also drank Budweiser with her lobster and had been a working girl in a big city. She had come into money at times and then seen it go, she had known love, and then heartbreak, and then a hardworking love. And there was evidence her life was charmed. If she could keep having coffee with her husband, despite his cancerous death, then she could surely coach me through the things I couldn’t tell god.

But as time went on I remembered my other grandmothers: precious immigrants who must’ve loved me dearly, women with strange aloof husbands and secret recipes, one who was a flea market of tackiness in life, but who I figured became the very best version of herself in death – just as I hope to, since eternity is so dang long. Some I had hardly known, some I weren’t sure were dead or alive and some weren’t even mine. Once I prayed to a friend’s grandmother just because she had taught me when in Vegas to pin money inside my bra. And because she had loved her grandchildren with outrageous generosity – I hoped she would love me too now that I needed her.

The grandmothers began appearing at the same time I was surrounded by Latin American Catholics. At first I hardly noticed the Catholics and the fading memory of the division of church and state. Besides, in Bolivia, the saying goes that in the mines they worship the devil, in the fields, Pachamama and in the church, well god of course. But I did find it curious that in my Lutheran confirmation course, we had been taught about Catholicism as our forefather, fellow biblical adherers (more or less) and only seemed to distinguish “them” from “us”, with regards to the papacy and confession. But in Latin America I had learned that most Catholics were self-professed polytheists. Saint worshipers. Often seeing Christ’s primary role as being the child of Virgin Mary. It gradually made sense that all of the bible’s characters and all of the church’s as well, would be included in the story. Had they too not cared about the Community of Faith? Had they not lived and died for it as well? And its no surprise that the Virgin appears to people all over Latin America as she really is everywhere: every park, apartment complex, bus, and household as her painted, framed or carved.

They’re lucky. I don’t have pictures of my grandmas. So when I found a one-dollar bracelet covered in icons of Mary, I could feel my insides grinning with mischief. I didn’t have to be jealous of the Catholics. If they could have a mother-god so could I. I had my grandmothers and I could have Mary too. Though, I’ve never prayed to her because I hardly know her. We had never met in my protestant upbringing. But sometimes I stare at her, sure she wants to wipe off that matronly face. I ask her if she knows my grandmothers. She says she does.

Tea Cups

2009-06-17T11:09:00.002-05:00

It was about that time when mommy started collecting her treasures. Every Saturday she’d come home with precious-stone plated globes or a washing tub from the civil war. Then she’d look up the prices on e-Bay to feel good about the $20 she’d just turned into $200 by bidding at the city’s hidden goldmines. But it was the tea cups she had her eye on. She could spot and sort the value of antique teacups from across the auction hall, and the house just filled up with them. Daddy said Titan would walk in the dining room and howl at all the tea cups, then walk out with a cocked head looking back at Daddy as if to say, “What in the world is she doing with all those tea cups?”
Like almost all of mommy’s successes, the cups were borne of stress. One year when work was too much to swallow the house filled up with yarn, crochet hooks and slowly a step by step chronological showcase of the mastery of crochet. Once there was simply little else accomplishable with a skein she laid low for a while before moving onto something else and something else until it was tea cup city.

Meanwhile I was on a jet over the jungle when I began making out the slithery ‘ssssss’ and the hard ‘k’s and ‘t’s – the important consonances that give structure to a whisper. It had been almost 72 hours since I’d last slept and my ears began piecing together the sounds despite efforts to simply push them away and close my eyes.

Titan would never figure it out completely. He was Daddy’s dog; he went on long quiet walks, he had never sat at the kitchen table listening to women like I had. Though he must have heard something – that’s why he kept howling back at them. Between them all, I guess the cups had centuries listening to women talk around them; hundreds of patterns having been held in the hands of mothers. They must’ve loved hearing the secrets as much as I had loved listening to mommy’s stories while she permed a girlfriend’s hair in the kitchen. Sitting at the table, I’d practice writing my name in cursive, feet not quite reaching the floor and listen to how she drank castor oil so her water would break, or how it was when this one left her husband or what it was like when that one’s father died.

All the kitchen tables they’d seen, all the women they’d heard – it’s no wonder they began to whisper too. I suppose I know now that’s why she started collecting them. She knew they’d call me home. And if she gathered enough, I’d be able to hear them across the globe.

the humanity of church and chiropractics

2009-04-28T15:29:00.010-05:00

On the vibrations of an "OM" in yoga class, it occurred to me that I'm expecting too much from my chiropractor.

It sounded like this:
DEEP inhale
"ooooOOOOOYOUAREEXPECTINGTOOMUCHFROMTHECHIROPRACTERMMMMMmmmmmmm"
another DEEP inhale
But there were some 30 chiropractic sessions before this realization, among which were the good, the bad and the metaphorical.....

I don't know what's wrong with me but my whole life I've liked church. However, I think chiropractics has given me a glimpse of what church must be like for the people who aren't that into it; the people who feel guilty instead of enlivened, or the ones who get sick of waiting for answers and solutions from an institution that promises such, and the people who learn to shut up instead of speak up because no one's listening anyway.
For example, if I have a C appointment after a stressful day, instead of thinking the C’s office is a place for healing and recuperation, I feel guilty that I’ve been stressed all day because they always tell me the stress is really bad for my already contracted neck muscles, but the guilt just leads to more stress. Is that how you non-church-goers feel when you finally step in the doors and some robed individual tells you you’re not trying hard enough? And overall there are just a lot of questions still unanswered and a lot of healing still undone...I can see discouraged churchgoers nodding here too.

But the upside is that my chiropractic disappointment reminded me that I don’t love church because its miraculous but because its humane!! Dunt dut duhhhhh…

One of my top five miraculous humanity church experiences of all time was in a church business meeting following months of serious congregational conflict. In the heat of conflict and shaky resolution one of the grumpiest of the grumpies shuffled her way to the microphone for what I thought was another complaint. Instead she made us all stand up, hold hands in a circle; look foe and friend alike in the eye and sing “Make us one lord.” It was just like in Whoville when even no gifts on Christmas morning could not hold back love and unity (and song for that matter).
Well, amongst the guilt and disappointment of the chiropractics, I had a church/whoville experience. First, I got in a fight with the chiro (who does that?…but we do spend a lot of time together). It was emotional, slightly ridiculous and did not go well, as most fights do not. After storming out, I was told by my agent and trusted advisor to go back in and demand professional services! Which I did. But that didn’t mean I was looking forward to the next visit.

But alas the Grinch did not prevail! Despite our fight, and my deep dread, the next visit my chiro brought me a cookie! A starbucks cookie! (Which is like gold in this land of rice and potatoes.) And then we hugged! Starbucks cookies are not professional in the least, but chocolate chip couldn’t be better when you’re expecting a grumpy to point fingers from the podium and you have no gifts to unwrap. Humanity to miracle's rescue.

Today is DO NOT GIVE UP day!

2009-04-15T20:49:00.002-05:00

This is incredible...whatever you're fighting for, keep at it!

Man bites snake in epic struggle

A Kenyan man bit a python which wrapped him in its coils and dragged him up a tree during a fierce three-hour struggle, police have told the BBC.

The serpent seized farm worker Ben Nyaumbe in the Malindi area of Kenya's Indian Ocean coast at the weekend.

Mr Nyaumbe bit the snake on the tip of the tail during the exhausting battle in the village of Sabaki.

Police rescued Mr Nyaumbe and captured the 13ft (4m) reptile, before taking it to a sanctuary, but it later escaped.

The victim told police he managed to reach his mobile phone from his pocket to raise the alarm when the python momentarily eased its grip after hauling him up a tree on Saturday evening.

"We want to arrest the snake because any one of us could fall a victim,"
Peter Katam,Police superintendent

Mr Nyaumbe used his shirt to smother the snake's head and prevent it from swallowing him.

His employer arrived with police and villagers, who tied the python with a rope and pulled them both down from the tree with a thud.

Peter Katam, superintendent of police in Malindi district, told the BBC News website: "Two officers on patrol were called and they found this man was struggling with a snake on a tree.

"The snake had coiled his hands and was trying to swallow him but he struggled very hard. The officers and villagers managed to rescue him and he was freed.

"He himself was injured on the lower lip of the mouth - it was bleeding a little bit - as the tip of the snake's tail was sharp when he said he bit it."

Mr Nyaumbe told the Daily Nation newspaper how he resorted to desperate measures after the python, which had apparently been hunting livestock, encircled his upper body in its coils.

"I stepped on a spongy thing on the ground and suddenly my leg was entangled with the body of a huge python," he said.

"I had to bite it."

'Very mysterious'

Supt Katam told the BBC the officers had wanted to shoot the snake but could not do so for fearing of injuring Mr Nyaumbe.

"If it wasn't for the villagers and officers who helped him, he would have been swallowed by the snake over the Easter holiday," said Supt Katam.

He added: "It's very mysterious, this ability to lift the man onto the tree. I've never heard of this before."

The police officer said they took the snake to a sanctuary in Malindi town but it escaped overnight, probably from a gap under the door in the room where it was kept.

"We are still seriously looking for the snake," said Supt Katam. "We want to arrest the snake because any one of us could fall a victim."

The ChiropractOde

2009-03-06T11:48:00.011-05:00

Your table is not magical and your hands are not golden.
Your character not that of a saint and your office no different than the doc's.

But still there is something magical in the possibility that all we need has been given us already.
That hands can heal as equally as cortisone injections.
That a simple table is worth a whole pharmacy.
That swimming in water could be as therapeutic as swimming in lidocaine patches.

And blessed be your chiropractic infancy in this land, that you may forever be as humble and explicative as you are in these early years when your services are still unfamiliar here.

It is evident you are not influenced by the lingering classism and oligarchy of the country. That a patient has a right to question you; unlike the doctors who think they are dioses.

And though your au naturale approach may be lengthy and unabbreviated, I so appreciate your less-side-effects effect, the way environment lovers choose washing soda over ammonia .

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is sextuple beauty
and what is good is six times good
when it is a matter of 6 vertebrae in pain.

Ode to My Socks

2009-03-06T11:23:00.003-05:00

Among my favorite poems, odes remind me that "To love and admire anything outside yourself is to take one step away from utter spiritual ruin..." Plus Neruda's odes redeem his TERRIBLE Love poems!

"Ode to My Socks" by Pablo Neruda (translated by Robert Bly)

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.

non-solidarity

2009-02-27T00:32:00.012-05:00

looking through the face hole in the table at the chiropractor’s office, i reach my arms around to see if i can hold a book under the hole and read while i lie there with the hot compress on my back - but I cant reach. next a crescendo of internal bickering begins: why isnt this table in the middle of the room where the physical therapist can walk on both sides of it, instead of against the wall thatmakesnosensedoesntherrightarmgettired?....but that fades into enrique iglesias on the radio followed by my bad translation of his lyrics. eventually i settle in for the 20 minutes of heat compress i have coming. all i can see is the carpet. it's sorta a blue blend and i start picking apart the colors in it- a typical business or school carpet at home- but here it’s a peace-giving luxury. i can feel a noticeable calm in my chest, just by seeing this carpet.

i havent written lately because like thumper in bambi I’ve had nothing good to say. i've been put through the ringer, but felt i haven't handled it with aplomb, i've been given plenty to learn from, but felt i haven’t learned a thing. and if my high school teacher's poster was true "that your whole life has been a preparation for this moment" then my goodness, what have i been doing all this time? and as for when in rome...well im just not roman and its showed.

but i'm worried about that carpet. well the carpet and the taxis really. i've gone back to taxis, in fact ive become estranged from the bus, i pass her in my taxi and look away. but i think the carpet and the bus are different. what i mean is, i think i drew a line -- though whether i drew it or i simply have it is unclear -- either way its there.

even now i struggle to write because i haven’t figured it out. i think its that i'm comfortable making some choices in "solidarity", more accurately said, some choices of intentional discomfort in order to a. learn and b. live more Simply, but having sub-par healthcare is not one of them and what that says about me i dont care. that may seem an obvious choice, but its been a trying one. the story of the carpet is that i started treatment in a clean, costly but ineffective clinic, then moved to the equivalent of a bring your own resources, dirty summer camp, that actually caused harm, and finally ended up with the carpet.

i can say that the first hand experience of second rate care exposed me to another reality, deepened my understanding of the struggles of poverty and will hopefully lead to greater compassion, but i'll tell you i wouldn't do it again. and after all that’s happened i can justify my anger and after buildings with crumbling walls i can accept my peace at seeing the luxurious carpet. that’s why the carpet is on one side of the line i've found.

but the taxis i can’t justify. not even when the bus is so bursting-at-the-seams-full that my purse gets literally stuck between two people's butts. for all my healthcare confusion, the taxis are simple: "a private railroad car is not an acquired taste, one takes to it immediately."

Row, Row, Row Your Boat

2008-11-30T21:56:00.006-05:00

Until last week, I was unaware that the sea can be farmed. To date, I'm thinking its genius and I haven't figured out the negatives yet. Difficulties to be overcome were listed for me, but otherwise it appeared completely organic and sustainable.

As usual I found myself asking, "How did I get here?" while I literally hopped from rock to rowboat and headed out to sea off the Peruvian shore in Ancash. I was there to see an economic development project, where a bunch of Peruvian fishermen figured out they could cultivate scallops. By anchoring cables across the ocean floor and hanging mesh cages with the baby seed scallops inside, they could simply wait for them to grow by feeding off the sea plankton already in the water, then redistribute them to bigger cages until they're ready to be removed and cooked up at Red Lobster. They can even capture the fertilized scallop "eggs" to make more.

My rowboat captain happened to be the "president" of his 19 person fishing association. He was the most well-spoken uneducated fisherman I've ever met in my life. Their association had converted into a business in order to compete for a grant and participate in a training program. He was so convincing, he seemed the perfect grant candidate: in need, but completely qualified, positive and dedicated.

In need because he hadn't made any money on his investment in the last two years and believed he would need to suffer just one year more to see profits.

Qualified because he'd been a fisherman for some 30 years. When he listed potential threats to the scallops, it included changes in the current which could affect the oxygen levels in the water; this could be measured by an O2 Sensor, but usually he could smell the change in the sea.

He admitted to making mistakes in the project and expressed having learned from them as eloquently as possible in yellow rubber wading pants.

But what got me, is that this whole time he was rowing. He was individually rowing a big rowboat full of people against the current. And he just kept rowing. It took forever; I am almost certain that had I been captain I would have suggested we all swim and pull in the boat with a rope. But as long as we kept our eyes on him, his even strokes, the rhythm of his movements as equally hypnotizing as the tide, I felt calm. The moment I looked at the shore, I felt we hadn't moved at all and began to doubt we'd make it in with the single man rowing system we had going.

Eventually he said the perfect grant line. After enthusing the grantmaker with all his qualifications and potential he said, "I hope we get the grant, but with or without it we'll get there."

For a second I wasn't sure if "there" referred to "profitable scallop farming" or the "shore". And since I'm writing this from the rowboat, please send funds to the address below:

One Well Spoken Fisherman
Just Kidding, Peru

Disorienting Ducks

2008-11-18T00:26:00.006-05:00

Lima disorients me. Cardinal directions, seasons of the year, conversion rates and world order crash around in my head as unruly as the nighttime waves on the city’s beaches. When I think the Pacific Ocean is to the West of the Continent, Limeños say its South of the city; just as the exchange rate reaches 3 Soles to the dollar, I discover I don’t divide well by 3 in my head; and each time I devour a savory Papas a la Huancaina or a delicious Ceviche, I forget that I am consuming these culinary treats in a nation not so different from Bolivia and not so far from a 40% poverty rate as they would like to believe.

Sometimes I have “Lima disorientations”. Those ones come from a general sense of Lima’s strange place in the world and even within her country: such a developed city for such an impoverished nation. Recent weeks saw Bolivia-style protests in five Peruvian provinces, but with virtually no affect on the disconnected capital. The only action I’ve seen was on the bus when my driver almost hit a motorcycle. (After exchanging profanities, the motorist got off his bike and walked to my driver’s window where a fistfight broke out and I had to move from my seat behind the driver.)

And sometimes my disorientation comes from taking in a new lifestyle, job, and country. I spend a few minutes every few days deciding if I need to scream at all the Peruvians that don’t know how to wait in a line, or just accept, what in the moment, feels like a tremendous injustice. – That’s a “cultural disorientation”.

But those aren’t the only ones I’m having of late. Sometimes I have the life ones. The “life disorientations” have to do with bank accounts, and bottom lines. The life ones happen when there are clashes between what I say and what I do; between what I want to be and who I want to be. They happen when I can’t tell if humility was kidnapped, pride was beat up, or if reality just stole the show. And the life disorientations mix into all the other disorientations like Bacardi Dark back when Mark Wahlberg was Marky Mark, and they spin around, something fierce until all I can do is pray the same crappy prayers about them over and over and hope for an answer.

And I found my answer at my least favorite place in Lima: the US Embassy. I love America. I took American History three times in school and I taught it to GED Students. I cried watching delegates from each state proudly stand up in the convention to say crazy things like, “Aloha from the Pineapple state, the Dems from Hawaii cast x votes for her native son…” -as if it was proof that democracy works and everyone gets a say! But I do not like going to the embassy. It's larger than the state department in Washington and has more security than the Green Zone. I mean what are they doing in there? They always confiscate my iPod and my Gatorade bottle and they call me “Seeen-yore-ah” until they realize I’m American – its just awful. And I don’t even have to wait in the long line. I get to go in the short line. The long line is for Peruvians who want a visa. And they look nervous…even the wealthy businessmen who’ve been to the US before look nervous. The long line has a special embassy guy come over and shuffle them along and measure their passport pictures. And being in the long line, means you better have worn comfy shoes, because needing to impress or not, you’re gonna be there all morning.

I knew about the two lines, but I didn’t know that across the street from the embassy is the “waiting room”. Almost all those nervous people in the long line have someone who loves them, crossing their fingers across the street on the curb. There are no benches or grass, just a dirty ole corner with a lot of hopes and well wishes. And on this last embassy visit, instead of standing in the short line I stood with the hopefuls on the corner and I waited. At first I observed the others, then I got tired and sat down, then I got excited because I realized my bus goes right by there (embassy, home and beach – what a route!), and then I tried to read, and then I put on my glasses and squinted to see if I could see who was coming out the revolving turnstiles. But with all that waiting, eventually the spinning started and I gave in to the disorientations…the Lima ones, the culture ones and of course the life ones and when it got to be too much, I started the crappy prayers. And that’s when God slapped me and as my head swung back, I almost shouted aloud: “I don’t care about those crappy prayers today. Today I care about the same thing that everyone else on this dirty ole curb cares about." And it was the best answer ever to realize that in the disoriented spinning of my priorities, the circling ducks really are in a row and the really brave hope-duck is head of the line.

Confession #2

2008-10-11T16:18:00.007-05:00

Here it is, the confession that is the antithesis to my very blog:

My name is Jess and I am a taxi-taker.

Since my arrival to Lima I’ve abandoned the bus against my heart’s desire and my better judgment.

I do it because both my schedule and Lima traffic are chaotic and unpredictable. So I haven’t yet calculated how long it takes to arrive by bus at a specific time between 2 specific locations. I know that a taxi ride might vary with traffic but much less so when unlike a bus, it can choose alternate routes and doesn't have to stop to pick up and drop off fellow passengers.

And it totally sucks. Firstly because I loathe Lima traffic, it is pure awfulness magnified by an overcrowded city and underdeveloped nation magnified by the Asian Pacific Economic Cooperation's arrival a month away which motivated Lima to begin massive repair of potholes all over the city magnified by the complete non-existence or non-enforcement of any kind of traffic or vehicle operation norms. (In complete irony, Monday I saw a taxi hit a traffic cop!!!)

Reason number two why its dumb to take taxis, is that there is no sun in Lima winter. Supposedly this is a climatic phenomenon but the line is blurred where the overcast sky ends and the smog begins. Lima is so polluted that the Clinton Foundation has it as a priority city for its climate change initiative meant to fight the urban pollution. And here I am, pale from lack of sun and choking on smog riding along in my own personal smog producing machine in a city with accessible mass transportation that would diminish my green footprint by probably a thousand sizes!!

And finally, let's say you came across a sale for a product that you used daily and that sale was 8 for the price of one…you’d take it right? Of course you would! But not me, I'm paying 8 times the price of the bus in every taxi ride I take.

In a meeting yesterday I started jotting down my lose, lose, lose, taxi situation. When I left, I thought I’d walk around in the smog a bit before catching my cab. And wouldn’t ya know it, right then my bus, the brown bus, the number 70, my new number 54, crossed before me. So I hopped on and kid you not, in that very moment the sun came out.

Confession #1

2008-09-16T18:41:00.007-05:00

Here's the thing, the confession I mean: Peruvian accents make my eyebrow twitch.

The accents are pushy and always end sentences, even statements, in question marks, demanding your immediate response like a harsh LAPD Blues spotlight shining on you in the interrogation room while thick beads of sweat drip down your forehead. The investigative aura of the words just sit in the air for what feels like forever, while I decide if the Peruvian really was expecting a response or if it was just her accent.

And the worst part is that i should be blogging about the crisis in Bolivia: the near civil war, the expulsion of the US Ambassador, the violent deaths of at least 8 people, the declared national state of emergency, the indigenous woman I saw on the news getting beat with sticks while her baby was on her back, and the South American summit of leaders that convened Monday in Chile to support president Morales and come up with a plan to avoid full out civil war. But instead I'm sitting at a Lima coffeehouse with WiFi annoyed by Peruvian accents while my eyebrow twitches. And guess what else, its not a peruvian coffeehouse, its Starbucks. Yes, Lima has Starbucks and I bet they don't even use Peruvian coffee!

I'm almost positive the eyebrow twitch is linked to the accent! And the other annoying thing about it, is that I cant even imitate it! I don't think I'll ever sound like a Peruvian, even if I try really really hard. At least in Bolivia I could occasionally fool people, here everyone asks where I'm from. Or maybe they're just stating that I'm not from here, but their accent makes it seem like a question.

It's called a Blepherospasm - the twitch I mean.

