Día de la Tierra

I had planned to go to the People's Summit on Global Climate Change in Cochabamba to translate for the Asamblea Feminista, but was laid low by scarlet fever, which might sound glamorously 19th-century but is actually incredibly uncomfortable and disgusting. Consequently, I missed Evo's idiotic pronouncement, in an otherwise lucid and militant capitalism-bashing speech, that eating hormone-laden chicken would make men "deviantly" masculine, which all the Latin American newspapers reported as basically "Evo: Chicken will Make You Gay," and which, at least here, reduced all talk of the summit to a series of jokes about said chicken. So we have another slightly comic yet devastating example of one of my central theses (of course not originally articulated by me; see Michele Wallace, Maria Josefina Saldaña-Portillo, the article I translated for Silvia in Qui Parle [actually this is just the announcement of it, but it's almost out and I'm really excited], etc): that imperialist violent conceptions of masculinity never fail to screw up the most amazing and important moments of revolutionary struggle and potential social transformation.

Anyway, barely recovered, I spent Earth Day harvesting potatoes in Uni with Maestro and Silvi (Silvia's lovely employees with whom I originally bonded over our mutual awe at the level of chaos in the house) which was beautiful, much greener than before, though I missed the flowery, celebratory, non-physically-taxing phase when the rest of the colectiver@s went to decorate and bless the harvest. Probably because I have never farmed on a large scale before, I didn't remember that harvesting potatoes is almost as much work as planting them in the first place, though far superior because you get to see the fruits of your labor. In this case we'd waited a bit too long and many of the fruits (starches, whatever) were wormy, some filled with big fat spectacular worms who stood their ground inside the potatoes (or were exceptionally sticky) . But many were worm-free, and we harvested all of them. Silvi and Maestro have tricks for getting the worms out--you have to dry the potatoes in the sun and soak them with an herb whose name I can't say because there's the Aymara guttural "c" in it. At the end we also picked some peas and fava beans, which are very popular here.

Silvia was supposed to pick us up, but on the way her jeep had been bucking horribly (I had a combucha on my lap that she was taking to her brother, which made the experience more than a little nauseating), so we ended up having to walk almost a mile lugging huge sacks of potatoes and heavy tools, then ride a very slow bus back into the city. It was good though: we harvested our own organic food without mechanized devices; did so in the shadow of the fast-disappearing Illimani glacier, signaling the water shortage that millions of Bolivians are facing; and later used public transportation to lug everything back to the city. And I feel that much more ready to be able to fend for myself during the even-more-extreme global crisis that will surely come, since all the people who actually might be able to stop it, not to mention those who are causing it in the first place, continue to preoccupy themselves with stupid macho posturing.

Caminata

So last tuesday at 10pm I was at Mechy's and one of my colectivero friends Alvaro called her house trying to find me to invite me on this 2 1/2 day pilgrimage to Copacabana that his brother Rolando was doing, along with scores of sinners and supplicants, in order to ask for money to pay for his engineering program. They were leaving in an hour.

I love a good walk and was feeling like my superhero mother had set somewhat of a challenge with her cross-Vermont march to shut down Vermont Yankee, and Mechy encouraged me, so I ran home, where Luchi and Fernando encouraged me more and sent me off with remedios for blisters, soreness, exhaustion, and various other hazards--they also said "hay que traer fé," which I didn't really, at least not in Jesus or the Virgin or what-have-you. Maybe at that point I should've realized that the hike, 120 KM (75mi) over many hills and mountains, would be arduous almost to the point of insanity. But I happily gathered my stuff together and met them at 11pm, bringing blankets and a small flashlight (thanks to Dan and Jay) but somehow thinking thinking they, having prepared in advance, would have a tent, their own flashlights, and possibly even snacks.

But no. We started walking at midnight in El Alto, about an hour before it started pouring down rain, and I soon realized that all they had in their little shoulder bags was coca, socks, and a small piece of plastic on which we were supposed to sleep. And Rolando bizarrely brought 3 hats, one which he only wore for fotos.

I soon also realized that sleep was not really something you do on a hike like this, at least for more than a few

hours at a time. We walked all through the night, in the freezing-cold rain--I was a bit fearful because my hands were clenching up and I actually had gloves but was unable to reach into my backpack to get them. We rested for an hour, from 8-9 AM, then walked for the entire day in the blazing sun until about 11 pm, when we rested (in this very small yet very cold room that some guy was renting out, with about 10 other pilgrims, two or three of whom were snoring dramatically. The first night and day we had walked very fast, and by the second day the boys were complaining and in a lot of pain. I was surprisingly ok--I briefly had 3 very big blisters, but they came and went. When we got to the lake, they wanted to take a shortcut by boat, but I talked them out of it in my machista way. Then, not 10 min later, we passed by some military guys who said "pobre gringita!"in sympathy with me (I was the only non-bolivian we saw on the entire pilgrimage), which I thought was really funny. In fact, Alvaro was a bit upset that I wasn't complaining more--"why are you so stoic? we all have pain." etc--but I was really happy to be outside, and to think, and also (I have to admit) to feel tough and superior.

