by Ursula Pike
“You probably should watch how much you’re drinking,” he said. I turned my head because I couldn’t believe that Mr. Cocktails before Noon was telling me not to drink so much. “Your people, you know, sometimes have problems with drinking.”
“What?” I said as calmly as I could. Was he calling me a drunk Indian?
“I’m not saying you do, but I worry about you sometimes.”
I shook my head but said nothing. He liked to do this—act as though he knew things I didn’t, and it always annoyed me. I was angry but not surprised. This was the risk I took whenever I let people know I was Native. It reminded me of how even my friends saw me. They might love knowing a real Native, but when they saw me with a drink in my hand, they remembered the stereotype. I might have had a problem with drinking, but it wasn’t because I was Native.
He was silent after that, and I shifted away. In Cochabamba the next morning, we said our good-byes standing on the wide, flat sidewalk in the shadow of a church spire. He kissed me on the cheek, and I knew I would cry if I said anything. I wondered what Kantuta would be like without him.
Soon after, I moved into a smaller apartment in the same house. There was a tiny room, painted bright pink, with a separate door that opened to a side street. I was tired of having to sneak around my own house, listening for a knock in the middle of the night. I used to live on the second floor in a big room with large windows; now I was in a small room with one window that faced inside to the courtyard. I was choosing privacy over a view of the world.
Lying in my bed one morning, I realized that my period was late. I didn’t want to be pregnant, but I hadn’t been acting like it. The small bag of multicolored condoms I gathered from the medical office sat mostly undisturbed in the corner of my mosquito net. The medical officer gave every volunteer bags of free condoms and made us promise to use them. With Fernando, it was a battle that I waged each time we were together. Sometimes I won; sometimes I didn’t.
Safe sex had been an obsession in college. I was determined not to get pregnant. The child of a young single mother, I saw the judgments made of my mother, and I was not going to follow in her footsteps. Finishing high school and enrolling in college was my path out. No high school boyfriends, no make-out sessions in the backseat of my Corolla, and no fumbling with button flies on the couch after everyone at the party was asleep. When I finally had a boyfriend, I made him wear three condoms at once. Well, not really, but I would have if that was what the situation required. During my sophomore year of college, my best friend’s partner tested positive for HIV, which scared me.
So why didn’t I force Fernando to wear a condom every time? I knew better. But I was tired of being so damn good. Tired of ignoring what I wanted to do and always following the rules in order to survive. Tired of trying to make the absolute smartest choice about everything. I went to college while the other twenty-somethings in my family were in and out of jail and my sister lived on the street. From the outside, it looked as though I knew how to make smart choices. But I was struggling, and I didn’t trust myself. My choices were based on what I thought would look good and smart to other people. I excelled at ignoring my impulses. Denying myself the things I craved was part of my survival plan. Until now.
Unprotected sex with a married man was stupid times stupid. I knew that. But sometimes stupid felt like rebellion. Rebellion against the narrow path that I was expected to follow. What better place to loosen the reins I had pulled tight my whole life than here where I experienced power and privilege that I didn’t have in the United States? My behavior seemed to be without consequences. I wondered if I could even get pregnant.
“Oh, our babies will be so beautiful,” he whispered in my ear some nights, and I allowed myself to be seduced. He promised everything forever, and it sounded good. Never had a man promised me anything beyond a semester. Although life with Fernando might come with problems, I thought it would be better than a life alone, a future that seemed likely on dark days. He kept asking about returning with me to the States. I stopped trying to convince him that he would hate the US. I didn’t even know where I would find a job after I returned home, and the thought of supporting someone who didn’t speak English or know the culture seemed beyond me.
The Children’s Center became a refuge for me. One afternoon, little Tomas brought me a deck of cards. We decided to play Concentration, the game of matching and memory. He helped me lay all the cards face down in neat rows on a table. Tomas didn’t say much during the first few rounds. This wasn’t unusual—he was a quiet kid. I didn’t know whether he had played the game before or understood how to play it. But by the fourth game, he was making more matches than I was, and I could tell he had it. He won the next game. Other children joined us, and as each one came up, Tomas explained the rules. Soon there were four kids at our table. Tomas laughed, and I noticed him mumbling to himself while he decided which cards to pick up. Never had I seen him so open and comfortable. When I saw Tomas thriving, I felt better about being at the Center. Despite the complex morality of a Third World children’s home supported by wealthy Westerners and the Center’s limited resources, kids like Tomas and Umberto were surviving, in part, because of the Center.
The days at the Center now had a predictable rhythm. I would help in the kitchen in the morning if they needed it, and as long as they weren’t serving tripa, I always ate lunch with the children. When I sat with the little kids, such as Tomas and Umberto, I asked them about their favorite type of food (manzanas) or what words they knew in English (hamburger). With Celia and the other teenage girls, we talked about boys and family. The teenage boys I met in the charango workshop asked me about the United States. In the afternoon, I helped with their English homework. Their textbooks were falling apart, and they were being taught a version of English spoken by no one I knew. English pronunciation was difficult for them with all of the strange rules. A boy asked me how to say “Sioux City, Iowa,” and it took me a moment to remember. I rarely thought about the bigger picture anymore, about economic development and how the world should be remade. I was content to simply live my life.
