The garrafa.

It was a wonderful morning. I woke up at about 530 after a sound, tranquil sleep. The sky was pink and I gathered a bit of firewood to boil water for breakfast. I normally cook over a gas stove but my stove had been acting strangely ever since I replaced the tank, so recently Ive stuck to wood. The men of what has become my surrogate family, Cecilio and Iban, arrived while I was finishing my Nescafe and soymilk to fix the stove. They jerry-rigged the stove’s hose so that it would work again, saving me a few Bolivianos. This ability to fix or recycle any seemingly broken item with mere scraps and determination has long been one of the traits I most admired in Bolivians. Honey is sold in used Nescafe jars and water bottles, and Ive never seen a taxi that wasn’t of hodge-podge of brands and parts. Nor do Bolivians ever forget the many uses of a good stick- they are put to use in making cradles, in construction, in baking, and for the obvious use of beating off bravo dogs.

I put myself to preparing the soil for my garden, which essentially meant a cow dung hunt. I took a bag and headed to the woods beside my house, where Don Jesus’s cows love to graze and startle me during the night. School just let out for the rainy season, and I ran into a group of boys hunting anything that moved with their home-made sling shot. They offered to help me in my poo-quest, bringing me enormous dried pies and delighting shouting out “Yakayyyyy!” when they found a particularly plentiful reserve. We filled one enormous bag with dung and another with black earth carved out from the decaying base of an algorrobo tree. Back in the garden we set to grinding the piles to a fine harina (flour) of cow feces with stones. Afterwards I sprung for a round of lollipops and MediaTarde crackers for all and we all sat reading on my porch.

Eventually I went inside to try out my newly-fixed kitchen, carving broccoli trees to branches and fat carrots to paper-thin slices. I struck the match to its box and PROOSH-the entire stove was aflame in my face. I reached to turn the gas off but the flame was in front of it and I couldn’t reach the knob without further burning myself. I knew I had burnt my face or hair a bit but wasn’t sure how extensive it was. I ran outside and the startled boys took one look at me, screamed in horror, and took off running. Convinced I had one less nose than I did before, I copied the boys and crossed the barbed wire to my neighbor’s house. I turned around, shaking, to see people running towards my house from every angle. The women and kids kept their distance, but the men ran straight away towards the flame. Don Eduardo came with a bucket for water, Cecilio filled my water basin and they went at the fire through the window. Rosi’s husband threw shovels full of dirt, and the muddy combination finally did the trick.

A minute later the porch and kitchen were overflowing with neighbors, each one offering condolences and not wasting a moment to start the clean up. Cecilia and Dona Marina cleared out the dirt and ash while the men debated the cause of the fire over charred remains of the stove. We had been lucky; the hose itself had burned half way through. If the fire has gotten to the gas in the hose it would have ignited the entire tank, sending the house and the men sky-high. The crowd cleared; Dona Marina stayed behind with a few kids to apply some freshly cut aloe to my face and neck. The burns were minor, and mostly I missed my hair, half of which had been singed off along with my eyelashes. At least I still had eyebrows, we joked.

I spent the rest of afternoon making sweet bread at my best friend Ana’s house, a favorite past-time I hadn’t been able to practice in months for lack of a free afternoon. We tended the adobe oven while we shared mate and fire horror stories. She had a lot of them- apparently there’s a correlation between accidents and this admirable Bolivian jerry-rigging. As usual, Ana sent me home feeling much better, with a belly full of mate and more sweet bread than Id ever be able to eat.

Tonight I am deeply reminded of my tremendous good fortune. Chance. I was the only one in the kitchen. The last time I had used the stove, the kitchen was full for Thursday night cooking club- all old ladies, little girls, and my very pregnant 14-year old neighbor (On Sunday she gave birth to a bouncing baby boy.) Time. The fire could have caught the full gas tank and taken my courageous male neighbors with it. Water. I only recently bought and filled the tank that held the water that put the fire out and we haven’t had water in the pipes for days. Without the tank, it would have taken too long to bring water from afar and the tank would have certainly exploded.

Most of all, my good fortune lies in the people whom I am currently find myself amongst. Today they risked their lives for a bumbling foreigner who six months ago was a stranger. All day Ive been dumbfounded by their alacrity and generosity and kindness. Asi son la gente. That’s just how the people are, Im told. When help is needed, they rise to the occasion. I ask myself if my countrymen or I would do the same. Would you? Would I? I would love to say I am morally on par with these men. I think that if there were a life immediately at risk, I would run that risk. But for another woman’s home? I doubt it. In fact, I know I wouldn’t have in the past. I know it. But now-would my answer be different? Can I blame this inferiority on being female? Can I blame it on different perspectives on material possessions? Is there blame to be placed?

Am I a terrible coward?

Can I ever sufficiently show my gratitude?

I have long known that I would learn more in the Bolivia than I would ever be able to teach anyone else, but I never anticipated such a profound lesson in selflessness. I can only hope some of this bravado will rub away a bit of this painful cowardice that I feel peeking through- Im on stage with my moral pants around my ankles.

I managed not to cry all afternoon, despite the shock and the burn and the relief of resolution. Tonight though, when no one can see, Im shedding a few of pure gratitude.