After walking through almost the whole 3rd night (we stopped to sleep for about an hour on the side of a mountain next to a bone-filled cattle-graveyard but I was too freezing to really sleep), we arrived in Copacabana. We only hung out there for a few hours lighting candles in the church and watching the other pilgrims before heading back to La Paz. I was sore for a few days, but I somehow managed to emerge relatively unscathed. In fact, I felt energized, at least until today when I woke up with mild flulike symptoms. Despite my lack of faith, arriving in Copa with lots of people who had just done a totally grueling hike was kind of exciting.

Watching Avatar in La Paz

Last night I finally watched Avatar-- a pirated copy, dubbed in Spanish, obviously not 3D, which was perhaps not ideal but sort of fitting because this is the way people watch movies here. The film itself was pretty much how I thought it would be: nothing we haven't seen before in Pocahontas, Dances with Wolves, The Matrix (far superior but nonetheless very influential) etc., although it was nice to see the U.S. army get its ass beat by the N'avi with help from the entire fancifully-animated ecosystem. I watched it with Luchi, who was was slightly more impressed than I was: as an artist she appreciated Cameron's world-building skills, but she was concerned with the "caudillismo" of Jake's call-to-arms (actually, I tried to convince her, it's far worse than caudillismo, because it's literally puppet caudillismo, why the fuck do they need a Northamerican soldier in a borrowed body to tell them how to resist? Yeah, THAT has ever really happened in the history of anti-imperialist guerrilla warfare) and particularly, since she is also a farmer, with the material UNreality of the N'avi and their world. What do they eat? She kept asking. Yes, there were some sexy bow-and-arrow scenes, but the film never showed the people eating, much less gathering, harvesting, doing any sort of food-related ritual that would seem important for a community this "close to the land." She was also very concerned that Jake simply turned in his old dragon for a more prestigious model (in order to get the entire N'avi community to bow down to him in a pivotal scene) without a backward glance. Her critiques, then, were actually about Cameron's inability to imagine a community with an actually sustainable connection to the natural world, which is kind of interesting. It's the same focus on the concrete details of work that I got when I interviewed Bolivians about Peace Corps propaganda photos that showed volunteers doing allegedly universal "development work": but what are they actually doing? What are those crops they're growing? Are they going to market? It doesn't make sense that they would be selling crafts in that space., etc, questions that expose the ridiculousness of any universal development idea and of plopping 20 year-olds down in the middle of a community and ecosystem they don't know anything about, expecting them to use some kind of inborn American ingenuity to "develop" it--actually, sort of the ethos of Avatar too, though they do pointedly refuse any and all development interventions, which was nice.

Despite my predictable annoyance, I was interested in watching Avatar here, because the comparisons between the N'avi and Evo Morales have been ubiquitous: Evo has stood up to the U.S. government in significant ways, defending their connection to the natural world against, for example, the DEA's "coca eradication" programs and other neoliberal imperialist projects; and MAS' color is blue, following an interesting post-Cold War global color-reversal trend that perhaps signals the new new left's (or, as Arturo Escobar posits here, the new post-leftist, post-development, and above all anti-imperialist politic which is most fully elaborated by Bolivian indigenista social movement politics ) focus on nature that Cameron also grasped, perhaps the reason the film has been embraced by insurgents all over the world, despite their lack of a an ex-G.I. savior to lead them.

Evo himself went to see Avatar, in supposedly only the third movie-watching experience of his life, and commented that "the film contains a high degree of fantasy, but is at the same time a profound depiction of resistance against capitalism and the fight to defend the natural world."

Evo is right that the film critiques the continued insistence that Bolivia "modernize" no matter what the cost to its land and people, by even liberal U.S. voices: a recent New Yorker article by Lawrence Wright on the possibilities of extracting lithium in Bolivia condescendingly calls Evo "a creature of his biography" with "a mystical attachment to coca," calls Evo's attempts at a social welfare state "out of date," and quotes an opponent (one of an overwhelming number quoted in the article) saying "Evo is Aymara, and the Aymara see the world as a fight between good and evil, like 'Star Wars.' For him, the forces of good are coca growers and the coca leaf. The evil is the D.E.A. and the U.S." It's worth noting that a) Bolivia is not the country that formulated either star wars or ANY of the manichean "you're with us or against us" justifications for pre-emptive war that define the era of U.S. hegemony; but that b) Evo was nearly beaten to death by D.E.A.-affiliated Bolivian troops for his work in the coca-growers union, so the shoe kind of fits here. See this excellent article by Suzanna Reiss to learn about how the Obama administration is, if anything, exacerbating the entirely imperialist--i.e. concerned much more with governments' attempts to hold onto and redistribute their resources than with stemming drug distribution and consumption--drug war.

