el fin del año

2011 was an year of unexpected consequences. though my last post was rather nostalgic and sad about some things that happened, overall, i think it was a good year for me. i had a lot of new experiences, and though they weren't all good, i think some of the bests and worsts are worth mentioning.

Best Meal

cuy & papa en Patachancha, Perú

before

after

Worst Meal

alpaca ravioli - it was worth trying but alpaca and tomato sauce do not mix well

Best Party

carnaval

before

after

Worst Party

stoplight party

Best 24 Hours

literary reading, used books and records, diezyseis loco in Baltimore

Worst 24 Hours

the day after stoplight party

Best Teaching Experience

ROTC student telling me "every time I'm in drills I just can't stop thinking about anthropology things like rituals and stuff."

Worst Teaching Experience

the day i had 20 students present (out of 60) and no one would say a word

Best Student Experience

a departing hug from my stoic advisor

Worst Student Experience

writing a 40 page chapter of the dissertation and then realizing its useless

Best Moment of Triumph

interviewing Carmen Rosa (and buying a victory salteña afterwards)

Worst Moment of Defeat

Mr. Atlas telling me I need to bring a friend to help me translate

Best Protest

occupying IMF

definitely best protest music

Worst Protest

mineros on the Peruvian/Bolivian border, keeping me from crossing by land

Best Holiday Celebration

halloween dance party

before

after

Worst Holiday Celebration

fireworks on roof of adventure brew hostel (but at least it makes for a good story)

Best Chance Encounter

Carwil in Bluehouse

Worst Chance Encounter

the kiwi i hated

Best Paper I Wrote

"UnBoliviable" Brawls: Tourist Perceptions of the Cholitas Luchadoras

Worst Paper I Wrote

Buttering Her Up: Agricultural Politics of Princess Kay of the Milky Way

Best Surprise

New York visit

Worst Surprise

non-renewable visas

Best "Illegal" Activity

pool party after Dan's wedding

Worst "Illegal" Activity

overstaying visas

so there you have it....my year's bests and worsts. may 2012 have just as many memorable moments, because even the worsts were worth doing. i'm lucky to be able to say that though there were plenty of "worsts" they were all amazing, joyful, useful experiences. i've got no complaints...

la lista de musica 2011

people generally make top 10 lists this time of year to prove to the cosmos that they were paying attention and didn't let the year pass them by without notice. for the most part, they reflect on the past year and the new things that have brightened (or contentedly saddened) their days. and sure, there's a small part of the process that is aimed more at proving to the reader that the writer is cool enough to be on top of things and listen to the "right" stuff, and see the "hip" bands, and by paying attention to relevant music, is relevant themself.

this list lacks that second part completely.

i generally listen to pretty awful music. and its usually old (but not so old that its cool again). so i offer you this top ten tracks of 2011 list. but most were not released in 2011. instead this is my list of songs that will forever mentally transport me to a little honda civic, a south american hostel bar, or an overcrowded one bedroom apartment. these are the songs that will likely stir strong emotion for decades to come. these are the songs that made 2011 what it was for me.

extra special mention

if this is what marching band had been like i wouldn't have despised it so much.

10.

we drove from western north carolina to dc on an august sunday and when the highway was stubbornly slow we took the blue ridge parkway instead.

9.

its the one semi-hip song that made it to the list this year, but only partially because of its genius. i spent a decent part of the year wanting to rip my own heart out in a way that the strain and ache in this song capture well.

8.

i opened up a word document which i saved as "dissertation" and realized i was doing it. i was in bolivia. i was researching. i was writing. the days of reading and writing and begging and waiting were over.

7.

when the world feels like its crumbling around you, sometimes you need to feel a little bit like a ninja.

6.

if i were being entirely truthful this would actually be the german version, but half the enjoyment is singing along, which i am hopelessly incapable of doing unless its in english. there is simply no better song to pass a saturday afternoon.

5.

there are years that ask questions and years that answer. this one asked questions for which i was entirely unprepared. i don't recall exactly why or how, but somewhere along the way in our little flophouse, this got us through a plethora of feelings of failure.

4.

this was for the good moments. though not exactly the perfect mentality for someone trying to write a dissertation.

