Juana and the Contents of My Backpack--a Day on la Isla de Amantani, Peru

Arequipa, Peru
26 de abril de 2009

Her name is Juana. Maybe she 40. I don´t know; it´s hard to tell. She´s my "host mother" for the nights that I´m staying on Isla Amantani on the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca. She leads me up and away from the port to her house, 200 meters above the lake. She shows me to my room which I have to duck to get into. It´s got two beds, a table with a candle on it and a chair. Before tourists came to Lake Titicaca this was probably a place to bed down animals. It´s just got that feel about. I´ve stayed in places like this before--on Greek islands a long time ago before tourism went amok. Indeed, right next to my room is the pen with the family´s eight sheep. I like the place immediately.

I settle in. She returns thirty minutes later with lunch--a bowl of quinoa soup loaded with potatoes and fresh vegetables grown on the island.

I am in her house. I am in Peru. I am on Lake Titicaca. The shoreline is 12,000 feet above sea level. The sky is a brilliant blue--the kind of blue that only comes at very high altitudes. I am very much in the present. Where I am and what I am doing is not lost on me. I have traveled a lot in my life and I have seen many places. Lake Titicaca is my idea of travel paradise.
It´s a simple meal, and because breakfast was out of memory, I eat it quickly, along with some crackers that I´ve brought to supplement what I know will be meager meals.

It´s mid day. The door is open to let in sunlight, but Juana knocks just the same. She´s here to pick up the plates.

"¿Hablas Español?" she says. "Si," I tell her. Not all tourists speak Spanish. She sits down on the bed with all my luggage. "Se murio mi esposo, hace seis meses.¨" My husband died six months ago. "Tengo cinco niños sin un padre.¨" I have five children without a father.

I´m a bit thrown off balance. This is one of the times I wish I didn´t speak Spanish, "Lo siento,¨" I say. I´m sorry. She asks for nothing. I think she just needs to tell the story one more time to another person. It´s OK. For some I reason I´m alright with death and dying. I just listen.

"Cancer," she said. "Tenia 45 años." He was 45. Now the children have no father. She rents this room to tourists two or three times a month. The agency gives her $8.00 to house and feed these people.

She just talks and I listen. Quechua is her first language, Spanish her second. That´s always good for me because her Spanish vocabulary isn´t as well developed as her native tongue.

As abruptly as she started, she stands up, takes the dishes and leaves.

It´s OK. For some other unknown reason this hasn´t unsettled me. I just wonder, though, how many more times she needs to tell the story before she finds some balance in her life.

I´m on the island for three nights. On a previous visit I´d done the "two day, one night" standard tour, but felt as if I was being wrenched from this island. I always said I´d stay longer the next time I visited. I´ve bonded well with others on the tour. At 4:00 pm we all meet in the town plaza to hike up to Pachatata, at 13,000 feet, to watch the sunset and later for a dance where Juana dresses me up in island clothing. The next morning I go to the port to bid them all goodbye. Secretly I´m glad they´re gone. Now I have the island to myself until the next batch of tourists arrives at 1:30.

I spend two delicious days trekking the island. Up and down, zigzagging my way across this marvelous place. On my second day, I pack lunch: an apple, a brick of crackers, a bag of peanuts, cookies. I´ve taken all morning to hike to the other side of the island. It´s autumn and the first harvest is underway--potatoes and oka, a tuberous vegetable resembling something between a carrot and a vegetable.

At midday I sit down in a rather conspicuous spot, so people coming down the path won´t be startled when they see me. The average tourist doesn´t stay for more than a night and is always on the same track. My presence isn´t an every day occurance. There´s a buzz all around me. People are descending the mountain above me carrying cloth packs full of produce or the remains of the plants which they´ll feed to their sheep. Before they see me I speak out: Hola! Buenos tardes.¨ Hi. Good afternoon. ¨Te gustaria una galleta?¨ Would you like a cracker? No one says no. Some people shake my hand. All of them seem grateful. Some of them have a small conversation with me, but what do we have in common? It´s all small talk, but very friendly. One man wants to know how the global ecomic crisis has affecting me.