I made the mistake of telling Simon at the Children’s Center about the new court Daniel had helped get built. He asked me if I could find funds to pay for a court at the Center. This wasn’t the first time I had heard this request, but it upset me. Every week, it seemed, someone was asking me to help pay for a project. A woman down the street approached me all the time about her plan to build a school for blind children and asked if I could help fund it. I changed the route I took to work to avoid her. Never did anyone ask me to help plan these projects. I thought about all the times I whipped out the equivalent of $100 and paid for flour for a project without giving it a second thought. Did that make them think I had an endless supply of money? I hated to tell them, but I had no idea where to get money for their projects. There were small grants from Peace Corps, but I wasn’t sure how to apply for them. Daniel’s parents helped him raise money through their church back in California. This wasn’t an option for me.
Simon informed everyone during breakfast that we would be walking in the Independence Day parade through the center of Kantuta. August 6 was Independence Day across Bolivia, and to celebrate almost two hundred years as an independent country, Kantuta would have a parade. Simon held up a picture of what the children were expected to wear, ironed slacks and a clean collared shirt for the boys, a skirt and blouse for the girls. If they didn’t have these items, they could come and watch, but wouldn’t be marching.
“You, too, señorita,” the director said as he walked past me. “Skirt, skirt, remember to wear a skirt.” He wasn’t letting me decide what might look nice. I was surprised that he invited me to march with all the teachers and students. Maybe he finally saw me as a legitimate part of the Children’s Center. I owned only one skirt, but it was too long and flowy to wear in a parade. In the clothing store near the house I rented, I found a thin polyester blouse, black skirt, and flats. I wasn’t sur
e they would last more than a few months, but by then I would be gone. It was the first time I had bought clothes outside of the overpriced alpaca sweaters every non-Bolivian buys while in La Paz.
On the bright, clear morning of August 6, I walked into the Children’s Center wearing my new outfit. I was nervous because I appeared to be trying to look Bolivian but not quite getting it right. Ximenita walked around me, inspecting my skirt, shoes, and blouse. She clucked her tongue approvingly and raised her eyebrows up and down Groucho Marx style. We laughed. Ximenita’s teasing always put me at ease.
“Listo?” the director asked. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to march.” Twenty kids in clean button-up shirts or blouses, pants or skirts, and shined shoes came out of the cafeteria and followed the director to the main square a few blocks away. Tomas waved from the side of the road where he and Umberto stood in white school smocks and sandals. They looked relieved not to be marching. The Center’s flags were unfurled, and we waited on a side street until it was our turn. It wasn’t until we were given our go-ahead that I realized the whole town was there. The main plaza was lined with families and children watching each group march. None of the marchers were smiling and waving, only looking straight ahead expressionless like soldiers. Teresa, Ximenita, Florencia, and all the kids were serious. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling: I was loving it. I was a part of Kantuta, in a way that no tourist would be.
The plaza was small, and in a few minutes, we were marching past the mayor sitting on a stage near the courthouse. Once we were off the main plaza, the group dispersed and started laughing. I was the only person with a camera, and everyone asked me to take pictures of them. No one smiled when I took their pictures. I had long ago learned that Bolivians over the age of five rarely smiled in pictures. In my pictures, I am smiling broadly, my arms around the kids. I tucked my camera under my arm. I would have to get the film developed quickly if I was going to give them their pictures before leaving Kantuta. I hoped Fernando had seen me. I hoped the whole town had seen La Ursula marching with El Centro Infantil.
A group of new volunteers descended on Kantuta, all ten freshly arrived from the United States, at the start of their Peace Corps adventure. Luckily, I didn’t have to entertain them, because I had important things to do, such as wait for Fernando to come over, write in my journal about how much I missed Fernando, and rejoice that I wasn’t pregnant. I had dodged the baby bullet and decided it was time to find out whether my medical coverage included birth control pills.
The volunteers were from the group that replaced Daniel, and they spent the day with his engineer friends. I went to buy a pack of cigarettes at the pharmacy down the street and saw a tall white guy with a beard and sandals. He must be one of them.
“You Peace Corps?” I asked. He took a step back and seemed surprised I was speaking English.
“Yeah, are you that other volunteer here?” That other volunteer. Even though Daniel had left Kantuta, I was still the other volunteer. He invited me to the restaurant where everyone was gathering for dinner. I couldn’t say no.
“What’s it like to be here?” a woman asked.
“You must have tons of great stories.” Someone poured me a beer. I didn’t normally enjoy playing the experienced volunteer role because I felt that I had to impress them. I couldn’t talk about the things I was struggling with. Happy-go-lucky volunteer was the example they wanted. Daniel had been great at that, and I wished he were there right then.
“Well, there’s this bakery project I started, which was cool. Although it kind of faded out after a while.” None of them looked impressed.