So Glad You Exist

2008-08-24T11:19:00.003-05:00

Just before I left Bolivia, someone thought it pertinent to remind me, “Bolivia should never have existed”. I assumed her comment referred to “Upper Peru”. During the pre-colonial era, Peru and Bolivia were a seamless territory. First the Aymaras were settled throughout it and later the Inca Empire stretched its condor wings across the near entirety as well. When the Spaniards gained control, they referred to the land of modern Peru as “Lower Peru” and the land of modern Bolivia as “Upper Peru”, for its higher altitude. Thus when independence came, each declared separately.

And so it is that I’m trading one brother for the other, trading the geographically stunning capital city La Paz for the polluted haze of the port city Lima.

I remember struggling with my research project last year and finally telling myself that if when I left, if I had loved Bolivia, really loved her, then I couldn’t have failed. And this month when I set sail, I knew I did love her. And success or failure aside, I'm SO glad she exists.

The next big adventure begins in a mere two weeks: Voyage to Lower Peru.

Can’t wait.

Transredes

2008-08-05T13:30:00.005-05:00

The newspapers say Evo is shooting himself in the foot. Everyone says, that no way no how any business will ever invest in Bolivia now; the WTO will sanction and the WB will refuse loans. Why should the big transnationals come when they’ll have no way of insuring if what’s theirs will remain theirs for very long, now that the president of Bolivia has nationalized natural resources companies, telecommunications providers and now this.

It was the rash state takeover of a transnational oil transport company that’s got them all scared. Evo says the state tried to negotiate and Transredes was just taking too long, “obviously stalling”. So he took it. It’s Bolivia’s now. Not to worry, Bolivia will pay them for it. But I personally hope it takes 8 years, just as its taken 8 years for Transredes to pay Bolivia for their oil spill in the Desaguadero River. And even now it’s only by default that Transredes will be paying the $1.9 million dollars it owes the state as the standard 0.3% of business value owed for an oil spill. The state will be deducting that from what it pays the private company.

Included among the accused transgressions of Transredes are not only the oil spill and failure to comply with Bolivian law following the event, but also a terrible clean up job in which they re-contaminated a community by not lining the ground where they stacked the bags of contaminated soil. Furthermore, anthropology students confessed to being paid by the transnational to identify leaders in the indigenous communities, which sit along the contaminated riverbank and lakeshores. Later the students confessed that Transredes used the information to bribe the leaders instead of compensate the communities.

These days Bolivia is testing the soil and hoping to show it’s still contaminated which would validate a lesser payout to the company. I doubt it will be difficult to prove as nearly every community says their lands and water sources remain affected.

Transredes will fare much better in their exit from Bolivia than other corporate giants such as Bechtel. When Bolivia sought loans to overhaul its state owned water system in 2000, the World Bank conditioned that the company be privatized first. Bechtel became owner of a portion of Bolivia’s formerly publicly owned water system. The company was kicked out of the country by social protest after increasing water prices by 35% and making it illegal to even collect rainwater!

There will undoubtedly be economic and political consequences for Evo’s takeovers. But every time an Uru tells me how they can’t fish in their contaminated lake, or tales of the sinister corruption with local NGOs and anthropologists manipulated in the hands of the large multinational, I just keep thinking someone has to stand up to them.

For more insight on the unchecked powers of corporations check out this documentary.

Not what I was expecting

2008-07-08T12:08:00.004-05:00

I realize the following is a full of faulty logic, a bit of a stretch, and has nothing to do with Bolivia, but I don’t care because I asked the owner of this blog if I could write whatever I wanted on it and she said I could.

Sometimes life makes it painstakingly clear that our expectations guarantee nothing, and certainty is little more than illusion. I have three cases to the point and there are proven millions (see primary results) who will disagree with me here. But the idea is that each is simply not what I personally would expect.

1. An international vocal star known worldwide for her intensely sensual imagine, the object of many a man’s desire, is repeatedly betrayed and cheated on by the one man who promised before state, god and family to love her.
2. Among the hardest working of all public servants, a woman who devoted her life to law and country, known as a wide-reaching advocate for the rights of children and women and a leader in the US Congress has a tough time getting a job.
3. A prophecy fulfilling miracle worker, preaching love and inclusion, armed with nothing but a new way of living, is crucified before the masses.

Who would cheat on SHAKIRA?
Who wouldn’t give SENATOR CLINTON a job?
And who would kill the GOD OF LOVE?

I’m sorry but Shakira is hot, Clinton is smart and God is good. So what went wrong??
In recent weeks I was mulling over these questions until my Belgium Chocolate friend* told me about the evangelicals on her bus in Colombia.

There’s pretty much two choices for Christians in Latin America: Evangelical or Catholic; the other protestants are few and far between. So I’ve become used to the evangelical “god by numbers” routine, but I also give it little credibility and honestly even find it a bit offensive, just as they might find my description of it. It basically consists of the confession of your sinfulness, acceptance of Jesus as god, acknowledgement of his sacrifice for you, then invitation for him to come on into your heart. Which is all well and good and I would even accept the attitude surrounding the routine that it’s a sort of an instantaneous, magical transformation. Weird stuff happens to me all the time and my own conversion experience wasn’t a far cry from steps one through four above. But what irks me is the attitude that steps one through four are the ONLY way, as if god is ONLY channeled through the above prayer, and also the urgency that is often placed on getting someone to repeat this prayer as if it’s the trump card.

So Senorita Belgium is a little unorthodox, not a Christian and not really religiously active, but interested in the varied possibilities of spirituality and holistic healing. She’s on a bus crossing the Colombian countryside, and I’m not sure how she started to speak with her seat partner, a young Colombian woman, but at some point she did and the conversation turned to God. Apparently the Colombian woman’s travel partners sitting in front of them were listening to the conversation, because as if on cue in the perfect moment they turned around in their seat to pray with my friend. Like I said, I don’t know how the conversation went, I just know that these three women taught her the prayer to repeat and prayed over her as she said the words. Then immediately following “Amen”, the bus stopped at my friend’s destination and she got off leaving the women behind.

I chuckled at the story, awaiting my friend’s comments of how she felt “attacked” and “uncomfortable” by the women, the prayer or the experience. But to my surprise, her first remark was, “I could feel the love of god radiating from these women.” I hushed up my chuckle. What I rudely call “God by Numbers” was a deeply spiritual blessing for my “unreligious” friend. At first I thought, well my friend doesn’t live in America with the baggage of our conservative evangelical movement, and knows little of the various pockets of Christianity and their approaches to living out the gospel, so to her it was just another mystical encounter. But so what if it was? Good for her that she doesn’t walk around with all the preconceptions and prejudices that I have. If she said she felt the love of god, then she felt it. Her prayer partners would argue their method was a success. My bias would argue that the Divine made it through despite their method. But in the end those opinions don’t matter, because contrary to my expectations she was blessed.

Which got me thinking about my disappointments with Shakira and the gang. I find redemption in that if things aren’t always what we hope for, at least sometimes its good to be wrong and things turn out to be better than we expected. I’m hoping I’m wrong more often.

*She’s not made of chocolate, but she is Belgium and almost always has chocolate with her, which she generously offers up in sporadic moments.

Sun Worshiper

2008-06-21T17:46:00.008-05:00

When I first arrived in Bolivia, I attended a workshop on diversity where we were asked to do an interesting icebreaker. We first had to draw a picture of ourselves, and then explain it to a partner. Then you and partner went in front of the group and explained one another’s drawings. You weren’t allowed to help your partner at all. So my lovely picture was a stick figure with arms open and overhead, head tilted back facing the sun. Then my little half circle sun was shooting down its rays from the corner of the page as the stick figure soaked them all in. I explained to my young partner that I had newly arrived in Bolivia and really just wanted to be open to lots of new things and “soak it all in.” But when he explained it to the group, he said, “The sun is really important to Jess’ spirituality,” then fumbling for words, he added, “and she worships the sun.”

Oh give me a break, that wasn’t even a reasonable lie. Who worships the sun?? If he couldn’t remember, he should’ve said I have a Vitamin D deficiency or something.

Among Bolivia’s finer qualities is that there is always something to celebrate. (Of course there is always something to protest too.) I think the constant celebrations come from the dual systems: the state vs. the indigenous authorities, the Church vs. the indigenous traditions. It just makes for a lot of civic, cultural and religious holidays. (And now that I think of it, the dual systems are probably the source for most of the protests too.)

Today´s cause for celebration is the Southern Hemisphere´s Winter Solstice and not coincidently the Aymara New Year. To celebrate, I accompanied a group of Bolivian friends out to a tiny Aymara community. All night long the community held vigil preparing their offering table. The “Maestro” or spiritual leader led the lengthy preparations inside by candlelight as the young men practiced their pre-Hispanic dances outside by moonlight. Being the only foreigner, I was treated with great hospitality and thus invited to participate in blessing the offering table. I was shown how to dip a coca leaf in pure alcohol then sprinkle it on the offering as I repeated words I didn’t understand in Aymara. I later learned I was naming the Andean mountain ranges, which roughly explained, are considered higher spirits.

Before dawn, I found myself climbing up one of those spirits, despite my deepest desires to just sleep. Present at the top, were the Aymara Jilakatas (leaders) from all around the area, the mayor, a band and many others. The offerings from the night’s table were set on a large fire, some prayers were said, and then a series of “toasts” were carried out by throwing alcohol onto the fire. As the shaman spoke in Aymara, I picked out the few words I knew. He addressed his requests to Pachamama (mother earth) and Inti Tata (Father Sun). Then at the perfect moment, everyone turned away from the fire and reached out their palms towards the rising sun of winter solstice.

And looking at the back of my hands against the morning sun I remembered my partner’s description of me so many months ago. Having celebrated Aymara New Year his whole life, hands reaching out to a glowing sun probably weren’t so unfamiliar to him. And in the end, his fumble wasn’t a lie after all.

Classic Bolivia

2008-06-19T12:05:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, Mrs. Berna, a little old woman from the pueblo not too far from the Urus, called. I knew she had a cell phone, but I didn’t know she used it. In fact she asked someone in the plaza to call me from her cell. She was here in the city, some 5 hours from home, and was in the Government Plaza. She wanted me to stop by.

So I trekked up the hill, since the roads were blocked due to Bolivia kicking Paraguay’s butt in Soccer at the stadium, and met with them right in front of the Presidential Palace.

They were just hanging out drinking Tampico.

We chatted for a while.

Finally, I was so bold as to ask what brought them so far from home to La Paz:

“We’re trying to get an audience with the President. We’re going to ask him for help, for work, for something.”

“Oh…well have you talked to anyone yet?”

“No, not sure yet who to talk to, maybe a lawyer.”

“Oh…well maybe you can just go in and ask the front desk how to do it.”

I was dreading they’d ask for my help. My advocacy attempts in Bolivia are about 0 for 2billion. I rarely know where to start when someone asks for help and usually just end up running in circles. But they didn’t ask.

So is that it? Does Evo really hear people’s complaints like that? Very impressive.
The whole scene was so humble that it actually did make sense; the country’s poorest should have access to the most powerful. Help should be just a visit away.

By this morning, my friends were already back in their pueblo. They had presented their request to someone in the palace, and have an audience for next Monday.

The Legend of Llapallapani

2008-06-02T13:50:00.005-05:00

An Uru legend, tells of a young Aymara boy adopted by a flock of condors. The boy is told the secret of the Condors´ treasure which is hidden in the Azanaque mountains (just outside the uru village, Llapallapani). In return he swears to protect the precious metals and jewels at all costs.

One day he is accidently left behind in Llapallapni after the Condors eat a llama and fly off without him. The Urus find him and and slyly trick him into revealing the secrets he has sworn to protect.

A war ensues between the condors and Urus. And when all seems lost, the Urus prematurely confident in their victory, the lead Condor summons the power of the wind turning their treaure into flowers and the young Aymara boy into a mountain.

Apparently the condor also condemns the Urus to a livlihood based on fishing alone.

This last condemnation is key to understanding Uru poverty and marginalization. The Urus are not agriculturalists like their Ayamara and Quechua neighbors. And if the lake is low or contaminated, fishing is made impossible and thus they are forced to search for work outside their community.

I wonder to whom this story brings peace? I don´t suppose the Urus could find that Condor king and beg for mercy, parole or a statute of limitations having served centuries of marginalization. Do explanations suffice when salvation is absent?

Pisagua is empty

2008-05-23T08:48:00.003-05:00

Pisagua is the steepest street in La Paz. Okay that’s not a fact. But, it is true that taxis cannot get up it and that when we walk it, we zig-zag back and forth to make it less steep and thus our hindquarters less sore tomorrow. It’s like downhill skiing in reverse. As for the taxis, which also try the zig-zag method, I finally got sick of paying them and still having to climb the two steepest blocks anyway. I now advise, “Look brother, you ain’t getting up Pisagua, can we please take another street up and then turn down Pisagua instead?”

Pisagua is not my normal stomping ground; truth be told I don’t go that far “up”. It only yesterday occurred to me that property values increase, as you get deeper into La Paz’s valley. It then occurred to me that I don’t really leave the valley when I’m in the city.

But climbing, I feel, is an excellent ascetic sacrifice. My yoga studio in DC has what I affectionately call “the stairs of enlightenment”. I loved going to classes there, but you had to go up two very steep flights of very narrow stairs in a very old townhouse to get to class. I thought of it as a “sweating it out”, “leaving all else behind” exercise to both focus and humble me before practice. Equally discomforting, my Aymara teacher lives up a big hill too. It doesn’t hold a candle to Pisagua, but it takes a good 15minutes of high-altitude puffing before you arrive. But again, a small price to pay for a joyful visit with a wise old man.

So what made me trek Pisagua, the steepest street in La Paz, sometimes twice a day for the last 4 months? Simply put: a Frenchwoman who smokes more than she speaks and a buffed up Peruvian who keeps me in stitches. The latter first had the apartment and then past it to the former when he left. Now they’re both gone. A reunion is in the works. But until then...

Where will I climb? To whom will I devote my ascent?

Danillo

2008-05-06T19:07:00.005-05:00

He must have looked up each and every word as he converted his letter from Portuguese to English, surely slipping the phrases in and out of Spanish when doubting specific translations. In the end, it wasn’t his translation but his heart that bled across the page: A letter to his girl’s family. “I would crawl into the envelope with this letter if I could,” he writes. It’s mailed the next day and will fly to the northern hemisphere lovingly tucked in a shoebox along with the cookies he baked them.

His oozing sweetness and heaving sadness at the loss of his love is completely unexpected from the red-tinted dreadlocks hanging messily in his now red-tinted eyes. But tears don’t lie and he’s not confused about his desire for a family.

He’s been alone since age 15, when his Brazilian mother kicked him out of the house. At birth she had given him to an elderly couple that then died when he was 9. He went back to his mother for the next 6 years. She tried to kill him three times. He doesn’t share the details. He says that strangely the only time their relationship is peaceful is when he asks her love advice, though it’s not likely to be of help with this long-gone girl to whom he writes now.

Of his nearly 20 Brazilian cousins, half have died before age 18 – mostly from violence. His family has had a series of encounters with easy come, easy go money – mostly embezzlements. He confesses a recent banking scandal he was invited to participate in – a tempting offer for someone in his shoes. Instead he pays his tuition and rent humbly, by selling chocolate cakes out of his backpack at the University. The other students, especially the other Brazilians, make fun of his cakes and his dreadlocks. But his grades are good and the cakes help pay the bills.

It’s unclear how he became a believer. But there was a stint with the Mormons that may have been his hook and though he left them eventually, he spent two years studying theology in Brazil before coming to Bolivia. Since then, he’s been in a series of unlikely positions that seem to scream God’s plan for his life whether he knows it or not.

His humility is dumbfounding. Born to help people and with a life crafted for compassion, he will be an amazing physician.

Jesus and Autonomy

2008-04-30T16:42:00.004-05:00

On May 4th the Bolivian Department of Santa Cruz will vote (illegally) on regional autonomy, to separate themselves from La Paz (the central government) in what some have called a statutory divorce. Yeah, its a big deal. But it's also slightly ridiculous, just like the constitional assembly pushed through by the central government was a big deal, but also slightly ridiculous. By ridiculous, I mean not that productive, but seemingly lacking other options.

Anyway, click the link above for a humorous summary of possible events if you so desire.

Meanwhile enjoy how santa cruz set up their "Vote Yes" rally around the enormous Jesus statue, as if Christ is hailing the vote for Autonomy.

A Rant About Roaches

2008-04-16T21:58:00.004-05:00

In Daddy and mine’s favorite movie, there is a great scene where someone is standing behind a bus, letting the exhaust engulf him. When a woman asks him what he’s doing, the character says, “Just wanted to feel like I was back in California”.

Somehow that has to do with how I feel about Lima – more than willing to brave the ugly, I suppose.

On the beaches of Peru, this Latin metropolis, pushing on 9 million inhabitants is want for charm and so covered in smog that most days the sun seems more a hot haze than a defined distant shape. Lima is perfectly urban, in every sense of the word, and that makes it straightforward and un-confusing, and that makes it a wonderful friend. She’s not hidden behind colonial style downtown restoration projects, flashy tourist districts or a get-old-quick-one-business-town-feel; its just normal people doing normal things.

La Paz is a little-big town, similar to DC – but Lima is huge, and not even sprawling, just full-to-the-top enormity. Her crime reports are high and I’m sure she's dangerous; not so long ago she was overrun with Marxist Guerrilla’s car bombs. I don’t think cities survive that kind of unpredictable conflict and come out innocent – people start carrying iron rods in their cars. But despite the crime, I never felt the decaying sense of corruption that I’ve sensed in places like Managua, Nicaragua. People trying to make a buck sure, lots of black market absolutely, but not right out cheat you to your face. Cheating systems are one thing, but ripping someone off to their face is disheartening to my concepts of humanity.

One of my favorite Limeños likens his compatriots to cockroaches that can get in anywhere and survive anything: including bombs, earthquakes and a failed economy. Among the evidence of said cockroachness that I gathered on my stay, were two accounts of airport security violation (in the name of romance) and a host of black market activity. The most fascinating was observing the highly skilled and detailed work of selecting only the finest quality imitation brand clothing for resell. This, it turns out, is hard work requiring a skill-set and knowledge base: someone should get paid to do it. It takes a trained eye to identify a well-stitched logo, perfectly textured fake label tags etc... And we’re all suckers for paying more for a name, because these products really are just as good. We’re not talking about generic drugs or rip-off electronics that don’t last as long. We’re talking about people who want to feel cool and waste money. And we’re possibly talking about a company’s dominion over its name and image. However, I think the former interests me more and it definitely interests Lima more.

But just as my affinity for Lima smog seems connected to the movie character’s affinity for California smog, the illegality of selling fake designer brands seems connected to the capriciousness of country citizenship, visas and the randomly assigned rights to cross randomly drawn territorial borders – an increasingly manifest pet peeve these days.

Part of my research supposedly measures people’s empowerment within a given context, taking into account personal capital and opportunity structures. Protected brand names and travel visas fall into the Formal Opportunity Structure variable. That’s the variable I love to hate, because its easy and sometimes fun to get mad at “the man” or “the way things are.” But it’s also the most difficult variable to overcome. Cultures (informal opportunity structures) are always evolving, and personal capital is almost always accessible through education and determination. But changing laws, and institutions takes large-scale collective work and lots and lots of time.

Anyway, I think the cockroaches of Lima are quite impressive in their evasion of a formal opportunity structure that seeks to provide no opportunities whatsoever. I think its safe to sympathize with what I’ll call their quest for empowerment.

So can you name the movie?

EVO, EVO, EVO

2008-03-26T13:14:00.002-05:00

CHECK IT OUT! THE PRESIDENT OF BOLIVIA....MR. EVO MORALES

Okay, i confess i allowed my peace corps friends to believe that i was actually shaking his hand - since it looks like that in the foto. But since i trust ya'll i'll confess it was really the person in front of me and i just annoyingly snapped the shot over her shoulder.

But still pretty cool.

Digging Deeper

2008-03-25T12:47:00.005-05:00

It usually costs 20 pesos for a taxi out to Llapallapani when I visit the Urus. But feeling brave, this last time, I took a friend up on the offer of a bicycle to cross the few miles of dirt road. I wasn’t in a hurry, and only needed to finish an interview with the Jiliri and deliver the baptism pics I had taken a few weeks ago. The little trip was tougher than it looked. Beyond just a dirt road, its not uncommon for municipal projects to run out of funds before the fiscal year is up, meaning there are actually obstacle mounds of gravel and sand to get around. About half way to the village, I biked through The Station, Huari’s ghost town from when the railroad used to run through.
Completely abandoned, it was a bit more eerie on bike than in auto. I thought I was fine to take a rest there, since the day before I had confirmed with German I would be coming. Silly me, I don’t know why I keep thinking that confirmation is worth something down here. When I arrived at German’s I saw his 1975 Chevrolet truck out of its usual resting place. Funny, because I thought the orange monster – the only auto in the village - didn’t work at all. Once I got closer, I could see the whole family was standing behind, pushing the orange truck. I shouted, to ask if they needed any help, they kinda giggled and walked over to see what I was up to.

It was quickly made clear I wasn’t getting my interview that day because German and family were busy. They were taking the truck out to the lake and planned to be gone “working” most of the day. I didn’t really get what it was they would be doing, but understood there was “collecting” involved, and it was something that looked like rice, that gets put in chicken and pig feed. I was warned it would take most of the day, but invited to come along.

I loaded my bike in the back, just in case I needed to escape – hey it happens. And we all started to push, then hustled to hop in. We sailed through the fields, no road in sight, holding onto our hats, and I confess I was grinning ear to ear. I’ll never feel Uru, but in that moment I did feel part of the family. For just one day we had conquered some of the world’s useless boundaries: culture, class, color, country.

***

It turns out what we were looking for are these teeny tiny concha shells that are under the dirt and sand, not too far from the lake.

