Some of the women nod. Despite myself, I find I’m paying attention. Our whole lives change every time the price of mineral goes up or down. Would we be better off if things were different?
But Mami is shaking her head. “Prices for metals are set by international markets. There’s no way for the government to control that.”
“The government would find a way,” Doña Elena huffs, “and I’d rather have one of us running things than some international power. Give them a hand and they’ll take your whole arm. Remember the Water Wars of 2000?”
Even I know what she’s talking about. It was four years before I was born, but they teach it in school and lots of people still talk about it. Years before Evo Morales got elected president, the Bolivian government needed a loan from the World Bank to improve the waterworks for our third-largest city. But one of the terms of the loan was that they had to privatize it: sell the public water service to a foreign company. Bechtel, the largest construction company in the United States of America, ended up owning all the water in Cochabamba—a city of 800,000 people—even the water that fell from the sky. When they doubled the price of water overnight and padlocked the public taps, a huge protest broke out. Protesters were met with tear gas and bullets. Six people were killed and 175 were wounded. It was partially the anger over this Water War that helped Morales become president.
“Corporations, pah!” adds Abuelita. “How is what they do any different from the way the Spaniards enslaved the Inca and took the silver out of this very hill to make themselves rich?”
“Not the Spaniards again,” mutters Doña Elena under her breath.
Abuelita bristles. “Yes, the Spaniards! Our rulers were always Europeans, all the way back to the colonial times. Even Simón Bolívar, the great liberator, was just another European. We indigenous—Quechua, Aymara, Chiquitano, the Guaraní down in the Amazon—we’ve always been the majority. It’s about time we keep our wealth here instead of sending it off to make others rich. Tell me,” she goes on, fixing Doña Elena with a glare, “how can a corporation in San Francisco own the rain that falls in Bolivia? Rain belongs to God.”
I love the fact that, even though Abuelita and Doña Elena are basically agreeing with each other, they’re still fighting.
“Yes, well, everyone’s a good socialist until they get a taste of power,” says Mami. It’s interesting to see Mami participate in political conversations. She never offered opinions when Papi was still with us, but out here, surrounded by no one but other women, she speaks freely. I wonder whether she would voice these opinions around César and how he would react if she did. “Then they hoard money for themselves as much as anyone. Look at the Morales government now—as corrupt as any government ever was.”
“How so?” asks Doña Marisol. “He took power away from the U.S. corporations and the World Bank. He gave us a new constitution, a new, indigenous flag. He brought women into the government and protects the environment.”
“Such an environmentalist,” says Mami, practically rolling her eyes, “putting roads through our national parks and indigenous spaces to dig for natural gas.”
“He reduced poverty,” counters Doña Marisol. “You can’t deny that. He raised the minimum wage.”
“He’s also breaking ground, right now, to raise a two-hundred-and-thirty-million-boliviano presidential palace.” Mami gestures emphatically. “Oh, and of course he’s trying to abolish term limits to keep power for himself forever.”
“All I’m saying,” says Abuelita, “is that we are a country where valuable things have always been taken away from us, from silver for the Spaniards to lithium for mobile phones; from water to natural gas. It’s time we stopped making deals with the devil to be modern.”
“Some good things come from outside,” says Mami, refusing to back down. “You can’t just ignore the rest of the world or throw out the good with the bad. Okay, Morales kicked out some of the corporations, but he also kicked out foreign aid.”
“Why do we need it?” scoffs Doña Elena.
“Because sometimes outside help is the only help to be had. Do you remember Rosaura? She was able to get a divorce from her husband when he beat her because of that Danish legal aid clinic. And, Marisol, your own daughter was able to get into a training program so she could become a preschool teacher because of that other charity. You can’t say that her life isn’t better because of it. Now those organizations are gone. Where will my Ana go to get help finding a better future?”
As one, all their gazes swing to me. I swallow. I wasn’t planning on being an exhibit in their argument.
But Mami has given me the opening I need.
“I don’t need a charity,” I say, not quite able to meet Mami’s eyes. “I’ve taken a job. At the El Rosario mine. As a guarda.”
Deafening silence meets my announcement. Even the ping and crack of rocks in the background vanishes. The other women have stopped work completely to listen in.
Mami’s eyebrows shoot up. “You what?”
I stare at the worthless hunk of rock in my hand, wishing we weren’t having this conversation.
“El Rosario needs a guarda. We need the money.” I do some quick math to make the number seem more impressive. “I’ll make eight hundred and fifty bolivianos a month.”
“So,” Mami says. Tears roughen her voice, and whatever hope I had that my news wouldn’t make her angry vanishes like clouds in the dry season. “You thought it wasn’t enough that I lose a son and a husband to the mountain. You decided I should lose my daughter too.”
“I’m trying to help.” It comes out as a whisper.
“Do you think that getting yourself killed is going to help me?” she snaps. “What’s your logic? That I’ll have one less mouth to feed when you’re found dead in a ditch?”
Tears are running down her face, and I know that her sharp words are coming from worry, not meanness, so I don’t let her see how much they frighten me.
