An Indian among Los Indígenas

by Ursula Pike

  Even though it was Sunday, the post office was open. Kantuta’s mailman intimidated me, but there was no other way to check for mail than to face him. He brought to mind a plus-size Vincent Price and made me wonder what the Spanish word was for stoic. He handed me a package from my auntie containing no letter but six blank books for writing. It was surprising and perfect. I hadn’t confided in her or anyone that I wanted to write about my time in Bolivia, although I had already almost filled the blank journal I had brought with me from the States. My auntie was one of those people with a skill for picking gifts that filled a need I didn’t know I had. There was also a letter from Laura. Her project was going great, but southern Bolivia was hot and humid. On the last page, she asked what happened to me at the end of training. She was confused because I had been opinionated and strong when we met— lecturing everyone about colonialism and Indigenous people. But I had acted insecure and conflicted in the final weeks of training. She told me that this experience was hard and that we needed to support each other. She wasn’t wrong. I lost confidence every day I was in training. On one of the last days in La Paz, I emerged from our shared hotel room wearing the exact same alpaca sweater and black leggings as she. Hung over and sad, I don’t know if I was consciously copying her or on autopilot. It was an extreme example of how I survived by doing what the successful people were doing. I cringed when I thought about it. I loved her for her honesty and hoped that the next time I saw her I wouldn’t be so lost.

  There was a solar eclipse a few weeks later, and, thanks to the Peace Corps, I had one pair of eclipse glasses. Little Tomas grabbed my hand and pulled me into the courtyard where the kids had cut up cardboard boxes to safely watch the moon move in front of the sun. As the sky darkened, the teachers instructed them to look at the shadows and not at the sun itself. Umberto watched me as I handed my glasses to his little brother. The serious look on his face told me he was trying to figure out whether his little brother was safe with me. Tomas beamed and handed the eclipse glasses to Umberto. I understood Umberto’s hesitation because I was more like him— distrustful and reserved. It made Tomas’s exuberance stand out. I was glad that Tomas had Umberto, but I was also glad that Umberto had Tomas.

  7

  La Ch’alla — The Christening

  Renaldo, my regional supervisor, came by for a surprise visit. He was charming and warm, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a neatly pressed shirt that made him the picture-perfect example of a Bolivian engineer. He invited me to attend the christening of several water projects. Two water wells and water catchment ponds were finally ready for use after years of work. The opportunity to go out to the countryside for the day was a welcome relief from trying to figure out how to make myself useful—a daily goal I rarely accomplished. I squeezed in between a volunteer named Greg and an official from the La Paz office. The sky was cloudless, the air was dry, and I knew the day would be warm.

  In the front passenger seat sat Daniel. We hadn’t spoken beyond that moment at my birthday party. I saw him walking through Kantuta in the early evening, dust flying off of his jeans, and imagined that he spent his days in the fields with the farmers discussing techniques for improving yield. I was envious of the experience he was having, or that I imagined he was having.

  Renaldo drove slowly over the cobblestones leading to the main street. It was a strange privilege to be riding in a private vehicle, something I hadn’t done in over a month. Even sitting shoulder to shoulder in a row of seats was a luxury that gave me the opportunity to watch the people. Women and children walked along the sidewalks toward the market carrying empty shopping bags. The heavy doors of the post office were shut as usual, and I hoped there would be letters from home coming soon. A skinny dog sniffed a discarded plastic bag. The fat man who sold coca sat in the doorway of his store behind three-foot-high plastic bags of the green leaves. Daniel waved as we passed, and the coca seller tipped his head in our direction.

  We crossed the dry riverbed, and the car sped up as the road widened. The valley opened up to the right of the road, where green fields were spotted with occasional small red and brown houses. A man leading a trio of donkeys tied together stepped off the road as we approached. We came around a bend, and green hills covered with short leafy shrubs came into view. Dirt paths led up and over the hills. The children from the Center followed those paths back to their families in the countryside on weekends.

  Greg, the other volunteer, tightened his smile as the vehicle bounced over the uneven road. He had been sick for two weeks, and I was surprised he was there. Diarrhea took out more volunteers temporarily or permanently than homesickness or poorly matched volunteer assignments. I had suffered too, but my body adjusted. I understood the pain, though. Being sick in this unfamiliar country was demoralizing. Lying on a lumpy mattress, drinking warm bottled water, and taking ten trips a day to a latrine intensified the discomfort. I wondered whether Greg was thinking about leaving Bolivia.

  “Did Peace Corps pay for these wells?” I asked Renaldo, speaking loudly to make sure he heard me over the engine.

  “The farmers are the ones who built these wells and the reservoirs.” Daniel answered, not turning his head. “The grant, the pump, that was easy compared to the amount of work the community put in.” Each family benefiting from these projects had to commit to over a month of labor to help complete the project. How much work did that take? How many meetings and trips out to their farms to convince them this was worth it? All of it in Spanish, then translated into Quechua, then back into Spanish. This was the first Peace Corps project I had heard of that sounded like real development.

