Tis the Season

Boy is Montero, Bolivia getting this Christmas season started-- fake poinsettias, gaudy garlands and all. The balmy condition are a new accoutrement to enliven my Christmas spirit, but I must say the blatant Christmas advertising makes me feel like I am home already.

I have only five more days before I fly home to Minnesota for the holidays on the 15th. I have likened Minnesota to the North Pole for my kids because, well frankly they were so excited think of the only place they knew with snow and cold that I did not have the heart to tell them differently. At the time, I figured that my affirmation of their excitement was more important than the fact that I do not personally know Santa Claus and I do not have pet penguins.

We will have Christmas parties with the kiddies this week and next week also. We have already decorated trees and there will be lots of food, piñatas, x-mas cards...and quite possibly our Comedor´s first annual Christmas play. I was not able to procure a oboe soloist for the pit band, so Amahl and the Night Visitors is out, but we may have an original (and rocky) production of Jesus´ birth.

I have given the kids creative license and so far in our story there are 9 king, Jesus is a girl and Mary is a single mother (I am my mother´s daughter).

Despite meager financial situations in the community where I work, Christmas still seems to have a heavy materialist leaning. For the majority of the families, what the Comedor offers in terms of presents and food will be the most elaborate part of their Christmas celebrations.

For me it is an odd truth that both Bolivian and American Christmas emphasize gift-giving to a degree that seems to create a ritual out of over-analyzing one´s personal and financial situation before mustering up that yule tide cheer. This reminds me that I ought to thank my parents when I get home.

This, That and the Other Thing

Scaly friend makes for abrupt change in lesson plans

Snapshot makes these little rebel rousers look seemingly tranquil

Rice and Beans and Sore Backs


Soccer below the sunny Bolivian sky

Polka Dots and Santa Claus

A New Filler for my Down Time

Thanksgiving in Bolivian style

It will be the first thanksgiving ever that I will not be with my family. For some, missing the family Thanksgiving dinner might not be so heartbreaking.

But, I come from a family that is serious about its turkey. I learned to see the turkey as a beautiful animal and conceder a turkey bollo to be a handsome holiday accessory. Thanksgiving is my family’s day to resurrect the mistreated image of turkeys and behold their moist flavor, nutritious value and oh yes, the heavenly post-turkey tryptophan trance.

So, I feel that I have learned a thing or two about turkey along the way. But it turns out that Bolivia had another thing to teach me about turkeys.

I’m riding to work and my co-worker Dina asks me how American’s prepare turkey for Thanksgiving Day.

Well my answer wouldn’t make my mother proud and I’m a far cry away from hosting my family’s Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, if and when that moment arrives, my family has already decided that Adrienne will be the well-established one who hosts.

So I tell Dina that you dress the turkey, smear it with juices and throw it in the oven.

“No, no, no” She says. “Before you dress the turkey, how do you kill the turkey?”

I really can’t tell you how many times this has happened to me in Bolivia that its assumed that if you EAT the food, you’ve raised, grown, killed/harvested and prepared the food. This seems a reasonable assumption because it is the reality of food production for most Bolivians. It is a luxury to be so far removed from the food production itself. Especially for those of us who like to eat meat, but the idea of touching the uncooked slabs makes us queasy. It’s a luxury and I would say that it is also a detriment to not understand what we eat at its most raw and most natural stage.

So, the story goes on. I tell Dina that most families buy the turkey at a supermarket and she nods, but then says, “Well, if you ever do have the chance to kill a turkey, let me tell you a delicious Bolivian recipe.”

So, to add a little Bolivian flare to your American Thanksgiving dinner, might I include this following suggestion for this Thursday.

Here it is:

Locate gobbling turkey. Gather family and friends. Buy several bottles of wine. Gather your gathered family members into a circle to corral the turkey. Grab hold of the turkey and begin force-feeding wine to the turkey. Give the turkey enough wine to intoxicate the turkey so it stumbles around. Give thanks to the turkey. Kill the poor turkey and cook the turkey that now has a ridiculous blood/alcohol level, so that its skin with retain a moist wine flavor.

¡Buen Provecho!