“I can’t wait to be at my site. These people, these Bolivians, are so beautiful, and I can’t wait to help them.” She was the kind of natural sandy-haired woman I knew well from years of working with peace-and-justice nonprofits in the United States. Honestly, we probably would have been good friends had we met before this. But in that moment, she was a clueless infant and I was a hundred years old. I had wandered so far off the path I had intended to follow that I could barely remember what I had imagined the volunteer experience would be. What I wanted to tell them was that Kantuta had become as exotic as Cleveland to me. I was living a normal boring life, trying to keep my socks clean, keep food on my kitchen shelves, and contribute something at my job.
Mercifully, they decided soon after that to walk over to a chicharia that the engineers had said was the best in town. It was good chicha, sweeter than it was sour, and we sat around a large wood table. We played cacho, and for once, I didn’t lose. All those nights playing with and losing to Daniel had taught me how to play, how to bluff, and how to take a risk when I had nothing to lose. That old urge to play the tough, hard-drinking chick and the very real nervousness I felt around these fresh-faced volunteers were all the excuse I needed to drink more. I kept thinking I needed to leave and wait for Fernando, but my apartment was only a few blocks away, and it was still early.
“Hola, Ur,” I felt on my neck more than I heard. It was Fernando. I looked around nervously. None of the people at the table knew or cared who he was. He sat down in the seat next to me, and I introduced him to the volunteers. The sandy-haired woman nodded approvingly in my direction, and I had to admit I was pleased. I passed around my cheap Bolivian cigarettes and we threw dice, then suddenly, Fernando was holding a guitar.
“Con dinero, sin dinero…” He began the first lines of a popular song even I knew because it played on the radio so frequently. The volunteers were drunk enough to think they knew it and sang along. I looked at my boyfriend strumming the guitar and the crowd cheering him on, and couldn’t believe this was happening. He kissed me on the cheek as he finished the song. I blushed, but was enjoying the attention.
Then I had one drink too many and decided I was mad at Fernando. I asked him why he didn’t come to see me more often and why I always had to wait for him. He laughed, but I continued pressing him, getting louder each time.
“Cállate,” he whispered. He was telling me to shut up. Oh, now I was really mad.
“Take me home,” I said in my best calm but angry voice. I was embarrassed that he’d tried to control me in front of the other volunteers. The sandy-haired woman would not meet my eyes.
I couldn’t figure out how to put the keys into my door lock, so he opened it for me. I thought he would follow me into my mosquito net, but he left. The next morning, I cringed at my drunken behavior. I would never see any of those people again, but I hated that their last memory of me would be of a messy, drunk woman being told to shut up by her Bolivian boyfriend. I pulled the covers back over my head and wondered what I was doing with my life.
18
Bailando — Dancing
“Esta noche! Un gran fiesta con los mariachis de La Paz,” blasted the loudspeaker on top of a dented sedan circling the streets. There was going to be a dance at the old market that evening. I had lived in Kantuta long enough to realize what a big deal a dance with a live band was. The man’s voice jiggled as the car bounced over the cobblestone streets. The sound grew louder as they neared my house, then disappeared. It was a Thursday, and I had taken the day off to finish paperwork. The end of my service was as bureaucratic as the application process had been. The difficulty of summarizing what I had done for the last two years into a three-page document was that I ran out of things to say halfway down the first page. I could name few accomplishments that a Peace Corps official would consider valuable.
Started a bakery project with the girls—which ended when school was over for the year and everyone went home.
Made a charango—which sat on my table, gathering dust.
Tutored the kids with English homework—but because they were learning British English from a twenty-year-old textbook, half the time I did not know what their homework said.
Managed the development of a popsicle business—and by manage, I mean filled plastic bags with sugary purple liquid and stuck them into a freezer.
I described it
all in a way that would impress a hiring manager in the United States, but it was tough. Of the projects I had worked on, the bakery project was the only one that felt like an accomplishment. It had allowed me to connect with Teresa and the girls at the Center. Yet when I heard about the large and small accomplishments of the other volunteers, my little bakery and popsicle business successes seemed minuscule.
Most difficult of all was how to put into words my disillusionment with the central conceit—the central assumption—behind many of the projects: develop projects that replicated businesses and organizations in the United States because that was the model to follow. Not every project made that assumption, and what Jodi had done at the girl’s home and Daniel had done with the farmers seemed indisputably worthwhile. But too many projects were based less on what the Bolivians needed and more on what a volunteer could envision and pull off in two years. A volunteer once told me that his great idea was to create a store only open to members who paid a fee in exchange for lower prices.
“Sam’s Club,” he whispered in my ear. I laughed, but I wondered whether a discount warehouse was really what Bolivia needed to survive in the global economy. Given that most of us were fresh out of college with little knowledge or experience other than having grown up in the United States, what else did we have to offer?
The cholita who worked for my neighbor turned on the water in the courtyard, and it reminded me to get back to my paperwork. Why was I wasting my time thinking about this? Who was I to think this? I was a girl who grew up eating free school lunches and graduated from a state university no one had ever heard of. What did I know about economic development? I was lucky to have been invited and, if that recruiter was to be believed, only given the chance because Peace Corps needed more minorities.