by Ursula Pike
Our cigarette smoke drifted upward. The tree in the center of his patio swayed in the wind, and I felt a chill. Except for the rustling tree leaves, the town was quiet. I carried our dishes into the kitchen. Suddenly, I was exhausted.
“Do you want me to walk you home?” he said as I put my coat on.
“No, it’s still early. I think I’ll be OK.” I squeezed his shoulder and walked out into the plaza.
13
La Aislamiento — Isolation
At 2 a.m., I awoke to the sound of knocking on my door. Then someone yelled my name from the street. I jumped out of my mosquito net, pissed off because I assumed it was some drunk playing tricks on the gringa. Whom did I see but my friend Laura standing next to her enormous floral-print suitcase on the cobblestone street below my window.
“Oh my god! Wait, I’ll be right down,” I yelled. I hadn’t seen her in months and couldn’t believe she was in Kantuta. When we hugged, she still smelled like an expensive fragrance despite having been on a bus for hours.
“What are you doing here?” I helped her bring everything up to my room.
“I’ve been sick for the last few weeks, so they sent me to La Paz to make sure I didn’t have typhoid fever. Yesterday, they told me it was OK to go home. I decided to take a detour to see you.”
We talked nonstop until 4 a.m. She updated me on her project, what she thought of the new crop of volunteers that had arrived, and all the gossip about who was sleeping with whom.
I went to work for a few hours while she slept. I thought about telling Laura about cutting my wrists. Right after it happened, I wrote her a letter that I never sent. But I didn’t want to have to tell anyone that story again, not even her. I hoped to keep it a secret for the rest of my life.
Over dinner, I asked her what she wanted to do after Peace Corps.
“Maybe urban planning. I’m not sure I want to be an interior designer anymore. I never thought I’d enjoy working on this big sewer project as much as I did. It was fun to tell construction workers what to do. What about you?”
“Sometimes I think I’d like to get into publishing—you know, like be an editor or writer. But I don’t know how a person does that or even what kind of degree I’d need.”
“I could totally see you doing that,” she said. “You already look like an editor, with those glasses and everything.” I pushed my heavy government-issue black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose in an attempt to look as scholarly as possible, and we laughed.
Laura left the next day, but not before we made plans to travel to Brazil after our service ended. We promised to help each other lose fifteen pounds before the end of service so that we could wear bikinis on the beach in Brazil. I went back to my quiet room tired but feeling heartened by her visit.
Three weeks later, a boy from the telephone office told me I had a call from Laura.
“They kicked me out,” she sobbed. “Someone found out I took an extra week returning to my site and they considered it an illegal vacation. I didn’t lie when they asked me. Now I have to go home.” My lungs suddenly deflated. I couldn’t believe it—not that she took a few days of illegal vacation but that she was being terminated for it. Volunteers took illegal vacation all the time. The star volunteers, the ones the administration loved to talk about, were some of the worst offenders and would disappear for weeks. They knew how to work the system and never get caught. But my best friend, the only Latina in the group, was being made an example of. It felt unfair.
“I will come to La Paz,” I told her. I squeezed onto an express bus going through Kantuta that night, and two days later I was in La Paz, where I was relieved to find that Laura had calmed down. We spent a day in La Paz together, shopping for last-minute gifts, trying to pretend this was not a big deal. I couldn’t believe she was leaving.
“I know I’ll see you again, so don’t even think about losing touch,” I said as I hugged her good-bye in the morning before she took a cab to the airport. I wondered what I was going to do. The organization didn’t seem to care about the implications of making an example of her. Maybe she was just unlucky. But brown people always seemed to get in trouble for the same behavior that white people were never punished for. I knew I had to stick it out. I would stay, but not for Peace Corps. Losing Laura would make this experience more difficult, but I wasn’t going to give up.
