Water poured down from the tin roofs into tiny pools in the mud and dirt, combining with the rest of the surrounding drizzle to make a sort of white, melodious noise. Balancing on my bike, one foot on the ground and the other on a raised pedal, I looked out onto the traffic circle. Automobiles of all sorts spun around it, each one making a quarter, half, or sometimes even full homage to the ten meter metal fish that marked its epicenter. An older, squat woman climbed down from a minivan, transformed with curtains and makeshift red velour seating from a family vehicle into profitable privatized public transit. It looked unsafe. I followed the minivan, known here as a micro, with my eyes, watching the exhaust and vapor rise from the vehicles and bodies. Behind me, a girl stood over a rickety metal cart-cum-kitchen, frying up potatoes and hamburgers for a few Bs each. It also looked unsafe. The dim lightbulbs above her swung in the cold wind, and the steam from her stove followed their same trajectory. Dogs sniffed at plastic wrappers on the side of the road, unhindered by the weather. The walls, now brown at the base but certainly once a pristine eggshell-white, mentioned something about a bus that must have once stopped here. I learned nothing about its schedule, but I do know that it went to Sucre. A moto splashed through a muddy rut, turning my attention back to the street.
I should be really freaked out, I thought. Night is coming on. It will probably freeze. I have nothing but my keys and 50 centavos in my pocket, and the only volunteer who lives here, in Villa Montes, is at a meeting in La Paz. I am not freaked out, though, not even in the slightest. How did this happen? How did I even get here?
This afternoon I cowered in my room, looking forward to crafting some summer birthday gifts and generally avoiding the cold. Yakeleeeeen called a voice from outside my door. Ug. Yakeleeeeeen it called again. Here begins the debate that rages in my head anytime I escape for a bit of alone time, for selfish hours spent reading, sewing, drawing, and generally neglecting my duties as a community member. Yakeleeeeen. Do I pretend I am not here, or sleeping, or do I open the door? Did it hear my music? Its cold out there. Its going to make me go out in the cold. It could be important. Ug. I open the door.
Its Bartolome, his shy, holey smile and receding hairline as endearing as ever. He informs me that our bike ride up into Aguarague to visit Dona Vicenta has been rescheduled for today. For right now. Could I please come over with my bike and my “machine”, which could normally be any number of apparati, but in this case means camera. I agree. After one last longing glance into my (relatively) toasty room, I roll up my pant leg and head for the street.
We make our way through the wide dirt roads of Chimeo, soon turning up, away from the houses and towards the forest. Bartolome is recounting a tale of one of the many cycling tournaments he has won. It is his favorite subject. I am feigning comprehension. We are going to visit Dona Vicenta, who for thirty years ago or so decided she wanted to live up, up, up in the mountain and raise her family there. Now her husband is gone, and most of her children live in Villa Montes, save the youngest, Julian, and one of her grandchildren, aged 4. We are on a quest to take her photo for the poster for Chimeo’s town anniversary and fair on July 18th as well as to invite her to participate. It is a quest which would be no more than a few clicks in the US, while here it will take all afternoon.
The road goes from two lanes to one, to a footpath, to scarcely a path at all. We are carrying our bikes down the muddy mountain now. I am doubting his internal compass. I am focused on not falling. He is focused on retelling the tale of his victory. Finally we climb up out of a sandy gully and I recognize the river that runs past Dona Vicentas property. Bartolome is still talking and my bike is on my shoulder as we cross stepping-stones towards her citrus orchard.
Vicenta greets us and has us take a seat by the fire with her grandson. Bartolome explains the purpose of our visit, and she’s excited by the prospect of participation. She runs to bring her traditional mortadero, being a tree stump with a large divet in the center hollowed out for grinding corn. This is achieved by picking up a large stick and smashing it down on the corn bowl over and over again. Its charming and steeped in tradition, nonetheless Chimeo’s housewives are very happy to now have the option of purchasing bagged flour. As we wait, her grandson sits by the fire, squeezing and stretching a grey puppy in a dangerously loving way. Vicenta returns, we snap a few fotos of her and the mortadero, and that’s it.