Here’s the method:
1. You walk around lightly stomping to feel for hollow ground.
2. When you think you’ve found something, ya give the earth a good kick with your shoe. (I was wishing I had worn my hiking boots, but German’s wife and daughters were in slip-on flats, so I couldn’t complain about my Keens.)
3. Then you just dig. With your hands that is. Sometimes you find a “joya” or hotspot full of the teeny, centimeter-long conchas.
4. After digging up the joya, you spread out the concha concentrated dirt, so that it can dry in the high-altitude sun.
5. Eventually you come back, sift the dirt through two sieves, and into the potato sack. When we finished I thought we had about 4 arrobas (25 lbs. each). In the fair where they planned to sell the shells they earn 35 Bolivianos per arroba. Which is about $5. So that means 6 adults working 6 hours to earn about $20 total (not per person). But when I said, I thought we had done good, Doña Maria smirked. We still lacked step 6.
6. Wash the shells; which means we lose half the weight. Meaning two arrobas = $10 for a full days work of 6 adults.

But I figure since I’ve got the grant and all, I wont take my cut.

Stupid world, makes no sense.

Beautiful People, thankful to know them.

Jessica's Big Day

2008-02-29T00:01:00.003-05:00

I’m still not quite sure what to make of it all.

I was told to be in Llapallapani, the Uru village on Lake Poopo, at 7am so I could go through a class for godparents. The priest, and class instructor, would be coming from Challapata to perform the mass baptism of some 40 Urus.

But of course he wasn’t there, and they hadn’t even come close to starting when I showed up at almost 8am, after picking up baby Jessica’s baptism dress at 6am from the seamstress two towns away.

So when the class hadn’t begun, I headed to baby Jessica’s house where bloody sheep lungs were hanging from the clothesline – a morning salute to the day’s special events. To the right of his lungs, the sheep’s head and skin sprawled on the dirt floor.
I found baby Jessica leaning against the stump used for scrubbing clothes clean, with a bucket of bright red blood to her side. I wanted to pick her up or at least move the bucket, but I resisted the cultural impulse. Roma – baby Jessica’s father – was very dirty and very busy chopping apart the sheep’s skinned carcass. Alicia – baby Jessica’s 18 year old mother – was slapping mud onto the seams of the adobe firewood oven I had seen Roma construct just the day before. They paid me little mind, as there was much to do, much of which would be in my honor for accepting the responsibility of being Jessica’s godmother and namesake. I wanted to make myself useful, but honestly I wasn’t about to touch any part of the sacrificed sheep, so instead I snapped a few photos and mostly just stood around with my mouth open until it was time to bathe and dress my goddaughter.

Around 10:30 the priest and his crew showed up to begin the godparents’ class. But the thing is, I’m not Catholic. But the other thing is, neither are the Urus…well not really. But in Bolivia, the Catholic Church’s baptismal certificates are legal documents, which can serve as personal identification, which can then serve to receive state benefits such as social security. And most Urus, with their on average 5th grade education, either never had or have lost their personal identification documents. I’m assuming the priest got all this. I mean its not everyday a little Uru village asks a priest to come baptize some 40 people – ages 0-65. But even if he did understand what was really going on, there were rituals to be followed, sacraments to be observed. And though I know many of the Urus flat out lied when asked if they had been baptized before, (many have been, but have lost their certificates), they too seemed to take somewhat seriously the traditions. How strange to observe a practice for a motive completely apart from it’s intention, but to do so faithfully.

As I learned how to cross myself properly in my class (its left to right, right to left is a sign of the anti-Christ), I wavered between a soaring hope for a people who somehow serve a faceless God with the bizarre mix of cultural and catholic tools they’ve been given in life, and the verge of tears as the priest periodically called upon church authority instead of God’s love and shot out what felt like rays of intense power that did anything but empower those in the room.

Afterwards I paid my five bucks for baby Jessica’s paperwork and provided a bent Texas driver’s license to verify my own identity for her certificate.

Henry Ford would have been impressed with the mass baptismal ceremony, as it was a regular assembly line of holy water. First everyone was crossed, then everyone was wetted, then everyone was anointed.

The priest suggested now that so many people were baptized he would like to come out once a month to give mass. I give it two months, if ever. Like I said, they’re not really Catholic, and besides that I’ve began documenting the Urus history of failed development projects which range from green houses to evangelicals – somehow they never last long.

After his speech about commitment, we all sang and then went to eat the slaughtered sheep.

But I did something awful. I lied. It’s just some days I’m more adventurous than others, and some days I know I wont be able to handle it. So I said I was a vegetarian. Its awful because first of all the sheep was probably very expensive for Alicia and Roma’s budget and secondly because I know they got up at 3am that day to begin the skinning and cooking process. Its just the day was so intense and stretching for me, that I wasn’t sure I could add the sheep on top of it.

But what I wasn’t lying about was when I said I knew that someday baby Jessica would show up at my doorstep in the US and I would say to her, “Girl, I knew you before you even had a name…come on in.”

This Is It….

2008-02-18T12:46:00.004-05:00

This is it, I’m moving to the campo. The time has come to be bold, to dive in, to go for it and see what I got. No more fancy dinner parties, no more hot water shower, no more easy Internet access, no more easy to understand Spanish, no more distractions in the sufficiently metropolitan capital city.

If I’m ever going to get any work done its gotta be now. Will I be tired of limited water access after two days? Yep. Am I scared my “informants” won’t trust me or talk to me? Yep. Am I predicting I’ll have a bacterial stomach infection thing, after one week? Yep. Am I afraid it’ll take weeks to get any information out of the mayor’s office in the small town? Yep. Will I be forced to eat and drink strange things, go to the neighboring town for a shower or internet or cell phone service or something even remotely resembling a meal to eat? Absolutely. Am I dreading that eventhough I’ve packed all my books on local development, my methodology, and the scientific history of Lake Poopo, that I won’t actually read them, just as I haven’t actually gotten around to reading them in La Paz? Yep, totally afraid of that. Am I a little nervous to travel by myself without my anthropology friends or my NGO partners? Eh...not really.

But I need your prayers and well wishes. And if you need to find me, ask for the Huari Brewery, I’ll be renting a room someplace near there, and if you still cant find me, just sit in the plaza, I’ll walk by eventually…it’s a very tiny pueblo.

Huari or Bust!!

Then what are we fighting for?

2008-02-17T12:32:00.002-05:00

To much of the world “Feminism” is a scary word. To much of the world, “Feminism” isn’t part of the vocabulary. I’ve always lived in that first part of the world. And now I do “research” in the second part. I don’t like it, but I expect an Uru woman to have to ask her husband before she can do almost anything. And for better or worse, I even make allowances for many of the seeming gender inequalities I see, because I know that my cultural concepts aren’t the base for which to measure all others against.

But like Gloria, there are some things that worry me - apart from research, in my modern urban life. The first day I met one of my now dearest Bolivian friends, she compared herself to the Bolivian miners who “worship God in the church, worship Pachamama in the campo, and worship the miner's devil in the mines.” I’ve continued to try to understand how she compartmentalizes her life.

I’ve known for a while that she’s involved in the women’s movement in La Paz, and I’ve known that she more or less has to keep it a secret from her job, despite working for a so-called women’s organization. I assumed it was because she preferred not to stir an ideological battle with her more conservative boss…that’s fine.

She also has a radio show with her husband, and for some reason his identity is known publicly, but hers isn’t. And despite having been a guest twice on the show, I still haven’t figured out why this is the case.

So when she started talking about how welcoming the women’s movement was, how accepted she felt whenever she went to their center, how it was the only place people accepted her as is, I was happy for her, but didn’t really get it. Was home and work that bad?

And then I got a more complete picture. My friend hasn’t been paid in 4 months. I knew about this but it wasn’t exactly the organization’s fault, it’s more the project’s financer. But I can definitely understand if she can’t afford to keep going in to work each day, considering I’ve watched her beg and borrow to pay her bills lately. Part of her project is to teach people about human and citizen’s rights, and isn’t being paid for your work in a timely or at least the agreed upon manner a basic right?

So when she expressed to her boss that she wouldn’t be coming in until the accounts were straightened out, I expected reason from her boss, an accomplished woman who has spent most of her life fighting for women and indigenous people’s rights.

But what my friend got instead was a four-page email, questioning her commitment, and worse, THREATENING TO CALL HER HUSBAND AND PARENTS TO TELL THEM OF HER “ACTIONS”. My friend is 38 years old, the mother of three, the eldest sister of 8 and has been married for 13 years. I’ve never heard her complain about her responsibilities.

If I were my friend, I would take the four pages, rip them to shreds, dump them on my boss’s desk, I would call her a hypocrite, I would tell her that her whole life’s work has served for nothing, and I would tell her that with these four pages, any good she’s ever done for women is rendered null and void, and any right she’s ever fought for was in vain.

Then I would go home and pray for forgiveness that I had now become part of that same ugly hatred, and ask one of those three deities to help me take the resentment out of my heart, to help me find coherency in my life and to help me pay my damn bills.

The Pollera

2008-02-14T11:12:00.010-05:00

There are certain things one needs to know in order to grace the Pollera – that huge skirt Indigenous Bolivian women wear.

I was a bit concerned when a friend wrapped a scarf around my waist to “protect it”, then started tying on one petticoat after the next, totaling three in my case, plus the arrestingly heavy pollera itself.

I was more than concerned when I began trying on the plastic shoes, which traditionally accompany the pollera outfit and after taking a few steps they fogged up…

I was downright perplexed, when I pre-washed my braided hair extensions and they came out tangled beyond repair. And I was in pain when the hairdresser managed to braid them in anyway, and told me to hold on to the chair as she yanked my braids hard enough to pull back my eyebrows.

All of this was in preparation to dance the Chuta…in “The Temptation” parade that officially ends Carnival and marks the beginning of Christ’s temptation in the church season of Lent.

The dance wasn’t so difficult, but as in penance, the procession goes uphill, no matter if you’re a woman who has to do the twirling part.

The best part though, was when the women dancing behind me decided my pollera was too loose and might fall (I still don’t believe them.) So in the middle of the street, in the middle of the procession, in the middle of the dance, they snuck up behind, yanked up my skirt, re-wrapped the cord that ties it on, and pulled so hard, I was gasping for air. Afterward the crowd applauded.

Thankfully there were no cow heads awaiting me at the end, as was the case in Oruro’s carnival celebration. Please see before and after photos:

A Bolivian Valentine's Day...

2008-02-13T18:25:00.003-05:00

La Paz Thinking, La Paz Reality:

2008-02-11T20:18:00.000-05:00

Alasitas is a festival of little things… it comes to the city for a couple of weeks each year. This year, the vendors are blockading the street in protest…demanding that they be permitted to stay another week.

Did I say it’s a festival? As in a street fair? Did you get that they’re demanding the city let them stay another week and are blockading the streets to do so?

You can’t make this stuff up….

The Artist & The Witch

2008-01-30T09:46:00.000-05:00

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.

La Mamita de Charagua

2008-01-29T12:40:00.000-05:00

The Virgin of Charagua

Charagua is a hopeless little town in the Bolivian Chaco. And though hopeless it may be, blessed it is yet, for a special keeper it has.

Long ago when some poor souls were luckless enough to wander through the Bolivian Chaco, only God knows when, BEHOLD, there appeared the Virgin Mary. And thus the people decided to stay in the place, build a tiny pueblo (which no one ever bothered to finish), and dedicate themselves to this Virgin of Charagua. And so they sculpted her icon and adoringly placed her in their little chapel. And the days passed, with the Charaguaños praying to their virgin and farming their little Chaco.

Years later, while the world was distracted with the Great Depression, greedy little Paraguay invaded from the South, marching all the way to the Bolivian Chaco, thus beginning the Great Chaco War. And as the Paraguayan soldiers marched upward and onward, passing through blessed Charagua, one soldier in particular took notice of the little Virgin and wanted her for himself. How can I take the Virgin of Charagua back to Paraguay he asked himself? And thinking some time, he decided he would force her into his little suitcase. But, BEHOLD, she did not fit. How can I make the Virgin of Charagua fit in my suitcase he asked himself? And thinking some time, he decided he would cut off her feet. And footless, she fit for a felonious flight to a foreign family.

Many years the soldier hid her in his home. But asked of his wife that she return the Virgin to Charagua upon his death. And so the man died, and so the days passed and the Virgin remained hid in his home. Finally his wife too became ill. Cancer she had. Tests they did. Sick she was. And upon her deathbed, she brokered a deal – with the devil, no, with the Virgin, yes. What will make the Virgin heal me she asked herself. And thinking sometime, she remembered that the Virgin belonged to a little pueblo in the Bolivian Chaco. Virgin, she said, if you heal me I will take you back to your blessed Charagua in the Bolivian Chaco. Better she felt. Tests they did. Healed she was. And so the Virgin made her way back to Bolivia, back to Charagua and back to her little chapel. The people were so happy she’d survived the Great Chaco War that they made her a General and now she wears an army uniform, with the stars of a war hero. And the days passed, with the Charaguaños praying to their virgin and farming their little Chaco.

Many years she lived there contently, blessing the town and being adored. Her Charaguaño devotees adorned her with rings and necklaces of silver and gold. But one day another foreigner entered her chapel and robbed all her jewels. But this time the criminal dared not take the Virgin for himself, for he’d heard of the Paraguay debacle.

So the people built her a little glass hut where they could protect her and still adore her. And they made her prosthetic limbs, to replace her amputated legs. And so the days pass, with the Charaguaños praying to their virgin and farming their little Chaco.

Santa Cruz de la Sierra

2008-01-29T12:34:00.000-05:00

Orange Tampico and a bag of coca leaves are pure necessities on a 22-hour bus ride from the brisk 14k Aymara metropolis to Bolivia’s eastern tropics. I had forgotten about heat. Indeed, it was so hot in Santa Cruz that the ink in my passport stamps began to melt down their pretty blue pages.

I had survived a semester of humidity-filled Costa Rican bus-rides a few years ago, but the trips were always toward a very clear destinational reward: a gorgeous refreshing Central American beach – Pacific or Caribbean – have your pick. But with no ocean to speak of, the Bolivian lowlands are their own brand of reality.

This reality extends to race, politics, economics and culture as well. Santa Cruz is the ideological antithesis to my beloved La Paz and the stronghold of President Morales’ opposition. And as much as I favor unity in almost any situation (including Bolivia’s current political divisions), I can certainly see how the Eastern call for autonomy must have come very naturally given the stark differences from the Western highlands. But then again, what does New York City Pizza have in common with my aunt’s pressure-cooked squirrel meat in Vidor, Texas? Not much I’m afraid – but that didn’t deter General Sherman, right? A friend studying in Santa Cruz commented on the same theme, noting how helpful federalism could be for developing nations – too bad, he said, that Santa Cruz’s attempt at it is based in racism against the more indigenously populated highlands.

My upper-class landlord had praised Santa Cruz’s vividness before I left La Paz, but my heart knew then that nothing could be more alive than La Paz and her sister El Alto. Neon tank-tops and palm trees do not equate to “more culture” I’m afraid.

And about those tank-tops – several men had told me how beautiful the women are in Santa Cruz, but all I’ve noticed is that they wear less clothing (proving once more what simple minded creatures men really are). But you certainly can’t blame the women for being scantily clad, since it appears everyone is slowly melting to their deaths out there.

I’m looking forward to a couple of weeks here, though I’ll be traveling out to a small Guarani Population for most of that. For now I’ll just say: so far, so hot, I mean so far so good.

Swan Lake

2008-01-14T13:16:00.000-05:00

I can’t believe I’d say this after my 9 to 5:30 last year, but sometimes my biggest struggle here, is finding a work rhythm. Its just there’s so much to see, everything to learn and all the possibilities in the world. Please do not mistake this for a complaint, nor for any type of boredom. Indeed, it feels more like a grand dance or ballet: full of random, ever changing, inspiring scenes. An untrained eye would never deny a ballet’s beauty, yet an untrained eye might easily fail to recognize the connected story line, perhaps only picking up a few motifs among the scenes.

I only say this because since my return last week, I’ve been caught in a series of random happenings that remind me of said ballet (I prefer to imagine Swan Lake). I’m certain they’re each beautiful and have enriched my “cultural experience” here, but I’m not positive that they all “count”.

Equally, on my recent trips to the countryside, I’ve had to unlearn years of work style and images of efficiency. After Washington, it was surprising that I’d ever think a “productive day” consisted of meeting a woman who lives in a hut and buying some weavings from her, then just making a presence with the group I want to write about – no interviews, no Word documents, nothing to show for it….

Yesterday I went for a hike with friends and spent a good part of the afternoon playing Red Rover, Red Rover, but also learned a little more about the Ponchos Rojos and some Bolivian folk songs, so I guess I’ll count that as “work” too.

But occasionally, I fear my freedom will steal my dignity. If I’m not productive (outside of my changing world/cultural perspectives) then is there honor in my life? I don’t mean, “just earning my keep”, but that “hard days work” that Pa did in Little House on the Prairie – that’s honor. I’m hoping it’s a false duality: that a rolling stone lifestyle can’t be a dignified contribution to the world…

In any case, thanks for letting me vent. I’ll let you know when I’ve found my rhythm, but if I don’t find it, I don’t think living amidst a grand ballet is the worst place to be in the world.

What Worries Me Too

2008-01-11T11:42:00.000-05:00

From NYT Op-Ed:
Women Are Never Front-Runners

By GLORIA STEINEM
Published: January 8, 2008
Correction Appended

THE woman in question became a lawyer after some years as a community organizer, married a corporate lawyer and is the mother of two little girls, ages 9 and 6. Herself the daughter of a white American mother and a black African father — in this race-conscious country, she is considered black — she served as a state legislator for eight years, and became an inspirational voice for national unity.

Be honest: Do you think this is the biography of someone who could be elected to the United States Senate? After less than one term there, do you believe she could be a viable candidate to head the most powerful nation on earth?

If you answered no to either question, you’re not alone. Gender is probably the most restricting force in American life, whether the question is who must be in the kitchen or who could be in the White House. This country is way down the list of countries electing women and, according to one study, it polarizes gender roles more than the average democracy.

That’s why the Iowa primary was following our historical pattern of making change. Black men were given the vote a half-century before women of any race were allowed to mark a ballot, and generally have ascended to positions of power, from the military to the boardroom, before any women (with the possible exception of obedient family members in the latter).

If the lawyer described above had been just as charismatic but named, say, Achola Obama instead of Barack Obama, her goose would have been cooked long ago. Indeed, neither she nor Hillary Clinton could have used Mr. Obama’s public style — or Bill Clinton’s either — without being considered too emotional by Washington pundits.

So why is the sex barrier not taken as seriously as the racial one? The reasons are as pervasive as the air we breathe: because sexism is still confused with nature as racism once was; because anything that affects males is seen as more serious than anything that affects “only” the female half of the human race; because children are still raised mostly by women (to put it mildly) so men especially tend to feel they are regressing to childhood when dealing with a powerful woman; because racism stereotyped black men as more “masculine” for so long that some white men find their presence to be masculinity-affirming (as long as there aren’t too many of them); and because there is still no “right” way to be a woman in public power without being considered a you-know-what.

I’m not advocating a competition for who has it toughest. The caste systems of sex and race are interdependent and can only be uprooted together. That’s why Senators Clinton and Obama have to be careful not to let a healthy debate turn into the kind of hostility that the news media love. Both will need a coalition of outsiders to win a general election. The abolition and suffrage movements progressed when united and were damaged by division; we should remember that.

I’m supporting Senator Clinton because like Senator Obama she has community organizing experience, but she also has more years in the Senate, an unprecedented eight years of on-the-job training in the White House, no masculinity to prove, the potential to tap a huge reservoir of this country’s talent by her example, and now even the courage to break the no-tears rule. I’m not opposing Mr. Obama; if he’s the nominee, I’ll volunteer. Indeed, if you look at votes during their two-year overlap in the Senate, they were the same more than 90 percent of the time. Besides, to clean up the mess left by President Bush, we may need two terms of President Clinton and two of President Obama.

But what worries me is that he is seen as unifying by his race while she is seen as divisive by her sex.

What worries me is that she is accused of “playing the gender card” when citing the old boys’ club, while he is seen as unifying by citing civil rights confrontations.

What worries me is that male Iowa voters were seen as gender-free when supporting their own, while female voters were seen as biased if they did and disloyal if they didn’t.

What worries me is that reporters ignore Mr. Obama’s dependence on the old — for instance, the frequent campaign comparisons to John F. Kennedy — while not challenging the slander that her progressive policies are part of the Washington status quo.

What worries me is that some women, perhaps especially younger ones, hope to deny or escape the sexual caste system; thus Iowa women over 50 and 60, who disproportionately supported Senator Clinton, proved once again that women are the one group that grows more radical with age.

This country can no longer afford to choose our leaders from a talent pool limited by sex, race, money, powerful fathers and paper degrees. It’s time to take equal pride in breaking all the barriers. We have to be able to say: “I’m supporting her because she’ll be a great president and because she’s a woman.”

Gloria Steinem is a co-founder of the Women’s Media Center.

Part of the Problem?

2007-12-10T09:28:00.000-05:00

Life is so fertile these days –the stakes so high in this Andean Advent season. A good week within the Urus’ microcosm world felt like Dances with Wolves meets The King and I. Except unlike at the end of those movies, when I left, a million layers of hardly touched complexity and unknown depths of history remained.

Sometimes, I feel I’m trying to drink a sip of water from an ocean wave. It took a month to figure out the real name of the original Urus language…A MONTH, and that’s working with them in person and doing document research! The Urus are a people wronged by history and worse, wronged by historians and researchers like myself.

I permitted my own naive fascination with their leader at first, because curiosity usually leads me to very interesting places. (Besides, we must be kindred spirits; we both smashed our thumbnails the same week!)

But the further I dig, the more I find myself, necessarily assessing my own judgments and thoughts. I’m afraid of my own biases, but can’t escape them. Sometimes they’re questions of class: for example, I recently met the dirtiest child I’ve ever seen in my life. I was trying to entertain her with whatever I had in my bag, including gum and a camera. But couldn’t resist giving her some anti-bacterial hand gel. She wasn’t starving, she wasn’t sick, she wasn’t crying, she was fine – but she was dirty and I couldn’t take it… That’s me imposing my life on her and it may be something small, but what else am I doing?

At other times, I find myself in potential advocate positions, especially against other outsiders but am hesitant to interfere. I try to tell the leader my opinions, especially if the situation involves interaction with the outside world, but wonder what the difference is between my young, not-even-Bolivian opinion and that of the governor’s office or NGO trying to advise him. In these interactions, where I’m supposedly just observing, I often want to shout, “Don’t listen to that guy, he’s going to use you!” Or to the outsider, “Don’t preach their own history to them, you jerk!” Or to the governor’s office, “I don’t believe you or your stupid PowerPoint!” And to the Urus, anytime there is conflict, I want to cry out for peace amongst their tiny population, scared that any divisions will be exploited by “the world out there”.