Tuesday, Tuesday

Today was Maria’s 45th birthday. I assume it’s due to her beautiful Brazilian genes, but you’d never guess that the woman is a day over 30. The three cooks at my comedor scraped together money for a grand feast of meat slabs, the kids from the comedor made decorations and other brought balloons, wine, flowers. The first fresh flowers I’ve seen. Even at the graduation celebration I attended on Sunday only fake flowers were gifted rather than real, fragrant, fresh flowers.

The party was wonderful. It’s so fulfilling to be with these women and dance like there’s not a care in the world. Especially, because I know for some the effort of arranging, paying and putting on the party is a costly labor of love. To share in this is fulfilling. I’ve learned from these strong women to work hard, but when it comes time to celebrate, you throw down. Sometimes I forget that I’m dancing with women from 20-60 years of age, from Switzerland, Bolivia, Brazil, and the US.

It helps that many of us have been taking salsa and merengue lessons together for the past month, so there’s no more reluctance of hip shakin’.

We left at early at nine and walked down the soft sandy streets of the Pampa neighborhood through sounds of crickets, barking dogs and smells reminiscent of burnt molasses and warm trash to catch a bumpy mini van ride over the railroad tracks, past the market- still bustling with people under the yellow street lights- to the plaza center. It has been a good day.

Another beautiful day in 'The Paradise'

I returned to Bolivia mid-week after an all-too-good stay in Ecuador and The Galapagos with my Ma. Already it feels like I never left…appropriately so, because a week in the Galapagos was kinda like all the other fantasies I concoct and think happen, but that my doctor tells me are lies.

Well, there was no Antonio Bandaras to go skipping down white sandy beaches with…

But, there were penguins, sea lions, sharks, sea turtles and fishes to snorkel beside.

I didn’t so much frolic underwater with the sharks and the penguins, which look more like tuxedoed torpedoes because they zip past you in a flash, but the sea lions did love to play with you in the water.

In fact, the first time I figured this out I was snorkeling with the group in one of the first areas that it is common to spot them. I was one of the last to spot one, so I was still, floating and looking all over the place when one came up from behind me and swam along my belly. Well, this is what the others say that saw the whole thing happen. I didn’t see or feel anything so by the time the little buddy showed up 4 inches from my face I was so surprised that I screamed. This became a running joke with another guy on the boat and he thought it was hilarious that of all the animals that would cause me to scream would be a docile sea lion. He even went so far as to alert the scuba dive master before our first dive that, as a doctor, he should inform everyone that I had an involuntary screaming problem aggravated by encounters with marine life…not far off, actually.

Also, it was neat to be with a group of strangers and quickly form relationships over new-found appreciation for the islands’ natural beauty or the day’s events of a bull seal chasing a passenger down the black sand beach, an involuntary screaming problem, etc. Most of the cohesion was thanks to our charismatic naturalist Ivan or I-BAN. Sure to shout, “oh my gosh”, “look at that”, “you are the best” and to wake up the passengers in the morning with imitation seal calls and a soft voice in high register saying, Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to another BEAUtiful day in The Paradise.

Some afterthoughts:

It can’t be easy for any Galapagos National Park naturalists to remain charming for an entire week while looking after twenty bumbling American tourists, but Ivan’s charisma and optimism equipped him with the know-who to handle all the moments when ethnocentrism or cultural insensitivities surfaced.

I think his optimism stands out to me because before this mini-vacation all incidents at my work of abusive behavior, medical problems and management mess felt like they were piling higher and higher into a toppling tower of un-fixables. Needless to say, this had me down in the pessimist dumps. No matter what, I felt really hard to motivate because I was in a close-minded about whether I was really accomplishing anything or was just spinning in circles and offering empty hope to a community that needed more than someone to put on a happy face and carry a positive, well-intentioned personality to work each day.

The best thing about Ivan’s optimism is that it wasn’t founded on ignorance or complacency. As a twenty-eight year old and soon to be father, his optimism has been his defense throughout real-really tough life experiences that as young child without sandals or running water these circumstances didn’t, for him, mean than he didn’t have a bright future. Or that as teenager when he tried make it within the system on minimal musical talent even though it would’ve been easier to rebel against a system that didn’t promote any future besides drugs and stealing for the poor kids. It roused me from my pessimist slumber just thinking how powerful it is that for someone in Ivan’s situation (which is reminiscent for me of children within the Bolivian community that I’m working) who is given little-to-no reason to embody optimism would make it his mission to do so.