For some reason my day pack has exploded and the contents surround me. When I see all the stuff I have, and I´m not really carrying all that much, I´m a bit startled.. I´m just curious how much I´m really carrying. I take inventory:

1 Nikon camera with lens--------------------------------- $1,200.00
2 sets of Rx glasses--regular and sunglasses------- 900.00
1 iPod------------------------------------------------------------------ 250.00
1 pair ¨Columbia¨ hiking boots------------------------------ 100.00
1 tripod------------------------------------------------------------------ 50.00
1 ¨Columbia¨hiking shirt, on sale----------------------------- 40.00
1 Rx nose spray----------------------------------------------------- 40.00
1 Rx inhaler------------------------------------------------------------ 40.00
1 backpack------------------------------------------------------------- 30.00
1 camera bag---------------------------------------------------------- 25.00
1 book: Eat. Love. Pray ------------------------------------------ 12.00
1 bottle eyedrops----------------------------------------------------- 8.00
1 pair gloves------------------------------------------------------------ 5.00
1 hat------------------------------------------------------------------------ 5.00
1 thermometer/whistle---------------------------------------------- 5.00
1 New Testament----------------------------------------------------- 5.00
1 lip balm----------------------------------------------------------------- 1 .00

Well, I´m shocked. All of this is essential. I can´t imagine being on the loose without most of this stuff. I use the calculator on the iPod: I´m carrying $2,616.00 worth of stuff. And this is just a day hike.
Then I think about the average Peruvian yearly salary: $2,000.00. But then I think even more deeply: what does an isleno make? There´s no industry on this island. Their ¨job¨ is to harvest enough food to feed themselves, maybe sell some of it to buy other stuff. No one has an iPod. No one has a $1,200.00 camera. Probably no one even owns a camera. I probably have more medical stuff in my day pack then they have in their homes.

By the time I´m done with this task, I´ve given all my crackers and peanuts away. Each person got one. I didn´t eat a whole lot, but it´s been a great lunch. A lot of people got a cracker. The mountain is rather quiet, most everyone´s gone home to their own lunch. I pack up my ¨stuff,¨ and move on.

I round the island, ask directions and find that the only way back to the village in which I´m living is up and over Pachamama, the island´s highest peak, at 13,500 feet. It´s a very slow process. I´ve learned not to move quickly. Step by step I get get to the summit--and it´s mine, all mine. No one is there yet. Today´s batch of tourists are just beginning to congregate at the plaza. I stay until I see the first signs of them beginning the slow ascent, then I begin to walk down.

It´s just before sunset when I arrive at Juana´s . No one is home. I´d love to take a shower, but there´s none to be had. I should have run a bucketful of water that morning when the house had water access from 6:00 to 8:00 am.

Dusk turns to dark quickly. I´m not too far from the equator and there´s very little twilight. I light the candle in my room, choose a piece of music from the iPod and collapse on the bed. I have no idea how long I´ve been in this self imposed twilight. I´m tired.

There´s a knock on the door. It´s Juana. She tells me that she´s been waiting for me at the plaza. She was worried. I am deeply touched. A few minutes later she brings me dinner--all fresh vegetables, an egg and a cup of tea.

It´s quite dark when she returns to gather up the dishes. This time she sits on the bed. "I miss my my husband," she tells me. "The children have no father." She begins to cry. I reach out and take her hand. There is nothing else to do. There is a deep silence between us. It´s OK. She needs to do this. It´s then that I realize we were met to meet, Juana and I. More and more I think less and less of this type of encounter as coincidence. Time passes. She tells me there is no money. No jobs. That it costs $50.00 a month to send her son to high school. Could I help her? And then, just as before, this ends as abrubtly as it started.

It´s very dark, but not too late, but I´m exhausted. I slip into bed on this cold autumnal altiplano night and drift off to sleep. I´m up at first light. I have all sort of plans for the morning: fill the water receptacles, bring the sheep down to the pasture below the house where I saw them feeding yesterday. But Juana comes in early with breakfast and tells me we have to leave at 7:00. "Another day," she says. ¨Another port.¨ I hustle to get ready. I eat quickly then together we scramble down the hill and walk along the beach to the boat. They´re waiting for me. Juana and I say goodbye. I board and we take off. It´s only minutes, but when I look up to wave goodbye to Juana she´s gone. I scan the shore and paths above it but don´t see her. We've separated. Each of us has returned to the world we know--her to the island the she´s never left and me to my great passion--seeing the world.

But the memory of her lives on. Days have passed and I still think of her. She is, in a sense, the universal poor "everywoman." There are millions of her on the planet. Women who´ve been abandoned or widowed or who had children but no husband. In a sense, though, Juana is luckier than most. She has her home. She has her children. She has a community who´s known her all her life. She has a garden on the mountain that feeds her family. She´s got chickens that lay eggs. She's got a herd of sheep. She's got a view of Lake Titicaca and a sunset that a million dollars couldn´t buy back home.

What she doesn´t have is the contents of my backpack, nor the means to ever acquire even a small portion of it. But I wonder. Who´s got the most? In the end it´s a toss. We´re both pretty well off. But in different ways.

