23?

My birthday was a riot. At the Comedor the 80 or so kids sang me a birthday song that was heart warming and made me teary eyed. It will not be easy to leave soon. I blew out my candles and my face was shoved in the chocolate sheet cake by my loving co-workers.

The evening plans were to meet in the Plaza and head to a Karaoke bar that my friend Jorge promised would be a success and he promised to sing.

A stupid grin crossed my face as we pulled up to “Celos” (Jealousy), a throw-back to Las Vegas love lounges complete with little neon hearts above the bar, a cheesy awning above janky French doors and precariously hung dusty, navy curtains. The bar was old west style; we ordered the only kind of beer available and sat uncomfortably in our cute, but dirty love seats sans cushions. I couldn’t have dreamed up a more comical decor and ambiance and of course I loved every minute of it.

The first man that sang made my face convulse uncontrollably, probably survival instincts working to close passages leading to my ear drums. Painful and funny and I knew at that moments we had chosen the right place.

Later, a big woman in pink sitting at a table with her friends was holding the wireless microphone and “bringing down the house” with her sultry boleros. After her song ended I yelled “bravo” and was surprised to that the clientele was not as roused and applauded the same for Bolivian Aretha Franklin as they did for one drunken, tone-deaf Casanova.

Jorge chose to sing a traditional Bolivian song. I will try to explain why this made me pee my pants. Santa Cruz, the wealthiest department of Bolivia and its people, “Cruceños” or “Camba” have fervent regionalist pride, a desire regional autonomy and walk a thin line bordering on racism towards the country’s indigenous majority (located predominately within Bolivia’s mountainous, Altiplano region). While traditional music from Santa Cruz uses brass instruments, the traditional indigenous music uses strings and high-pitched flutes. Jorge is a poster child for Santa Cruz’s youth. He is outgoing, a prankster, high social standing, comes from money, has a car, and campaigns for Santa Cruz autonomy.
I don’t wish to say that Jorge’s choice to sing a traditional song was mean-spirited and insulting, in fact, all Bolivians know traditional Bolivian music and it is obvious national pride is important. However, his choice to sing the traditional song was half clever and half pompous prank. It was pushing the envelope of politically correct, but this is more of a Western concept anyway.
So, when traditional wind instruments started playing over the speakers, the room turned to find the person with the mic and could not help but laugh to see Jorge with a fat grin on his face singing away, high-pitched whooping and all.

Because it was my birthday it was my duty to sing for the team. I chose Stevie Wonder’s “I just called to say I love you” –certain to be a success. Boy would it have been great if I had not lost my voice playing BINGO with the kids that day. I opened my mouth to sing and not even a squeak came out. The microphone was quickly passed to my understudy: a slick Bolivian chain-smoker (think nasty and you’ll only be half way there). He took over my gig and in 4 brief, scarring minutes ruined my favorite song forever. I did not know whether to laugh or cry on account of being embarrassed and because his English accent sounded like mix between crooner Frank Sinatra and a deaf catfish. Not only that but somehow the singer was looking at me like it was sung to me, both in my place and in my honor.