Anyway, the New Yorker article: Wright refuses to budge an inch from the developmentalist paradigm, lamenting Bolivia's failure to emerge from its "pre-industrial cocoon"; worries openly that now that Evo has expelled the DEA, that "the drug trade" will "corrupt Bolivian society"; and, in perhaps the most disgusting and libelous move of the article, characterizes the entire cycle of anti-imperialist, anti-neoliberal uprisings of the early and mid 2000s as about silly age-old anti-Chilean hostilities. Nothing could be further from the truth: the vast majority of Bolivians are attempting to reject neoliberal capitalism on purpose, in order to (re)conceptualize ways of life not based on modernization, endless accumulation, and environmental destruction. At least James Cameron gets that.

Carnival

On the trip to Guaqui we saw a beautiful train, apparently for tourists. Note how green everything is now!!

I've been back in Bolivia for almost 3 weeks now, working frantically on the revisions for my AQ article, which was due yesterday. After handing it in I'm feeling a little bit of postpartum depression (empty-nest syndrome? I don't know which is more appropriate, but the article has definitely consumed the majority my time and inspired a suffocatingly intimate love-hate relationship since last summer), but I'm also happy to be able to move forward and do other projects.

After a few moments in reactionary Santa Cruz, I arrived in Cochabamba, city at about 9, 000 ft altitude (to ease into high-altitude living) The city was in plena carnaval, which in Bolivia lasts at least 3 weeks, well past lent, which seems to be universally ignored here. People wear very exciting costumes--there are a lot of devils especially, since Carnival is the holiday of the diablada--but they also have this tradition of throwing water balloons at people, especially girls and young women, as well as shooting water guns at them and squirting shaving cream in their faces. On the second day I thought I had at least figured out the gendered dimension of the water-fighting and was on-guard for boys in cars, on foot, etc., when a women about my age jumped out from a doorway and stuffed not one but two water balloons down my shirt, laughing extremely maniacally. And when I wasn't getting assaulted así, I was being accosted by acquisitive white Bolivians (note to self: stop engaging with people who introduce themselves as "gran admiradores del sistema capitalista"). I ended up spending most of the time in my hostel.

Being back in La Paz has been really wonderful. It's such a beautiful city, and carnaval is not nearly so violent. Silvia and I decorated the house with ribbon, confetti, and flower petals, then went to see her son-in-law Steve dancing for Carnaval in his community in Zona Sur. He was dancing as a Chuta, which is the Carnaval ladies-man type who is supposed to dance with two cholas, v. Pepinos, clowns who whisper in hight voices). Apparently there was a schism in the community, and there were two bands playing in the same square, with two different groups dancing. Steve's group was far inferior, taking 20-minute drinking breaks after every song while the other, far-more disciplined band played tirelessly, but he had promised this old Señor from the community that he would stay with that group, so all he and the rest of his group of dressed-up gringos could do (his british/argentine friends from Doctors Without Borders were also dancing) was look longingly over at the other, more energetic band in their neat rows.

Silvia arguing with a cop.

The following weekend Carnaval was still going on, despite lent having started, and I went with Silvia, Mechy, Eduardo, and this guy Marcelo who had just come back from 7 years in the U.S. (he got his ph.d. at Duke, and afterward I noticed that he was cited as very important to this Arturo Escobar article that I was citing copiously) to Guaqui, this medium-sized community on the lake. We went in the morning and Silvia filmed the people filing out of the church, and from there went on to the tiny community where Marcelo grew up. My camera battery ran out, but the community was incredibly beautiful, right on the lake with a colorful, old, very small church, and lots of animals. We watched the dancing for awhile, then showed up at Marcelo's house, which was one room, with a pit toilet outside and lots of animals running around. His 80 year-old father was incredibly happy to see him but had to go get a cow from the lake shore and was gone for two hours, so we chatted with his mother about the community and how it had changed--apparently they never used to hire bands for these events, and she and Silvia were talking about how now it's all about prestige and consumerism--the universal sellout narrative, but extremely interesting. His father finally came back with the cow and we drank wine and talked about magic (rayos striking things, making the land dry up, etc.). Then we finally left, and had to go back to Guaqui because Silvia had left her videocamera battery to charge in the home of this guy in Guaqui who was apparently in local government. The fiesta had then transformed from a beautiful and dignified event into something completely insane, with beautifully dressed Cholas brawling in the streets and people freely performing every kind of bodily function you can (or at least I could) imagine. In the middle of this we had to find the very drunk, very rich man and convince him to take us back to the house and get the battery. Silvia tried very hard to reason with him, to no avail, then finally Mechy just grabbed his arm and said "vamos" and he obediently went. On the way to the house he kept boasting that he was the "dueño del pueblo."