Then, by the same standards, who I am with privileged life experiences to harbor pessimism when I approach a seemingly-similar problematic at my job?

Note: Unfortunately, my trip to the Galapagos has inspired no grand theories of species and such...yet. I await my divine moment of inspiration with bated breath.

Tearin' Down the House

A big day at the Comedor as the kids in the morning class stole the show at Father Pani's birthday celebration. Pretty darn sweet having an entire day's activities revolve around you and pretty great to give these kids something to beem about. The kids in the morning arranged and coordinated their outfits themselves. This may not seem like such a big deal, but for one family of five this was an covert opperation which consisted of sneaking their only white clothes out of the house this morning in garbage bags after their mother refused to let them wear their nice clothes to school. At the risk of sounding like THAT MOTHER who self-identifies as obsessive over her children and writes the 4 page long Christmas card letters every year- I'm gonna go ahead and tell you to check out the rest of my pictures from today in my smugmug Photo Album.

Leaning into Discomfort

The theme of embracing discomforts continues to be pertinent for me whether I think about managing a class of 32 youngsters at one time today, learning to dance cumbia with old men at a traditional birthday party in the countryside this past Sunday or riding a moto with a melting cake last Saturday.

This idea sits well with me because I like to think that, even in the smallest way, leaning into one’s discomfort is really expanding one’s comfort zone and brings an openness to unique moments for growth.

This story begins because I wanted to get some big projects done before I leave for my two week trip to Ecuador and decided to work on a Saturday morning.

So… it’s Saturday morning and I arrive at the Comedor to work on a numbering system for the classroom library. I have asked Katie to join me so that we can tackle the project in little time, but obviously for selfish reasons as well i.e. her company and great conversation.

Project “let’s get a library” began this September; first with books ordered online and later with a generous donation from a supermarket (I think). Having three shelves of books is extremely exciting, but also a site for mayhem. Solution: Organize the library. Besides the creation of a numbering system by reading level, my main (and unspoken) priority was to create a filing system which would differentiate the beautifully illustrated storybooks with positive themes of women protagonists and cultural diversity from the supermarket’s donation of books like “Barbie Rocked All Night”.

With Katie’s help I was sure that we would finish the project in time to meet at Dina’s house for our luncheon. I had been pressing Dina for weeks to make time to teach me how to cook Bolivian food and Saturday was my BIG day.

So Katie and I start working and start talking.

A quick note: Katie and I are both the type of person for whom it is dangerous to leave in a room, unattended and both colored construction paper and great conversation because the combination of the two get us so riled up that we lose all track of reality.

And sure enough it happened.

I know what you’re thinking… “Ella, you’re never on time, so I’m really not surprised.” But really -believe it or not I have become quite punctual here in Montero. If you still don’t believe me, then for sure you’ll understand that it is and has always been out of my nature to pass up a commitment involving food and certainly it is rare for me to go for 4 ½ hours without getting uncontrollably hungry. Agreed.

That… and I should have noticed that time was passing more quickly than I thought as Mariano, the red pick-up driver, sat in the classroom watching The Lion King, MVP: Most Valuable Primate (a classic, chimpanzee turned high school hockey star kind of a movie) and started Ice Age.

However, despite various time-keeping methods, Katie and I failed miserably to keep in check.

It wasn’t until 1:00pm when I finally looked at my watch- making Katie and I now an hour late for our luncheon with Dina. And unlike other Bolivians, Dina runs a tight ship and measures the character of others in terms of two things: presentation and punctuality…Ella 0-2.

First Move: Call Dina and apologize, but she doesn’t come to the phone because she is already eating.

Second Move: Scramble to clean-up, run in 90 degree weather only to hitch a ride with a truck to the market and decide above all else that I must remove wrist watch.

Third Move: Arrive at market sweaty and look for a cake in order to play to Dina’s weakness for chivalry and sweets. In a frenzy of swearing, find only cakes with writing and hope to find one that says, “Is it pitiful that this store-bought cake is our plea for your forgiveness?”