Someday I´ll get back to Juana´s. I´ll carry "stuff¨" she needs and in return she´ll give me "stuff" I´d never find at sea level. I feel as if I made a friend up there and that all of this was met to be.

But who knows.

Chacaltaya, Bolivia

Arequipa, Peru.

26 de abril de 2009

I like to get high. I really like to get high. Which is why I booked a tour out of La Paz ($7.13) to Chacaltaya, the highest ski center in the world--or, at least, what used to be until global warming changed a few things.

We were an international group of 8--our guide, me, Therese from Stockholm, two Germans and three Brazilians. We left La Paz early in the morning, and climbed up to El Alto, the city on the altiplano, then zigzagged our way up a narrow ribbon of dirt road which would ultimately should have brought us to the ski center's lodge at 15,900 feet.

It had rained in La Paz the day, but by the time we got to 14, 000 feet we encountered snow. The van, unable to climb any further, can to a halt at 14,300 feet. The guide told us to get out of the vehicle and, without any explanation, simply started walking up the rocky slope of the mountain.

He was a terrible guide. Within minutes he'd left Therese and I in the dust. Imagine, leaving two tourists stranded at 14,300 feet. Therese was sick and I'd been battling my usual high altitude issues. But...we were not about to quit. Nor were we willing to race up the mountain just to stay with the group.

So, off we went. The storm from the day before hadn't totally blow out the clouds, and the new moisture on the mountain coupled with the lingering affect of the snowfall made for a foggy hike. We could sort of see the group ahead of us, but I'd been the Chacaltaya before and knew where we were headed.

Therese and I, we had a good time. We'd count 20 steps then stop for a break. We were, after all, over two miles in altitude. We slowly made our way to the ridge, stopping often to search out fossils and unusual rocks. Once, we found a rock in shape of South America, had had out photos taken with it. Honestly, we were exhausted. It had taken us well over an 90 minutes to climb to the ridge.

Well, the views from the ridge were amazing. We'd climbed to 15,500 feet and before us lay magnificent views of Bolivia's highest peaks--Illimani, Muruarata, and Huayana Potosi,. all over 20,000 feet! We played in the snow, made snowballs, took lots and lots of photos and generally felt like a tour group of two. From the ridge, it was a relatively easy slog up a snowy road to the ski lodge at 15,900 feet.

Almost immediately we saw our "guide" who was quite displeased with us. "Where had we been?" and "We've been waiting for you." It was my turn to let him know how displeased I was. We were also told that we'd have to turn around almost immediately as we'd have to walk down the way we climbed. I just ignored the guy. In truth, the rest of the group had climbed the top of the ski lifts--at 17,225 feet, and we just now descending. So, we took our time again--climbing at least to 16,000 feet just to say we'd done it, taking more photos and generally having a great time.

I had been to Chacaltaya before---in July of 2005. By then, the ski center was no longer is use. One could still see the glacier and the ski lift that had been anchored into it. But so much of it had melted that skiing off that glacier was no longer possible. In April of 2009, less than four years later, not a speck of glacier was left and all evidence of lift lines had been removed. This was deeply disconcerting, and real evidence that the environment, at least in this part of the Andes, is getting warmer, and at a rate that seemed startingly fast.

Once the group was amassed we began the descent, but it was too much of a temptation not to show the Brazilians how to make a snowman. It was, after all, perfect snowman snow--wet and sticking in the mid afternoon sun. So I stopped, really annoying the guide, and gave a demonstration. Two of the Brazilians rolled the torso and head and I let them assemble the snowman. Someone put a hat on him; we found rocks for eyes, nose and mouth. Each of us had our picture taken--except for the guide who kept attempting to push us on.

The descent was much easier and in time the snow tapered off to rocks. Somehow the van had been turned around and we were headed in the direction of La Paz. From there is was an easy 90 minute ride back to the center where we were deposited at our respective hotels.

It was a memorable day--and my only one with snow in this summer/winter of 2009. Therese made a great travel companion and the idea of leaving a snowman at 15,000 kept me smiling for days.

Bolivia--It´s UnBoliviable!

LA PAZ, BOLIVIA
18 DE ABRIL DE 2009

PARDON ME IF I GET A LITTLE TOO ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT BOLIVIA. IT´S ONE THE FEW PLACES LEFT IN THE WORLD THAT STILL HAS THE ABILITY TO KNOCK MY SOCKS OFF. IT´S A COUNTRY OF SUPERLATIVES:

• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST CAPITAL IN THE WORLD. (LA PAZ)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST CITY IN THE WORLD. (POTOSI)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST SKI CENTER IN THE WORLD. (CHACALTAYA AT 15,000 FEET)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST NAVIGABLE LAKE IN THE WORLD. (LAKE TITICACA)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST AND DRIEST DESERT IN THE WORLD. (THE ATACAMA)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST GOLF COURSE IN THE WORLD.

