Development(s)

More than four months have passed in Boliva and I´m settling into a stage where my primary interest is keeping still and finishing what I´ve started, rather than going out to find new things all the time. At work, however, things will be looking a little different. I will be continuing to work with Pro Habitat to finish my project (thanks to all who generously supported), but during the week I will be working in a center which runs programs for children and adolescents who are victims of sexual abuse. Sexual abuse and domestic violence have long been interests of mine, though perhaps that´s not the best word for it. It seems so strange to say- I´m interested in violence, in prisons, in the tragedy that is immigration policy- interested in injustice. I suppose on some level it denotes the fact that I believe that I can change something, do something positive. But then why shouldn´t that be the case? If we believe we can do nothing, we might as well be living at the bottom of a bottle. Reading this reflection on the life of the late Howard Zinn, I was pleased to be reminded that, though we may live with a history of exploitation and injustice, we also live with a history of popular struggle and victory. Everything good in this world we have built ourselves, and what we manage to build with each other is stronger (in the classic words of Against Me) than everything they taught us that we should fear.

I often like to think of Mirah´s old lyrics as well

We´ve got it all worked out the plans all made,
if we believe in the fight then, we´re all saved
it´s gunna hurt for a while but it would anyways,
we´ll stay resolute with our voices raised
we have a right to demand to be free and brave
if that should cease to exist I´ll throw my heart away
so aren´t you gunna come along? aren´t you gunna fight?
aren´t you gunna hold your hands up to the light?

As Brecht wrote, there will be singing in the dark times, oh yes, there will be singing


This in contrast to the fact that my little host sister has been singing Rihanna´s Roulette song about 10 times a day. But don´t worry, in my revolution there will still be an impetus for the production of songs about texting with a martini in your hand and movies where Michael J Fox turns into a werewolf.

In smaller news, the rainy season is finally here in true form, and instead of 95 degree days we have sheets of rain and thunder that wakes me up in the night. Carnival is approaching, which means that teams of youths are stalking the streets, by foot or in car, lobbing water balloons at anyone risking the sidewalks. Between that (which in all seriousness requires me to run, duck behind trees, and peer fearfully into any car with an open window- I even begged three boys not to hit me and escaped only due to their laughter at my state of agitation) and the fact that I was robbed last week at nine am a block from my house by men who pulled up onto the sidewalk in a car and ripped my bag in half, my strolling has been somewhat more stressful as of late. But I only have six weeks left, and then it´s off to travel. I´ll be back in the states over the summer and then will be starting an internship in DC with the World Health Organization. Hope to cross paths with you all, somewhere in that trajectory.

un abrazo

m

ps- thanks so much to all of you who responded with wise wise words to my last post. much appreciated.

(My) Latin American Imaginaries

So I´ve been trying to keep the idea of this whole time in Bolivia together as one analyzable and understandable ¨thing¨, which I suppose I´ve finally realized is impossible, since this time is really just more of the usual- me living my life. One point that irks me though, is the gap between the glorified (and in some ways, truly glorious) presidency, historical moment, and conflux of social movements in Bolvia vs the every day lived experience here. The more I read inspiring articles about Bolivia (here, and here, and here, and here, for starters) the more I wish I could feel swept up in or even just a part of it. ¨It¨ being something grand and life/world changing, of course. But on the daily level, lives don´t look very different to me. Of course, I´m not in the poorest sector, and I suppose that perhaps for the previously landless and the previously exploited, discriminated indigenous, a new era really is dawning. New political mechanisms may be forming, new dialogues between movements and populations and government may be beginning, but on the individual lived level it all seems pretty much the same. I don´t know what that means, if it means I´m asking too much of politics (like I tend to ask too much of everything), looking for a visual representation of something that will never be imbodied in the present, looking for a impact on the heart that´s much to broad and long term to show? But what I want is the energy in the air of a revolt, of a win, of, you know, a dawning. I admire what Marina Sitrin shares in Horizontalism because what happened in Argentina was a transformation of the heart, perhaps the only kind of change that can truly last. But then, who am I to say? Class and age and race all count against me, I know. Well. I realize this is a little personal for a public forum, but maybe we´ve just spent too much time dismissing sincerity as cheesy.

President Elect of Uruguay, José Mujica writes,

There is no fixed list of things that make us happy. Some think the ideal world is full of shopping centres. I’ve nothing against this vision, but I simply say that it isn’t the only one. I say we can imagine a country where people repair things instead of throwing them away, where they choose a small car instead of a large one, where they put on a sweater instead of turning up the heat.