3.

at the very least it makes me feel like i'm not the only person who has felt this way before.

2.

i drove out of baltimore and in the moment it felt like this song was describing every relationship in my life.

1.

i don't think i'll ever listen to this song again without crying.

In which Chris Hedges uses boxing as a metaphor for protest and social revolution

Here is just the part on boxing. For the full post, see Alexander Higgins's blog

There were times when I entered the ring as a boxer and knew, as did the spectators, that I was woefully mismatched. Ringers, experienced boxers in need of a tuneup or a little practice, would go to the clubs where semi-pros fought, lie about their long professional fight records, and toy with us. Those fights became about something other than winning. They became about dignity and self-respect. You fought to say something about who you were as a human being. These bouts were punishing, physically brutal and demoralizing. You would get knocked down and stagger back up. You would reel backwards from a blow that felt like a cement block. You would taste the saltiness of your blood on your lips. Your vision would blur. Your ribs, the back of your neck and your abdomen would ache. Your legs would feel like lead. But the longer you held on, the more the crowd in the club turned in your favor. No one, even you, thought you could win. But then, every once in a while, the ringer would get overconfident. He would get careless. He would become a victim of his own hubris. And you would find deep within yourself some new burst of energy, some untapped strength and, with the fury of the dispossessed, bring him down. I have not put on a pair of boxing gloves for 30 years. But I felt this twinge of euphoria again in my stomach this morning, this utter certainty that the impossible is possible, this realization that the mighty will fall.

cicatriz

Perhaps in a year when I have to send such things to potential employers I will revise, but at present my teaching philosophy goes something like this:

Minimize boredom.

That goes for both the class and me. So I’ve tried to load my syllabus with readings that, yes, teaching something about anthropology, but also bring a little spunk or pizzazz to the discussion. So, today, in order to teach about the Anthropology of Religion, we took a little detour to Black Rock City, NV. I assigned Sarah Pike’s chapter Desert Goddesses and Apocalyptic Art: Making Sacred Space at the Burning Man Festival, from the book God in the Details: American Religion in Popular Culture.

She concentrates on the ways that Burning Man participants, or burners understand their experiences as life-changing or initiatory. During the festival, some burners mark these changes on their bodies. She Sam who shares in an online forum “I got my head shaved while I was there…and emerged a new person (6 September 1997).

This, of course, reminded me of a man named Adam that I know who once (was coerced and) shaved his head in a bar. That bar was in the Ekko hostel of La Paz, and Adam was the bar manager. Strangely enough I wasn’t there that night that all the mohawks were made. As the story goes, the bar was doing a special happy hour fundraiser for a local abused children’s home. But things got a little wild and one of the barworkers, a twenty year old British girl, decided they should continue the merriment past happy hour time, charging patrons 20 Bs. for a head shave. Jorge, an older Spanish barman ran upstairs to get his electric razor. When I stopped in the bar for lunch the next day, at least half of the patrons and staff had Mohawks. Even Emma, the originator of the idea, had shaved half her head.

Over the next two weeks, several of the bar workers who had originally missed out joined in. As some of the travelers continued on, usually to Cuzco, Perú, pictures would appear online of groups of Mohawk clad young people at la Isla del Sol, Machu Picchu, Lima, or surfing in Mancora. It was, in a way a glocalization in the most meta and palimpsestous way. A temporal but embodied mode of belonging. Of marking authenticity and legitimacy. Of claiming identity.

But this was not the only way Bolivia was temporarily inscribed upon traveling bodies. Freezing nighttime temperatures and cold showers leave an unshakable chill in the body. High altitudes leave one breathless and without appetite. And when one does eat, a particular form of aftermath is inevitable as well. And Ekko itself leaves bodily traces. Cramped backs from hostel beds. Bloated livers and pounding heads after a night of rum & coke, followed by dancing at Blue. It was while living in Ekko that the Spanish word for limp, cojera, became indelibly etched in my mind. There was always someone falling off the bar or stepping on glass.

