Water.

19 October 2007

The other morning, I woke late, around seven o’clock, a bit congested and still recovering from my latest resfrio. I opened my screen door, walked to the kitchen, only to see two little girls already walking over to the “library.” Jesus, I thought. I opened my door not thirty seconds ago, and you are already here. Yes, youre absolutely adorable (their mom has an affinity for dressing her daughters in frilly dresses and pigtails) and yes your curiosity is endearing, but its so early! And I know you cant even read yet and youre here for the pictures! Nonetheless, I told the two to take a seat on my porch and promptly served them up Huevos Verdes con Jamon. As they looked at the drawings, I went about what has become my morning routine in Chimeo. Wake up. Go to grifo. Check for water. If water is falling, fill the following: four bottles of water, one basin, tea pot, pot, and one small jug. Of late, water tends to fall plentifully in the mornings, only to run out sometime in the afternoon or midday, depending on the heat and wind. As the little girls followed me with their eyes, I became aware of how much one can tell about my life be reading into this routine.

The teapot: Probably the most vital vessel in this collection. Chimenos visit my house with increasing frequency, and when they do, its expected that one will serve up a few poros of sugary yerba mate. Even if no one comes to visit, Ive become accustomed to poreando solo. In front of me on the kitchen table right now one sees four poros of every shape and size: the first and leat favored one, a short one of palo santo that I purchased in Villa Montes; next the traditional one made of a gord that Dona Teresa gave me yesterday (I wonder if she has any idea how much the gift means to me?); the giant varnished beauty that I fell in love with months ago at a tourist shop in Santa Cruz; finally the gift made of cana from our trip to Salta. That one has long been my favorite; unfortunately, because Argentines take their yerba mate cold, this poro is cracking from the heat of my teapot and now leaks a green herby juice all over my guests. When Im alone though, I still use it.

In addition to the variety of poros, Ive recently discovered the other secrets of delicious yerba preparation. Ive been trying a new kind of yerba every time I buy a new package, a search for the most delicious yerba on earth. Despite these efforts, I realized yerba was always more delicious when served by other ladies. I thought this was attributable to the “chicken-soup-effect”- when I make chicken soup for myself, I find it revolting. If my mom serves up the same dehydrated and rehydrated package, however, it becomes finger-licking good. While this may be true to an extent, its much more than that- each lady in Chimeo has her sui generis yerba preparing secret. Dona Brigida puts a few anis seeds in each pot of water. Monica ties up a few stems of lemon grass and lets it boil with the water. For Dona Cristina its poleo leaves. Cinnimon, guyava tree leaves, orange peels, all these can be used to make ones own signature mate. I am lucky enough to have a yard full of citrus trees, which should give me plenty of fuel for experimentation. When I discover the perfect combination, Ill be sure to share the secret.

The basin: As I said earlier, water runs out in the afternoons. When it is 40*C and one spends the day gardening or chasing bees with a smoker, bathing in the morning is futile. Therefore, I fill up my big blue plastic basin every morning for my afternoon bucket showers. As unenticing a bucket shower likely sounds to those of you in the States, and as it was to me at first try, its really become a hilight of my day. I imagine Im having my hair washed in one of those painful porcelain sinks at the hair parlor, where the girl your friend dated in high school asks you Is this too cold? Too hot? as she delivers second degree burns/ frostbite with her totrture hose. All kidding aside, I enjoy showering from just one basin because I know exactly how much water Im using; at times with a running water shower, in all its glory, I cant help but feel wasteful as I watched the water swirl down the drain.

The small jug: This is filled with water and sliced garlic every morning, left to soak all day, then thrown around my yard or the paths I frequent every afternoon. Let it be known that Chimeo has lots of snakes. I hate snakes. Folks around here have told me that snakes, likewise, hate garlic. I want the snakes to hate my house and any other locale I frequent, especially by night. A garlic necklace has not been ruled out.

The pot: I cook for myself, and only myself, every afternoon. While in DC I used to visit make rounds visiting with friends on their lunch breaks, I relish the hour I take to be alone and eat a lunch that the typical Bolivian would find lacking: salad and a boiled egg. After six months of living with host families and their soups and rice and rice and yucca and potatoes and rice and yucca, I am filling myself with carrots and tomatoes and cucumbers and, when I can find it, BROCCOLI. Strangely, in the States I can hardly stand to smell boiled eggs, while I cant get enough of the eggs raised by families in Chimeo. Theyre smaller, the shell is harder and colored, the yolk is dark yellow and creamy, and they are delicious. Maybe its because they are raised in such a healthy and natural manner, or maybe Im protein deficient. Maybe a little bit of both.


The bottles: Ah. The bottles. My barrier. In order to “safely” drink water, I fill four plastic bottles and leave them in the sun all day to be disinfected by UV rays, an effect called SODIS. I have two problems with this, however. One, the water in Chimeo comes from a seemingly pristine mountain stream called Caiguami, and we consume it before it can be mucked up by the sprawling Villa Montes population. I know that along the way this stream could be contaminated by pigs or, worse, humans, so I continue to Sodis my water, even though the rest of Chimeos population consumes it straight from the grifo. The dilemma, however, arises from this Sodis effect. I remember as a cross-country runner being told not to save our water bottles for long, nor to subject them to light and heat, as they begin to decompose and release carcinogens into the water. Ive been assured by volunteers with scientist parents (they say) and members of Peace Corps staff that this process is safe, yet I cant help feeling like every liter of water is a choice between immediate gastric upset or more long term effects such as cancer. What do I do?

After my water has been Sodis-ed, I then put it through another plastic filter to remove sediment. Judging by the filth in my filter, this step is very necessary. Under the watching eyes of me neighbor’s daughters, however, the whole process feels obsessive and superfluous and silly. I feel like Im wathcing someone in a public bathroom apply anti-bacterial lotion after washing their hands and opening the door with a white cloth and crossing themselves before stepping into the hall. Just as the kitchen has its water filter, the bedroom is home to the mosquito net. It is a big green monster that fills up half of my bedroom and screams GRINGA! when guests peer in. I know what youre all thinking: at least your belly is free of bugs and your bloodstream free of chagas. And youre right. Once you’ve been living in a country for nine months and a town for six, however, there emerges a desire to just fit in. I suppose there will always be barriers to my fitting in here in Bolivia and I should just accept them. Right?