So, we’re set right?

Katie and I jumped on a moto. I held the cake and Katie held on to me. It was then I was really leaning into my discomfort and the cake was leaning too. Back and forth it slid on its little cardboard plate, ever so slowly melting in the freakishly warm sun. I couldn’t help but think, “if and when I fall should I salvage myself first… or the cake?”

So, we arrive and were surprised be greeted with a smile of all things.

Dina and her housekeeper, Selma had prepared for our lunch to be served on a beautiful table with a crocheted, white table cloth which sat below the shady canopy of Dina’s tree.

Together we ate broiled eggplant, cauliflower, chicken, salad and had the best of conversations as we jumped from topic to topic, discussing the growth and change of Montero, the politics of Bolivia, poverty, taxes, Bush, hurricane Katrina, School systems and old people that move to Florida.

Lessons learned: Colored construction paper is disorienting, stereotyping another’s behavior is presumptuous, obvious pleas for forgiveness are sort of endearing and being cared for by hospitable hosts feels pretty freakin’ good.

Without internet

Sorry for the delay in blogging.
I am currently without internet in my house and have decided that I would rather not use the internet than use the one i´m currently sitting in. I can´t quite put my finger on why, but i´m thinking that it has something to do with the little boy looking over my shoulder, the bugs crawling on my screen and more so the bugs crawling all over my body that i feel, but can´t find. I think I could put up with the ones on the screen and on my legs, but its the one i keep trying to squish in my bra that´s making the kid at the other computer (the only other) look at me funny...can you blame him, though...really?

A mini update: the kiddies are good and we choreographed a dance that brought a Catholic priest to tears. It brought me to tears as well, but that was because teaching it was painful and i will never attempt such a feat again.
My good friends and fellow University of Puget Sound Loggers, Molly Downey and Charlie Kashiwa visited this past week which gave me the opportunity to see my job and this city with new eyes again. It was unbelievable to give those two travellers a place to stay, share great stories, eat the amazing meals that Charlie/ninja martha stewart prepares and play some guitar.
Also, I´m travelling this Friday to meet up with my mom in Quito, Ecuador for a day before heading to the Galapagos where I hope to see many large turtles and have less bugs crawling all over my skin.

Often Dragons are Princesses in Disguise

Taking my toothbrush out of my suitcase to brush my teeth tonight I am paused thinking about some over-looked insight contained in my surroundings.

My living out of a suitcase is in part due to my need for more storage space than my room provides, but also signals the impermanence of my presence here in Montero, Bolivia.

Since being here, I have been losing sleep over creating literacy programs involving creative participation for these kids that I think will change their outlook, over communicating with aggressive mothers whom I’ve decided need to take more accountability in their children’s lives and over ways to change, develop and improve the current structure of the Project itself.

Over what?

As more and more factors of this community’s racism, family dynamics, health infrastructure, defense mechanisms are revealed, I am paused thinking about the shallow, but well-intentioned plans that I posture day-to-day. What- given my limited experience here, lack of real cultural understanding and over-zealous assumptions of development- am I expecting to do in 5 months?

It is no wonder that I have been struggling to relate to Yimy, the other afternoon coordinator with a quiet, closed-off personality, but also with depths of insight. Until I had convinced Yimy of many things, chiefly- that I valued his input- conversations were one-sided which made all the communication involved with running an after school program more than difficult. Since the first week we have struggled to see eye-to-eye with regards to our roles and the overall purpose of our after school program. I now realize that what I had over-looked until recently is that within this struggle (that I so wanted to just dismiss) lays an enormous opportunity to see my place within this classroom, this project and even the community.

How great to be idealistic and to generate ideas, but how just and reasonable is it to listen closely to the voices of others albeit a slower more labored method.

Yimy’s greatest un-spoken complaint of the Gringas (American girls) that have work and have worked at Etta Projects before is of their impermanency their stay in Montero and to the project itself. This well-intentioned energy brings new ideas and new idealism temporarily to a community which needs sincere and un-ending commitments. My inability to pledge myself to this mission inherently means that I have two hearts, two lives and that my self-less impermanent efforts in the end make me selfish.