I’m not disillusioned that I’ll save the Urus, but sometimes it’s very easy to get angry about their situation and worry about their future. But my biggest prayer is simply that I won’t add to the problem…

I Heart Free Speech

2007-11-29T15:18:00.000-05:00

So yesterday I'm walking through the government plaza, heading to the parliament building to visit my new congressman friend and I notice the plaza is full and has a stage. But really there are so many demonstrations here, that I didn’t even ask what was going on.

But the congressman’s not in his office. Someone tells me they’re all in the plaza because Evo is speaking. In my four Bolivian months, I’ve yet to see Evo in person, so I decide to take a peek. It was intense. He wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t heard him say before, but to see him in front of his base was gripping. I stuck out like a sore thumb as I came upon all the Ponchos Rojos. The Ponchos Rojos (or Red Ponchos) are a group of “peasants” or countryside indigenous men who have somehow formed a sort of militia. They’re probably a collective of indigenous authorities, but I know that when they march for something they ain’t playin’, and it can get ugly.

What’s more, they recently had a rally prior to a march in which they killed two dogs – I guess it was some sort of war cry, but they usually just hang some dummies from a tree and beat it with sticks before they march somewhere – not sure why the sudden change.

So today, I once again obliviously walk through the same plaza and again there is a rally. This time it's full of people with fancy dogs on leashes demanding animal rights and calling the Ponchos Rojos murderers.

I love animals, but I have to admit I found this amusing since the country is currently falling apart! The Eastern half of Bolivia is calling for Evo’s head; there were four deaths and over a hundred escaped prisoners in Sucre last week, plus we’re in the middle of a two day general strike in 6 of the 9 provinces in which those who choose not to participate are beaten up by the mobs!

But hey if they’re gonna re-write the constitution anyway, might as well get it all in there…dogs and all.

Ratification without Peace: Bolivia’s (read: MAS’) Constitution

2007-11-25T07:53:00.000-05:00

After desperately searching for a good news radio program, my housemate and I decided we had to find a TV to see what was going on in Sucre, where Bolivia’s constituent assembly is being held. We packed our things and were headed to our least favorite café (which boasts cable), when on the way out we saw our doorman watching TV in the building’s office. So we bulldozed our way in and begged him to flip the channel.

As best I can tell, here’s the story. Bolivia has been re-writing its constitution in a constituent assembly for about 15 months now. Its had at least two major stalls; one to determine what size majority was needed for approval (simple majority or 2/3rds; each article or document as whole etc…), then the more recent political maneuver of relocating the capital (see "Monday"). Most recently the MAS party assembly members have been so harassed by the opposition in Sucre that the assembly has been postponed for months at a time trying to calm tensions. It was in one of these breaks that MAS (President Morales’ majority, leftist party) took advantage of the time to write its own constitution. I was a little unclear on the purpose of this at the time, naively thinking to myself, “why would the political party write a constitution, isn’t that what the assembly is for??”

Anyway, now that Sucre has become so violent that the assembly had to be moved within an army complex, surrounded by the military and then surrounded by thousands of peasants who had marched to Sucre to defend it, AND now that the opposition party Podemos has stopped attending sessions in protest (as in their vote isn’t big enough to change anything), the remaining assembly members (MAS and allies) have not only changed the rules of order to make the approval process go much, much faster, but came yesterday with suitcases in hand vowing not to leave the complex until a new constitution was ratified. What new constitution, you may ask? (This is where I kick my naïve self.) It appears MAS sent their own constitution in to be ratified. So tonight, as the assembly was approving articles at warp speed, the Sucre university students were outside setting tires on fire, throwing rocks and the like, and the military was making good use of their gasmasks as they bombed a large radius with tear gas. The worst part is, it appears two people died today. When we left the doorman, only one death had been confirmed, though two were suspected, and the cause had not been announced. There are all sorts of conspiracy theories about who is to blame and suspecting the opposition of trying to make the government look responsible for the violence etc… But theories aside, death is death.

Once fully ratified, the country will have 6 months starting December 14th to call for a national referendum, in which a simple majority of the popular vote will be needed to turn MAS’ constitution into Bolivia’s constitution.

Some people argue MAS is right in forging ahead against the opposition’s ridiculous stalling. But I keep thinking of those famous words about the Iraq War, in which someone asked, “we can win the war, but can we win the peace?” It seems inevitable MAS will ratify their constitution, but the question remains if their constitution can bring peace to Bolivia.

Meeting Jilircotapuchu

2007-11-17T12:41:00.000-05:00

It was inevitable and I always knew it was coming. But I thought when the moment arose I’d be full of compassion and humility. I thought I’d back away with my head bowed out of respect for all an ancient people had endured.

But such was not the case.

The Urus, among the earliest indigenous peoples in the Andes, have every reason in the world not to trust an American. As do most Bolivians, given the recent comments and actions of the US Ambassador. *

But perhaps I’m getting a little haughty due to all I’ve “endured” in my assimilation. I mean losing your lunch in the middle of a market, eating llama meat out of a plastic bag, chewing coca leaves offered by indigenous authorities, traveling to the ends of the earth and not showering for days…I thought I was doing pretty good…

So when I met the “chief” of the Urus Nation of Lake Poopo, and the first thing out of his mouth was “we don’t want Americans here,” I didn’t take it well. First, I laughed and tried to assure I came in peace, with no other motive than to learn. He didn’t seem convinced; so I kept my mouth shut the rest of the meeting. I reminded my colleagues, that an American would never say that to a Bolivian and with spite added that most Americans don’t even know where Bolivia is!!

But as I observed the meeting, I realized what a fascinating and incredible man this leader was and as I learned more about the Urus and all he had done for his people, I really, really wanted him to trust me! When I shook his hand to make my leave, he gave me a wink and said, “I joke a lot.” That’s when I was sold. I have to go back and stay with the Urus. No one studies the Urus, there’s one small book, that’s it. Furthermore, being fishermen makes them current victims of global warming, as their lake is drying up. They’re also involved in a land dispute, losing their native language and nearing extinction...the list goes on.

Luckily, the Jilircotapuchu and I were heading the same direction and shared a ride. So I turned on all the charm and sincerity I could muster and finally asked if I could come back and write about his people.

His response: “Let’s write.”

*Photos of the ambassador socializing with criminals have recently surged without explanation. Furthermore, when President Morales called for the UN to be moved out of NYC and to a more neutral country that wouldn’t detain him every time he tried to attend meetings, the ambassador responded that next Morales would call for Disneyland to be moved out of Florida…

Bolivian Duality: from religion to modernity

2007-11-09T19:02:00.000-05:00

From noon on November 1st to noon on November 2nd is All Saints Day in Bolivia. If I’m not mistaken it’s more or less the same as Mexico’s Day of the Dead and I found it a beautiful celebration and time of remembering. I’m certain there are various traditions, but the one in which I participated in went as follows: by noon on November 1st you prepare a table in your home by filling it with candles, special occasion sweet breads (including bread people in photo), other favorite foods of your dead, glasses of alcohol, coca-cola of course, family photos if available, and anything else that might lure your ancestors to the table. Then you leave it out overnight as an invitation to dine. The next day there is a little remembering ceremony; ours included a time of silence for prayer or meditation, and then slowly eating specific pieces of food in remembrance of a specific deceased loved one. Afterwards, you head to the cemetery, decorate your loved one’s tomb, bring offerings, eat lunch with family, or play music at the gravesite. Or if you’re like me, get yelled at by an Aymara woman while your friend tries to take a photo of said woman, family and ancestral graves. (Yeah, one of my worst fears in Bolivia realized.) Regardless of the threatening woman, the cemetery was quite a site to see.

Although I’ve yet to really investigate the origin of the tradition, a friend first provided a very indigenous interpretation of the holiday explaining it in line with the Quechuan Cosmo-Vision: a two world cyclical system in which you’re born an infant and die old in this world, but born old and die young in the next. She also shared the history of Quechuas painting corpses even years after their death and how much this frightened the Spanish conquerors. Later however, a mestizo family I know, instead related the day to catholic tradition and thought that it came about intentionally to combat the evils of Halloween, (Halloween is little celebrated and even less appreciated in the country.) hence, November 1st: day after Halloween. So I’d venture to guess, that even if All Saints Day was originally a Papal Decree, years later syncretism finally had its say, as in all the colonized countries and today it is enjoyed by indigenous and mestizo alike.

But there is a new duality brewing in the nation. No longer is the debate: Catholicism vs. the Andean Cosmo-Vision.

As a student of International Politics, one of the reasons I love Bolivia is Evo’s foreign policy. Bolivia may be just a small country, and its leader may be friends with crazies like Hugo and Fidel, but he’s one of the only presidents I can think of trying to change the world order in favor of the long oppressed peoples, without the use of suicide bombers. But now that I’m here, it’s not an option to only observe the dreamy foreign policy of the administration, when domestic politics are marching by your door (literally). Unfortunately, however, I often find domestic politics extremely disheartening because from my foreign eyes, the national debate really boils down to what I identify as the new duality. On one side is indigenous traditions, neo-socialism, communal sharing, nationalizations, social movements, Evo. On the other side is private companies, private properties, standard world order, the law, industrialization, mestizo people, the department of Santa Cruz.

It’s Indigenization vs. Modernity and it seems very few people, perhaps myself included, have a balanced concept of what the two mean for Bolivia. And what’s worse, it’s not just a question of natural resource industry nationalizations vs. private companies. Sometimes I think the debate is really a disguise for racism.

Yesterday I sat in on a conference where school administrators were presenting their annual school management plans supposedly with the common theme of democracy and gender equality. An administrator from El Alto had a nice PowerPoint presentation with slides both in Aymara and Spanish. I was expecting to hear how his plans to improve the education of girls, and teach an inclusive curriculum. But I swear, all he talked about was how he wanted his students to greet one another, because that’s the Aymara way. I don’t want to belittle the significance of cultural greetings, but I hope they’re learning something more than cordiality. The presentations at the conference were a great example of the “if only we could return to the traditional indigenous ways everything would be perfect” syndrome.

On the other hand, in the city of Cochabamba, it’s now forbidden for families to enter the cemetery for All Saints Day. This year all festivities took place outside the gates, because the Prefect (governor) says the tradition is barbaric and shouldn’t be practiced anymore. He represents the other extreme, which will choose modernity in all areas of life, even if it has nothing to do with commerce and is really just a supplanting of cultures.

Vice President Alvaro Garcia Linera says these divisions are nothing new, it’s just that now they’re exposed:
“We've always been divided. It's just that now we're seeing ourselves with all our divisions and tendencies. The illusion of a monolithic, cohesive unity has broken like a glass thrown to the ground. And it can never be put back together. We can't go back to living with illusions.” (http://americas.irc-online.org/am/4715)

Us Twenty-somethings

2007-10-27T20:39:00.000-05:00

Since 6th grade I’ve wanted to go to Machu Picchu. Peru was my country in world geography class and I neatly decorated a piece of cardboard with an outline of the country, flag, and other probably poorly researched “facts”. I even tried to make some Peruvian potato dish for my classmates (Peru has some 5000 species of potato). But it just turned out to be cold Idaho mashed potatoes mushed into balls then flattened out.

Well, who knew, but dreams do come true I suppose. I finally made it to Machu Pichhu this month – some 12 years later. A fifty-mile trek over five days doesn’t sound like much, but it was truly my undoing. By the time we made it to the famous Incan citadel, it was all I could do to follow my tour group and not make a run for the Bolivian border. In fact, we more or less tried that. That very day we took a train, two buses and a taxi trying to get back to La Paz. But Bolivia in all her glorious passion slowed us down with a random, yet typical, political blockade at the border, rerouting us to a “ferry” across Lake Titicaca – “womb of the world”.

A few days later when trying to leave for Chile, we were delayed indefinitely by yet another political blockade in nearby El Alto demanding 1000 new classrooms be built in the city.

After deciding against Chile all together (mainly due to the inconvenience caused by the blockade) I got sick (again), and after making a Gatorade run to the American-style supermarket, could hardly get home because the taxi couldn’t get up my street. This time, it wasn’t a blockade, but a political march. A political march BLOCKING the street…

I don’t know if I’m a typical twenty-something, but I swear Bolivia is. After all she only has 25 years of democracy under her belt. She’s all over the place – a complete disaster, put she does it with gusto. I’ve met a diverse variety of ethnicities and social classes in the country, and I’ve yet to encounter someone who doesn’t have something to say about the national political situation…she’s passionate I tell you. But the thing is, she’s passionate about EVERYTHING. Taxes, property rights, justice for a government massacre, nationalization of natural resources, these things are worthy of a march, but I’ve seen people protest on the minibus because the driver didn’t take the route they wanted. I swear they organized right in the Toyota Van and started chanting.

And its not just politics either; I’ve been to two town festivals, and when Bolivia drinks, she drinks to get drunk. Or maybe “to get drunk, fight and then pass-out,” as my articulate housemate put it. Usually the festivals follow Catholic tradition to honor the town Virgin, but nonetheless, come Sunday morning there is a carpet of people passed-out in their dance costumes across the town plaza.

Her enthusiasm extends to romance as well. First one notes how passionate lovers are, how romantic their declarations, and how public their affections. But going a bit deeper you hear the comments about widespread infidelity. For example I heard someone say she was looking for a boyfriend, but then clarified in complete seriousness, she wanted one without another girlfriend…

It’s all very ardent and I can’t help but think of the many twenty-somethings I know who are incredibly smart, incredibly passionate and incredibly lacking direction, just like my Bolivia.

So no wonder I missed Bolivia while I was gone. She’s become a dear friend, to whom I can relate. Machu Picchu may be the eighth wonder of the world, but I’d take Bolivia’s blockades any day.

Pachamama

2007-09-25T00:32:00.000-05:00

Pachamama is the Andean Mother Earth – still revered in culture if not religion. I’ve been waiting on her for some time now. Waiting on her to release my research project from her deep crevices like a warm, earthy steam.

In Bolivia, Pachamama is the benevolent recipient of any number of offerings including llama fetuses, but most prominently alcohol, beer and chicha (lowland moonshine). Whether indoors or out, its customary to spill some of your drink on the floor as an offering to Pachamama before taking a sip.

In anticipation of Her assistance in redefining my research project, I didn’t perform any blessing ceremonies or go to the witch’s market for supplies, but unintentionally did make a pilgrimage to the end of the earth in her honor.

I agreed to travel across the country to Cochabamba to meet the sister office of one of my partner organizations for a tour of their work in four rural communities. So last week I headed for the airport in a typically crammed mini-bus, but was seated next to a jolly sort of man who somehow struck up conversation in spite of my fluster and frenzy. We started discussing Bolivia’s political situation, (not an uncommon topic even for strangers). I was surprised when he somehow humbly suggested force might be necessary to resolve Bolivia’s ongoing conflicts, shocked when I later found out he was a Quaker pastor and stunned when he revealed he used to be a communist (and given his age, the country and his life timeline, that means he was a communist in the era of, if not with, Che Guevara). We talked about the choice he had to make between Communism and God and what a shame it is that some institutions require mutual exclusivity even if its not what our gut tells us. I told him at least twice I wanted to visit his church, and as we approached his stop, made it more evident and asked for his card. But he didn’t have anything and had to get off the bus. Just before scooching out the sliding door though, he put his hand on my shoulder, winked, and said “God will have us meet again.”

What kind of pastor doesn’t invite you to their church? What kind of a communist becomes a pastor? And what kind of Quaker suggests a violent resolution to conflict? It was very strange, but didn’t feel phony at all, if anything it was calming and a little mystical. I decided he was a good omen, if not a down right angel.

It was a 30-minute flight from La Paz to Cochabamba and a seven-hour drive to San Pedro de Buena Vista. In San Pedro there is only one “restaurant” to eat at and you have to tell the owner/cook/server ahead of time that you’ll be dining with him or else he might sell all the food before you get there. There is running water, but since its still the dry season, the tap is sporadic and in my 48 hour stay it was only present in one of my many attempts to turn on a faucet. There’s no phone, no cell service, no Internet and only one place to stay. Its 3 hours from its nearest neighbor and the road requires a 4x4. Supposedly its one of Bolivia’s poorest municipalities, although I probably wouldn’t have thought that if I hadn’t been told it – more than poor it just felt isolated.

Unbeknownst to me, my partner organization arranged a series of interviews for me with the mayor, superintendent, town council and others. The point of my trip was an introduction to the communities and the organization’s work in them. But I was also scheduled to return to La Paz the following week to meet with the director and explain my research plans. But I had no plans…I more or less abandoned the angle of my original proposal upon my arrival in August and have been wandering about the country like an enigma interested in everything but focused on nothing, allowing my partner orgs to control my schedule and work.

So as I went through the morning of “interviews” in San Pedro, I had nothing to ask…and with each hour I felt my stress level, blood pressure and desperation rising. In one interview I actually tuned out the person (not that hard to do when they’re speaking in your second language) and started writing a letter to God, basically saying, “please help” in a variety of ways. I was eventually rescued by Bolivia’s three-hour lunch break, and went back to my room for a nap. What was I going to tell the director when I got back to La Paz? Why was I wasting these people’s time and looking like a fool? After almost two months of considering over a dozen research themes, I was at the end of my rope. I took a deep breath, rolled my eyes in anger at myself, and fell asleep…

But while I slept, the dry riverbed cracked, the earth shifted, and the soil was plowed. Pachamama delivered her secrets and upon awakening my project sat in my cupped hands like fresh water in the Andean dry season. I was elated.

Ironically it’s virtually the same theme as my undergrad thesis, but with field research and a less naive approach. But I figure that’s what brought me to Bolivia and why I fell in love with it in the first place. Besides, as T.S. Eliot says, “The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

Though the stress was gone and I was completely content, my pilgrimage didn’t end in San Pedro. I journeyed further to the center of the earth on literally the worst road I’ve ever seen, so much so that there was no road at some points, to Toro Toro, where Dinosaurs once roamed, as evident by their fossils and petrified tracks. A warm shower awaited us there, although breakfast did not, as the whole town was simply and literally out of bread.

No llama fetus, no moonshine, no magic…just gratitude for the work to come and a new appreciation of La Paz, which now feels like the first world with its paved streets and running water. I’m anticipating three months in San Pedro, but hoping for two – I mean I like adventure, but this place isn’t even in my guidebook! ;)

Monday

2007-09-11T12:54:00.000-05:00

Last week I started writing a blog entry called “What Monday Will Bring.” At the time I thought September 10th would be significant for at least three reasons: first, its my big brother’s birthday; second, General Petraeus was scheduled to testify before the House regarding the surge in Iraq; and finally, here in Bolivia, the Vice President had called upon the majority party’s base support to march to Sucre on Monday, 100,000 strong, in order to defend the resumption of Bolivia’s constituent assembly. The assembly, Bolivia’s attempt to rewrite its constitution, has taken a break amongst heavy harassment of its participants by the opposition.

What I did not expect to wake up to at 6:30am on Monday morning was a strange Bolivian nurse wanting to bathe me in my hospital bed, because I couldn’t take a shower due to the IV pumping antibiotics and fluids into my left arm. But life in Bolivia is full of surprises, in fact that’s the national motto: “…where the unexpected is normal.”

I woke up at 12am on Sunday violently ill and within the hour was taken to the hospital. The doctor thinks I had both an “infection” from food poisoning and some “vague parasites,” probably contracted before the food poisoning. And he may be on to something because my friend Dave was also ill and we had eaten at the same “upscale” restaurant on Saturday night. But I have another theory…

I think my thrashing intestines were really sympathy pains for all the day’s events; an ailment of compassion for all I anticipated the world to bare on Monday. Allow me to explain.

First of all, my beloved brother, three years my senior, born on this day has always had a fear of heights. Yet, as a member of the armed services, he spent his birthday at Army Jump School, and though he’d been there a week or so prior, Monday was the first day he actually jumped out of an aircraft. When he told me he was heading to Jump School, I did ask about his phobia, but he said he was “over it.” All the same I bet his stomach was turning some tricks of its own Monday.

One plus to being in the hospital was that I had cable, including CNN in English, and was able to watch Petraeus’ testimony (though I admit I got bored during the ambassador’s extensive remarks afterwards and flipped to HBO). Since it wasn’t published in any La Paz newspapers, I particularly appreciated that the senators noted MoveOn.org’s campaign against Petraeus’ credibility which included the NYT ad: “General Petraeus or General Betray Us?”– very catchy. Center for American Progress argues that his testimony, albeit a “political whisper” "opened a new phase" in the debate over Bush's strategy -- "from this point on, the argument will no longer be about whether to withdraw U.S. troops but about how many to pull out and how quickly." To me it didn’t seem to have any surprises…but all the same it was an intense moment…all eyes being on the general…so again, I argue my nausea was merely compassion for the Hearing.

Bolivia of course tops them all, as it is a haven of social protest and civil unrest, which unfortunately escalated to some violence this past week. As part of the president’s “democratic revolution”, the country is engaged in a constituent assembly to rewrite its constitution. The president’s party has majority control over the assembly, and would seemingly be able to drive the agenda, thus the opposition has taken to other means in order to prevent measures it contests such as land reform. In my opinion, this is how the current capital debate came about. Though the city Sucre was the colonial capital it lost its preeminent position to La Paz in a 19th century civil war and no longer holds the legislative or executive branches of govt. The opposition tried to address relocating the full capital back to Sucre in the assembly but it was voted off the agenda, so they responded with hunger strikes and civil unrest. “But give me a break…the capital has been in La Paz over a hundred years, this is not an injustice over which to starve yourself,” you say. Exactly. There aren’t even buildings there to hold the govt. offices or for which to relocate all the embassies…its ridiculous. It was completely political and rallied the people enough that the assembly (located in Sucre) was forced to close for safety reasons. Initially the march was supposed to help re-open the assembly on Monday, but on Friday it was announced that another month recess would be taken, due to some violent protests mainly by university students setting tires on fire and trying to take the national theater. But the president’s supporters: indigenous campesinos (from rural highlands, cocaleros, unions etc) marched anyway. And resolved to ask for the immediate reopening of the assembly, promising they themselves would defend the delegates from the opposition, they remain in Sucre today.