The last interesting thing about carnaval is the Alasitas (alasitas actually has nothing to do with wings but means literally in Aymara, at least according to Mechy: "buy from me") feria, which technically begins in January but which ends at the end of carnaval. It's a huge market that sells miniatures of everything--houses, cars, animal figurines, newspapers, cookies, tools, many many more things--to bring people those things in the coming year. It struck me as refreshingly honest: straight to the consumerism, without even the pretense of religious or patriotic ritual. I went with Mechy and bought cookies (for big cookies in the coming year?), bracelets, doll clothes, and very small fried fish to eat.

Next time: the amazing feminist collective I am now working with, developments in the house, assorted other things.

We interviewed this guy and asked him what inspired the horns, and he said, "Thor. In carnaval, anything goes."

brief sentimental post

At some point I will write a more complete post about my investigaciones, which have involved various subterfuge techniques, hobknobbing with Paceño elites, and chasing possible interviewees onto buses ( all this mostly by Mechy, but I have been an enthusiastic follower). Anyway, here are some final fotos of the Evo Macy's-esque balloon at the election day celebration, me with Enrique and Marcela, and the collective. I already miss them very much.

Patricia visits, We travel to Machu Picchu, Isla Del Sol, and Coroico

I did miss Thanksgiving with my family but was lovely to be somewhere where you don't have to pretend that indigenous people put on a happy peaceful dinner for the conquerors before obligingly dying off.

Machu Picchu was incredibly beautiful, but also full of tourists and very expensive. Everyone had an angle--our cabdriver said he would take us to Aguas Calientes, the town near Machu Picchu, but instead dropped us off in another town considerable further away and was just like, "here you are!" I appreciated the incredible setting and majestic ruins but missed Bolivia terribly the whole time.

Being back in Copacabana and Isla Del Sol was so nice. People were incredibly friendly this time, and everything seemed so peaceful after the hustle, bustle, and hucksterism of Cuzco/Machu Picchu.

The Coroico trip was a lot of fun too. We went with Mechy and her lovely kids, Enrique and Marcela, and her brother Felix who was a bit controlling and obnoxious. Coroico is in Yungas, the area where the most coca production happens, so we got to see the cocaleros at work. There is also a lot of excitement around the elections, which are this Sunday. Evo is a shoo-in, so there's more focus on the local elections. This Coroico diputada, Mercedes Mamani, seemed really impressive.

In other news, the collective continues to have problems with the Germans, but on the bright side, Silvia asked me to write something about the experience for the magazine. She is finally accepting me as part of the group, which is so nice--she made me sign my name to the latest manifesto, etc. For my own project I've been interviewing old trotskyists (who continue to be relentlessly entrepreneurial and frustratingly reluctant to talk about their experiences occupying Peace Corps buildings etc.) and I have some interviews set up next week with indigenous feminists from this group, the Bartolinas. I'm feeling really comfortable and competent, finally--I can't believe I have to go home in 2 weeks, at least for a little while...

Hakima

Right after I got back from Sucre, we had a wonderful Las Ñatitas, which is Bolivian version of the Day of the Dead. Everyone goes to the cemetery and sets up their skulls (people are very cryptic about where they get them, but many people, including silvia, constantly have them on shrines) and brings all this food and alcohol and coca and cigarettes. All day people come along and put flowers on your skull and hang out for awhile, then people who can pray in Aymara come along and pray to the skull and you reward them with bread and candy and coca. You are supposed to pray for protection from thieves (which is funny because you have to think these skulls are all robbed from somewhere) but it's turned into a holiday in which mostly marginal people participate, asking protection from the cops. So there are anarchists, contrabandistas, and beautiful drag queens dressed like cholas.

Silvia's skull is named Hakima, and everyone in the cemetery knows her. Even early on when Silvia went off to buy candles and just me and Beatriz were there, lots of people recognized her and came by to give her cigarettes or wreaths. She was beautifully adorned by the end of the day, and we kept the wreaths when we brought her home.

Then there's music and dancing--Silvia asked for songs for water, since we seem to be entering a pretty drastic drought right now, and also the standard "coca no es cocaina." There are cops all around who are supposed to prohibit alcohol, but they weren't really doing anything. They do begin trying to kick everyone out at 6, commanding us repeatedly through bullhorns to "desocupar el cementerio," which seemed like a great beginning for a zombie movie (is there one like that already?). But we took a long time. It was a really lovely holiday. It showed, as one of Silvia's friends said, "la militancia de compartir." And it was cool how everyone interacted with the skulls. I do kind of miss the pan de coca, but that's okay. It was such a beautiful holiday.