Of course knowing that my input is worth a grain of salt at this point does not discourage me and I am feeling like I have raveled a great misunderstanding that I can begin to fix by putting more time into the interpersonal relationships here. Just because it is more challenging to do this in Spanish does not mean that making new effort to understand the women’s customs, values or perspectives is not important, just harder.

Pummeled by the Bolivian Sun

After a week of nearly 100 degree weather, I still seem to be the only one that can’t take the heat. When I complain, people laugh as if to say this is nothing... and then they tell me that “this is nothing” and that it will get hotter still.

I’m working on accepting this new climate through various measures:

First, I think cold thoughts, like happy thoughts except cold ones like Eskimos, frost bitten toes in the mountains, frigid ice baths in the trainer’s office after lacrosse practice, etc.

Also, I plan to buy a third or even fourth fan for my room.

Last, I will learn to love the way that my body responds to this climate by slowing down to conserve energy for basic body functioning thereby removing my peripheral body skills like talking, thinking and reasoning.

It’s a rather funny coincidence that both the sun’s heat and working with this particular population of youngsters leaves me with the same catatonic-like feeling.

Playing the Bolivian Game

This was last weekend, but is too telling of travel in Bolivia to leave out:

Begin in Montero with bags packed for a festival in the cool mountain village of Valley Grande

Ride moto to station and catch a ride with 5 others in a compact car to Santa Cruz

Be asked to pay 300 Bolivianos for a ticket that should cost 35 Bolivianos and set daily record for exaggerated price scam

Proceed to take new taxi to other, honorable bus stop

Arrive at 9:04; four minutes late for the last bus to Valley Grande and witness new record: The first bus to ever depart on schedule in Bolivia

Re-group and settle for traveling to see a smaller festival in the hot and humid mountain village of Buena Vista without a pair of shorts

Catch ride to new bus station with a careless driver who nearly hits 3 pedestrians, 2 cars and 1 bicycle…at the same time and all the while multi-tasks by combining his day job with some family time (wife and child are in the front seat of the van AND by doing some personal family shopping along the way; herbs, toilet paper, fruit and a beer

Once in fully-loaded car for Buena Vista return to Montero, pass through Buena Vista and arrive in the town of Yapacani after heated discussion involving arm flapping

Rejoice over poor communication by having fried chicken for lunch in Yapacani; a Bolivian staple that you ate yesterday and the day before

Look up Yapacani in Guide Book, realize that there is no reference to any such place and quickly discover why

Refuse to play the Bolivian Game any longer and demand that 5 Bolivianos is all you will pay to travel to Buena Vista

Discover dream ride; a brick red 1980’s Toyota van with 15^th other people, but four wheels to bring you safely to Buena Vista

After my housemate Jaclyn and I arrived in Buena Vista everything was smooth sailing…or it could be that so many miss-managed situations allowed us to realize that Bolivia had a greater plan in mind for us that day and that flexibility or forced laughing would be essential to having a good time?

We stayed in little cabins, took a long walk to a river around sunset, had a great dinner and woke up the next day to have a traditional meal prepared by a local family and be two of four foreigners in the town to celebrate the tradition of the town with around 100 others.

The day was complete with processions, music and good food. It also exceeded my expectations to be asked to dance in front of my 100 new friends and be gifted a hand-woven palm leaf pouch by a man with a mullet and tapered jeans.

The cat's got your tongue?

As things keep happening, it is all beginning to seem more normal. Here’s my yesterday:

Breakfast at 7:30 is a peanut butter and banana sandwich which I eat on our patio and the morning heat is already making me pit out my shirt- It will be a good day; freakishly hot and uncomfortable, but good.

The truck is in use to bring my housemate, Tiffany to the airport because she is leaving today after two years of working with Etta Projects. Her end is my just beginning.

I settle for a moto ride to the Centro through busy, law-less traffic and active market streets. We touch the bumpers of a few cars and I lean forward to tell the moto driver that I like the life I have and frankly, I’d like to keep it today. He laughs and I think that means we have reached an understanding.