IT´S THE KIND OF PLACE WHERE YOU CAN VERY EASILY SAY TO YOUR DOG, ¨I DON´T THINK WE´RE IN KANSAS ANYMORE¨ IT´S, WELL, UN-BOLIVABLE! WHAT'S NOT UN-BOLIVABLE, THOUGH, IS BOLIVIAN ATTITUDE TOWARDS AMERICANS AND THEIR GOVERNMENT--ESPECIALLY THE GOVERNMENT UNDER GEORGE BUSH. HIS LEGACY HERE IS NOTHING SHORT OF HORRIBLE. FOR THAT REASON, I'VE BEEN IDENTIFYING MYSELF AS FRENCH. WHEN ASKED WHERE I'M FROM, I SIMPLY SAY, "SOY DE FRANCIA." I'M FROM FRANCE. SOME OF YOU WILL APPRECIATE THE IRONY OF THAT STATEMENT.

AFTER STARTING OUT IN SANTA CRUZ, AT 500 FEET IN ALTITUDE, I KNEW THAT I NEEDED TO MOVE UP TO THE HIGH PLATEAU, OR ALTIPLANO, SLOWLY. FROM SANTA CRUZ I CLIMBED TO COCHABAMBA, AT 8,000 FEET, ACCLIMATIZED THERE FOR TWO DAYS BEFORE CLIMBING TO ORURU AT 11,000 FEET WHERE I SPENT AN AMAZING DAY HIKING TO A ROCK CLIFF WITH ROCK PAINTING OF LLAMAS DONE 2,400 YEARS AGO. ONLY AFTER ACCLIMATIZING THERE FOR TWO MORE DAYS DID I DARE TO ARRIVE HERE, IN LA PAZ, AT 13,313 FEET!

I DON´T KNOW ANY OTHER CITY IN THE WORLD WITH A MORE DRAMATIC ENTRY THAN LA PAZ. ALL ENTRIES TO LA PAZ ARE FROM THE ALTIPLANO. AS THE CITY APPROACHES, THE DRAMATIC SNOW-CAPPED PEAKS OF 19,786 FT. HUAYNA POTOSI AND 20,927 FT. ILLIMANI COME INTO VIEW. THE BUS PASSES THROUGH THE CITY OF EL ALTO, STILL ON THE ALTIPLANO, UNTIL IT REACHES THE TOP OF A GIANT 6,000 FOOT CANYON INTO WHICH DROPS THE CITY. THE BUS THEN ZIGZAGS ITS WAY DOWN THE CANYON UNTIL IT GETS TO THE CENTER. WHAT AN ENTRANCE! AND, UNLIKE MOST PLACES IN THE WORLD, THE POOREST OF THE POOR LIVE AT THE TOP OF THE CANYON, WITH ALL THE VIEWS, AND THE WEALTHIEST LIVE AT THE BOTTOM, WHERE IT´S 20 DEGREES WARMER. THE LAST TIME I WAS IN LA PAZ, THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO, I WAS SO SICK WITH BRONCHITIS, THAT THE DOCTOR I SAW ORDERED ME TO LEAVE AND ENJOY THE CITY WITHOUT IN THE THE THE ALTIPLANO AND DROP TO A LOWER ALTITUDE. HOW NICE IT IS THIS TIME TO BE FULLY ACCLIMATIZED WITHOUT AND INHALERS AND ANTIBIOTICS. LA PAZ IS A VERY COOL PLACE, BUT NOT A PLACE IN WHICH I´D LIKE TO LIVE. IT´S GOT COLORFUL STREET MARKETS AND FABULOUS VIEWS, AND IT´S ONLY THE SECOND PLACE IN THE WORLD WHERE YOU CAN BUY SEA FOSSILS. THIS YEAR I BOUGHT TWO 600,000,000 YEAR OLD TRILOBITES THAT WERE DUG OUT OF THE ALTIPLANO. IT´S AMAZING TO THINK THAT THIS VERY HIGH PLACE WAS ONCE AT SEA LEVEL LA PAZ IS A TOUGH PLACE TO CALL HOME. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS GOING ¨CROSS TOWN.¨ EVERYTHING IS EITHER UP OR DOWN. AND AT 13,00 FEET UP IS A VERY SLOW PROCESS. LA PAZ IS REALLY JUST A STAGING AREA. SPEND A COUPLE DAYS HERE THEN MOVE ON, WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT I DID. I GOT MY LAUNDRY DONE, ATE SOME GOOD CITY FOOD, THEN LEFT FOR LAKE TITICACA AND THE BEST OF ALL BOLIVIA´S ADVENTURES.