It was said that women in the streets were selling vinegar, bicarbonate of soda and facemasks, to protect from the tear gas….does tear gas make you nauseas? I bet it does and I bet that contributed to my illness…

Oh and to make the story complete…the electricity went out at the hospital, it was classic... I had to use the light from my cell phone to eat my Jello!

Huanuni

2007-09-06T16:51:00.000-05:00

This week I traveled to Oruro, or “Oruroruro,” as the bus ticket vendors call it.

Oruro is one of Bolivia’s nine departments and shares its name with its capital city. It is also home of Bolivia’s famous Carnival party. From the capital, we traveled to 6 tiny pueblos to meet with their mayors and explain the NGO’s upcoming project on personal documentation (Identification) and citizen participation training. Coming from a world of social security numbers, it’s been difficult to understand how important this project is. Identification cards etc…seem so boring and insignificant, but without them, the state doesn’t recognize you as a citizen and you have no rights – technically, you can’t own, vote, marry, receive benefits, nada….

All of the mayors were eager to join in on the effort and recognized documentation as a major setback for their community. But of course one town stood out: Huanuni. Only on the bus back to Oruro, after Huanuni left its grubby impression on me, did I realize it was Bolivia’s Political Heartland.

The mayor was awkward, but like any good politician, blessed with an advisor to think for him. And the people were all but helpful when we needed to reprint some documents. The river was utterly disgusting, and came complete with an array of hogs rooting through its mud and trash. Best of all was the one and only public bathroom in Huanuni, which was a little cement building with its back hanging over the river. After paying fifty centavos and getting not only the typical wad of pink toilet paper, but also a receipt, you can enter the cleaner than expected stalls to do your business in the porcelain toilets with holes cut out in the bottom, so that your waste can fall DIRECTLY into the river below, to be observed by passersby on the other side of the river. And though it may be ignorant to say so, I’m beginning to believe that pollution and this type of filth is not an issue of poverty but of education, because several of the other towns had excellent environmental campaigns and water sources that permitted you to keep your lunch.

But we know judging books by their covers is of no use, and such is the case with Huanuni’s scenery. Most people know the town for its historical mining community and not its public bathroom. Huanuni is home to the world’s richest cassiterite (tin) deposit, and not only important for its economic value, but for its political history as a state-owned natural resource. It seems the topic of Bolivian politics is almost always natural resources and the players are usually not businesses or lobbyists, but grassroots social movements and confused governments. Huanuni’s miners were Bolivia’s original social movement.

The best explanation I’ve found for Bolivian politics is a fantastic quote by a certain Mr. Crabtree that loosely translated reads, “Bolivia has been and continues to be a country with a relatively weak state, but a very strong civil society whose roots are grounded in communal traditions from the Andean indigenous peoples, and the long history of resistance to the invasion of western values such as private property, individualism and profit.”

Weak state + strong civil society = lots of social movements.

The unique hybrid of western style trade union and indigenous corporate culture has long been as, if not more, effective than the political parties here. And it all began with the state employed miners rising up to fight against lay-off in the 1950s, followed by resistance to the US backed eradication of coca in the 80s, the privatization of water at the turn of the century and 50-some years of back and forth with land distribution.

It was only last October, that 17 people died in Huanuni’s Tin War – a confrontation between the coop miners and unionized miners of the state owned Comibol. Rumor has it the situation is heating up again…

On the way out of town, we were stopped at a police checkpoint, where the uniformed men mounted the bus and proceeded to quickly pat down different packages and bags. Being American, I naturally assumed they were searching for narcotics, but was later informed that the authorities check for minerals being smuggled out of the region. My Elvis handbag was left untouched.

If you didnt already think this world is ridiculous, please read this:

2007-09-01T13:22:00.000-05:00

New Chinese rules on Dalai Lama
By Michael Bristow
BBC News, Beijing

Communist China has introduced new rules that appear aimed at controlling the selection of the next Dalai Lama, Tibetan Buddhism's spiritual head.
Most Tibetans believe that eminent monks, such as the Dalai Lama, are reincarnated after death.
China, which governs Tibet, will now have the final say over who can be selected as a reincarnated monk.
The current Dalai Lama is a thorn in China's side, which is probably why it is keen to select his reincarnation.

Seal of approval:
Although the new regulations do not mention the Dalai Lama by name, they effectively prevent his followers in exile from choosing his reincarnation.
"No outside organisation or individual will influence or control the reincarnation of living Buddhas [eminent monks]," states one article of the new regulations.
They also say that any reincarnation has to be approved by various levels of government.
In the case of the most pre-eminent monks, who would include the Dalai Lama, China's cabinet has to give its seal of approval.
Officials at China's State Administration for Religious Affairs declined to be interviewed by the BBC about who these new rules are directed against.
But it appears China wants to control the selection of the next Dalai Lama. The current, 14th Dalai Lama, is now 72.

Tibetans defiant:
Since he fled Tibet in 1959 after a failed uprising against Chinese rule, he has travelled the world.
He promotes the idea that Tibetans deserve real autonomy from Beijing.
This annoys China, which claims Tibet has been part of the motherland for eight centuries.
Chinese officials routinely refer to the Dalai Lama as a "splittist" intent on separating Tibet from China, which reasserted its control of the region in 1951.
Tibetans outside China say the new regulations will not affect the selection of next Dalai Lama.
"We believe this ruling by the Chinese government will not go down well with Tibetan monks," says Thubten Samphel, spokesman for the Tibetan government in exile.
He says choosing the child who is a reincarnation of an eminent monk can only be done by an organisation with spiritual authority, and that does not include China's Communist government.
Also, the spokesman, based in Dharamsala, India, says that the Dalai Lama has already said he will be born outside Tibet if he is not allowed to return there during his lifetime.
The new regulations raise the prospect of two Dalai Lamas in the future, a situation that already has a precedent.
When the Dalai Lama selected the 11th Panchen Lama - Tibetan Buddhism's second-most important monk - in 1995, China followed suit by naming its own.

Amy Grant and Public Bathrooms

2007-08-29T20:09:00.000-05:00

I thought there was some famous quotation about the secret to a long life being the abilty to laugh at yourself, but when I googled, all I found was this by Amy Grant, I was hoping for Mark Twain at least.

"More important than talent, strength, or knowledge is the ability to laugh at yourself and enjoy the pursuit of your dreams."

Anyway, the idea here is me laughing at myself or you laughing at me...either one.

Vinicultura….

My first excursion outside of the city was to a little district called Palcoma. An NGO I’m working with had been discussing a project with some of the authorities in the rural community, and I came along just in time for the presentation of the project at a community meeting. So off we went in the minibus through an hour of dirt road, another hour of waiting for the community to assemble in the town square, and then role call, old business review etc…until the new project came up on the agenda. I had written in my notes that the project would either be camellos or vinicultura, and the community would be choosing which to pursue. At the time, I didn’t know what either of these words meant, but my trusty diccionario revealed camellos as Alpaca and Vinicultura as the horticulture of wine (is that what we call it?). Early on it was clear vinicultura had won, as there was no talk of the camellos, but something didn’t make since. To my credit the meeting fluctuated between Aymara and Spanish several times but it was obious the rivers and lakes in the area were being discussed a lot. Okay, so vineyards probably need a lot of irrigation… But then they started talking about fish, and then baby fish and then fish eggs. I was really lost.

After the meeting the director and technical expert asked me what I thought, and I said I didn’t understand what fish had to do with vineyards. They looked more confused than I. After a long discussion, followed by a humiliating bus ride back to town, I figured out the plan was never vinicultura, it was Piscicultura: FISH. Cultivate rainbow trout using all the natural water in the area and by building a hatchery and tanks! So embarrassing…but what can you do but laugh at yourself, right?

Mi Baño Publico

I’m currently living at an apartment in a strange little building that could hardly be called an “apartment building”. You enter through a garage like opening where a rather unfriendly young gentlemen sells gas illegally. Or at least he sells it at an illegal price, since gas (propane) is heavily subsidized by the government and has a regulated price. The catch being that its only sold by the government a few days a week, so if you run out in the mean time you might be willing to pay the extra to my neighbor. He also has big barrels of cooking oil, which he pumps away at for customers who bring their own containers. And best of all its usually him who manages the Baño Publico (Public Bathroom) that is also housed in our little complex. Meaning that for 20 cents you can get a nice wad of pink toilet paper and partake of the plumbing. Along the rest of the street are vendors hawking dry goods such as pasta, beans, and grains, constituting el Mercado de Abarrotes. Its like instead of living at 1245 Smith Lane, I live at the Public Bathroom on the Dry Goods Street. So amongst the large open-air bags of rice and quinoa, often mixed with pigeon droppings and the like, I always look for my beloved Public Bathroom sign to find my way home. A few nights ago, however, I came home after the gas guy had closed shop and closed the entrance to the complex. So when I didn’t see him and his big barrels, I just went to the Public Bathroom sign. I tried to put my key in what I thought was the door, but it didn’t work. Finally some lady started talking to me and pointing down the street, then several ladies started hollering and pointing. I guess they all know where I live, even if I don’t. They were trying to tell me I was at the wrong door. Apparently the Bathroom sign gets moved down the street once my complex closes. This too was embarrassing, but at least I’m popular amongst the do-dry-gooders.

Best for last: Oh come on.

Last week, I was at my Aymara lesson, with my teacher who speaks English, Spanish, Aymara and who knows what else. Though I’m learning Aymara, the lesson is more or less conducted in Spanish, but sometimes he tries to help me by translating certain words into English too. I have to admit that even though I go to my lesson three times a week, I haven’t been studying in between at all, mainly because I’m still studying Spanish, and for better or worse put that at a higher priority. So when he gives me little verbal quizzes I’m not so good. So in this particular lesson, we would do a little dialogue or grammar drill and then after I responded, he would say, “oh come on”. The first time I laughed, but after the third or fourth time I was a little perturbed, was he really disappointed in me and suggesting I could/should do better? So finally I just asked him: Did you say, “Oh come on”? He stared at me for a second then said it again, then started laughing and pronunciated for me: Ukahmow. Which in Aymara means “that’s it” or “there ya go”. He continues to tease me about it.

Sutijax Jesikawa

2007-08-25T15:47:00.000-05:00

Identity crisis at 12,000 feet: “No not mine, yours.”

I don’t know what’s worse, being sized up by someone or watching them flop to prove themselves to you. Foreigners can expect to be asked who they are, and what they’re doing away from home, but the questioning of another’s identity goes far beyond the realm of passports and visas. If there’s one thing we shouldn’t have to prove, it’s who we are, right? Or is it that we’re proving we are who we say we are? Regardless, it’s an exhausting conundrum that I see repeated time and again.

Everyone knows you can’t talk about Latin America without talking about the Spanish conquest and colonization, which sought god, gold, and glory while systematically oppressing the natives for some 500 years. It would be like discussing America without mentioning democracy or its supposed melting pot history of immigration. It’s part of the country’s history and thus identity.

And lately colonization is an incredibly relevant topic for Bolivia because the government is now seeking to systematically decolonize the country; supposedly legitimate in its attempt because it’s the first ever indigenous-led government in Bolivia’s history. Or is it? These days, a Bolivian’s ethnic background is as significant as ever. Evo Morales is celebrated worldwide as the first indigenous head of state in Latin America – a watershed moment in history. But sometimes he’s called upon to “prove it”. Today, after pointing out that he rose from the unions instead of “more traditional” indigenous organizations, someone suggested we should question if Evo “deserves to be called indigenous.” Deserves??? – I didn’t realize your ethnicity was something you earned.

And if someone isn’t being accused of insufficient indigenousness by the right, then lefty intellectuals are romanticizing the native cultures. Having the power to govern yourself is one thing but cultivating revenge is another. I learned a new Aymara word to aid in the cultural division: q’ara, it’s supposed to be a derogatory term to Spanish descendents or white/elite Bolivians, who have been governing the indigenous groups since the republic was founded.

No one ever has the right blood it seems and whatever they claim to have, they’re asked to prove.

My Aymara teacher has the best name: Juan de Dios Yapita. “Juan”, is just John and “de Dios” means “of god” or “from god” or could even mean “God’s”, as in “belonging to God.” Yapita is a great Aymara surname, easily recognizable because it ends in a vowel as all Aymara names do. I love his name so much, I was thinking of changing my own to Jessica de Dios Lynda: “God’s Jessica”, then just adding the vowel at the end for an indigenous effect. Just kidding, I would never change my name; everyone knows, especially Bolivians, that denying your roots only leads to trouble… But then I saw this wooden statue at one of the institutes I’m working with. It’s called, “Mary, Mother of God,” so I assume the woman on her knees is supposed to be Mary and the baby she’s holding is Jesus. The woman has long braids and indigenous facial features and the baby is wearing a chullo (Andean woven hat with ear flaps). But everyone knows, Mary and Jesus weren’t from Bolivia, so what’s that statue all about?

Actually, Juan de Dios (that's not him in the picture) told me an interesting anecdote about this very issue. In Aymara, indigenous language of the Bolivian Altiplano region, there are three pronouns for “we”. First is the “inclusive we”: Jiwasa, which could mean something like “everyone in the room.” Then there is the “exclusive we”: Nanaka, which means us all over here but not you all over there. Finally, there is the combined Jiwasanaka, which means all of us various groups together. Interesting articulation, but when Juan de Dios explained the pronouns to me, he also shared about missionaries using “Nanaka” to distinguish the God of the missionaries from the God of the Indians.

But I guess Bolivia had the last word, because that was a very indigenous baby Jesus. Or was it the missionaries who had the last word, because the indigenous people accepted their Nanaka god?? Should we be proving that Jesus isn’t from South America or be glad the people of the Andes claim him and identify with him, even if it means putting him in a chullo? Does that make him a Jiwasanaka god or does it just symbolize an indigenous culture usurped by a colonial god?

I used to have a mixed race friend who said he was never black enough for his black family and never white enough for his white family. Once he refused to get his social security card replaced after he’d lost it because the paperwork required him to choose only one race. When he tried to hand it in with both the “Black” and “White” boxes checked, the office refused to accept it and said he could only check one, so he left without his card – I thought it very noble of him and hope the world fills up with people who refuse to live in someone else’s box.

No Bus? No way!

2007-08-20T12:30:00.000-05:00

Today I returned to the embassy for a security briefing. It went much better than I expected. The four security guys who care for embassy, peace corps, USAID, DEA etc…were good ole boys, in the best sense of the term, and reminded me very much of my military brothers.

They asked if I had a security clearance:...hmmm...nope, but my brothers know lots of scary secrets. They gave me some good advice and resources and put a little red pushpin on their wall map to show where I live.

The guy who gave me the briefing was very helpful except for one suggestion. He didn’t want me taking the bus anymore!! Obviously, they didn’t do any sort of background check before I walked in or else they would’ve found my blog and saw that a life without the bus is hardly worth living. I figure about 13 people fit in a minibus here, plus the driver and yeller (the money collector/door opener/yell out the window to tell everyone where the bus is going). All 15 of them can’t be bad, right? Plus, how else will you get to know the city, the people, the language, and the culture without the bus –it just can’t be done. He wants me to always take a radio taxi, but today I tried to get a taxi to take me to the US embassy and the driver said “NO!” I tried to tell him I didn’t really want to go either, but he drove off. So naturally I caught the bus.

Sink or Swim

2007-08-18T14:33:00.000-05:00

Do you remember the Olympic swimmer Amy van Dyken from the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta? She had severe asthma. They said when she swam she had such a low percentage of oxygen that it was like closing one nostril completely, putting cotton in the other and then sucking air through a straw, all while swimming at Olympic speed. Now I don’t have asthma, I don’t recall ever having breathing problems, and I suck at swimming, but I think I can relate to Amy. Trying to act professional in your second language is like swimming with cotton up your nose. Holding a conversation that makes sense in Spanish is difficult enough for me, but trying to eloquently articulate using the educated lingo of a specific field with the directors of one of La Paz’s most respected NGOs is almost a joke, or else it would have been if it hadn’t felt like an underwater asthma attack.

What’s more, these people are suggesting I do research with them in Potosi (a southern region), but that means going to a rural area where most people are mono-lingual to their native language: Quechua. But I’m not taking Quechua classes right now; I’m taking Aymara!! The director tried to convince me by saying Quechua grammar and pronunciation is a lot easier than Aymara. But I wanted scream in English, “HELLO! DID YOU NOT JUST WITNESS ME DROWNING IN THERE??”

I suppose there’s some ray of hope in the story of Amy van Dyken overcoming such a severe condition to achieve grand success. But on the other hand, we weren’t all meant to be Olympians. Ya know what I’m sayin?

What I’ve learned so far:

2007-08-14T13:28:00.000-05:00

1.) La Paz sits at just over 13,000 feet elevation in a steep valley or “bowl” in the Andes, so you’re inevitably going up or down, but never flat. If its getting late, and your walking, only go to places uphill, so that way when its dark, you’ll be walking downhill to get home and thus you’ll be able to walk quickly in the dark instead of going uphill where you’d be a huffing, puffing, easy target for ne'er-do-wells.

1a.) The same applies if you’re traveling by minibus. Always choose the route or the corner stop uphill from the street you want to get to instead of downhill.

2.) Also, when you’re in the minibus (Toyota van), and a seat further away from the door opens up, you have to take it. I know it sucks to be farther in, but the thing is you have to make space for everyone entering and they’ll all yell at you if you don’t scoot over. Don’t worry, they’ll let you by when you need to get off.

3.) Lastly about the minibus, when going up really steep streets, try not to be the last person to get in, because they’ll kick you out if the van can’t make it up the hill. Today, I was in a minibus with only one seat left and this woman and child tried to get in and everyone screamed, “No!” Normally the minibus has both a driver and a person who yells out the side door to tell everyone where the bus is going, collects the money (20cents), opens and closes the sliding door and gives up his or her seat to hang out the sliding door when necessary. This bus, however, didn’t have this second person, which meant this woman with a baby in her lap would be sitting next to the door instead of the “operator”. So I thought the driver wouldn’t let her in because he was afraid it wasn’t safe for the baby to sit in her lap next to the crappy sliding door. So I asked the woman sitting next to me, “Porque de la bebe?” And she said, “No, its because we wont make it up Santa Cruz Street if they get in.” We did eventually make it up Calle Santa Cruz, but it’s not an exaggeration to say, “barely”.

3a.) I will say that Bolivia (maybe just the city of La Paz) has something on Central America, in that at least there are addresses here and its not all that bologna about going to where the clock store used to be then two blocks toward the lake then one block toward the volcano or whatever.

4.) Now about language: You already stick out, you’ve got nothing to lose, and sounding funny is better than being lost, so just ask. And when you have to use anything other than your first language on the telephone, give yourself a pat on the back afterwards, no matter how it went, because that’s tough.

5.) On showers: try to convince yourself that even if you are risking hypothermia, you do actually have to bathe, preferably more than once a week. And you can try to do it in the middle of the day when its supposedly warmer, but it doesn’t really matter. The best thing is to turn on your tiny, inefficient, energy-sucking space heater in your room before going to the shower, shut the door so the heat stays in and then run to your room after the shower to change clothes where it’s a few degrees warmer.

6.) Academics are really responsive when you say your doing “research,” everyone else seems more comfortable, when you’re “just wondering.” (Not sure if this is some breech of ethics.)

7.) Just because someone is anti-American, they usually aren’t anti-you, so hear them out and try to enjoy their company.

Empowerment Without a Plan

2007-08-11T12:05:00.000-05:00

A long respected intellectual in Bolivia, currently frustrated with the country’s social movement turned political party, MAS, recently articulated what she saw as the revolution’s shortcomings. She seemed to think president Evo Morales and his party were extremely well equipped to empower the people based on identity – constantly valuing and affirming women, the role of citizen, and most prominently the indigenous person: Bolivia’s long oppressed majority. They do so even at the expense of phobia towards intellectuals and policy experts, labeling them as part of the oligarchic elite. But the party’s big shortcoming is, “they have no plan to govern,” she told me. She didn’t seem to think natural resource nationalization, and attempting to re-write the constitution in favor of indigenous rights was much of a plan I suppose.

Not knowing how to defend the dream political party I’ve built MAS up to be, I threw down my defenses. And that’s when it hit me. “Hmmm, I can relate to that,” I thought. I too feel newly empowered in who I am, finally able to use my degree in international affairs after a year working outside the field, wondering if I ever would. I finally feel peace with my affinity toward yoga and other practices after months of apprehension thinking they might cheapen my Christian faith. And just as the indigenous campesinos here feel validated by the election of an indigenous president, I admit I too feel some of that confirmation by having the opportunity to come to Bolivia after wanting to for so long.

But my friend says, knowing who you are is not the same as a plan. She insists when ethnic powers flipped in South Africa and India, Mandela and Gandhi had plans. The only plan I have for my time here is to be brave and feel it out. I wonder if Evo, with his high school diploma, has the same idea.

I’ve noticed one of Senator Clinton’s favorite catchphrases is something about hard work. “Together we’ll do the hard work of governing,” she often says. It must be this “hard work” that my intellectual friend thinks MAS failed to anticipate in the heat of their social movement. I think for MAS and me the hard work is a matter of recognition verses realization. MAS has recognized the oppressed, now they have to realize a government that will work for the whole country. I made it here, now I’ve got to get to work.

Luggage

2007-08-08T13:07:00.000-05:00

In Washington, I used to spy on Logan Circle from my princess balcony. This morning I was doing the same thing from the apartment window where I’m staying. But I currently live above the street market, so its pure Technicolor chaos down below – most of the time you have to walk in the street with the cars because the vendors take up the sidewalks. The airport called this morning to say they had found my missing luggage and would deliver it in the next few hours. So in addition to spying at the window, I was keeping a lookout for my big brown suitcase. Mainly the only cars that pass are taxis (usually old Corollas), minibuses (Toyota vans) and a few delivery trucks. Occasionally you’ll get some sort of Montero looking SUVs, but that’s rare. I figured they would bring my suitcase in a taxi, but was sort of hoping American Airlines had their own clean, secure SUV in which to navigate the cobblestone confusion.