Back in Kantuta, I decided to move into a bigger house. The room where I lived had too many bad memories. A few blocks away there was an apartment in a big house that had a kitchen and bathroom. My new room was a little smaller, but much more private, and the inside patio was all mine. The only other person who ever used it was the saleslady who worked at the clothing store connected to the building. She was quiet, and smiled at me every morning.
In the evenings, I searched for radio stations, listening closely for a word of English. I wanted news from the outside world: an earthquake, a sex scandal, a cheesy story about a poor person who overcame adversity to become something special. Radio Kantuta was the town’s only station. It came through loud and clear in Quechua. After a few minutes, I would realize how little Quechua I understood. Beyond the few words I knew, it made no sense to me. I loved the idea of learning it, even as I struggled with the grammar and pronunciation. Every new phrase was one more phrase that wasn’t going to die. It was a reminder that Quechua was very much a living language, the language of a flourishing culture. I felt that way every time I learned a new Karuk word from my grandmother, who had learned those same words from her mother. But here in Kantuta, people spoke Spanish most of the time, and my Quechua became more of a performance piece, used to greet people and show them I was learning their language.
Daniel came to see my new place and showed up with cheap cigarettes and bottles of beer so we could christen the house. He had been working in the countryside for weeks. Neither one of us had been to Cochabamba for a long time, and, especially now that Laura was gone, it seemed as if he and I were the only two volunteers left in the country.
“What do you think would happen if you and I ever got together?” Daniel asked as he poured us both another glass of beer. It felt less like an attempted seduction and more as though he was presenting a business proposition. I thought about everything we had been through and the months remaining before he left.
“It would completely destroy our friendship.” I looked at him. A few months ago, I would have let his comment pass as though I hadn’t heard it, or I would have made a joke. But we were way past that. “I would get self-conscious like I always do after casual sex; you would disappear like you do and then show up one day with a gorgeous woman; and we would pretend it never happened.” He didn’t say anything. He knew this; I just had to say it out loud. I finished my glass of beer. Had I ruined the relaxed mood of the evening by being honest? Then I remembered that he was the one who asked me. We finished our beers, and after an overly dramatic yawn, he said he had to get home. I knew things would be fine between us again eventually because we needed each other too much not to get over it.
The next morning as I prepped for the day, I finally found the BBC on my radio. I listened to the British voices tell me the news. Trouble in the Middle East, the rising cost of coffee, a plane crash with no survivors—the world continued moving along, and it was comforting to hear English descriptions of it coming from the stereo. This news felt immediate. I lingered a bit and fixed myself another cup of instant coffee. That’s when I heard something I hadn’t heard for almost a year: an American Indian speaking.
I froze. There it was, that distinctive way many American Indians in the West speak. The halting, slow speech pattern that I always assumed I did not have until a white guy I dated in college kept interrupting me. He said I took…too long…to finish…a…sentence. He complained that he could never tell when I had finished a thought and it was his turn to speak.
Had they mentioned what tribe she was from? The reporter said it was a tribe in Nevada; maybe she was Shoshone. In college
I met some Shoshone ladies at a protest for Yucca Mountain. I was a student then, still figuring out whether it was more effective to fight the wrong I saw in the world or to contribute to the good. I thought I had to choose to do one or the other. Joining Peace Corps was a commitment to contribute to the good. With everything that had happened lately, I was no longer sure that was what I was doing.
“Since time immemorial,” said the reporter. Oh no, did he really have to use that phrase? The reporter was interviewing the Native lady about an environmental issue, but it had been such a long time since I had heard an Indian speaking that I focused instead on the way she spoke. The reporter remarked about the broken-down cars and other signs of poverty surrounding the woman’s house. The nasal tone was full of condemnation for a society that would let this happen, and pity for the Native woman. The story ended, and, thankfully, it wasn’t followed up by depressing flute music. I put my hand on the on/off button, waiting, hoping there would be a follow-up story about another group of Natives. Hoping that the BBC was doing a whole day of programming about Natives. But no, next was a report on soccer. I sighed and turned off the radio. This unexpected reminder of the world back home was particularly bittersweet because there was no one here— not Daniel, not other Peace Corps volunteers, not Bolivians—who would understand what I was talking about when I mentioned hearing a Native American on the radio. I finished my coffee and headed out the door to the empty road for a jog. The Native woman’s voice repeated in my head.