El Español

LA PAZ, BOLIVIA
17 DE ABRIL DE 2009

THE ACQUISTITION OF A SECOND LANGUAGE IS AN INTERESTING THING. WHEN I WAS TEACHING I WOULD GET KINDERGARTNERS WHO SPOKE NO ENGLISH BEGIN TO GRASP THE LANUGAGE BY HALLOWEEN, IT WOULD TAKE MIDDLE SCHOOLERS UNTIL CHRISTMAS. HIGH SCHOOL KIDS SORT OF GOT IT BY EASTER.

WITH ME IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN. OUR LANGUAGE TRACKS, WHICH REALLY BEGIN TO CLOSE AROUND THE AGE OF FIVE, ARE ALMOST TOTALLY SHUT DOWN BY ADULTHOOD. BUT STILL, I WON´T GIVE UP. I STARTED STUDYING SPANISH QUIE AQCCIDENTLLY. MY COUSIN, A SURGEON, GAVE ME A SET OF 10 CASSETTE TAPES. THAT SUMMER WE WENT TO CALIFORNIA ON THE TRAIN. I LISTENED TO HALF THE TAPES BETWEEN PLATTSBURGH AND LOS ANGELES. IN THAT SHORT PERIOD OF TIME I LEARNED ENOUGH TO ORDER DINNER IN SPANISH AT A MEXICAN RESTAURANT. IT´S ALWAYS BEEN A JOKE THAT MY SPANISH SUCKS. AT THE BEGINNING I WAS AT THE ÏT SUCKS LEVEL 5,456,789.¨ THEN I GOT A TUTOR AND WENT TO SCHOOL FOR TWO WEEKS IN MEXICO AND MY SPANISH IMPROVED TO THE ÏT SUCKS LEVEL 1,658,985.¨ AFTER I RETIRED I FELL INTO THE ACCIDENTAL CAREER AS A SPANISH TEACHER. THEN I STUDIED SPANISH IN MEXICO FOR FOUR MONTHS, LIVING IN A SMALL APARTMENT IN NON-GRINGO NEIGHBORHOOD. THEN I TAUGHT AGAIN. BY THEN MY SPANISH HAD IMPROVED TO THE ÏT SUCKS LEVEL 9¨ STAGE.

IT STILL SUCKS, EVEN THOUGH I STUDY IT AND TEACH IT AND USE IT EVERY DAY. BY NOW IT´S PROBABLY AT THE ¨ÏT SUCKS LEVEL 4 STAGE.¨ MAYBE SOMEDAY I´LL GET TO LEVEL 1.

IT´S BEEN A LINGUISTIC ADVENTURE THIS WINTER. I NEVER GIVE UP, BUT IT´S NOT ALWAYS BEEN EASY.
TO MY EARS, CHILEAN SPANISH IS ALMOST INCOMPREHENSIBLE. ARGENTINIAN SPANISH ISN´T MUCH BETTER. I CAN ALMOST HOLD ON TO URUGUYAN SPANISH, BUT FIND PARAGUAYAN, BOLIVIAN AND PERUVIAN SPANISH CLEARER AND EASIER TO UNDERSTAND.

PART OF THE PROBLEM IS THAT THERE ARE MULTIPLE SPANISHES, JUST AS THERE ARE MULTIPLE ENGLISHES. AND, JUST AS WITH ENGLISH, THE BETTER A PERSON´S EDUCATION, THE BETTER THE SPANISH. THOSE WHO´VE STUDIED A SECOND LANGUAGE ON A DEEP LEVEL ARE MUCH MORE EMPATHETIC TO THE PLIGHT OF THE SPANISH-AS-A-SECOND LANGUAGE SPEAKER. IN CHILE, FOR EXAMPLE, A TEE-SHIRT IS A POLERA. IN ARGENTINA IT´S A REMERA. IN MEXICO IT´S A PLAYERA. I ORDERED SOPA DE PARAGUAY IN ASUNCION ASSUMING I WAS GOING TO GET A BOWL OF SOUP (SOPA=SOUP), BUT GOT A HUNK OF VEGETABLE FILLED CORN BREAD. I NEEDED SOCKS ONE DAY AND ASKED THE ARGENITINIAN CLERK FOR CALCETINAS. SHE JUST STARED AT ME. FINALLY I SHOWED HER AND SAID, ÄHH, YOU NEED MEDIDAS.

