¿Y ahora, qué?

¨The problem with our president is that he has no education,¨says my hostess, above the clink of silverware on china. This is my first salad in 10 days that doesn´t require a side dish of immodium. I´m entranced with the lettuce. I utter some kind of vague ¨please go on¨ sound. ¨He´s an intelligent man, but he only finished fourth grade. And he doesn´t listen to people with expertise. He just wants to listen to the people.¨

I steal a glance at Rosa´s face as she clears away soup bowls, but I can´t even detect a shadow of emotion. Her long braids fall across her arm.

¨What do you think of the proposed changes to the constitution?¨ I ask.

¨Rosita, get out the dishes for dessert,¨ my hostess chirps, and, without a pause, ¨You can´t get a job in the government anymore if you aren´t of native descent.¨

My hosts have good reason to resent this reordering of society: their son, unable to secure a post in the current government, is now working in Africa.

¨What do you think of Bolivia after six years?¨ I am asked.

¨I love it. It´s the place I keep coming back to, because of ...¨

¨It´s gotten dangerous. With my bad knee, I don´t go out much anymore. If someone tries to rob me, I can´t run.¨ We´ve entered a favorite morsel of conversation of the affluent, a safe haven in a world of unpredictable responses. I calculate: invective toward thieves can easily carry us through the lunch unless I choose to intercept.



Of course, those with resources are not the only ones to dwell on robbery and theft (ratero). In many marketplaces and communities, you will find thieves hung in effigy. The sentiment took a particularly potent turn on the day of my arrival: people from the lakeside town of Achacachi caught a band of thieves. They rounded up the eleven culprits, beat them severely, and then corraled them in a bus and set fire to it. Two died before the flames were extinguished. ¨Community justice,¨ the nightly news called it.



¨That´s not community justice,¨ my friend from Achacachi, Cleto, protests. He tells a story of an affair in a community near his own. The wife, with community officials in tow, surround the house of the clandestine couple and fish the husband out from under the bed. ¨You´ve hurt your family and your community,¨ they tell him, ¨You´ve beaten your wife, and now she doesn´t want you back.¨ They run the husband and his lover out of town. Although Aymaran society has its many flaws, I am reminded of something I heard years ago: ¨In the perfect society, exile is the worst of all possible punishments.¨



Back at the lunch table, rain is pouring outside in a pristine garden. I´ve asked my hosts to call a taxi for me. They are imparting last words of wisdom, ¨Don´t let them charge you more than 12 bolivanos. Don´t talk about anything but the weather to the driver. If he asks if you like our president, say yes.¨



_______________



I´ll take you back to the beginning of this trip. Your arrival at the airport could not be a better point of reentry into Bolivia. ¨Your flight doesn´t leave until 7:45 PM,¨ you are told, ¨And you have a visa, right?¨ It´s 10 AM. You´ve arrived (with about 5 hours of sleep in 48 hours) for a 12:00 flight. ¨Visa?¨ you croak, ¨I need a visa?¨




Subtlely, the laws of the land (at least your destination) start creeping back. ¨Y ahora, ¿qué?¨ people respond to almost any obstacle here (And now what?) It is at once a declaration of resignation to the new rules of the game, a refocusing of energy toward resolution, and a plea for guidance.



_______________________


Fast forward a week. You´ve made it to La Paz and you´ve finished your lunch. You´ll travel an hour upward in a series of taxis and buses into the commercial district (La Ceja - literally, the eyebrow) above La Paz, somewhere between 13,000-14,000 feet in altitude. In route you´ve passed billboards pushing cell phones and vegetable oil. Increasingly, they also provide political and public health messages: ¨Evo, you didn´t abandon us and the people won´t abandon you¨ or ¨If you love your family, don´t hurt them.¨

Now in La Ceja, you´re surrounded by buses whose callers who hang out the windows of old vans (minis) chanting their destinations, like hundreds of auctioneers, their sales are punctuated by horns and the roll and slam of bus doors. Weatherworn police blow their whistles and try to herd the mass of buses forward in a losing battle against the congestion. The air is thick with the smell of ripe mangos, onions, potatoes, fish. Sidewalks are filled with vendors and buyers, so you dodge pedestrians and cars in the cobbled streets. You will (literally) rub shoulders with buses as you slip across an intersection. If you are taller than 5´4´´, you also learn to duck in cadence to as to avoid running into the poles that hold up the awnings of stands.


In my first blog entry, I referred to El Alto as a ¨slum,¨ as it is commonly referred to in tour books and travel entries. That cavelier use of the word has been grating at me ever since. At first glance, the choice of word is adequate: effective sewage systems have yet to reach many areas of the ever expanding city; tap water is by no means potable; trash piles up in dry river beds between zones; packs of half wild dogs chase after a bitch in heat; children rarely or never play outside unattended for safety reasons; many streets remain unpaved. On a Saturday afternoon like today, you´ll find people sleeping off a drinking spell on the sidewalk of certain areas.

But here´s the thing: this is the place where you can start with next to nothing and create a life. Houses are always under construction, half-finished second stories serving as a testiment to ambitions for the future. Earthy saaviness prevails here: adobe bricks absorb the heat of the sun by day, to the extent that I´ve sometimes been convinced that there must be a space heater somewhere. Behind expressionless steel doors lie sunny courtyards where water heats in the sun for use in bathing and washing clothes. Here you will also note the pride that people take in their surroundings: vendors sweeping trash and dust off the sidewalks, plazas being re-imagined and rebuilt, reluctant saplings and grass coaxed into growth in the medians. Children in uniforms heading off to school. This is home - a good home, at that - to many people.


To be continued...