Down below a chola indigenous women is walking with her bowler hat and a bright colored blanket holding bundles on her back. A businessman hustles by in an old suit. A crowded minibus stops to let people out. The mean guy downstairs selling propane walks out to spit on the sidewalk. A short stout older man has a huge case wrapped in cellophane tied to his back with rope. Wait, what? Double take…that’s my suitcase!!

You have got to be kidding me! The thing weighs 70 pounds; I even had to pay extra at the airport because it was over the weight limit.

I ran downstairs just as he was setting it down and another man – who didn’t look much better except for a dirty sport coat, seemed to pay him then asked me to sign something from American Airlines. I started to tell him that it had wheels – but that would have been a joke on these streets, especially since the grade on most of them would stop a runaway 18-wheeler.

When I came back down with a pen, the sport coat guy was lifting it up the stairs for me. I had planned to tip him, but before I could, he stuck out his hand and said, “Propina?!?” I wanted to tip the poor guy who carried it on his back for god knows how long, not the AA employee, but he was gone already.

So in addition to REI, I now have a burly man and some rope to thank for my much needed long johns and boots.

La Paz!

2007-08-07T12:06:00.000-05:00

I´m here! I´m here!

It´s beautiful.

Heartland

2007-07-31T20:12:00.000-05:00

This is Myrt’s bus. It’s rusted over and sinking into the earth, packed full of puzzle boxes and pickle jars. This wasn’t the original yellow bus that she, George and sons used to move cross-country then lived in for a few years after more or less converting into an RV. No, this is the blue bus they bought to use as storage space while they were living in the yellow bus. Later they put a shower in the blue bus because there was no room for one in the yellow bus and they didn’t want to keep walking to their son’s house to bathe.

I’m not marveling at Myrt’s bus because it’s a foreign scene to my middle class eyes. I was born in the Deep South – mobile living is nothing new to me. Besides, Myrt’s bus says more about personal character than social class. I asked her when was the last time she’d been in that bus outside; she grinned at my silly question and said, “Two days ago. I went in to put up some pickle jars.”

This is Myrt’s “Prize Pickle”: That’s one big cucumber. Gardening is one of her many skills and pastimes. After 60 years of marriage her husband George died this year. Everyone thought she wouldn’t last, but like any true country girl Myrt is healthy, strong as an ox and keeps herself quite busy. Tuesday she showed me 44 puzzles she’s completed; loaded us up with two ice chests of cucumbers, squash, okra and zucchini from her industrious garden, moved a large dog kennel with very little help, and served a home cooked meal.

The fence around her house is bobbed-wire, not picket, and the house itself feels old, but not in any grandiose antique way. There are two magnets on the Icebox. The first is the serenity prayer: a wise choice for any household. The second reads: “The west wasn’t won with a registered gun.” The setting is without luxury, but I swear she’s rich and just listening to her is an anointing.

I remember going to her house 5 or so years ago, when I hardly kept a journal, but immediately went home and wrote about the deep character of her crooked teeth and soul-reaching smile. This visit, however, we chewed in similar style, using only the front teeth, since I’m still recovering from The Removal. (BTW: Myrt still has one of her wisdom teeth, “if it ain’t bothering me I figure I won’t bother it,” she said.)

I told her about Andean culture and Myrt said you wouldn’t ever catch her eating any guinea pig.

Daddy’s Yoga

2007-07-12T22:46:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when in a deep stretching pose in yoga you suddenly realize you are completely tensed up. The point of course is to stretch, which requires you to relax your muscles, not tense them; but when it’s painful, I think we naturally tense up…how self defeating. It's as if your body is going in two directions at once, part of you has decided to move forward with your intended position while the rest of you is digging its heals into the ground in utter protest.

But if you’re lucky enough to realize you are in fact “resisting the pose” as they say, then you have a chance to correct it by breathing deeply and “relaxing into it.” What follows is almost always a much deeper stretch than you previously thought yourself capable and it turns out to be less painful than when you were resisting.

This week, I’ve undergone the exhausting task of packing up my entire life in Washington. That meant quitting my job, ending my lease, saying my goodbyes, purging 90% of my belongings and then mailing the rest to Elgin, Texas.

Somewhere in the week I began to loathe the three flights of stairs at my house. And when it finally came time to load the car for UPS, I was so exhausted I called my father just to complain.

I had agonized over the logistics of this move for way longer than necessary, and had decided that flying myself and shipping my things was the best way. But I moaned to my dad that I should’ve done it all differently.

In all his kindness and wisdom he said, “well…ya just gotta do it; ya can’t change horses in mid-stream.”

How is he so good at accepting life on life’s terms whereas I completely resist any unpleasant position? Essentially he was telling me the same thing as the yoga teachers, “You can go further, just stop resisting and breathe into it….”

Leaping Oceans

2007-06-17T22:22:00.000-05:00

I’m told in yoga class that Hanuman is a monkey god in Indian mythology known for his courageous leap all the way across an ocean. It seems my life is full of those willing to make a courageous leap these days. So much so, that it’s becoming a bit disorienting:

Two dear friends from my hometown are in transit: just as one is returning from a year in Austria, the other is taking a Hanuman style leap and moving to Hawaii. Also adding to the whirlwind are my Central American travel partners. The Elder was recently married and then swept off for a brief Thailand Honeymoon to be followed by a summer in India. The other graduated in May, fell in love last week and leaves for a two-year tour of Ecuador a la Peace Corps tomorrow. A former colleague just visited after a 6 month jaunt through Southeast Asia and the guy I met at the bookstore last week left the next day for Israel and India and won't return to the city until just after I've left it. My German housemate goes home on the 5th, Trinh is still in Mali, which is beginning to feel permanent for some reason, and my parents are virtually addressless as they attempt to move again. The back and forth of Summer Camp has started at Calvary and my favorite yoga teacher keeps going on vacation!

As for me, I’m waiting patiently for my dream to come to fruition. I’ve gotten almost all my shots, am diligently reading two guidebooks, attempting to practice my Spanish almost daily, and reading my “as-it-happens” Google news reports. Like a 6th grader counting down to summer, I even have a paperclip chain at my desk. Each workday I remove another clip. There are currently 14 remaining (not including 4th of July of course). My list of pre-departure tasks is surprisingly short, though likely to include wisdom teeth removal.

I plan to leave the city mid-July, road trip to Austin, visit the oral surgeon, and go to SeaWorld with my family. If all goes as planned, I’ll be in La Paz by early August.

I feel startlingly stationary in all this movement, as if I’m watching the spinning of the merry-go-round safely from the sandbox, knowing I’ll eventually need to jump aboard.

The courage of my Hanuman friends is to be commended and knowing the world desperately needs them, I remain deeply proud of each. But I have to confess its all my heart can take to not grab hold of them mid-air in attempt to keep them for myself.

Here’s to the courage it takes to grab hold, as well as let go; to both leap and let leap.

A Big Stretch from the NYT

2007-05-09T08:56:00.000-05:00

I love this article, in fact I wish I had written it. Thanks John for sending it along.

May 7, 2007
Op-Ed Contributor
By SUKETU MEHTA

I GREW up watching my father stand on his head every morning. He was doing sirsasana, a yoga pose that accounts for his youthful looks well into his 60s. Now he might have to pay a royalty to an American patent holder if he teaches the secrets of his good health to others. The United States Patent and Trademark Office has issued 150 yoga-related copyrights, 134 patents on yoga accessories and 2,315 yoga trademarks. There’s big money in those pretzel twists and contortions — $3 billion a year in America alone.

It’s a mystery to most Indians that anybody can make that much money from the teaching of a knowledge that is not supposed to be bought or sold like sausages. Should an Indian, in retaliation, patent the Heimlich maneuver, so that he can collect every time a waiter saves a customer from choking on a fishbone?

The Indian government is not laughing. It has set up a task force that is cataloging traditional knowledge, including ayurvedic remedies and hundreds of yoga poses, to protect them from being pirated and copyrighted by foreign hucksters. The data will be translated from ancient Sanskrit and Tamil texts, stored digitally and available in five international languages, so that patent offices in other countries can see that yoga didn’t originate in a San Francisco commune.

It is worth noting that the people in the forefront of the patenting of traditional Indian wisdom are Indians, mostly overseas. We know a business opportunity when we see one and have exported generations of gurus skilled in peddling enlightenment for a buck. The two scientists in Mississippi who patented the medicinal use of turmeric, a traditional Indian spice, are Indians. So is the strapping Bikram Choudhury, founder of Bikram Yoga, who has copyrighted his method of teaching yoga — a sequence of 26 poses in an overheated room — and whose lawyers sent out threatening notices to small yoga studios that he claimed violated his copyright.

But as an Indian, he ought to know that the very idea of patenting knowledge is a gross violation of the tradition of yoga. In Sanskrit, “yoga” means “union.” Indians believe in a universal mind — brahman — of which we are all a part, and which ponders eternally. Everyone has access to this knowledge. There is a line in the Hindu scriptures: “Let good knowledge come to us from all sides.” There is no follow-up that adds, “And let us pay royalties for it.”

Knowledge in ancient India was protected by caste lines, not legal or economic ones. The term “intellectual property” was an oxymoron: the intellect could not be anybody’s property. You did not pay your guru in coin; you herded his cows and married his daughter, and passed on the knowledge to others when you were sufficiently steeped in it. This tradition continues today, most notably in Indian classical music, none of whose melodies have been copyrighted.

Perhaps it is for this reason that Indians do not feel obligated to pay for knowledge. Pirated copies of my book are openly sold on the Bombay streets, for a fourth of its official price. Many of the plots and the music in Bollywood movies are lifted wholesale from Hollywood. I have sat in on Bollywood script meetings where we viewed American films and decided that replication was the sincerest form of flattery.

Still, Indians get upset every time they hear reports — often overblown — of Westerners’ stealing their age-old wisdom, through the mechanism of copyright law. They were outraged by a story last year of some Americans trying to copyright the sacred Hindu syllable “om” — which would be like trade-marking “amen.”

The fears may be exaggerated, but they are widespread and reflect India’s mixed experience with globalization. Western pharmaceutical companies make billions on drugs that are often first discovered in developing countries — but herbal remedies like bitter gourd or turmeric, which are known to be effective against everything from diabetes to piles, earn nothing for the country whose sages first isolated their virtues. The Indian government estimates that worldwide, 2000 patents are issued a year based on traditional Indian medicines.

Drugs and hatha yoga have the same aim: to help us lead healthier lives. India has given the world yoga for free. No wonder so many in the country feel that the world should return the favor by making lifesaving drugs available at reduced prices, or at least letting Indian companies make cheap generics. If padmasana — a k a the lotus position — belongs to all mankind, so should the formula for Gleevec, the leukemia drug over whose patent a Swiss pharmaceuticals company is suing the Indian government. But the drug companies are playing rough. Abbott, based in Chicago, has decided to sell no new medicines in Thailand, in retaliation for that country’s producing generic versions of three lifesaving drugs.

For decades, Indian law allowed its pharmaceutical companies to replicate Western-patented drugs and sell them at a lower price to countries too poor to afford them otherwise. In this way, India supplied half of the drugs used by H.I.V.-positive people in the developing world. But in March 2005, the Indian Parliament, under pressure to bring the country into compliance with the World Trade Organization’s regulations on intellectual property, passed a bill declaring it illegal to make generic copies of patented drugs.

This has put life-saving antiretroviral medications out of reach of many of the nearly 6 million Indians who have AIDS. And yet, the very international drug companies that so fiercely protect their patents oppose India’s attempts to amend World Trade Organization rules to protect its traditional remedies.

There’s more at stake than just the money involved in the commercial exploitation of traditional knowledge. There is also the perception that the world trading system is unfair, that the deck is stacked against developing countries. Unless the World Trade Organization and developed countries correct this, the entire project of globalization is at risk.

If the copying of Western drugs is illegal, so should be the patenting of yoga. It is also intellectual piracy, stood on its head.

Suketu Mehta is the author of “Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found.”

Samadhi Sometimes

2007-05-03T20:50:00.000-05:00

“SAMADHI: Blissful absorption of one's individual consciousness in the essence of God.”

In yoga last week, we were doing one of those restorative poses I love so much, and the instructor put on an album with a long monologue about some guy’s experience encountering his true self. It was kind of quacky, and I settled into to my pose, guns loaded, ready to judge. The voice was American and there was new-age music in the background – the only way to be more of a yuppie would be if you were the one actually listening to something like that. Anyway, something he said resonated with me. I found it interesting that only sometimes could he “achieve” this inner-awareness he was looking for.

Yeah………what’s with that?

I don’t know much about inner-awareness or whatever (though that may just be semantics), but I feel that way all the time. Why do only sometimes my prayers bring me relief, clarity and joy? Why do only sometimes friendships work out even though both parties love each other so deeply that they can feel every scar on the other’s heart? Why do only sometimes dreams come true, despite equal passion and wholesome intention?

In the monologue, he questions why this figurative lightening bolt of wisdom and insight struck his mind and when it did, why he was so uncomfortable and even fearful – especially when the insight and deep truth was something he’d longed for his whole life.

He concludes that when the moment came he wasn’t ready, but then vows to ready himself (a la meditation) so that he will be able to tap into this insight, which isn’t really a lightening bolt, but rather is continuously present and available.

But the thing is, even if he was responsible for not having tapped into this current of true-self or having "slowed down enough to permit love and joy to well up in his heart", as he says, and even if the blame is just lack of experience, he still has always wanted it – so why couldn’t he find it? Or even now, why does it come to him so sporadically and without his control?

I used to attend a very strange church. Before going there, I had never seen people who so outwardly and clearly (though intentionally) displayed their desire to worship even to the point of tears – regularly. Like many charismatic religious groups, the congregation worshipped with music and prayer moving their bodies, eyes closed, jumping, or spinning, or down on their knees all together in a somewhat chaotic makeshift sanctuary. One time, I heard a senior member of the hierarchy explain why people closed their eyes and stretched their hands out in worship. "They close their eyes," he said, "because they're so desperate to feel God’s presence."

I think that Yogi is that kind of desperate and I hope he gets what he’s looking for.

Gratitude

2007-04-10T08:41:00.000-05:00

The yoga studio I frequent offers a “restorative” yoga class once a week. Before yesterday, I’ve only ever done something similar once and nothing too good came of it. In fact I had quite a spiritual crisis following the class, and chakra opening or none, I link the now-resolved crisis to the so-called restorative yoga class I attended almost three years ago.

Usually what happens in these is a series of very slow stretches followed by some poses held for several minutes using props, such as blankets or cushions, to keep your body in the position while you “relax into it”. I think the idea is that your body is being stretched or lengthened without you using muscle to keep it in that position.

Yesterday’s class went fine: no spiritual crisis and I think it helped my upper back some, which has been tight lately. The instructor provided a class focus; something to think about while in the practice. I do find these helpful because it’s something positive with which to re-focus my ever-wondering mind while I’m lying in really awkward positions, in very close proximity with some 20 strangers. The focus was “gratitude”; we were to focus on things in our lives that are going well and throughout the class she even prompted us to hone in on specific areas of our lives.

I did this with moderate success. I was able to identify some things I was proud of, but it was by no means a deep experience. I didn’t walk out of there with streams of gratitude flowing off me. After that, some friends came over for dinner and a movie, and then I went to bed. The next morning a housemate woke me to have breakfast.

As I was making my bed and getting ready for breakfast, I had a light nagging feeling, something tugging to get my attention and asking me to listen. I stilled my hands and waited for it to float to the top of my memory. What was it? Was I forgetting something? Was there something uncertain I should be worrying about? What?

Nothing.

Nothing was wrong; there were no worries, nothing forgotten, no other place I was supposed to be, no dream deferred, nothing broken beyond repair, no deed beyond forgiveness.

So I exhaled and the gratitude came. It welled up, flowed over the brim, poured down my sides, drenched the bed and wet the floor beneath my feet.

I have no clue if my morning gratitude had anything to do with the yoga teacher’s instructions the day before. And I couldn’t prove that three years ago, a similar restorative yoga class twisted me into months of existential and spiritual questioning.

But about that gratitude, it had a distinct flavor. One that said, this was not your own doing and yet here you are. This is not what you planned and yet you have joy. You didn’t come looking for Me, and yet I’m by your side.

Breath Everywhere: Life as a Yogini

2007-03-20T14:44:00.000-05:00

Slate.com has a series called "Blogging the Bible" where the author reviews a short passage each day and adds some commentary or at least paraphrases what happened using modern language. I've only looked at it a few times, because it doesn't seem that insightful or even that witty.

But I imagine my yoga musings are similar; like the Slate blogger, I'm uneducated to the topic and likely missing the point. But it's an honest attempt, nonetheless.

Our zealous instructor this Sunday was full of quips and one liners - likely because he had just returned from a yoga retreat in Cancun (oh c'mon!). To give you a taste, for example, he said we were supposed to dedicate our practice to someone we love and think of that person when the class was difficult and we wanted to quit. Which I think is a wonderful idea, but then he added, "…if you just want to get fit, join a gym." Which annoyed me, because that's probably the majority of the class, at least to some extent, and it's not like, people are gonna say, "well that's me and just get up and leave" and besides that, I think health is a pretty good reason to workout....whatever, I just thought presenting the idea with a little more subtlety could have given it a better effect. But, ego aside, he did deliver at least one particularly lovely line.

Anyone who's ever been to a yoga class or read Siddhartha by Herman Hesse knows the most fundamental part of yoga is the breath; the idea being to maintain a steady breath throughout all the poses and movements; even the really uncomfortable poses and even the really exhausting movements. So, it's not uncommon for an instructor to remind you to breathe when you're in a difficult part of the class, because for whatever reason, when the going gets tough, the tough start holding their breath.

I for one, really enjoy the simple breathing exercises in yoga, and remembering to breathe steadily and calmly when I'm in a difficult position, brings a sweet relief from the pain. But I'm always left wondering why I would have left my breath at all, especially in a painful position when I most needed it? And when I do return to it, I feel like the Prodigal Son, welcomed home and immediately forgiven in spite of fault. I always expect to hear, "You made your yoga mat; now lie in it." But I never do hear that. I only feel tension-eased and strength-regained.

Repeatedly in last Sunday's class, the instructor would describe where each body part was supposed to be, for example, in Jaguar: "Standing on bent right leg, left hand on right ankle, right hand on right hip, left leg straight behind in the air, neck down," then he would add: "breath everywhere," as his reminder to maintain the steady, calm breath, despite the increasing flow of lactic acid into the right shin and ankle. I loved that as we went through our precise checklist of the million things we should be thinking about, the most important one, was "everywhere". It's not a struggle to find something that is abundantly available, immediately accessible, and located everywhere. Yet, I needed to be reminded.

At some point, instead of saying "breath," he said, "Grace.” "Grace is everywhere"; mercy, relief, forgiveness, help are EVERYWHERE.

When Henri Nouwen writes about Rembrandt's painting and Jesus' parable in "The Return of the Prodigal Son, he reminds us, that at any moment we can return home and be welcomed, not reprimanded – especially when we feel farthest away.

Grace is everywhere; breath is everywhere.

The Ashes of the Buddha are Golden

2007-02-22T17:12:00.000-05:00

Tuesday I went to a fantastic yoga class at Flow Yoga Studio. Probably the best I’ve ever been to; my muscles felt like they were being wrung out! Dripping with sweat, I was hardly able to keep my hands from slipping on the mat while in down-dog.

As I understand it, Flow is one of DC’s premier yoga studios, and offers advanced classes. Its clientele: well let’s just say it’s next door to Whole Foods. But nonetheless, I left impressed.

Here’s the tricky thing about Yoga studios. There really aren’t that many Hindu’s and Buddhists who take Flow classes in DC. Americans have been pretty successful at separating the physical, stress-relieving benefits of the practice from its spiritual significance. But its inevitable that the more advanced the Yoga class is, the more one is likely to run into the historical and spiritual tradition from which it comes. I have mixed feelings about that and I’ve had some mixed experiences with it too.

I’ll admit that I actually like that calm, monotone, flowing voice most instructors use, but more than once, I’ve refused to go back to a studio because of the seemingly superficial and silly attempt to momentarily emphasize the spirituality or eastern origins. That and the strange little bodhisattva statues we throw our feet towards in plow position, oblivious of the horrific significance this involves.

Tuesday, however, was the first time I had been to a class that involved actual chanting. In some language “derived from the Sanskrit” we were to chant what apparently translates into “The ashes of the Buddha are golden. The inner-eye is golden.”

First and primary thought: “Hmmm…I’m not Buddhist.”
(Secondary thought: “Did someone burn Buddha, why does he have ashes?”)

Interestingly enough, the instructor didn’t seem to be pretending to be Buddhist either as she explained what she thought this chant meant. So I couldn’t really judge her as a phony, but felt puzzled at her nonchalant attitude towards monastic chanting. To her, the phrase meant gold was pouring out of us on to every person we came into contact with and each person was bathed in golden abundance and true prosperity.

***

Do I chant and risk blasphemy, spiritual harm or worst of all becoming an ignorant yuppie and byproduct of the globalization generation?

OR

Do I refuse to repeat a phrase that has little meaning to me in a language I don’t even know the name of, and risk surrender to small mindedness derived from fear of the unknown and the misconception that the Divine can only speak to me on my terms?

Here is my confusion:
I believe Whitman is right, that the time has come where we are all our own priests. We are each responsible for our own spiritual path, an authentic search for the Beyond. So desperate should we be for Life that we must insist upon searching it out, wherever the path may take us.

But can that path be a hybrid of religions jumped into and out of at whatever point we encounter, even if it’s a $16.00 Wednesday night Yoga class next to Whole Foods?

On the one hand, I’m certain God, Good, spirituality and Love cannot be confined into a flat organized religion and we should take whatever ounce of truth we can find, despite the source. After all, some of my most significant religious experiences have not been in a church and some of my most beloved spiritual guides would scoff at my tidy theology, and tell me God is much more alive than I’ve presumed and much more unique to each person than I could understand.

On the other hand, however, I can’t throw out 2000+ years of historical traditions and chalk up their differences to lack of simultaneous access to a great Baptist church AND a fantastic yoga class. These people were wayfarers too.

Spanish poet, Antonio Machado says:

Wayfarer, the only way is your footsteps, there is no other.
Wayfarer, there is no way; you make the way by walking.

