Today’s the last day of Carnaval. Thank Pachamama. If Carnaval lasted much longer than this, I have a feeling people would soon be throwing rocks in place of water balloons. I’ve given up on wearing my rain jacket and hood – it’s too hot out there. I've tried a new technique of retaliation. My friends and I have stocked up on cans of espuma and keep ourselves armed. This warfare has turned dangerous (already a few Cochabambino eyes lost). Gangs have graduated from the plazas and now prowl the city in the backs of trucks, not lobbing, but heaving balloons at anyone they see. If only baseball was a sport here...
So I’m starting to realize what Ismael meant when he said everything here contains the best and the worst of Bolivia all at once. The markets smell like decaying meat and fresh flowers. You’ll get jumped in a gated community and offered lemonade in a slum. And there’s little boundary between rich and poor – all go to the same market, drink the same beer, eat the same foods (though some eat more meat than most can afford), ride the same trufis and busses – and it seems that all live in the same neighborhoods. It’s not uncommon to see a concrete apartment building, gutted and crumbling (but still intact enough to house a family) beside a beautiful three-story, one-family house. The house I see from my bedroom window looks like a miniature monastery - yellow stucco with a tiled roof and a citrus garden surrounding the patio. The apartment building beyond it is six stories and crumbling.
But the fact that bankers and beggars walk the same streets doesn’t shrink the economic disparity. The gap is just more visible. The rich know how the poor live, and the poor know the same about the rich. The poorest of Cochabamba generally come from el campo, the Andean foothills that surround the city. Most who move to the city are Aymaran or Quechuan women; they set up their carts on the street corners, selling brazil nuts, puffed rice and roasted lima beans (usually to gringos like us who are in constant search of something that’s not meat or potatoes).
Other camposinas come to work as empleadas for the middle and upperclass families of Cochabamba. Empleadas are live-in maids – most of my friend’s host families have one. They keep the house clean, wash clothing, cook meals, and in return, they’re paid a few dollars a month and given food and a bed. From what I’ve seen, some are treated like slaves, others like family members. My family’s empleada (whom they refer to fondly as Empi) has been part of the family for years, her mother having worked for my mother’s family more than 30 years ago when they lived in Sucre. Unlike other women in this line of work, Empi is allowed to participate in conversation, watch TV with the kids, and go on family excursions. But she doesn’t eat with us. She waits behind the counter to refill my glass or take my plate when I’ve finished.
On Friday, the family was out for most of the day, so I had two meals alone with Empi. I love to talk with her – she laughs after everything she says, listing my host brother’s guapos amigos who she thinks I should meet and telling stories about her own family. She’s from an indigenous community in the northeast of the country, along the border of Brazil. Her father died when she as little, leaving her mother to raise Empi’s 26 brothers and sisters, 23 of which were brothers. She says her mother is the strongest person she knows. No kidding.
I love my family, though they’re quite a bit more western than I expected. We live in very nice house in the northwest of Cochabamba, and my bedroom window looks north to the mountains. Every morning my brother (he’s 24) takes me to the city center, since my classes are just a block away from the bank where he works. My 20-year-old sister also lives at home (kids in Bolivia don’t move out of the house until they’re married), and she’s studying at the local Catholic university to be a journalist. She never seems to go to class, so she’s around a lot, but she’s always a lot of fun to hang out with.
My host father and mother are as loving as ever – Lilliana takes me on walks through the neighborhood or the city market, and Jorge will spend hours with me at the lunch table, discussing politics and global warming. Coincidentally he’s one of Bolivia’s experts in environmental issues and indigenous affairs, and he’s always wanting to tell me the latest stories of floods in the north and land rights conflicts in the east.
Life is still fast paced – I feel like I’m just starting to realize I’m here. I was in a club on Friday night when Like a Prayer came on. Everyone knew the words, everyone’s shirt stayed on, and my first thought was, “yes, this is definitely not Vermont.”
So I’m starting to realize what Ismael meant when he said everything here contains the best and the worst of Bolivia all at once. The markets smell like decaying meat and fresh flowers. You’ll get jumped in a gated community and offered lemonade in a slum. And there’s little boundary between rich and poor – all go to the same market, drink the same beer, eat the same foods (though some eat more meat than most can afford), ride the same trufis and busses – and it seems that all live in the same neighborhoods. It’s not uncommon to see a concrete apartment building, gutted and crumbling (but still intact enough to house a family) beside a beautiful three-story, one-family house. The house I see from my bedroom window looks like a miniature monastery - yellow stucco with a tiled roof and a citrus garden surrounding the patio. The apartment building beyond it is six stories and crumbling.
But the fact that bankers and beggars walk the same streets doesn’t shrink the economic disparity. The gap is just more visible. The rich know how the poor live, and the poor know the same about the rich. The poorest of Cochabamba generally come from el campo, the Andean foothills that surround the city. Most who move to the city are Aymaran or Quechuan women; they set up their carts on the street corners, selling brazil nuts, puffed rice and roasted lima beans (usually to gringos like us who are in constant search of something that’s not meat or potatoes).
Other camposinas come to work as empleadas for the middle and upperclass families of Cochabamba. Empleadas are live-in maids – most of my friend’s host families have one. They keep the house clean, wash clothing, cook meals, and in return, they’re paid a few dollars a month and given food and a bed. From what I’ve seen, some are treated like slaves, others like family members. My family’s empleada (whom they refer to fondly as Empi) has been part of the family for years, her mother having worked for my mother’s family more than 30 years ago when they lived in Sucre. Unlike other women in this line of work, Empi is allowed to participate in conversation, watch TV with the kids, and go on family excursions. But she doesn’t eat with us. She waits behind the counter to refill my glass or take my plate when I’ve finished.
On Friday, the family was out for most of the day, so I had two meals alone with Empi. I love to talk with her – she laughs after everything she says, listing my host brother’s guapos amigos who she thinks I should meet and telling stories about her own family. She’s from an indigenous community in the northeast of the country, along the border of Brazil. Her father died when she as little, leaving her mother to raise Empi’s 26 brothers and sisters, 23 of which were brothers. She says her mother is the strongest person she knows. No kidding.
I love my family, though they’re quite a bit more western than I expected. We live in very nice house in the northwest of Cochabamba, and my bedroom window looks north to the mountains. Every morning my brother (he’s 24) takes me to the city center, since my classes are just a block away from the bank where he works. My 20-year-old sister also lives at home (kids in Bolivia don’t move out of the house until they’re married), and she’s studying at the local Catholic university to be a journalist. She never seems to go to class, so she’s around a lot, but she’s always a lot of fun to hang out with.
My host father and mother are as loving as ever – Lilliana takes me on walks through the neighborhood or the city market, and Jorge will spend hours with me at the lunch table, discussing politics and global warming. Coincidentally he’s one of Bolivia’s experts in environmental issues and indigenous affairs, and he’s always wanting to tell me the latest stories of floods in the north and land rights conflicts in the east.
Life is still fast paced – I feel like I’m just starting to realize I’m here. I was in a club on Friday night when Like a Prayer came on. Everyone knew the words, everyone’s shirt stayed on, and my first thought was, “yes, this is definitely not Vermont.”
1 comment:
Hey Sierra,
Your mom sent us your blog link, and we are enjoying your comments and photos. We haven't heard that much from Elias, but what we have, sounds similar - water balloons, clubs, living conditions. He also went to Oruro for the parade. My guess is that you haven't seen him. He's busy as are you. But it all sounds like a great eye-opening experience. We'll keep checking your blog. Thanks for sharing your experiences.
best,
geoff
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