I am in it-exposed to the elements and the smells. Not necessarily good smells, but smells of garbage cluttering the street, dry dirt and exhaust. As we pass other motos within an arms length of me, I realize that young drivers have faster reaction time. No women drive, they are chauffeured and I appear to be the only one with my legs on opposite sides. Somehow the other women carry two kids and a large bag of food on the back and can still manage to ride side saddle. Oddly, they also don’t look mildly terrified zooming through traffic like me.

I love to see the market in the morning with sacks heeping-full of colorful fruit, grains, vegetables prepared for selling. There are some old man juice vendors looking to sell their fresh squeezed carrot juice or orange juice and they push their carts through horn-honking, wild traffic. When we get out of the town center and market the roads become sand and my sweaty hand holds a little tighter as we bump over the unevenness of these byways, over the railroad tracks, past a school where little kids try to scale the fence and houses with long lines of laundry hanging to dry. I think I mention the laundry because it the clothing brings some color to this otherwise monochrome seen of sand and browns.

I enter the Comedor and say good morning to the women washing the tile floors, to the cooks, to the groundskeeper and walk to my classroom at the end of the row.

I enter and the students are already inside, they chime in unison to wish me good morning, tia Ella and the sound reverberates off the concrete floor. The morning group is full of smiles and we form a circle to being talking about our first and new theme for the week; Values. Flor and I lead a conversation about values and next put in place our new, Golden Rules of the classroom. From their little wooden chairs the kids are eager to raise their hands, but often times do not have an answer in mind. Hey, participation- I’ll take that. We do homework next, have a snack and end the day paint a picture of the values we learned at the beginning of class. The kids are eager to grab for their favorite color construction paper and get their paintbrush first, but once painting the kids were like angels sitting their quietly painting pictures of responsibility, respect, and love.

Flash-forward to the afternoon and ever-patient Ella becomes No longer optimistic Ella with mild heat stroke.

Since I arrived, the afternoon attendance has been sparse at best, but to my surprise more than THIRTY showed up for the afternoon class. Over thirty students of who some ten year olds and carry baby siblings to class, 3 year olds that come to be near the commotion, 12 year-olds that can’t read, 8 year-olds that read well and then there’s my dear friend/bolivian bandit ringleader Carlos and his merry little band that like to stick sharp things in their ears. I repress my visions of beginning a theme for the week and of trust circles and put any rememberence of my angelic morning students out of my head as I try to embrace my new role as a manager of 30 little Bolivian delinquents. I managed to release my tension periodically in the class by freaking out in English with an overly happy face and sweet tone of voice. It was effective, but perhaps made me flirt with the borders of insanity.

The chaos climaxed when the second punching match of the day occurred. And then I unleashed my rage.

Calling out for silence, I demanded that everyone listen and realize that there was to be no fighting in the classroom and that it was unacceptable behavior that it had gone on for to long, that this was to be the end of misbehaving and that above all else we must learn to treat others with respect— and then I stopped…and thought…wait am I giving a lecture in Spanish write now? Do I even speak Spanish?…oh God everyone is silent and starring at me....what do I say? Spanish failing…Can’t find a verb, aaahhh!!!! And that’s when the cat got my tongue.

Overall, I think the impromptu speech started off well and it had the right tone and body language to be effective. Articulate? No, but that’s not my style. Really, one loses the fervor and passion of primate or cave-man-like grunting if one speaks in real sentences all the time.

Around playtime I left with my morning partner-in-crime, Flor to visit with teachers about 8 students from our morning class. In my head I imagined the visits to go a little something like this: We would walk to the principals office and ask permission to converse with the teachers, we would sign a guest book and walk to find the teacher at which point the teacher would excuse him or herself from the classroom and we’d sit in chairs while over coffee and a cookie we’d talk about the areas of improvement for our students. Here was the real picture. At an outside school during what looked like recess for all grades we were followed by swarms of little kids who led us to the director. She shook our hand and pointed at the only building containing all the classrooms. As we asked to see the teacher the student we were talking about was pulled into the middle of the swarm as we discussed the child in front of all who wished to hear. Then, the swarm of children would lead us to the next classroom and would yell for the students’ name together. Not so private, but I guess it was effective.