Interesting language in light of a Jew I know who claims He is the only way.

So…if I accept Buddha's ashes are golden, have i become my own priest or just lost my way?

Just Jake Notes:

2007-02-07T16:43:00.001-05:00

The People v. Whole Foods
January 27, 2007 at 3:10 am · Filed under Blog Post
This was inspired by Jess Lynd’s entry on Whole Foods.
I’ve had beef with Whole Foods for a while now. I don’t like them, I don’t believe in paying big bucks for organic fruits and vegetables…my regular food at regular prices is just fine and it tastes just as good, thank you. Organic Milk? 6 bucks a gallon? Even more bizarre. I can find whole wheat products and low-fat/fat-free substitutes for the food I eat at regular supermarkets these days without having to go to Whole Foods to spend a fortune. Food is a basic need for survival for the people of any race or creed. There is something pretentious about Whole Foods that says “I’m a cut above the rest,” my body deserves to be more nourished than yours because I’m a commercial litigator or a high-powered lobbyist, and you…you live an abysmal existence as my daughter’s day care provider or as my bank teller. Go ahead, indulge yourself on “strange preservatives and hormones.”
Okay, so my view may be a bit extreme here.
I think some will love this though…the transition, in my opinion, between the Beer/Wine/Lotto convenience stores in underprivileged areas and Whole Foods in wealthier neighborhoods.
In Cleveland I live just two blocks down from a place called the “Food Co-Op.” It is located in some sort of a warehouse and at first glance will look like a government-subsidized low-income food pantry.
A closer look will reveal, however that the Food Co-Op is actually a community-run initiative to bring natural and organic products to the working class East Cleveland area. It is essentially an organic market run by community volunteers, white men in dreadlocks will ring you up and African-American women in hair wraps will be seen helping customers. The prices are higher than a regular supermarket, of course, organic is organic. But, if you volunteer there a couple hours a week, ring people up, stock the shelves, mop the floor—you get a discount. Pay the $30 a year membership fee to help run the place—get a discount.
No fruit mountains here or any visual epitomes (sp?) of abundance. No sliding glass doors, no food samples and no boughs of evergreen even at Christmastime. Yet, they probably carry almost everything Whole Foods does, even fresh seafood, but in moderation. (No Diet Coke, in case you were wondering). It’s kind of small and dirty looking actually—dark cement floors, sticky railings, sometimes they may be low on volunteers and the lettuce they sell will be getting brown; but, I always have to wait in line whenever I go there. Something about the place makes it so real (aside from the guilt free shopping it provides for me) that it emanates hope for communities nationwide.
I bet the Food Co-Op was the kind of project Margaret Meade was talking about when she said: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

The Whole Foods Frontier...A new blog subject?

2007-01-23T16:30:00.000-05:00

In the 5 years I’ve lived in Washington, I’d only gone into the Whole Foods grocery store one time (though I’ve passed by it with judgment regularly). If memory serves, I had to buy a Thanksgiving item a few years ago. Since then, I've picked up a complex about being a privileged DC yuppie and consequently avoided Whole Foods, Wholeheartedly.

Just before Christmas, however, duty called and I had no choice but to enter the organic haven. So, after exiting the smelly bus and hurrying down P Street, I arrived.

The sliding glass doors part before me, and I enter the warm atrium. Immediately I inhale Christmas, a well paid worker is arranging boughs of evergreen to the left. Straight ahead: fruit mountains…the visual epitome of abundance, immediately I recall The Ghost of Christmas Present:

"…The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe…red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, … there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see:, who bore a glowing torch, … to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door. 'Come in.' exclaimed the Ghost. 'Come in. and know me better, man.'" (A Christmas Carol: The Second of the Three Spirits)

Dang it, it was calling to me, saying, “I care about you, I want you to be healthy and free of strange preservatives and hormones, I want you to be joyful when you see my bounty….”

I avoid the samples of cut fruit, and make my way to the homeopathic medicines per my friend’s request. The earth toned packaging gives the medicine department a spa-like feel, as if I’m waiting for a masseuse to peek around the corner and consult about my troubled spots. A moment of difficulty arises: I can’t locate the exact homeopathic med for which I’ve been sent. But before my stress level can sufficiently rise, a green aproned angel flutters to me and answers all my questions.

Now, it’s important you understand the significance of this. Service in Washington stores is rarely good and even more rarely efficient. This woman was able to explain the importance of doses for acute vs. chronic symptoms and understood the homeopathic doctor’s abbreviations. These are over the counter medicines, but she had to have had some training….

I make my leave…

A few days later I decided to return to buy some salmon. This I figure is completely justified. Where else am I going to buy fresh seafood in the city?

Again, the bountiful harvest as if I’m on a climate controlled fisherman’s pier…Again the product is fantastic…and this time I permit myself to sample some gourmet cheese…I’m slipping…can you see it?

Now that I live a mere two blocks away and have begun dropping in regularly, I have to wonder, who that "Jolly Giant" really is and what news he has for me...or more importantly, as it was for Scrooge, who is it that will follow Christmas Present and what enlightenment will he bring.

This is a Celebration!

2007-01-04T15:52:00.000-05:00

This entry is not in the tradition of my blog, but I post it out of necessity.

This is a celebration!

A celebration of my ancestors, of my Nanny, of my mother, of Maya Angelou, of the scandalous old testament women, of Anna, of Trinh, of Aunt Sandra, of HRC, of Mary Jo, of Dawn, of every woman and especially every woman whose had to put up with something, anything, simply because they were a woman.

Our celebration comes to light through a tribute to one woman in particular: Amy Butler.
Here are a few reasons I celebrate Amy.

Diamond Thighs:

"Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?"

In her official capacity as a Baptist Reverend, Amy was recently asked to recite Mrs. Fenty's favorite poem at incoming DC Mayor, Adrian Fenty’s prayer breakfast. The poem was Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise”, a celebration of resilience and the fulfillment of ancestors' dreams. The stanza above is quite a line for a pastor! But I argue it’s common speak for a true woman of God.

“Son of David” seems to be the most common phrase used to reference Christ’s earthly lineage, but the Testaments also list five women in the lineage of Christ: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba and Mary, and they are each quite scandalous. After being denied her rights, Tamar, often called vengeful, tricked her father-in-law into sleeping with her and thus bore a child. Rahab was an occupational prostitute who committed treason. Ruth: a Gentile who chose to lie on the threshing floor until her distant relative took pity on her, slept with her and claimed her as wife. Bathsheba was an adulteress and arguably a co-conspirator in the pre-meditated murder of her husband. And Mary of course, was an unwed, pregnant teen, forever given the prefix “Virgin,” (which is sort of ironic given the indecent conditions of conception for the rest of the lineage.) Yet all of these women were favored by God. But here’s my point: Amy bears this tradition by not abandoning her womanhood for the sake of her job, nor trading it in for a pink skirt suit and a cultural norm of patriarchy-driven “good womanly behavior”.

Kingdom Logic:

A mentor recently told me how her colleagues were more worried about formal titles and promotions, than doing good, productive work. As they were going into a meeting, she overheard their unwitting desires to get ahead at the expense of others. The irony, she said, was that the meeting was to discuss some enormous opportunities for positive social change in the community. So she had to ask: Would the work they were proposing really matter, if they continued to live their own lives adhering to the very rat race they were trying to defeat? I believe Amy gets this. I’ve seen her encourage her employees to pursue their dreams, even when it meant them leaving their job and leaving Amy short-handed. She sees that if each of us isn’t living out the purpose we were put here for, whatever it is, then together we aren’t accomplishing all that we could. That is putting the Kingdom first.

Innovative:

Here’s what Wikipedia itself an incredibly innovative product, says about innovation:

Innovation is the introduction of new ideas, goods, services, and practices which are intended to be useful. The main driver for innovation is often the courage and energy to better the world. An essential element for innovation is its application in a commercially successful way. Innovation has punctuated and changed human history…

Amy is innovative. In the few years I’ve known her, she has so increased her repertoire of professional, pastoral skills and knowledge that she has been the driving force of a revived community. She has taken her obvious passions for scripture and applied them over and over in new ways, always willing to back step and take another approach. Most simply put, her work, in this case preaching, has just gotten better. She has pursued fellowships, working groups and degrees, all to improve her work, which in turn, improves my life.

Congratulations Amy on choosing life!

Woman applauds you.

Goodbye Sweet Friend

2006-12-11T14:05:00.000-05:00

Well, I’m moving. This will be my last week on 14th Street, before I move to Logan Circle. No longer will I spend two beautiful hours a day on or waiting for the 54. Here are my goodbyes:

Goodbye little girl at my bus stop who wanted to be a grey kitty for Halloween.

Goodbye man who works at 14th and F Street and always wears a hat.

Goodbye girl who loves yellow and has a cute haircut.

Goodbye faceless prophet, who posts the warnings of scripture.

Goodbye mean bus driver who speaks Spanish and never lets anyone ride for free.

Goodbye girl from Eastern Europe who we think pretends to be talking on her cell phone and has a gold tooth.

Goodbye guy with dreadlocks and fanny pack that I always see on U Street.

Goodbye Anthony.

Goodbye Sandrita, and our 8am chats that always give me perspective.

Goodbye 14th Street Angel.

Goodbye skinny man with earrings and spiked hair, who must be a salesman.

Goodbye vagabond who always boards at K Street with mountaineer backpack.

Goodbye Mormon lady who gives me religious tracks in Spanish.

Goodbye Howard students in hot boots.

Goodbye crazy lady in American flag bandana.

Goodbye smart little boy who goes to school “by the flags.”

I haven’t decided what will become of the blog. I think I may begin walking to work each day which would ruin the angle here. But stay tuned, more on life in the district is soon to follow.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Love,
Jess

Bob's Advice

2006-11-30T15:16:00.000-05:00

When I was first introduced to Mr.Tiller, I was told he was a "Champion of All Things Just." Not that I had any doubt, but after seeing his plea for the bus in a recent letter to the Editor in the Washington Post, I'm certain this description is accurate.

Thanks for keepin 'em straight Bob!

That's the Ticket

Monday, November 27, 2006; Page A18

If incoming general manager John B. Catoe Jr. is serious about providing excellent Metro services ["Ready to Ride," Metro, Nov. 17], the most important step he can take is this: require that all his top managers and board members ride Metro regularly. Only then will they understand what needs to be done.
For years, Metro's managers and board members have been infrequent riders, so they have no idea what regular commuters go through. If they ride the trains and buses at rush hour daily we will all begin to see real improvement in the services.

ROBERT TILLER
Silver Spring

Constantine

2006-11-27T15:04:00.000-05:00

There are entire theologies, books, folklore and Hollywood blockbusters devoted to the eternal battle between good and evil. In a recent Keanu Reeves flick, Constantine, certain characters have the ability to see the great battle unfold on Earth. Reeves, for example, can identify the angels and demons disguised to the rest of the world as humans. The movie is pretty creepy, but there's one particular scene that replays in my mind. It takes place in a liquor store, just after a demon/devil figure has driven a man crazy and virtually tricked him into suicide. You see a sharp looking, well-dressed man walking around the store observing the scene and another man kneeling near the victim on the floor. At one point the handsome, suited man turns his profile to see the victim, exposing the other side of his face, which is horrifying and thus reveals his demonic identity. Just as he flashes his disgust, the kneeling man roars up his enormous angel wings, which weren't visible moments before, warning the demon to stay away. For a Keanu Reeves film, it's a very powerful image.

Since the bus is such a microcosm of DC’s social underbelly, I often feel that the typically blurred shades of good and evil in the world are instead clear and identifiable on the 54, similar to Constantine. I always hope that I'm moving away from identifying only social vices and instead learning to see the heart of things. The difficulty, however, is that strange bodily ticks really are a good sign of drug addiction and screaming at young children does seem to suggest an unhealthy home… In other parts of the city, and my life for that matter, there's no bodily evidence that my co-worker is greedy and people just think nasty things about one another instead of throwing bricks and shovels at each other (see last entry).

This brings me to a recent ride home: I noticed when I got on that almost everyone, me included, was wearing black, which would have set the scene perfectly if my life were taking place inside a movie like Constantine. A group of us got on, took our seats and just as the bus started to take off again, someone hollered, "HOLD THE BUS……(long pause)…please." The driver stopped and a few more people boarded who had just run up the metro steps to the bus stop. The shout came from an older man in a fake suede coat. After his shout out, I had a hard time keeping my gaze off the man, and only peeled my eyes away out of paranoia that he could see me (at which point I began observing his reflection in the window). He was quite a mystery; first he wasn't wearing black like everyone else and he had a weird hat on. Though he seemed small his gaze was quickly shifting about the bus as if he was keeping watch on things; as if something was about to happen that I was incapable of perceiving. Yet, his appearance hardly suggested he could protect even himself if danger were to unfold.

I’m certain I wouldn’t have viewed him as a protector, if I hadn’t heard him so caringly yell out for the bus to wait for the other passengers. Sorry to say it, but people who look and act like him, aren’t the ones who usually do nice things on the bus.

Eventually he got up and stood by the back door waiting for his stop. Everyone looks funny trying to balance while standing on a moving bus, but he was intentionally bouncing around like a boxer keeping warm before a fight. In fact, his funky hat even fell off while he was jumping about, preparing to face the world outside the 54 – he paid no mind though, just kept warming up until he was ready to reach down and snatch it back. While the hat was off, he took the liberty to fling his head about a few times, stretch the neck, and comb his hair. Then he took a few practice swings, replaced his hat and stepped out the backdoor.

Mocking laughter swooped in after his exit; then left us to sit in our sea of black. It was short-lived and unsubstantial, as most demons are.

That man was preparing for battle and they knew it.

This Just In

2006-11-15T23:20:00.000-05:00

ABC 7 News reports:

Authorities are investigating an incident in which a youth got into the driver's seat of a Metrobus and drove off last night.

Metro spokeswoman Lisa Farbstein says two groups of young people who were on the bus appeared to be fighting, prompting the driver to activate a silent alarm.

Farbstein says the driver then stopped the bus and got off at 15th Street and Good Hope Road in Southeast, fearing for her safety.

She says a youth got into the driver's seat and steered the vehicle along Good Hope Road until officers arrived, and the youth was detained.

Farbstein says every window on the bus was broken. She said most or all of those on the bus fled at some point.

***
The DCist also reported the kids had bricks and shovels on the bus, which were used in the fight...

Prophet Update

2006-11-05T14:40:00.000-05:00

I wrote a previous post called “The Biggest Mystery Known To Man” about the biblical passages an unknown someone tapes to the bus walls on the 14th Street line. The passages bother me because they're usually very condemning. But either the lectionary schedule has redeemed us or the 14th Street Prophet has had a change of heart. Finally, the prophet decided to share a ray of Hope from her God. Today I saw this passage from Jeremiah 29:

11 For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. 12 Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. 13 You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.

...Now we're talking...

Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend - Northbound

2006-11-03T14:02:00.000-05:00

My theory is that while waiting for the bus we bonded over being inappropriately dressed for the sudden drop in temperature. But to tell the truth, I don’t know what sparked my co-rider’s desire to tell me all about her ex-boyfriend and how he had recently started calling her again even though they had broken up a year ago, when she decided to go abroad. Her story was rather lengthy, as relationship stories usually are, but I kept getting the feeling she was leaving out some important elements…it didn’t quite add up – then again, relationships usually don’t.

My only advice came directly from the mouth of my mother, “You broke up for a reason…it’ll only happen again.”

Keep in mind, this was a smart girl – a law student, but one particular line that she seemed to think was soooo funny, kinda gave me the chills. She said that when the X and she decided to call it quits (who really knows who decided what?), she told all their friends he “must be mentally insane" to not want to date her. She cackled and repeated it a few times.

I guess that's funny...

But after seeing CNN this morning, I don't think her comment should be taken too lightly. Among the lead stories was "Nurse gets even, has ex committed, cop says”. Apparently, a nurse had cops go to her ex-boyfriend’s place of work, where they arrested him and brought him to a psychiatric hospital. After an hour of evaluation, he was deemed NOT insane, released, and the nurse was arrested. What’s more, this isn’t the first time she’s done this!

My mother’s also fond of saying: “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

Winter’s Promise

2006-10-31T13:57:00.000-05:00

Wrinkled coats and the odor of mothballs have crowded the bus this week. In Colorado, this is almost always the week of the first snow and in DC it must be the week of digging out your winter coat. I’ve wondered what it would be like to wait for the bus in the cold and how warm it could possibly be with the door opening every 3 blocks. The anticipation this fall has reminded me of another winter.

I was 8 when I moved to Colorado and had never really seen snow; I remember that winter clearly. The snow snuck up on us just after moving. I remember the light purple jacket and tube socks that served as a winter coat and mittens before we bought winter gear. I remember making ice cream with my brothers from the snow on top of our hedge out front. I remember the scratchy texture of my first scarf; and how I loved to go to King Soopers, the grocery store, because of the huge gust of warm wind blowing down from the vent at the front door.

I wonder what winter promises this year and why I’m so full of that third grade anticipation? Usually I just hope for mild temperatures, no wind, and lots of snow - the clean kind (It’s no good two days out when it’s all slushy). This year though, winter’s promise feels more like the move to Colorado – I’m certain something exciting waits…

As for the bus, some days I’m surprised we make it at all; especially with the extra space needed to accommodate those mothball-smelling parkas. But maybe that strange sense of newness and uncertainty on the 54 is why I’m reminded of my first Colorado winter. I wasn’t sure what to expect then either, but spring eventually came and with it we had settled into a new home, perspective and way of life.

Bus Poetry

2006-10-30T09:51:00.000-05:00

The advertisements along the bus walls usually include things like how to send money to Latin America using Home Depot's Cash Card, bilingual charter school enrollment deadlines, a variety of health services, some very strange ones about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and a few random ones for vocational schools.

On Saturday however, I saw an ad for the CommuterPage.com, a website highlighting various metro area transportation options, its own blog and up-to-date alerts. On their ad, they posted a winner of the 2006 Moving Words Student Poetry Competition. (Mind you not all the poems were about transportation but perhaps the author struck a soft spot.)

Congratulations Lydia!

BUS FEELINGS
When it’s a rainy, gloomy day
I get on the bus and the gloom fades away.
On the bus it’s peaceful and calm
It’s not loud, no one’s singing songs.
Then I have a great big sigh
Now I get off the bus, it makes me cry.
You see when I’m on a bus,
There is no fuss,
So next time you feel something’s wrong
Get on a bus where you belong!

Lydia Cawley
3rd Grade, Arlington Science Focus School

...and a woman in the sciences no less!

The Perfect Breakfast Food

2006-10-12T15:56:00.000-05:00

Without realizing, I must’ve given a look of disgust when I saw a woman eating Cheetohs and Diet Coke for breakfast on the bus. The caffeine I can understand, but Cheetohs? When she commented on my look (so embarrassing), I asked, “Cheetohs for breakfast?” She just sighed and scooted by.

Ten minutes later, starving, I grabbed a couple of homemade chocolate chip cookies out of my bag….Just as I was taking my first bite, I felt someone lean over my shoulder and say, “how you gonna fuss at me about my Cheetohs when you’re eating cookies?” She totally called me out in front of everyone on the bus – diet accountability, right?

The following morning I see a very little, very cute young girl sneaking Cheetohs one-at-a-time out of her Dora the Explorer backpack.

So I figure Cheetohs is a bus food…but not true…

On the green line train Sunday morning (sorry, I was running late), guess what the teenage couple in front of me has…puffy Cheetohs!

So here’s a little Cheetology for you, though I haven’t found any data linking the cheesy goodness to transportation of any sort….

Its worth the click: Cheetology

You’ve got to admit its getting better…its getting better all the time…

2006-10-05T11:59:00.000-05:00

For all the fuss being made and walls being built over issues of immigration the outlook has been pretty dim. And nothing builds communities or tears them apart quite like language. We see it all the time with arguments over Spanish and ESL in the US, but we’re not the only ones fighting over it. In Bolivia, for example, the government is trying to initiate education reforms that require teachers and government employees to speak the indigenous language (i.e. Aymara or Quechua) when in rural indigenous areas…and they’ve had threats of civil war over this and other proposed reforms.

With all this in mind, you can imagine why I was impressed with what I saw on the bus yesterday morning. Over my shoulder I heard two little boys saying, “es-STRAY-ya” over and over, with their mom prompting “es-STRAY-la”. Then they switched to “es-CWAY-la”. They were saying it over and over, so I glanced back to see what was going on and was surprised they were not a Latino family.

“Escuela” in Spanish means “school” and “Estrella” means “star” and though the mom was pronouncing it incorrectly and obviously didn’t speak Spanish, she had a book out and was teaching her young sons the language.

I love that.

Does it rain in Kazakhstan?

2006-09-29T11:11:00.000-05:00

On my way home yesterday, I was caught in the torrential downpour and it was so uncomfortable trying to navigate the city in my flippin high heels, that I was absolutely willing to sell out the bus and grab a cab.

After leaving my appointment during rush hour, I crossed the river (formerly known as K Street), and waited up against a building for the bus…it was taking so long and I was so cranky, that I ran back across the street to the ATM, so I could take a cab home –completely soaked at this point. But there were no cabs to be found. So I started walking, found a bus before I found a cab, got on even though it didn’t really go where I needed it to, walked the rest of the way to the next stop, then got on the 16th Street bus, which parallels the 54. Everyone was wet, cold and cranky; and traffic was horrible.

Not that the bus was moving that quickly in all the traffic anyway, but the driver was forced to pull over when we heard sirens and saw a rather long motorcade pulling on to 16th just behind us. The four police cars, numerous black town cars, SUVs and stretch limousine, zipped around us and pulled into the Marriott’s circular drive. HOWEVER, the last police car, stopped perpendicular in front of our bus where there was no way the driver could get around him. All eyes were glued to the window, and I heard someone say maybe it was Chavez and someone else reply, “No, he’ll probably never be allowed to come back to the States.”

When the cop wouldn’t move, the bus driver started huffing (he’s got a schedule to keep and tired passengers to answer to!) Finally, the cop let us pass.