“There was a job open. This”—I wave my hand at the piles of slag around us—“isn’t going to be enough. We need to eat. César needs time to get better. This is a way to do that. I’ll be careful.”
“There are other ways,” Mami says in a clipped tone.
“What other ways?” I ask, my voice rising in frustration. This isn’t something I’ve decided on a whim. I’ve thought and thought about this. There are no better choices available to us.
Mami doesn’t get a chance to answer because that’s when Doña Elena decides to join our conversation.
“A better way would be to get her a man,” she states with complete certainty.
Mami and I stare at her, struck dumb.
Abuelita has no such problem. “Don’t be stupid, Elena,” Abuelita growls at the other woman. She glares daggers at the eavesdroppers until they go back to cracking rocks. The noise of their work underlines Abuelita’s words to Doña Elena. “She’s far too young.”
“Nonsense!” barks Doña Elena. “I was fourteen when I got married. How old were you, Elvira? Fifteen? Sixteen? Besides, the girl wouldn’t even really have to marry. Even if she just got engaged, his family would take care of you all until César is healthy again.”
“No.”
Mami’s eyebrows rise at the tone in my voice. “Ana,” she whispers. “Manners.” Abuelita can sass Doña Elena all she wants because they’re the same age, but Mami and I need to be polite to her.
I shake my head, no longer trusting my own voice.
Doña Elena turns on me. “Stubborn girl,” she scolds. “Look at how hard your mother and grandmother are working now to take care of you. If you were a good daughter, you’d be thinking of ways you could take care of them. A husband would be responsible for making sure you all have enough to eat.” Her eyes travel over me much like the miners’ did. “You’re pretty enough . . .”
“I’m not going to get married! Ever
!”
“Don’t shout at your elders,” Mami says, a hint of heat creeping into her voice. She turns to Doña Elena. “She’s young still. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” I grind out. I’ve lived in a one-room house most of my life. I do not want to get married.
“Ana, stop being so melodramatic.” Mami sighs. “No one is saying you have to get married at twelve, but of course you’ll get married eventually. It’s not good to be alone. Remember those days after your father died? Barring the door every night? You, having to leave school to help us sort rocks?”
Having to leave school is a wound I still can’t stand to have poked. “Yes, I remember those days,” I snap. “There was a whole week when no one hit you.”
I realize, in the stunned quiet that follows, that I have embarrassed my mother in front of her friends. I feel slimy inside. I clear my throat and force my voice to be less ugly. I can’t meet her eyes again.
“I’ve made up my mind,” I say loud enough for Mami, Doña Elena, and all the other women and their worthless rocks to hear me. “Tonight, I’m going to work as a guarda for the mine.” I stare at the anemic blue sky and let out a shaky breath, trying to let go of my anger with it. “I’m going to go home and sleep now. It’ll be fine.”
And with that, I turn and walk away.
I really hate the word fine.
* * *
Even though I’m tired, I can’t fall asleep. First of all, I’m not used to sleeping in the middle of the day. It feels wasteful. Also, even though I manage to still my body, I can’t get my mind to stop whirling around and around. Tonight will not find me safely behind a latched door with my family, nestled under blankets. Tonight will find me walking around the mine, guarding it from who knows what. I know I’ll need my wits about me. I will myself to sleep, but I don’t manage it. Plus, guilt over how nasty I was to Mami eats at me.
For over an hour I stare at the ceiling, listening to César cough, wasting my precious rest time. But then I must have dozed off, because suddenly I hear Mami calling from outside.
“Ana? Ana! Get up! It’s time for you to go.”
I force myself to get out of my blankets. The evening air cuts like a knife through my clothes. I can tell tonight is going to be the type of end-of-summer night that feels more like the start of winter.
“I’m awake,” I call, surprised to hear her. It’s still light out. She should still be working with the palliris.
I walk outside and find her laying things on a flat rock. I see a bag of coca leaves, two blankets, Papi’s old helmet with its attached acetylene lamp, and seven sticks of dynamite. Three of them are full length, like the ones that the miners use for blasting, but the other four look like they’ve been sawed in half.
I hug her, burying my face in her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Mami,” I mumble into the scratchy fabric. “I’m so sorry for what I said earlier about you and Papi.”
Mami turns me in her arms and hugs me.
“It was never that much of a secret, I suppose,” she says.
“Still. You don’t deserve to have me throwing it around like that. Please forgive me?”
“There’ s nothing to forgive,” she whispers. “We all say ugly things when we’re upset. I’m sorry that I yelled at you for trying to help.”
“I found out about the debt,” I say, looking up at her.
Mami’s face is lined with exhaustion when she looks down at me.
“I wondered,” she says. “You’re so smart. And too curious by half.”
“You can tell me things,” I say. “I’m old enough to help.”
Mami sighs. “I wish you didn’t have to. I’m worried about you, mi hija.”