“Indian,” I whispered, in that quick way my grandmother said it. The way the woman on the radio said it. IN-din. I repeated it over and over to prove to myself I knew how to say it like a Native. I said it low so that the older woman sweeping the sidewalk would not hear me as I passed by.
“Buen día,” I heard her greet me. I nodded to acknowledge her and picked up my pace. I pushed myself to run instead of walk because I wanted to be alone on the path. Running through a dry creek bed, I passed the houses on the edge of town and followed the trail leading up the hill. Hearing the Native woman on the radio reminded me that I was missing more about the United States than hamburgers or bookstores full of books in English. I was missing powwows in smelly gyms and waiting in line for frybread. I even missed the way I felt when I saw glassy-eyed elders boarding a city bus, knowing they would continue to lead a hard life until their last days. There was a community back there in the US that I belonged to, and I missed it.
Reaching the crest of a hill, I stopped and hunched over, trying to catch my breath. I always forgot how hard it was to run at this altitude. Turning around, I saw Kantuta sitting in the valley. The two orange-ish church steeples marked the center of town, and red-tile roofs competed with corrugated-tin roofs and a few unfinished shells of buildings. I pressed my right hand to the stitch in my side. Kantuta was not a picturesque village like the one I saw in the guidebook I bought before coming to Bolivia. But it was full of streets I knew and buildings I entered every day. It meant something to me because I knew who and what was inside those buildings and on those streets. I had been given an opportunity to work with the children at the Center and live in this community, not by the US government, but by the Bolivians. While my friends back in the States were learning how to make a perfect café mocha or counting their pennies as they began graduate school, I was here doing this. Two years was a short time in the expanse that was my life. The outside world would always be there. My family and my community would also be there when I returned to the US. I turned around and headed back into the town.
14
La Celebración — The Celebration
It was the Festival of the Virgin of Candelaria, the patron saint of Kantuta. La Virgen de Candelaria was the darkest of patron saints. La morenita, she was called. Her image was first found on a rock by the Indigenous people of the Canary Islands off the coast of Spain. They immediately recognized her as one of their goddesses. When the Spanish colonizers came along, they decided she looked instead like a dark-skinned version of the Virgin Mary. A black Madonna. Like all successful colonizers, they knew the importance of putting their own stamp on the most important elements of a culture.
Throughout South America, this dark Virgin was revered; her smile was said to comfort the afflicted. In Kantuta, the Festival of the Virgin of Candelaria was the biggest festival of the year. Halloween plus Christmas topped with mounds of food and buckets of booze. Grown children returned home, families hosted huge parties that lasted for days, with endless alcohol and enough food for anyone who showed up. Every mass at the church was overflowing with people showing devotion to their saint, their town, their family. Maybe because Bolivians were normally reserved people, the exuberance they demonstrated during Candelaria seemed outsized and infectious.
One of the biggest events of the festival was the running of the bulls. It was not like the event in Spain, with locals and crazy tourists running through the streets chasing Hemingway’s ghost. In Kantuta, bulls were rounded up and brought to a dirt pen the size of a football field. A fence of stacked crisscrossed wood surrounded the pen. It kept spectators out and the bulls in. Or at least it tried to keep them in. The bulls could easily charge through the wooden fences when they were moving fast. Inside the ring, men and boys ran from the sides and taunted the bulls. Sometimes they swung a red cape in a bull’s face. Mostly they hurled their bodies straight toward an animal in hopes of getting a reaction. Around each bull’s neck was a bag of money; the goal was to get close enough to snatch it away. Chicha, testosterone, and heart-thumping fear propelled each of the competitors across the dusty field into a bull’s path. The bulls often gored or trampled them. Sometimes a man even managed to grab the money, and the crowd cheered.