  After twenty minutes, Daniel instructed Renaldo to turn off onto a smaller road that led into the fields. Greg groaned as we slammed into a deep pothole. Cholitas in short skirts walked next to men wearing button-up shirts. The farther we went, the more people were walking. My heart sped up.

  “We’re here!” Daniel yelled as the road ended. Renaldo parked in front of a small mud-and-straw home with a red-tile roof. Daniel was already out of the car. Rows of undulating dirt fields spread out in front of me. Small clusters of trees dotted the landscape between the fields and small adobe homes. The wind blew slightly, stirring up the dust. I was glad I wore brown shoes that day.

  Twenty-five farmers, cholitas, and a few small children walked toward the open field beyond the building. The sky was cloudless, and my head was already starting to heat up. The women next to me spoke to each other in Quechua. The men tucked stiff coca leaves into their cheeks and passed around the small green bag of leaves so everyone had enough. The wind blew off the field into the crowd. I stood on my tiptoes trying to see whether the event was beginning. Dirt was under my feet, in my face, and spreading out before me. I fantasized about escaping to a cool room to sit down with a glass full of ice cubes made from purified water.

  “Buenos días,” a man wearing a hat that was miraculously not dusty said in Spanish into a squeaky bullhorn before beginning his speech in Quechua.

  Another man holding the bullhorn called the event a ch’alla. A christening. I repeated the word under my breath. One last speaker blessed the well by lighting incense, pouring chicha onto the ground, and throwing confetti over the hole. These were offerings for Pachamama even though no one said that word. Pachamama was sort of like Mother Earth, but she needed to be fed. Any time the earth was disturbed, the Bolivians provided an offering. It reminded me of the sage twigs that are burned at the beginning of powwows or in a new house. No one ever explained exactly what the burning sage was meant to achieve, but I knew it was less about celebrating an accomplishment and more about moving forward with humility.

  “Don Daniel,” began one man at the bullhorn. Mr. Daniel. He thanked Daniel for his work. I did not understand every word, but the respect he had for Daniel was obvious. I wanted that.

  Switches were flipped, cranks were turned, and everyone turned to look at the spigot on the other side of the field. Nothing happened. A man pulled off his jacket
and knelt down by the motor. There was banging, and someone yelled, “Ready!” A motor started, and the water gushed out in a huge stream. Everyone clapped.

  The dirt rows darkened with water, and the woman standing next to me stepped aside to let the water flow past her. I sniffed and then, to my complete surprise, started crying. This was just a dumb little water pump project, so why was I emotional? On this day, because of months of work by Daniel and hours of labor by the members of the community, there was a well pumping water in a dry, hot field. The impact of that piece of machinery for these people whom I had spent the morning standing next to wasn’t small. The water would help the farmers produce and sell more crops. It might be part of the reason they’d stay in the community instead of traveling south to grow coca plants. My knowledge about how economies and politics worked had hardened me to the meaning of one single act like this. It was difficult not to be cynical. I knew that a small community of farmers producing a few more bushels would not lift the people of Bolivia out of the poverty that five centuries of colonialism and neocolonialism had put in place. But that day, that moment standing in the field, helped me see that one small thing could have value. Economic development had never been so tangible to me. It was under my fingernails and staining my socks.

  Every single one of those farmers and their children would live a tough, sparse life. But the water was flowing. It was clear that neither Daniel nor the Peace Corps was the savior here, but they had helped make this project a reality. The water was now halfway across the row. Daniel walked toward Greg and me.

  “That was really something,” I said to Daniel, probably a little bit too quickly.

  “Yeah, that was awesome.” Daniel’s enthusiasm was genuine. His smile was more relaxed than it had been in the morning. The farmer next to him was carrying a bucket of chicha with a dry gourd cup floating around on top. I accepted the invitation to drink the yellow liquid, which was a little bitter and tasted the way fresh bread smells.

  “Gracias, Ingeniero,” farmers said to Daniel as they shook his hand. His grin widened as he greeted them. Don Hernan, Don Moises, Don Xavier. I was impressed that he knew their names.

  The crowd dispersed and moved in the direction of the little thatched-roof house. Wood benches lined the walls, and the packed dirt floor was flat and dusty. The mud-and-straw walls were cracked but solid and kept the room cool. A woman handed me a bowl of rice, potatoes, chopped onions, and a single skinny chicken leg on top. I balanced the bowl on my lap and used the big spoon to dig in. I couldn’t tell whether I was hungry—my head was buzzing from standing in the sun for an hour. The creamy potatoes and the rice filled me up quickly. Twelve people crowded inside the room while the rest milled around outside.

  “Are you ready to go to the next one?” Daniel asked Renaldo.

  “There’s another one of these?” Greg seemed deflated. He wanted to get back to town.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be back in town by the afternoon,” Renaldo assured Greg as he revved up the Land Rover. We drove to the site of a small reservoir. Another ch’alla, and they sprinkled more confetti in Daniel’s and Renaldo’s hair. I did not cry this time. Another home, another plate of food. This time it was a soup of quinoa, potatoes, and one grisly gray hunk of meat. I was full and beginning to get sleepy. But I had to eat every bit of food presented. To refuse it would be an insult. At the next stop, I was handed another gourd full of chicha. I was not sure how many more cups I could get down. After the fourth cup, I was beginning to feel the familiar loosening of my joints and tongue.