But again, these are all temporary corporeal experiences. Other travelers wanted something more permanent. I first learned of the cult of the Ekko tattoo a few days before Easter. All around the hostel were posted scavenger hunt lists. Most items involved taking pictures in local attractions or finding items around the hostel. But number nine stuck out “Take a picture of a Ekko tattoo.” Upon inquiring I learned that there were four known Ekko tattoos. The most obvious was Jaff, the bar manager (who held the job before Adam). Sean, Jaff’s precursor had one also. Alek, the manager of the hostel had one nestled among about 30 other tattoos. And Mike, the events manager at the Ekko hostel in Cuzco had one on his bicep. With Sean gone and Mike a nine hour bus ride away, scavengers really only had two choices. But the next week, that changed when Dr. Joe decided to get one as well.

I met Dr. Joe my second night in the hostel. It was supposed to be his last. I was still battling the remnants of altitude sickness, and didn’t want to stray too far from my bed. I wandered into the bar around 7:30 just looking for a meal. I ordered pasta with vegetables (not exactly “authentic” cuisine), and waited at the bar for it to arrive. It was a busy Tuesday night, and there wasn’t a stool available, so I wondered around the short tables with bench seats looking for room. There was an empty space at the table in the corner so I asked if I could join them. I noticed Dr. Joe’s accent immediately. Pure Texas. We ended up drinking a fair number of rum and coke’s together that night, and bid farewell as we went off to bed, as he was leaving at 7am the next morning.

He left to go to the Sal de Uyuni, the Amazon jungle parts of Bolivia, and who knows where else. Two weeks later, I wandered into the Ekko bar for a snack again, and saw him standing in front of the counter. Though we had only had a brief encounter before, and hadn’t even especially connected, we greeted each other like long lost friends. I suppose this is something I learned about the traveling culture during the time I spent at Ekko. There are real friends and traveling friends. But when you’re traveling, you don’t have anyone around who knows you well. Who has been through important things with you, and knows your personality. So when you find someone with whom you are even slightly familiar, a sense of comfort is likely to emerge quickly. And so, Dr. Joe became my new best friend.

A week later, he announced he would be getting an Ekko tattoo on his ankle. I was surprised because all the other Ekko tattoo bearing people had been there for months if not years. But Dr. Joe, despite his legitimate MD, was playing a little fast and loose in South America and decided he should commission Diego, a Cruceño tattoo artist staying at Ekko at the time, to permanently emblazon the Ekko logo on his body.

The Ekko logo itself was a bit unexpected, but getting tattoos in general was actually quite a popular pastime for travelers in La Paz. Pete, a guy from the US who had worked for a deathroad biking company for a year, explained to me that he had always wanted a particular design on his chest, but could never afford it in the States. It would have cost him several hundred dollars at home, but in La Paz he paid only about $70. And this popularity was cyclical in a sense. Prices were cheap, so lots of travelers wanted them. The demand was there, so tattoo shops like the one down the street started to cater to travelers and advertise in hostels. As a result it became necessary for aspiring artists like my friend Alé to have a working knowledge of English. And the more travelers who got tattoos and showed them off, the more others were convinced of their need as well.

And despite both Diego’s and Alé’s insistence that I couldn’t leave La Paz without a tatuaje or at least a perforacion, I did.

But I did not leave unmarked. About a week before I left the city, I was helping clean up in the Ekko bar after it closed one night. Timoteo, a friend of Diego’s who was going to culinary school, but had been hired by the bar to help wash dishes and keep things tidy, was tired and overwhelmed, so I offered to finish off the dirty glasses for him. I shoved my hand inside one of the large pint mugs and pulled it out with blood trickling down my wrist. There was a chip in the rim of the glass and as I scrubbed it had cut my skin. It was a short cut, but deep, and it didn’t want to stop bleeding. I looked around for bandaids and couldn’t find any. There were none in the bar or in the hostel office. And it was late, so looking around for a guest with a first aid kit was hard as well. I ended up just taping some toilet paper to the wound and holding it above my head for a while. The next day when I removed the make-shift bandage it started bleeding again. I went across the street to Farmacia Amiga and bought a real bandage (if only Dr. Joe had still been around). It stopped bleeding for good that time, but took a while to heal. When it was still visible a month later, I asked a friend if that meant that it would scar. I couldn’t contain my smile when they said “most likely.”

