Sunday, April 3, 2011

Day 14 - Old Customs



This is the kitchen where we eat everyday. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with the people at the table when you’re feeling spacey and have this to look at. The entire view is such a collage of the region. You can see the largest mountain peak Illmani (6,000 meters) on the left side while out of frame on the far right side downtown La Paz lays in its proper bouquet of broken buildings. The US consulate is just blocks away at the bottom left of the frame. In the morning you can see groups of Cholitas making their way down to catch the mini buses to work.

Because of a recent landslide that crushed over 5,000 homes and this section of La Paz's water supply - there is no running water. Crouched down with two knees inches away from your face, a bar of soap and a cup/bowl of ice cold water to rinse yourself off is the method of choice. And because of that - I haven’t showered since I arrived. I’m in the same cloths that I wore while boarding the plane in Chile. I haven’t really taken any of it off because I sleep in most of them. The nights tend to be quite cold. My bed smells like wet dog but I’m grateful that I have a home to stay in with a familiar face – my uncle. He and his family just left for a recital at Sebastian's school to celebrate a Jewish holiday. My little step-cousin Sebastian goes to a Jewish school with almost no Jews in it but still celebrating all the holidays. Latin America is filled with these culturally or religiously specific schools like “The German School”, “The French School” or “The Jewish School.” My aunt told me that there about 120 Jews left in La Paz and most of them don’t practice or go to this school but because its owned by one of the few synagogues left in the city - the tradition continues. This household is all born-again Christian and so before our principal meals we hold hands and say grace. I’ve only really done this once or twice before. Every time I come across this pre-meal ritual I get nervous and very uncomfortable. With each prayer I start to become more accustom to it. I don’t really realize how culturally sensitive I am until I travel. By sensitive I don’t mean that I am always open to others but more of how it affects me, rarely in that mind altering way. There are so many vastly different denominations of Christianity here in Bolivia - I still have a hard time wrapping my head around that. I understand why but it still confuses my heart when people are so adamant about practicing a religion that once conquered them with such brutality. The more I come here the more I start to understand the comfort people receive believing in Jesus Christ but it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Mostly because of the way it was delivered historically but also the very real truth of how people choose to survive. When I get in these semi-spirals of confusion I find that watching something familiar brings me back to myself. It may seem so silly but taking in an episode of Law and Order, Criminal Minds or John Stewart is my saving grace – so fucking comforting. It brings me back to a familiar and specific sensation that I understand while I try to figure out the unfamiliar rhythms and customs of a country I fear. That’s what probably brings back here, confronting that fear in depths of such much beauty. When I first traveled to Bolivia with an ex-girlfriend of mine she decided in the middle of our trip that she wanted to go and travel with a guy she seemed to fancy. Leaving me alone to understand all of this, I felt destroyed and immediately got on plane to Buenos Aires and visited my good friend Margarita. In her father’s home in Palermo Viejo, while licking my wounds, I felt stronger. More present in a country where it didn’t take much to match my own cultural references. Just those simple connections that I was able to make in a city that was closer to sea level - saved me.

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