Twenty minutes after arriving at our destination, we are on our way again. This time we are following a more direct route out, made for trucks from the gas company. Its almost entirely downhill and slippery. Disaster is repeatedly narrowly averted. Bartolome is done with his story and we are both laughing and breathing hard. I feel something entirely different. I feel…. eleven years old. Something about riding bicycles with a buddy, even if he is a 50 yr old Guarani man with a sparsely populated mouth and head, harkons back to those first few times I was allowed to explore on my bike. Despite his flat rear tire, we keep on barrowing down towards Villa Montes. We make a quick stop at the bicicleteria to patch Bartolome’s tire and head back for Chimeo. The ride, uphill this time, will take an hour, and it is already nearly dark. I am dreading the rain and pretty sure that his is a bad idea, but I agree to it. Maybe because my life here can feel so dry, especially these, the cold long nights of the southern winter. Or maybe because I don’t have taxi fare. But I agree.
Bartolome goes to run one last errand and leaves me there, on the rotunda by the giant fish statue. Just after the moto passes in a splash of muddy water, a familiar teal truck comes to a stop in front of me. It belongs to Rogelio, another community member, and hes agreed to take us home. We lift my bike into the back and the three of us climb into the cab. Closing the passenger side door is a two man job, and the windshield is fogging up. Rogelio says he has had the truck for about a decade, and Im pretty sure someone else owned it for quite a while before him. I would estimate that the aquamarine monster was born during the Eisenhower administration.
In another life, the monster was probably seen as a safety hazard and sold or donated. Here, its an asset. A prize. A reason for covetousness. The same goes for the girl with the rickety hamburger stand. And the micro. All these things which to me, a year ago, might have brought on apprehension, especially beneath the veil of a winter rain, are now just…life. Not negative, or even positive, but rather just accepted.
I suppose the reason Im writing this is because it became one of those great moments of realization: there are so many different ways to live. This lesson has come at me in the past from books and mouths of others, but tonight I really accepted it, processed it, slathered it in Heinz ketchup and washed it down with lemonade.
Since our adventure, Bartolome, myself, and the rest of the fair’s organizing committee have kept on with our preparations. There is a constant scratching of sandpaper in the houses of the male palo santo artisans, while the women spend the cold nights by the fire weaving. I recently passed a workshop with the female weavers, where I taught them to make string out of recycled plastic bags. This has a two-fold benefit. First, they can now continue to create even when there is no money to buy string. Second, they will burn fewer plastic bags (the only method of trash disposal in Chimeo), thereby decreasing exposure to dioxins and other carcinogens. I am also working with Chimeo’s nurse and doctor to present on diabetes, natal health, and domestic violence during the feria. Diabetes was my idea, while the doc pushed the domestic violence presentation. We are actually doing a SKIT. Were doing our best to give it a somewhat humorous tone, but I am still a bit apprehensive to present on the subject where general concepts of gender roles are a WHOOOOOLE LOT more traditional than my own. After seeing a few too many gals with black eyes, though, Im doing it. If our skit enlightens one man, woman, or kid, it will have been worth it.
This fair will be my main focus during July, and in August Im planning a trip into the Amazon for my birthday. If you were planning on sending flowers, chocolates, or a scarf woven by Tibetan monks, don’t do it. The only birthday gift that Im looking for this year is golden, sticky, and regurgitated by apis mellifera. That’s right: the bee project. Thanks so much to all of you who have donated- we are already 1/3 of the way to our goal. This still leaves a good amount to go, however, so if you were planning on donating, please do so as soon as possible. We really hope to have our financing go through before September as a result of the agricultural calendar here. August and September are the only months for capturing wild hives, so if we don’t have the financing by then, we will have to wait until January. If that happens then the project will still be in medio camino when my service is up in April, so Ill probably have to extend to see through its implementation. Thus, I am holding myself as ransom until our beekeepers have bee suits. So spread the word: support Chimeo’s bee keeps! Also, I am preparing bee-themed tee-shirts as a thank you for those who donate. If you are a contributor and are interested, just let me know and Ill add you to the list. To donate, just go to the following site:
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=511-096
Happy Independence Day,
Jac
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