When Daniel came to tell me we were invited to a party hosted by one of Kantuta’s families, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go. Despite (or maybe because of) the cheers and laughter erupting out of every home in Kantuta, I wanted to hide in my mosquito net.
“Come on—it’s my last Candelaria,” Daniel said. He knew me. He knew that my natural instinct was to hide away in my room. And he knew exactly what would make me feel obliged to join him at the party. Daniel had helped me through my darkest moments in Kantuta, and if he needed a plus-one for this party, I was going. The thick flannel shirt I wore made me look like a lumpy Eddie Vedder. I didn’t care.
The party had started hours, maybe days, earlier. What looked like a hundred people milled around a large open patio. Everywhere there was high-pitched laughter, stacks of empty glasses, half-full bottles of whisky, and general chaos. This patio was the heart of the home. I had one like it in my rented house, but it never felt alive and warm. In the center of this patio was a charming little arbor with grapevines winding up the sides. In the corner under a single bare bulb sat a drummer, an accordion player, and a guitar player. I sunk into a seat and decided to give this party a chance.
The hosts handed Daniel and me small glasses of chicha. After splashing the customary drop of milky yellow liquid onto the cement to share with Pachamama, I lifted the full glass to my lips. The strong fermented smell made my mouth water. I took a breath, then gulped it down. Sour then sweet, this was quality stuff, made especially for Candelaria. This was followed by champagne, then whisky, and something else which might have been a rum and Coke. I wasn’t sure.
“Seco,” the man ordered as he handed me each drink. He was asking me to drain the glass and leave it dry. I was at the mercy of the host’s militant generosity. As gringos in Kantuta, we were considered important guests, and it was a priority to share what they had with us.
I heard drums beating and cymbals crashing from the street. The sound got louder and louder until I realized an actual marching band was coming in through the front door, pushing us up against one another and making a deafening joyous noise. I loved marching bands and stood there vibrating with the music coming from the horns and the boom of the drum. They circled the patio and then filed out the door in a straight line. I touched Danie
l’s shoulder and smiled my biggest goofiest smile. He nodded back. This was a party.
“Ursula, we’re going to dance later,” I heard a voice say before I knew who was speaking. It was a guy sitting half in the shade and half in sunlight on the other side of the patio. It was difficult to see his features clearly. Only his dark wispy goatee, almond eyes, and black hair stood out. His name escaped me, but there was something familiar about his face. I forced a polite smile. I did not feel like dancing. As fun as the party might be, I planned on leaving once I met my duty as a friend.
The accordion player stuck his arms into the instrument’s straps, and the band began to play. One of the older men walked up to me and held out his upturned hand. I did not want to dance. It had been a rough couple of months, and things were starting to get better, but I still felt vulnerable. If there was one affliction I wanted to light a candle for at the Virgin’s mass, it would be my loneliness. And I knew that once Daniel left, invitations to parties like this might not come anymore.
The white-haired man kept motioning me toward the dance floor, encouraging me to join him. The music was loud, and the booze was warming my insides. It was a party and my last Candelaria as well. I was a guest, and sitting on the side with a frown would have been rude. And why the hell did I join Peace Corps if I wasn’t going to take part? I stood up, took his hand, and walked into the center of the patio where everyone was dancing. He laughed, swung me around, and attempted to lead. I was never very good at following.
A seat opened up on the other side of the patio, and I saw the guy who’d promised we would dance, leaning in to talk to the woman sitting next to him. She had short, dark hair and was no traditional cholita, wearing the thin polyester skirt and blouse of a modern Bolivian woman. There was something familiar about her, and she seemed to recognize me, but I could not figure out where I knew her from. I nodded in her direction, and she replied with a slight smile.