  “I can’t eat another bite,” I whispered to Daniel.

  “You have to either drink or eat,” he whispered back as a young woman handed him a bowl brimming with rice and potatoes. “Inside, eat; outside, drink.” I stayed outside and tried to hide from the man carrying the bucket of chicha. I pretended to examine the flower on a bush, trying to not make eye contact. But everyone noticed me, and I was invited to a final cup. All of us in the vehicle had sweaty red faces that told me they were as tired, drunk, and sunbaked as I was.

  Daniel hugged me when we stopped in front of his room off the main square. Before disappearing behind a big red door, he told me to come over on Sunday for cocktails. It was such a relief to discover that he wasn’t an asshole. I thanked Renaldo for an amazing day. I didn’t know what I could do in two years that would compare to those projects, but I knew that before too long, I would have to have something to show for myself.

  8

  Ropa Sucia — Dirty Laundry

  My white socks were darker each week, and my hands more ragged from scrubbing. In the cement sink, I mimicked the Bolivian women, rubbing the fabric together quickly and efficiently the way someone who has been washing clothes by hand since she was young could do. But all I had to show for my efforts were raw knuckles. The white socks gave away my inability to properly wash my clothes by hand.

  “How do you get your socks clean?” I asked my friends at the Children’s Center a few mornings later. I spent more time with these women than with any other Bolivians. How could a grown woman not know how to wash her own clothes? All of them were responsible for their own clothes plus every one of their children’s stained shirts, their brother’s greasy pants, and their husband’s muddy socks. Standing by the metal stove, stirring the enormous pot of soup that would be lunch, doña Florencia told me I had to beat the socks on the cement.

  “Like this,” said Ximenita as she took an old towel and slapped it against the counter. It made a loud crack, and everyone in the kitchen laughed. Ximenita turned to me and smiled broadly. She enjoyed teasing me and being the center of attention at the same time. Although she was from the countryside, Ximenita was no shy country girl. In her pollera, form-fitting white blouse, and long black braided hair, she was gorgeous and she knew it. “Hot cholita” was the nickname Daniel had given her.

  “What are you going to do when you get married?” Ximenita asked. “How will you keep your husband’s clothes clean?” I did not know how to say Laundromat in Spanish.

  “Machina de lava,” I said as I mimed feeding coins into a washing machine. They seemed impressed until I explained that it cost one dollar to wash and one to dry. That was a full day’s wages for a day laborer. Ximenita clucked her tongue and shook her head. I thanked them all for the advice. Before I could leave, Ximenita pulled me aside.

  “Did you hear about Emilio?” Ximenita whispered in my ear. I had suspected that Emilio had been Nina’s boyfriend, and although he helped me during my first visit to Kantuta, I hadn’t seen him much since arriving. I hadn’t been aware that he was gone.

  “Who?” I acted like I didn’t remember. Ximenita looked annoyed that I was not interested in her gossip. She stuck her lip out in a pout, and I knew that I would have to ask.

  “No, Ximenita, please tell me where Emilio is,” I said slowly. She stepped in close.

  “Nina is bringing him to the United States to get married,” she said low but loud. Ximenita seemed satisfied with the surprise I couldn’t hide. Emilio and Nina had dated, but I didn’t know they were still together. Now he was flying to the US, and it was big news in this little town. It was also gossipy gold I could tell the other volunteers. When volunteers took Bolivians home to the US, the rest of us prepared our judgments. I didn’t say so out loud, but I wondered if these relationships had more to do with opportunity or desperation than with genuine love. Were the Bolivians using the volunteers to get access to a comfortable life back in the United States? Was the volunteer somehow being taken advantage of? Maybe that judgment was why Nina waited almost six months after her service ended to bring Emilio to the United States.

  “Good for them,” I said. Nina was not my favorite person, but it couldn’t have been an easy decision.

  The following week, Teresa stopped me as I was walking out the front gate.

  “Señorita, I can wash your clothes for you if you’d like.” She seemed to be holding her breath. I wondered if this might crea
te a weird dynamic between us.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Of course, it will be fine. I do laundry for other people all the time.” Her hands flew up in the air as she spoke as though she was pushing aside any complications.

  “How much?” I had been in Bolivia long enough to know that a price had to be agreed on up front. If she charged me more than I anticipated, more than I thought was fair, I would pay the price, but our budding friendship might be jeopardized.

  “Ten bolivianos,” she said. Two dollars. That was a fair price, the same I had paid others to do my laundry.

  “Está bien,” I said, and we stood there awkwardly. I realized that she was waiting for me to bring her my clothes. When I handed her my dirty bag full of unwashed pants, shirts, and underwear, I suddenly felt weird about the situation. Was I taking advantage of her, or was she taking advantage of me? Why were these always my only two options? Teresa was as a single mother; ten Bolivianos would help her support her son. But that wasn’t it. This wasn’t charity. I needed her help, and I was using my resources to get it. Why was this so difficult?