I like the spirit of Latin America´s political community today. We get kids at Red Tinku from Brazil, Argentina, and Colombia, as well as the states, looking to teach or to sit in on our presentations and forums. I like the activity. But it´s easy to write long excited articles about Bolivia when you come in for the elections, or a big cultural event. I´m sick of reading scholarly leftist papers, news headlines, and NGO mission statements. Sick of getting excited and finding a reality that fails to correlate. I´ve been wanting to write seriously about Bolivia but I just cant bring myself to follow that same track. There´s a government agent watching our NGO everyday now. Reporting in on a walkie-talkie. And you have to wonder what´s to come if this kind of paranoia and anti-Americanism is on the rise here, if this is what´s in store. My host sister warned me away from Red Tinku, afraid that folks will perceive me as a spy rather than a helpless idealistic kid. Parents, I know you think I´m a cynic every time we talk about Obama, but maybe I just need to expand my cynicism to more of the world. And anyhow looking up North from the South it´s hard not to be upset. Look here. But I´m open to participating in the States in a way that seems positive. Here? Well anyhow. The point, so say the poets and the guerrillas of this long continent, is to walk. To walk and see what you find.

Al fin y al cabo, somos lo que hacemos para cambiar lo que somos.
-Eduardo Galeano

Dad and I go to Chile!

Here we are in Santiago!


Chile is a fantastic and sunny place filled with wine and beaches. It was a little shocking to get there and realize just how much more developed it is than Bolivia, and what that means in terms of elegant promenades of palm trees and vegetarian food. It was awesome. What that says about my radical values and all that... well. It's vacation.



We started in Santiago, which was a warm and jolly giant city. I didn't love it, per say, but it beats most of the other Latin American Capitals for charm, anyhow. We went to Neruda's house and looked at the graffiti, wandered around, and watched Sci Fi movies in our hotel. Good times.



We spent Christmas in Valparaiso, which was gorgeous. We walked up and down the huge hills and looked at the pretty murals a lot, and I got to feel magically super human, as my body had apparently adjusted to the altitude in Bolivia at last, and I could pretty much take the hills at a run without loosing my breath at all. Cheating, I suppose, but glorious. We spent Christmas on the beach where dad amused me and a large crowd of Chileans by getting into this large plastic ball suspended in water and trying valiantly to move around or even stand up in it. We also went to some more deserted beaches that looked a lot like Northern California and Dad found a small lizard, which made his trip.



We followed the glorious sunny milling around with a rather hard core trip Kayaking in the fjords of Northern Patagonia. We landed in Puerto Montt-Varas, and headed south to the tiny town of Hornopirim, the ¨oven of snow¨. It was certainly freezing and wet, and surrounded by snowy volcanoes and huge glacial rivers. Very beautiful. Very very cold. Some of us were not quite prepared for this change in climate. We stayed on the edge of the witches´ mountains. We were close to Chiloe, which is famous for it's folk tales. We went South from there, along part of the Austral road (which sounds somehow both romantic and tough to me) and kayaked in and out of these huge, wild, empty fjords.



I don't believe I ever really thought too hard about what a fjord actually is, beyond a crinkly thing that Slartibartfast made and something massive that lives in Norway. These were very beautiful immense hills covered in a strange and rare southern rain forest and hundreds of cold waterfalls. At the end of each fjord is a mountain covered with a huge glacier, which is what forms the waterway. We saw dolphins, sea lions, seals, a lone lost penguin, and exactly 3 other humans, whom dad mistook for birds at first. There were a lot of hidden hot springs for warming up in, some utilized by Germans hiding out in their warship in WWII. Every peak looked like it might have a whole Indiana Jones type hidden city in it, still lost to man. And no one has ever climbed many of these peaks, so you never know, though the indigenous folk Chile is famous for are all from further South, where they went around in the cold naked and painted in stripes until some Europeans came and took them off to a zoo in Paris. Yeah.

Our last day paddling we had to do 15 miles before afternoon, which nearly wiped my dad and I out completely. Some of us may have shed a small tear. That day it was sunny and warmer at least. New Year's Eve was promptly slept though. Then it was back to 90 degree plus Santiago, and a trip to Isla Negra to see Neruda's beach house. He loved the sea but was afraid to sail, and built all his homes to resemble, quite impressively, boats. He also collected immense amounts of strange things. We approved. Dad ended up spending two days in the Santiago airport while I made my way back by bus from Arica, in the North of Chile. I was treated to a surprise route through an apparently famous national park in the desert, filled with volcanoes and alpacas. It was gorgeous and made up for the last five hours of buses in Bolivia, which I spent in a luggage hold under the bus due to a shortage of seats. (It's ok family friends, it wasn´t so totally bad, ok? I had granola bars, my sleeping bag, my ipod, and a traveling companion. It was just like camping out! Or train hoping!)




Now I'm home! Which is strange, but really great, actually. I'm excited to get back to work, back to life. No one here was pleased that I went to Chile- Bolivia is still upset that they stole their ocean 150 years ago, and they refuse to fly directly into Chile or even have ambassadors there. They also make fun of their accent, which is weird but actually pretty fun. I learned the slang for money, dude, girlfriend, and lame, which is pretty decent, I think. Anyhow! Onwards. Check out Bolivia's newest radical plans here, and you still have till the 15th to give money to my project in Santa Barbara if you feel like it. Also did you know that Google can be used in Quechua? Kosa pacha! Besos!
m