I’m worried about me too, so I don’t answer that. Instead, I look over the things she’s assembled.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“Watch,” she commands, letting me go. She takes one of the three big sticks of dynamite and pulls out the fuse. She then cuts both the stick of explosives and the fuse in half with a knife and reassembles them into two mini-sticks. “You don’t want to detonate so much dynamite that you can’t outrun the blast,” she says. “But if a group of men comes after you like they did poor Mariángela, you light these, and throw them at them, and run. Promise me.”
I imagine myself hurling dynamite at shadows and bringing the whole mountain down on top of myself. Then I imagine being caught alone and unarmed by a group of men. I remember Mariángela’s smiling face.
“I promise,” I hear myself say.
“Well,” she says, her voice gruff, “there you go, then, that’s all you need. Keep your eyes open and be safe. You can’t fall asleep when you’re a guarda. You’ll have to stay up all night, eyes sharp! And don’t dawdle coming home. I won’t breathe easy until I see your face tomorrow morning.”
She puts everything onto the manta and ties it into a pack that she slings around my shoulders. Tying the two ends into a knot over my collarbone, she rests her hands gently on my shoulders for a second. In the quiet between us I hear her regret, her sadness.
“Thank you, Mami,” I manage, my voice thick with tears. I lean forward and kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Giving my shoulder a quick squeeze, she walks away from me without another word, back to the slag heap and the never-ending task of sorting good rock from worthless. I square my shoulders and face the other way, toward El Rosario and my new job.
20
I get to El Rosario just as the last light of day is purpling the sky. Small circles of light bob toward me and I realize that they’re the headlamps of the miners coming out of the tunnels. I step out of the way as the men walk past me, all dirt-streaked faces, grime-encrusted suits, and sweaty bodies. Remembering the last time I was in this entry lot, I duck my head and try not to get noticed. Luckily, this time none of them pay me any attention, and soon they’ve left and I’m facing the mouth of the mine in the gathering gloom.
In some ways, not knowing if I’m alone yet is creepier than actually being alone.
A few minutes later, I see another glow from deep within the tunnel. It seems to take forever for it to get to me. At last, Don Carmelo steps out of the mine. He takes his time locking up the toolshed, then walks over to where I’m standing.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.
“Here I am,” I say, trying to sound brave.
“Do you need anything before I leave?”
A ferocious pack of guard dogs to keep me safe overnight. A five-course meal for my family. A miracle cure for miner’s lungs. Enough money to be safe forever.
“No. Thank you.”
“Very well. See you first thing in the morning.”
“Good night,” I say. It’s odd saying it knowing I’m about to start work, not end it.
“Good night,” he says. And with that, I’m truly alone.
For the first half hour I distract myself by walking around the mine, checking behind the coils of rope, piles of slag, and wheeled metal bins. When I’m positive that there are no monsters lurking in any of the shadows, I walk over to the tin-roofed adobe shed. Looking through the iron bars on the window, I see the mining equipment—spikes, cables, rolled-up air hoses, the air compressor, a single, precious pneumatic drill, parts of broken track, plastic jugs filled with I’m not sure what, and all kinds of other stuff I can’t even identify. I test the bolt on the door. It holds.
Satisfied, I hunt for a good place to spend the rest of the night. I want it to be comfortable enough, but not so comfortable that I fall asleep—not that there’s much danger of that. The sun has only just gone down and already my fingers and toes are numb with the cold. I also want somewhere that I have a good view of the things I need to guard and the surrounding area, but where no one can sneak up on
me. I eventually settle on an outcropping of stone about a man’s height above the ground to the right of the mouth of the mine. I’m next to the mouth and facing the shed, and with the cliff behind me, I’ll feel safe enough.
Pleased with my choice, I haul myself onto the little ledge and open the bundle Mami made for me. I fold one of the blankets as many times as I can and put it on the ground. Then, sitting on it, I wrap the other one around me. I pull a small handful of coca leaves out of the bag and tuck them into my cheek. I lay the sticks of dynamite on the ground beside me, within easy reach. The helmet I’m not sure what to do with, so I wind my braids around my head like I used to when I worked with Papi in the mines, and put it on, belting the acetylene around my waist.
I decide that I should turn on the lamp, just to make sure it works if I need it. Rubbing my fingers along the band, I find the lighter tucked in there and flick it a few times with my thumb, letting the tiny flame steal my night vision. I smile sadly, remembering when Abuelita gave the helmet to me to light a dung fire so I could make dinner, for no reason other than to stop me from crying. Back in the days when wet matches felt like something worth crying over. In that moment, I miss my old life so badly it hurts.
I tip my head and stare at the stars until the dry wind pulls the tears from my eyes, never letting them fall.
A shadow flits by the mine entrance and I jump to my feet, brandishing a stick of dynamite, ready to repel a robber. But when I look more closely at the intruder, I see that it’s nothing but a stray dog, sniffing around, hoping for something to eat. I know how you feel, I think, and relax again.
For a while I distract myself by staring down at the city of Potosí, a lake of lights at the base of the mountain. It still represents everything I want from life. The solid houses made of brick and painted concrete; the roads paved and cobbled. The shops full of things to buy; people bustling around purposefully. Most everyone wearing clothes that fit them and all the schoolkids in clean, matching uniforms.
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