Per Adaeze’s suggestion, I did a little research, and I think it was probably the President of Kazakhstan, Mr. Nursultan Nazarbayev. Who I’d just like to point out has suffered NO diplomatic consequences though his election was highly contested by UN observers and has recently cracked down on human rights and squashed other political freedoms in his country. Nor is Mr. Nazarbayev a subscriber of democracy, which our president holds so dear, but rather an authoritarian strongman, who our govt. continues to supports and is being feted as a valued ally because his government is supportive of U.S. military operations in Afghanistan and Iraq, and because Kazakhstan recently agreed to pump some of its rapidly growing supplies of oil through a U.S.-backed pipeline to the West. Even the fact that Mr. Nazarbayev has been accused by U.S. federal prosecutors of accepting the bulk of $78 million in bribes -- a small part of the fortune his family has amassed -- has been ignored by the White House.

But hell, he certainly didn’t call the president “El Diablo” in front of the United Nations General Assembly, so I guess I just consider myself lucky to have gotten a peek at his prestigious motorcade.

Times, They Are a Changing

2006-09-20T15:14:00.000-05:00

Looks like the rubber has met the road folks. This week has the potential to end an era.

Yesterday, my housemate Adaeze picked up her car (shipped to her from family in the fine state of Texas, where I imagine very few people take the bus). It’s a lovely Altima and it smelled like new when I climbed in the backseat last night, and sailed up Rock Creek Parkway on our way home.

Eleanor Robson Belmont said, “A private railroad car is not an acquired taste. One takes to it immediately.” You see, though I enjoy my bus adventures, truth be told, I’ve had few other options.

The fall from grace begins...

It was only the first day she had it, it was late, I was downtown, I called her and she was nearby, I mean that’s no big deal…but sadly I can see it becoming a slippery slope.

Solidarity is easy when you have no other options. But when given the opportunity for comfort, convenience, privacy and new car smell, how many would opt out? “Stewardship”, “intentional living”, “access”, “privilege,” these aren’t just buzzwords, they're hard words.

Other Changes:

The Washington Metro Area Transit Authority has announced the following for the 52, 53 and 54 buses on 14th Street:

Additional buses will run in the evenings to reduce crowding. At night between 10:30 p.m. and 12:30 a.m., buses will run every ten to 15 minutes during the week, every 15 minutes on Saturdays and every 20 minutes on Sundays.

Which of course I’m thankful for, but even further de-legitimizes my excuses for taking the car. Is a new blog on the horizon? “I’ll Take the Car”? Doubt I’d have much to say.

Guest Writer: Ian M.

2006-09-20T14:48:00.000-05:00

So I’ve been lazy and haven’t been to the gym in a while. Instead of riding one of the 14th street buses I’ve been taking the subway to Chinatown in the mornings. Today I finally decided to go back to the gym.

One thing about the bus (and one of the reasons that this blog is so intriguing) is that you observe things and have theories while you are riding that you forget as soon as you arrive at your destination. Kind of like having a crazy dream that you can’t remember at all by lunchtime.

Anyhoo, my observation was this: If you’ve ever taken one of the 14th street southbound buses between 6-6:30am you notice that the patrons congregate near the entrance, much to the dismay of everyone trying to board. Even when the driver yells “please move to the back,” the bus population remains unevenly disseminated.

The reason for this is people who never properly learned to use public transportation. On the subway it is Midwestern tourists/suburban office workers, and on my bus it is rural Central American laborers. Neither were raised to be conscious of space and the flow of human traffic in enclosed areas. For us city kids these people are at best comically buffoonish, but more often frustratingly inefficient.

What I noticed on the bus this morning though is that it’s much easier and satisfying to resent ipod-clad yuppies during rush hour than sleep-deprived immigrants before dawn. Even though they are guilty of the same crime, the guy with paint on his boots and calluses on his hands does not merit the same derision as the guy with the ugly tie and the Washington Express. Is it because we bus riders admire an honest day of hard work that we accept from immigrants of Guatemalan pueblos what we do not from those of American cul-de-sacs? Had it been Cosi-eating lanyard folks refusing to stand behind the second door, the bus would have risen against them in a collective fury. Do we hold white-collar workers to a higher standard than their blue-collar counterparts?

Perhaps the bus is a more soothing environment in general. There are no ominous voices, no broken escalators, no signs counting down the minutes until the arrival of the next train. If the bus is late, you just accept it. If the bus is crowded, you just accept it. If people crowd up near the driver, you just accept it. There is no standing on the right, walking on the left. You are on the bus. God, I’ve missed the bus.

-Ian

“The Biggest Mystery Known To Man”

2006-09-11T16:17:00.000-05:00

Early this summer, I started noticing the writing on the bus wall. Frequently, there is a piece of white paper with typed scripture taped in the front of the bus, always in the same place. Its not a pamphlet, has no info about a church, no logos or anything like that, it’s just the quoted scripture and biblical reference. I always see it on the 14th Street bus, but I haven’t figured out if it’s only on one specific line (52, 53, 54). A few times, I’ve either caught the same bus going both north and south, with that same piece of paper posted on it, or copies have been hung on several buses.

Where it’s hung is interesting because it’s always on the small wall just behind the driver’s seat. So I’m sure it could easily go unnoticed by the driver throughout his or her whole shift, but is in plain view for the passengers no matter where they’re seated.

More interestingly, however, is that it’s always from Job or Isaiah. And it’s always very damning, Things like:

“Ah, sinful nation,
a people loaded with guilt,
a brood of evildoers,
children given to corruption!
They have forsaken the LORD;
they have spurned the Holy One of Israel
and turned their backs on him.”

I guess its disturbing because if I had one opportunity to share a message from the Bible, that’s NOT what I would choose, especially not for the people on the bus!!

I almost ripped it down a few times (I’m rarely that bold), and I thought of typing up my own Top Hits from the Bible that I would want people on the 54 to hear…things that I’d classify as “Good News,” but never did that either. I mean come on, there’s some good stuff in there and all we can come up with is calling people “evildoers”!! Tell us something we don’t know! Tell us something we can’t see; tell us there’s more to life than screwing up; more than the sad stories we see on the news every night and witness on the bus everyday!

Anyway, I finally got up the nerve to ask the bus driver who puts these up.

His reply: “That’s the biggest mystery known to man. We rip’em down every night and the next day someone puts’em back up.”

Let me know if you see any prophets on 14th Street taping scripture inside the buses, I have some questions to ask…

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

2006-09-06T16:17:00.000-05:00

Babies and kids are cute anywhere, but when you're stuck on a crowded bus at 7am they can be a particularly charming seat partner.

My good friend Edgar has devoted his life to serving others in a radical way. As a lifelong student of the revolution, saying he has a "commitment to community service" does not do it justice - I mean he's in DC on political asylum. Volunteering on Saturday mornings can be a commitment, but death threats from warlords are something else...

From listening to the man speak for hours on end, here's what I gather: the revolution he's fighting for isn't just for peace in his home country, but a complete upside down power structure from society as we know it. I'm talking give your riches away, share every single thing you've been given, forgive no matter what someone does to you, treat everyone like family and always, always find some way to serve creatively and with initiative.

He's particularly big on the serving part and one example I've heard him give at least three times this summer is to help people with their kids. He's mentioned small things like trying to help quiet a crying baby, to give the mother a break, etc...

Well, the revolution must be taking root on the bus, because I see people helping each other out with their kids all the time on the 54. This morning without being asked, the lady next to me dug through her purse to find a tissue, then gave it to the mom across the aisle to wipe her baby's stuffy nose. It's routine for men - young, old, drunk, in uniform, or with a cane- to help carry folded strollers off the bus so moms can quickly get off with their baby and bags. Even on the most crowded mornings people give up their seats so grandmothers and grandchildren can sit together. And almost everyone helps entertain the wee ones - peek-a-boo, dangling keychains, funny faces, whatever - so we can all have a pleasant ride.

I'm pretty sure the baby's are what keep the 54 violence free. Sometimes that bus is really hectic - it calms us all to see fat little faces, pig tails and booties aboard. But the bigger deal, is that no one has to ask for help with their kids on the bus; people take initiative and help where able. It doesn't sound radical, but I think it gives Edgar's revolution a grassroots, steady, yet stealth approach.

Oh Ernesto.....

2006-09-01T13:42:00.000-05:00

....be kind to us.

If your winds must sweep through our great city, let it be only to blow away our iniquities.

If your waters must pour, let them be waters from the sea, to remind us of our true home.

If your quick advance inland must slow our lives, let it not delay public transit...

Va., D.C. Declare Storm Emergency.

The Case of the Mysterious Mint – Northbound

2006-08-24T14:00:00.000-05:00

Tuesday morning I hurriedly packed my lunch for work. Nothing fancy, just a sandwich, some snacks and a piece of fruit…or so I thought.

Unless it was a magical changing fruit, however, it turned out I had packed no fruit at all. When I thought I was grabbing a peach, I had really grabbed an onion! Yuck…so the onion had to make the return bus ride home with me that afternoon, gently stuffed in my bag of course.

Also on the bus that evening was a young professional woman carrying a small pot with a bountiful mint plant. But after ardent observation, I came to suspect that this was no ordinary mint plant…it definitely had “Love Potion #9”-like powers. Not that I’m likening the male gender to an animal, (honest), but men began to really flock to the mint woman! I mean she was certainly an attractive woman, but so were several other women on the 54 that day. It just had to be the mint…

Shortly after watching two men try to maintain mint woman’s attention, with several other admiring male onlookers, a tall blonde guy caught my own attention. Though dressed in business clothes - he seemed slightly out of place in DC. He had to be from California – I mean I can spot those; I’m practically from the West coast. Anyway, California Guy maneuvered past Mint Woman with style and took a seat next to me and my onion. He some how managed to evade the minty aroma that so easily drew in all the other men.

I took a few minutes to ponder his indifference to mint girl, as well as, his great hair cut and color. It couldn’t be the feathery cut and angelic color that protected him from Mint Woman’s powers could it? That’s just silly….

Like all questions worth asking, the answer was revealed in time. Somewhere around Oak Street, he lifted a translucent plastic bag of random vegetables….a dirt covered eggplant, a yellow pepper, an odd shaped tomato… Perhaps his own private garden protected him from the allure of hers…a sort of immintity, I mean immunity.

I had to wonder, what powers had my onion?

Georgia Avenue- Northbound on Bus 70

2006-08-18T08:18:00.000-05:00

My house is only 3 blocks from Georgia Ave, yet my acquaintance with the bustling Georgia Ave/Petworth Neighborhood came in three parts this summer, including of course…a bus ride.

1.) In June, the Washington Post had a FrontPage article called Breathing New Rhythm Into Tired Streets; Yoga Studios Signal D.C. Gentrification. The article features a new studio called Yoga House, which opened on Georgia Avenue in the Petworth neighborhood in October. It used Yoga House as a case study to prove that the Petworth neighborhood was about to begin the gentrification process.

My favorite quotation was what the Yoga instructor says her friends asked her, "They ask if it's safe to park their car. It's 'the 'hood' for them."

I won't go into the moral dilemma this article posed for me, which stayed among my mental headlines at least throughout June. But suffice to say, I don't live too far from Yoga House and I practice Yoga…

I did go to Yoga House, not to practice, but on an investigation. It was closed, but it was my first experience on Georgia Ave. that I can recall. And to be honest, it was quite different from Colombia Heights, Mt. Pleasant or Adams Morgan, my usual summer stomping grounds. More specifically, the way I was addressed while walking down the street was quite different…I was happy when I got back to 14th.

2.) My friend Jack is pretty hip to DC culture and history. Once when we were talking about adventures on the 54, he told me the real action happened on the 70 line, which runs down Georgia Ave. He said the 70 and 71 are notorious for crazy stories and that it used to only run about every half hour, so when the bus did finally come, people were always running after it and scrambling not to miss it.
According to Metro’s bus timetable for the 70 line, it is now scheduled more than twice an hour and spans diagonally through the city from the SW Waterfront to Silver Spring, Maryland. However, Jack was right about its legacy. There is a local theatrical production called The 70, which bares witness to the Georgia Avenue legacy. The acting director commented, “… being on the 70 Bus, the truth comes out of people…when they’re not around government buildings or authority. People are very honest. You learn a lot through everyone.” Too true…my friend.

3.) Yesterday was my third encounter with Georgia Ave; facilitated via Bus 70. Well, the good news was that I finally got to ride one of those double-length buses that I never see on the 54. But somewhere between P Street and Euclid, we heard an extremely loud BANG! Honestly, I thought it was a gun shot, and it was so close that I flinched. Everyone kinda froze and started trying to figure out what it was. The bus driver stopped the bus in the middle of the street. Finally someone said he thought he saw a girl throw a rock at the bus, then run off down a side street. The older folks grumbled and the driver started rolling again.

Why would someone throw a rock at a bus?

…….And thus my summer introduction to Georgia Avenue and Route 70.

* * *
“The bus is the great equalizer in our city. A lawyer and a homeless person are equal when they are on the bus. There are no distinctions made, they are simply bus riders.” -DreamCity Theatre Group’s “The 70”

Blessings in Orange – Northbound

2006-08-14T09:22:00.000-05:00

Orange is my favorite color. We got off to a late start, but what Orange and I lack in longevity, we make up for in intensity. I frequently catch myself attracted to things simply for their orangeness.

I'm new to the 9-5 workforce, and adjusting to life in the office isn't the most exciting change of my life thus far. Leaving work last week, I was feeling a little down about my new workforce fetter but decided to check out a gym near work.

Bad Idea.
More air conditioning and upscale modern décor was not what I needed. My despondency escalated and I felt like someone was standing at my side nagging, "this is who you are now: a DC yuppie, sign up, get used to it." When I got on the 54, I was near tears trying to discern if this depressing profile was really where I was headed…

But Rumi swears "need is the net for all things that exist,” and lies never hold their own.

When I looked up from my bus seat, I was in a sea of orange. The man in front of me, two women to my right and a child sitting behind me, each in orange clothing, were radiating grace. An orange taxi was even out the window to my left. I just let it soak in.

Waves and breakers swept over me, washing me clean of the lies I had heard moments before.

* * *

Increase Your Need
The mouse's soul is nothing but a nibbler.
To the mouse is given a mind
proportionate to its need,
for without need, the All-Powerful
doesn't give anything to anyone.
Need, then, is the net for all things that exist:
A person has tools in proportion to his need.
So, quickly, increase your need, needy one,
that the sea of abundance
may surge up in loving-kindness.

~Rumi

Fugitive - Southbound 8/9/06

2006-08-10T10:49:00.000-05:00

On my way downtown yesterday, the bus was flagged over to the side of 14th by a woman dressed in nursing scrubs. Everyone of course looked up from their morning papers to see what was the fuss. The nurse warned the driver that there was a woman in an American flag bandana, waiting at the next stop and she was NOT to be let on the bus!!

We all waited with eyes peeled as we passed two police officers getting out of their car and came to the next stop. The bandana woman was waiting as promised.

She knocked on the folding bus door, and can you believe it, he didn't open it!?! So she started cursing and throwing a fit, while the officers slowly approached her, with hands on hips (not making it up people).

I wanted to stand up and scream: "Hello!! Let her on! We're for the revolution! This could be her big escape, a chance to get free and start over, damn the man!!"

But I didn't and the 54 rolled on. The driver chuckled to himself and said, "That girl's always gettin in trouble..."

The Bestowal - Southbound

2006-08-02T22:23:00.000-05:00

Although I doubt he was the first to say it, Elvis is quoted as having said, “Never judge a man without first walking a mile in his shoes.” And I am quoted (by myself) as having said, “Lessons are abundant on the bus.” Yesterday, we were both right.

As I headed out of town on Tuesday morning, I decided I would give my bus pass away, since I wouldn’t be here to use it the rest of the week. I admit I felt pretty good about myself…how thoughtful I am to not waste it…

Upon boarding the 54 with luggage in tow, I began a mental selection process for finding the lucky person to whom I would bestow my beloved bus pass. I started looking among my fellow passengers, as well as those sitting at the stops. (I pictured myself heroically handing the shiny green card to someone through the window.)

Of course the recipient would have to be someone in need….so that puzzlingly ruled out everyone actually on the bus with me, since they had managed to board after all. Though I did contemplate a few young mothers who had brought their children on – young mothers are almost always in need, right? But I wasn’t satisfied with anyone I saw. Eventually I reached the McPherson Square metro, thinking surely there will be someone asking for something outside the metro whom I could bless with a week of free bus rides…but no one to my standards was there. I went into the metro station, knowing I’d find even fewer “needy” or “worthy” people on the train. As predicted: no one. After a 30 minute ride, I exited at the Vienna stop in somewhat of a panic since I only saw local buses outside and no Metro buses, which made my pass worthless out there.

I was so upset. Just yesterday I had seen two people have to get off the bus because they didn’t have enough money for the fare and people are always asking me for transfer passes…

Finally, just as my friend’s car was pulling up, I spotted the red, white, and blue, Metro Bus sign, ran over to the stop and practically begged some woman to take it! My friend asked what I was doing and when I told her, she said it was very thoughtful…but I felt like I had failed…..

***
Last year I head a woman who works at a food collection shelter talk about the idea of the “Deserving Poor,” meaning the poor who others think deserve help, as opposed to the poor who do not deserve help. I've also heard people talk about the requirements for TANF, Section 8 and other government services, where you have to meet and prove a specific level of poverty to obtain help – a very bureaucratic, unjust and often ineffective process.

I always hated the idea of “deserving poor”, but now that I had (and maybe this is overdoing it), walked a mile in the shoes of the US Govt. (thank you Elvis)… the situation seemed a little more complex. Honestly, I do not have any great conclusions, at least not for how the government can effectively and accountably invest in the lives of the poor. I mean Jesus was pretty clear about giving and about forgiving, but shouldn’t the most needy get the most services? And we have to measure our programs’ effectiveness somehow… So like I said, I have no answer for the US Govt. But, I suppose on a personal level I see that my giving the pass away was more about me than anything else…which isn’t likely to earn me any heavenly treasures.

Socialism -Northbound

2006-07-28T09:51:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I got on the bus before I had taken out my pass. It took off with me still digging in my bag. I've become very attached to the $11, week-long pass, available at your local Giant Supermarket.

Finally a woman watching my disarray slipped me her transfer pass - a little bus socialism.

Socialism: An "economic, social and political doctrine which expresses the struggle for the equal distribution of wealth by eliminating private property and the exploitative ruling class."

Poverty in the City - Southbound

2006-07-27T09:04:00.000-05:00

I often hear people express their frustration about the poverty in DC. It's ironic that such an empowered class of people, in one of the most powerful cities in the world, feels completely powerless to help the numerous homeless people around them. Some people would argue these professionals are simply indifferent to DC's homeless, but I give the creative class a little more credit, after all DC is the non-profit capital of the world. In fact, I most often hear people claim they simply don't know what to do or how to interact with the poor.

On one of those sweltering summer days this month, I was on the 54 when I noticed it was taking a little while for the bus to get going after one of its stops. Finally, we all looked out the window to see a seemingly homeless woman with a very LARGE and very FULL shopping cart asking the driver to lower the wheelchair lift so that she could bring her shopping cart aboard. The whole bus did a head spin to see if the driver would really do it, after all, this thing would likely take up the whole front of the bus and make it difficult to reach the door.

Hesitantly, he said okay, and lowered the lift. There was a collective groan from the passengers as everyone got up and headed for seats in the back, to make room for the new arrival.

It took forever for this woman to get on the bus.....and I have no doubt that people were late to work because of it. Plus, she smelled badly and looked miserable...everyone noticed it.

However uncomfortable, I thought the whole event was fantastic. If we're ever going to find effective solutions to poverty, shouldn't we at least start by being exposed to the poor!!

Being uncomfortable and inconvenienced forced me to at least think about this woman's situation, something I guarantee I wouldn't have done otherwise.

Aliens - Southbound

2006-07-26T08:05:00.000-05:00

Last week, I was planning to attend DC's famous Screen on the Green, where they show a film outdoors on the national mall. On the bus that day, I observed a seemingly "normal" man complete with cell phone and discussion of a website he had created. Eventually the bus had to detour off 14th St. due to a car wreck and at this point he struck up a conversation.

I assumed he was going to refer to the traffic or police when he asked if I was from DC. Then without warning, he says, "You're going to think I'm crazy but...." (I think I even made a joke that everyone was crazy on the bus, but this did not deter...) Then he proceeds to tell me that he was recently at the US Capitol building at night, when a "UFO came down." "It was incredible," he said, "with lights beaming all over the place." Then he asked if I had email, to which I shook my head in the negative. "Too bad," he said, "because I have pictures, I made a website."

Eventually, I slid my headphones back on, eventhough they were out of batteries. What happened??? This guy really did seem to fit my profile for "Normal."

So here's the really strange part.....
Like I said, I was on my way to Screen on the Green. If you ever get the chance, you should go, because the view of the screen is topped off with the Capitol building in the foreground and the whole thing is very DC....free community event... So the movie that night was an old black and white film from the 1950s called "The Day the Earth Stood Still." And just GUESS what its about... I kid you not, a UFO lands on the lawn of the US Capitol.......

If aliens do come to DC I wont be that impressed because stranger things have happened on the bus.

Anthony - 7/16 Southbound

2006-07-24T16:27:00.000-05:00

Last week, I was cozied into my fwd. facing (I prefer fwd to side-facing bc it's too hard on the abs to sit sideways and handle the dc traffic) bus seat, when a middle-aged man started serenading me and took a seat next to mine. Finally he introduced himself and started teasing me about husbands and boyfriends. He told me he had just gotten out of detox and had the hospital-like bracelet to prove it. Eventually he asked where I was headed. I told him I was going to church and asked if he wanted to come along. He said, "sure," and off we went to Calvary...

This guy was a hoot too! He didn't miss a beat.

Eventually I told him about how I'm reading Malcom X' autobiography. I haven't finished it yet, but as of that day, Malcom had already been through a childhood of anguish, a youth of drugs and hustling, spent years in prison, and was a devout Black Muslim (though malcom doesn't like that term, I feel obligated to use it, in light of the story's ending).

I don't know what happened in Anthony's life that landed him in detox, but had I ever met Malcom in his later years, I wouldn't have imagined that he too had spent some time getting clean.

I told Anthony about Malcom and about my Daddy: two men, who have at least some idea of where he's at.