IN THE END, THESE ARE MY OBSERVATIONS: CHILEAN BODY LANGUAGE TOLD ME THEY WERE QUITE ANNOYED WHEN I ASKED THEM TO SLOW DOWN. THE ALL-TOO-ARROGANT ARGENTITIAN WOULD LAUGH AT MY ATTEMPTS TO SPEAK THEIR LANGUAGE. (ONE ARGENTINIAN, WHEN I TOLD HIM I LEARNED MY SPANISH IN MEXICO, COMMENTED: ¨¨LOS MEXICANOS NO HABLAN CASTELLANO.¨ MEXICANS DON´T SPEAK SPANISH!). NOT A SINGLE URUGUAYAN, BOLIVIAN OR PERUVIAN SHOWED ANY ANNOYANCE AT MY ATTEMPTS TO SPEAK THEIR LANGUAGE. IN FACT, THEY WERE THE ONES WHO WOULD GO OUT OF THEIR WAY TO COMPLIMENT ME ON MY SPANISH. (THIS AFTERNOON, WHILE GETTING A HAIRCUT, THE BARBER CALLED MY SPANISH ¨PERFECT.¨ THAT, MY FRIENDS, IS NOT THE CASE.

I PLOD ON. MY SPANISH TEACHER, GLORIA, WHO KNEW ALL TO WELL MY FRUSTRATIONS, WOULD OFTEN SAY TO ME, ¨POCO A POCO, DAN.¨ LITTLE BY LITTLE.

AND LITTLE BY LITTLE IT IS. EACH DAY I ACQUIRE, AND ATTEMPT TO USE, A FEW MORE WORDS. MY VOCABULARY CONTINUES TO GROW. AS THIS TRIP HAS PROGRESSED I´VE NOTICED THAT MY ABILITY TO READ AND AURALLY COMPREHEND HAS IMPROVED DRAMATICALLY. THE ABILITY TO SPEAK IT, HOWEVER, IS ANOTHER THING. OF THE FOUR AREAS OF LANGUAGE ACQUISITION, IT´S THE HARDEST FOR ME.

THERE IS PROBALY NO WAY TO REALLY STOP FULL BLOWN ALZHEIMER´S DISEASE, BUT THE STUDY OF A SECOND LANGUAGE INTO ADVANCED ADULTHOOD IS ONE OF THE BEST WAYS TO SLOW IT DOWN.

SO, I WILL CONTINUE--POCO A POCO. ONE OF THESE DAYS I´LL GET IT, OR AT LEAST I´LL DIE TRYING. I HAD A VIETNAMESE FRIEND WHO SPOKE ENGLISH--BADLY. I COULD UNDERSTAND HIM; HE COULD UNDERSTAND ME. THAT´S ALWAYS BEEN MY GOAL: TO SPÈAK SPANISH...BADLY!

La Semana Santa in Paraguay and Bolivia

Santa Cruz de la Tierra, Bolivia
9 de abril de 2009

Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is huge in Latin America. It is far more than a week of religious observances. For Latinos it's a time for extended vacation, as well as a time for spiritual reflexion.

The first signs of Semana Santa started weeks ago while I was still in Buenos Aires. For the bottom half of South America this is the last hurrah of summer--the last holiday before the onset of winter. Every travel agency in Argentina and Uruguay were advertising for Easter get-aways--often to the same places we escape to: Florida, Cancun, and the Caribbean. But, in this year of la crisis economica, many Latin Americans are staying closer to home and escaping to beaches is Brazil or visiting places in their own country.

Chile, Argentina and Uruguay are secular countries, much like the United States. Bolivia, on the other hand, is culturally much less secular, and it is for this reason that I chose to be here for Easter Week.

The week began, however, in Parguay. Last Saturday, the day before Palm Sunday, or Domingo de Ramas, I began to notice people selling palms on the streets of Asuncion. These were not the ordinary palm fronds that we get at home but, rather, palms reshaped into baskets, crosses, flowers, hearts and designs that defy description. On Sunday, I got to a small chapel early. At the beginning of the service, the priest and his assistants lead a procession into the church. A group of young men were carrying a large statue of Jesus riding on a donkey. It was placed at the front of the church and would remain there for the duration of Holy Week. As the statue was carried into the church, people waved their palms enthusiastically. When the triumphant Jesus was placed on the altar, the priest then blessed the palms, and a traditional Mass followed.

By Thursday I had arrived in Southern Bolivia, in its largest city, Santa Cruz. Thursday morning shops and stores maintained their normal business hours. By 1:00 p.m. it was blistering hot and I escaped to my hotel to take a nap. When I reemerged onto the streets, all the stores had closed and would stay closed until Monday. This was a national holiday, a time to return to villages and time to spend with family and friends.