After our walk back to the Centro Flor and I joined in on a group of younger students playing a game on the soccer field similar to Red Rover, but involving an angry mother hen and a lot of eggs. As the sun was setting, I waited for the others to finish-up their work and had a tumbling match with the driver of the red truck, Mariano and three little girls. It was all going well, until Mariano attempted a back flip and threw-out his back. He explained that at 40 he weighs more than he used to and for that reason couldn’t complete the dismount. I laughed even harder knowing that all the women have been teasing me that Mariano has a crush on me because I look like Barbie Doll (which is hilarious) and for that reason is more punctual since I’ve arrived in Montero to pick me up in mornings because he is eager to impress me. Nothing like a sweet back flip to make me weak in the knees.

After work, Mariano all of us home, I prepare large meal for myself and drank a glass of wine before passing out in my bed from a long and involved day.

One Week

Alright. I believe that I have figured out the functioning of Etta Projects enough to paint for you a picture of what this thing is that I am doing down here. This will be exciting if it comes out at all clearly because it hasn’t quite been a week yet.

Etta Projects is the name of the organization which encompasses many distinct programs, such as the children’s program of which I am in charge. In Montero are two centers of operation; Etta I & Etta II. By and large these centers offer the same programs: a comedor or dining hall to serve nearly 100 children one, well-balanced mid-day meal (today it was liver, a treat), a before and after school program and workshops covering pertinent nutrition and business skills for the community’s mothers.

I work at the second center and newer center which services a population in a rural and impoverished area of Montero called La Pampa. The challenges specific to my center relate to the less-developed structure of programs as well as the poorer, less literate population of women and children which occupies La Pampa. Until the last year or two, the Comedor that is now operated by Etta Projects was under the control of Padre something or another and his Parish as charity. As one might guess, the long-term functionality and sustainability of this Catholic charitable meals project was limited given the community’s total lack of disposable funding.

I explain this because I perceive it to be significant in the history of this organization because of a pattern of dependency without accountability or commitment that formed. Etta Projects now struggles to overcome the scars from the previous system in terms of engaging the mothers as active players in the well-being/nutrition of their children--For example, how to hold mothers accountable, how to engage interest and explain the long-term benefits of the children’s nutrition and the mothers’ continued learning. While Etta projects feels as though its created unique, accessible and beneficial opportunities for this community through its program for nutrition and soy in their protein-deficient diets, tutoring and application of learning for their kids and practical skills for making products to sell- few women lack the personal incentive to seize these opportunities perhaps because, on a day by day lifestyle, the mothers are not geared to think in terms of long-term benefit.

Because the organization is small, it is great to get a read on the procedures and outcomes of the administration’s actions and to learn more about the trials and pitfalls of larger concepts of international development and poverty reduction. But all this just makes up the background and is only one layer of the difficulties it faces.

And so, for me day to day it is a little different. I face quite challenging decisions daily about which book to read aloud to the kids, do I show the pages while I read or after and is a side-hug or a high five is a better method for validating a 10 year old. Yes, today we did self-portraits with construction paper and talked about our interests-a common group interest was ice cream. It’s pretty comical and refreshing to see that they are just normal kids that want fight over chairs, pencils, whose turn it is. It’s also hilarious that when I try to discipline I give a stern face and nearly go cross-eyed while I search for the correct verb and conjugation and by that point they stare blankly at me and then we’ve usually forgotten what it was we all were upset about. Maybe that’s what it will feel like to be 90, too. The funniest part is that the kids are always intrigued by the tall white girl that leads their classes and I just have to smile a lot while they stare. I find myself leaving rooms with a swarm of 8 little girls where ever I go. This becomes a fun game when I just walk in circles, but less fun when I want to use the bathroom. It feels great to be in a role that feels rewarding and pretty natural (I’m not referring to speaking Spanish, which on the whole still feels awkward) but rather to able to be with the kids all day and just slather them with love and support. Can you say that, slather…as if love and support are butter?

First Blog, First Impressions

News from Bolivia: So far, so very good

After the first day in Montero, which if measured in terms of internal chaos and intensity, felt like 10 days things have certainly settled down enough for me to settle in nicely. Yes, first days become funny on the second day after there has been sufficient sleep and food which allow me to feel somehow stable when nearing potential moments of involuntary, emotional melt-down. There is something special about how sharply sensitive one’s senses are to a first day. But of course, life is full of trade offs and for me my razor-sharp intensity is unfortunately coupled with mild, but prolonged hyperventilation.