The cathedral in Santa Cruz is the diocesan center for this part of Bolivia. La Ultima Cena, the Last Supper, observance began at 5 pm. I had expected it be in the church, but it was held outdoors, on the broad steps leading into the church. This was high Catholic. The Bishop presided with an entourage of priests. The most powerful part of the service was the washing of feet. Twelve boys had been chosen and the Bishop, with the help of two other priests, presided over this ritual.

By 7 pm it was time to move on to another church, La Mansion. At first glance I would have said this was a Protestant mega-church. It was huge and had I not looked closely I would not have seen some of the subtle Catholic imagery in the church. People came and went. The service began with music, praise, and prayer and repeated that cycle for over an hour. Ten minutes into the service I realized I was in a Pentcostal Catholic church. People lifted their hands, prayed in tongues, waved their palms. This was a spirit filled church and it was hard not to participate. None of the traditional Holy Thursday rituals were present. From what I could, this was a service of deep thanksgiving.

There was an air of festivity on the streets outside La Mansion. People were selling all sorts of things: hamburgers, hot dogs, empanadas, popcorn, palms, of course, candies, Bibles, balloons, fruit, and juices. Several people had wheelbarrels filled with Easter eggs. I asked one woman if this was a new custom in Bolivia and she said that it had only entered the culture within the past few years. The streets were packed with people. This was the beginning of five dias de feriados--public holidays.

I walked back to my hotel. There was such a fun feeling all around me that I hated to pass up the opportunity to be part of it. On the way back, I stopped into another church--La Igelsia de San Francisco. I was, after all, on the full Semana Santa ecclesiastical tour of as many church services as I could see. I wanted the whole Holy-Week-in-Latin-America experience. The lines going into the church were thick with people. I followed the crowd, stuffing myself into the masses. As people entered, they touched each statue then crossed themselves. I am still not sure what all these people were doing. I had expected to see an exposed consecrated Host, but there was none. The crowd was jovial and this was clearly an important part of the Jueves Santo, Holy Thursday, experience.

Back at the Cathedral, the same thing was going on, but the church was so much larger that it absorbed people more easily. This time the Eucharist was exposed, but in the foreground was a diorama of the Last Supper with assorted images added. There was a table with bread and wine, and the floor was a crown of thorns, a whip and thirty pieces of silver. May people were deep in mediation, but overall the mood was high spirited. This was, for many, as a friend once said about contemporary weddings, more show than sacrament.

In the end, in my opinion, the Pentecostals trumped out the Cathedral. They had stripped away the ritual that many people simply do not find satisfying. They had gone directly to the source. As I reflected on this, I realized that this was a Catholic response to the ever-growing number of Protestant converts in Central and South America. The service was essentially evangelical Protestant, although there was a Mass with the Eucharist being an essential part. But prayer, praise and music, from what I could see, dominated.

Friday morning the streets were empty. Not a store or shop was open. Today was Good Friday, or Viernes Santo. At noon the Cathedral was first on my schedule. The Seven Words of Christ was the liturgy for the afternoon, but so much of it was lost on me because I could not follow the Spanish. It was, essentially, brief sermons on the last seven utterances of Christ, linked together by a wonderful, small orchestra.

At three, La Mansion hosted the same liturgy, but what impressed me was that most of the congregation followed along in their Bibles and many of the meditations were done by woman. (There had not been a single woman on the altar at the Cathedral. ) There was much music, contemporary in nature, but in the end it was the Word that dominated the liturgy.

By now I was hungry, and I took a church break for dinner. At six, though, I was back at the Cathedral for yet another liturgy. This, too, was done outdoors on the steps of the church. The park is front was swimming with people and as far as I could see people lined the streets. By 6:30 Christ was dead and a solemn procession began. I use the word "procession," because that is the word the Bolivians use, but to me a procession implies a relatively small group of people. When I say that thousands of people participated in this event I do not exaggerate. To use the word parade would diminish the event, so we´ll just call it by what is was--a procession.

The park and streets were alive with activity. By now, bouquets of fresh basil were being sold. I had not seen this before and when I asked someone the only answer I got was that this was a Bolivian Good Friday tradition. More people were buying more palms, as well as the usual assortment of refreshments. Kids were carrying Bugs Bunny balloons. Many people had rosaries or were carrying statues of Jesus or crucifixes. A lot of people were carrying candles.

The Legion of Mary opened to procession. I had to chuckle at the macho Latino boys, spinning their rosaries on their fingers, checking out the girls in the crowd. Different fraternal groups followed--Sisters of the Dominicans, the Miracle of Jesus squad. Hundreds of people paraded past. Next to follow were the clergy who had participated in the earlier liturgy. Once these groups passed, a huge black cross, draped in white cloth and wreathed in flowers, carried on the shoulders of ten men, emerged. People would leave their place on the procession route, approach the cross, touch their palms to it, or touch their hands to it. Hundreds more people passed. A large statue of Mary, dressed just like a Domincan nun, was carried by a contingent of ten woman. Eight female Santa Cruz policewoman acted as honor guards. Hundreds more people passed.

A large statue of St. John was next, carried by another ten men and flanked by a contingent of eight male Santa Cruz policemen. As each statue approached, a truck with speakers on it was within sound distance. There was an ongoing recital of the rosary. People continued to step out of place to place their hands or palms or bouquets of herbs on the statue. This time hundreds and hundreds of people passed.

By now the faint sounds of a drum and brass band could be heard. Following the statue of the living Christ was the three foot by eight foot silver, wood and glass coffin containing the dead Christ. His body was clearly visible, covered in a thin gauzy material. This time it was not possible to step out of line. A hundred young people, hands linked, protected the coffin and the twenty eight men carrying it.

The brass band, at least a hundred strong, followed. And following them were hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people. The stream was seemingly unending. This was my time to join the procession, walking in tune to the band, joining the faithful in this procession around the city core.

Ninety minutes later the fraternities, statues, and glass coffin returned to the church. Hundreds and hundreds of people were singing--Jesu, Jesu Christo, yo te adoro. Jesus, Jesus Christ, I adore you. The procession and all the statues entered the cathedral. The coffin was placed in the middle aisle , eight large candles surrounded it, and the statues of Mary and the living Christ flanked it. The body would be waked until midnight. Thousands of people poured into the church, standing in line to touch the coffin, to place their palm fronds on it., to kiss it. People lingered, people prayed, some people wept. There was absolutely nothing phoney about this display of fidelity and emotion.

After their visit to the coffin, congregants would find a seat in the church and sit with their friends and families. Some were saying the Stations of the Cross at their seats; others knelt in prayer. It was just like a large family wake where, once you have paid your respects to the family and deceased, you kick back and enjoy the company of people you´ve not seen in awhile.

Meanwhile, at some of the smaller altars, people were lighting candles, praying to statues; others were following the visible Stations of the Cross, praying at each one. Hundreds of candles were being lit and people were praying over them.

Outside the once quiet streets had a holiday feel about them. All the food vendors were out, restaurants were open and the jazz bar kitty-corner to the cathedral had started its Friday night entertainment.

I had never experienced a Good Friday like this, although I have experienced larger scale Buddhist/Hindu festivals in Asia. There were many comparisons. In this culture, this was a seamless extension of the secular and the religious, just as it is in India or Burma. No one would have thought to say this was a violation of church and state. This was simply a cultural extension of the lives of the majority of Bolivians. (On the other hand, the federal government on Wednesday did say that it was distancing itself from these traditions. Evo Morales is making an attempt to separate the too-powerful church/state relationship.)

I lingered in fascination at the four hour velado (from the word vela, meaning candle) , or wake. For me this was a unique experience. Saturday, I knew would be much quieter, a good day for me to travel to another town where I would experience Easter.

By the end of Santo Viernes, the Cathedral had trumped La Mansion, sheerly by its power and pagaentry. I just could not see the La Mansionites expressing their faith in this way, anymore than the Cathedralites could express their faith in Pentecostal fashion. Many branches, but one trunk, Jesus told us. This was a perfect way to experience two branches.

Saturday was a travel day. Churches were silenced, so this was a good day to be on the move. A ten hour bus ride brought me out of the hot, humid Amazonian lowlands to the lovely town of Cochabamba, at 8,000 feet. Easter morning, I rose at 5:15 to participate in the first service of the day--an Easter procession. Well, I was disappointed. Maybe there were 30 people. The women went one way carrying a large statue of Mary, and the men went another carrying a crucifix. Each group circled a city block then returned to the church. I went back to bed.

At ten, though, I did go to church , but, as is the case in Latin America, Easter is all about Friday. There was a large statue of the risen Christ on the altar and a banner proclaiming ¨Why are you looking for Jesus here? He has risen.¨ But, sadly, the service was lackluster as best. This wasn´t a congregation that sang and at one point the lector almost begged the people (and this is a pretty faithful paraphrase), ¨Come on people, sing! Jesus died for your sins. Sing!¨ In Bolivia, as in the rest of the Spanish speaking world, Semana Santa had come to an end. Easter was just another normal Sunday.

I had a feeling, though, that had I been at La Mansion, the service would have much more exhubarent!