Day two: I took a stroll by myself to Montero’s central plaza and next to the market. Although
this may seem like routine deal, at the time I was quite proud of myself to have navigated all the way by my lonesome, purchase vegetables and return home safely and 4 green peppers richer.

That afternoon I rode in Etta Project’s trusty pick-up to the Apoyo Escolar (where I work) and had my first real class with the older kids. I was a bit nervous for the afternoon class because all I’ve heard from others is that they are wild, averse to learning and dictate the class schedule. In actuality, this is only partly true. I did have to jive with the chaos a bit, but I was pleasantly surprised to find their willingness to help me learn names, their curiosity of me and interest in answering my questions about their interests and things. Friday is said to be clean-up day—here’s how it works. The boys conveniently leave the room at nearly the exact moment as the girls begin putting a lot of water and soap on the counters. After the counter is cleaned the girls walk with their bare, dirty feet on top of the counters to clean the windows with a lot of soap and water. I chose not to participate in the cleaning for fear that my method would not be as effective. Instead I looked through the recently arrived books and was enthused to find Harry Potter translations.

After the kids finished “cleaning” I told them about Harry Potter in an effort to spark interest in him and the other books in the brand new library/book shelf. To my surprise the kids ate it up. Harry Potter wasn’t exactly the big ticket item because it didn’t have pictures and the majority of the kids, on account of their mother’s illiteracy, the public school system and their malnourishment are not able to digest novels yet. Even still the kids crowded around Victor and I as we alternated reading a book about the 5 senses and I tried to really make the book come to life for them. It was like dominoes as the kids asked my permission and each grabbed a book and sat down to read it aloud. It was pretty great to hear nine different stories being read aloud at once and have the kids summon me to their table in order to see their book’s pictures or to ask me to read aloud. It was for sure a moment. I plan to close my eyes and return to this moment or my teaching “happy place” when I’ll surely want to strangle the kids after difficult days in the weeks to come. To wrap up the school day we played soccer. This provided me with a great opportunity to stretch my legs and show off my mad soccer skills. Mostly, I liked cheering melodramatically after scored goals and encouraging high-fives.

Then it was back into the back of the pick-up truck with the cooks who yelled things to me over the sound of the truck and the wind whipping through the burnt-garbage smelling air. Even though they raised their voices, I could still hardly understand them. Luckily, my misunderstandings are still endearing at this point.

Once at my home, my housemate, Christina invited me to Santa Cruz for the weekend to meet her Peruvian friends, Alex and Josef. It was a toss up between choosing a night alone in my room or a night in the big city with new friends, but I went anyway. Santa Cruz is the most important city to Bolivia’s economy, but affords little cultural richness. Since Evo Morales has started calling the shots, Bolivia’s new political landscape has changed giving the wealthy department of Santa Cruz much to gripe about as its generated income is sent to La Paz, equally distributed to the remaining departments and returns only 20% to the said powerhouse of the nation’s economy.

It was quite a contrast to drive from the impoverished area of Montero into Bolivia’s most affluent, but lesser culturally rich city.

I felt almost guilty that I was able to escape away. Guilty or not, it was relaxing to see a movie and stroll with new friends around the main plaza of the beautiful city…and also to discover that my social life might amount to more than reading before bedtime.

My guilty complex formed from either having the option to leave town or because there was a little, caged monkey in the car seat beside me. Yep, the monkey belongs to my housemate Christina; its cared for by so and so’s mother-in-law and was purchased by my new Peruvian friend Alex-most likely on the black monkey market.

The monkey gave new excitement to our weekend plans when it created a spectacle in the plaza Saturday morning as it broke its leash and frolicked about in the top of a tall tree. The little kids loved it and the security guards didn’t know what to make of it besides the fact that we would be forced to leave the plaza with our circus pet.

Later that day, we rode horses along the river and returned to Montero in time for a grand birthday celebration in honor of my housemate’s friend Fabi.