That little pink line is still there on the base of my right thumb, and I smile every time I notice it. Most of my friends have suggested that I should probably make up a good story about being kidnapped by one of the lucha libre empresas and having to fight my way out. And maybe someday I’ll tell someone’s grandchildren a story like that. But for now I’m content with the truth. That La Paz couldn’t let me leave unscathed. That the mind can’t change so easily without the body following suit. Indeed, as Pike writes, my “body was simultaneously liberated and constrained.”

más cerca del hogar

(cross-posted @ fieldnotes)

In Orin Starn’s 1991 article, “Missing the Revolution,” he chastised anthropologists for missing signs of the rise of Sendero Luminoso [Shining Path], the Peruvian Maoist insurgent organization. He suggests anthropologists were too absorbed in Andeanism, a term he borrows from Edward Said’s Orientalism, to mean depictions of life in the Andes that portray contemporary peoples as outside the flow of modern history (395). Because of their narrow focus, they missed the important politics and historical dynamics that fomented the rise of groups like Shining Path. As he wrote, for hundreds of anthropologists…the rise of the Shining Path came as a complete surprise” (395).

Many anthropologists took this call to heart, and much recent work on the Andes has indeed centered on working-class and rural peoples’ protest, political work, and revolution. Scholars such as Forrest Hylton and Sinclair Thomson highlight the “revolutionary spirit” of indigenous and mestizo Bolivians. Indeed, strong movements opposing neoliberal economic policies and multinational corporations’ ownership of many of Bolivia’s natural resources have been politically effective. One of the most heightened moments of this movement was the inauguration of Evo Morales, Bolivia’s (and the hemisphere’s) first indigenous president. In speeches celebrating his inauguration, Evo emphasized both his indigeneity and revolutionary ideology with statements such as “I say to you, my Indian brothers and sisters from America concentrated here in Bolivia, the 500 year campaign of resistance has not been in vain. This democratic, cultural fight is part of the fight of our ancestors; it is the continuity of the fight of Tupaj Katari, of Che Guevara.” In this small statement, he links himself and his supporters not only to leftist revolutions in Latin America of the last century, but also to a much longer lineage of anti-colonialism, anti-imperialism, and anti-exploitation that has existed since subaltern Bolivians resisted their colonial exploiters. Revolution then is not something that happened in the past, but something that is the continuity between “then” and “now.”




These historical revolutions penetrate many citizens’ understandings of “Bolivianness” today. When I arrived in La Paz for the first time in July 2009, I did so on the eve of the annual celebration Día de La Paz. All over the city banners were hung in celebration of “200 Años Libre.” In 1809 several uprisings against royalist forces began in La Paz. Though insurgent troops did not succeed in a decisive victory over Spanish forces until 1825, it is the beginning of the campaign that is remembered as the year of freedom. On July 16, 1809 Pedro Domingo Murillo famously declared that the Bolivia revolution was igniting a fire that no one could put out. Though Murillo was hung in the Plaza de los Españoles that night, the plaza was renamed for him and he is remembered as a voice of the revolution. In 2009 banners around La Paz proclaimed, “Somos un fuego qué no se apaga!” [We are a fire that cannot be extinguished].

And so, to me, Bolivia lived up to its reputation as a hotbed of revolution. I had always (though self-consciously) romanticized Bolivian revolution a bit. [I've also written about Bolivian protest here and here]. I was continually impressed by the ways miners, teachers, and health workers could simply block off a road could and force the president into negotiations for salary increases, as had happened a few weeks after I arrived in La Paz in April 2011. I was awestruck at the “revolutionary pride” Hylton and Thomson had described, and always wondered why Bolivians were so effective at protest, while people in the US just seemed totally incapable.

Well, now, perhaps, times…they are a’changin…




Occupy Wall Street is now almost a month old, and cities like Boston, Chicago, Philly, and Madison, and Minneapolis, (and of course my beloved DC's Occupy K Street) have similar occupations afoot. I’m still my cynical self and despite my semi-sporadic presence at DC General Assembly meetings, I’m not 100% convinced the REVOLUTION is immanent. I’d still consider myself hopeful though.

I’ve been taking fieldnotes on what I’ve experienced. I guess its just habit these days. But after reading a conference paper of mine on the representation [and/or imaginary] of Bolivian protest, my advisor suggested I develop it into a longer article for publication and incorporate some stuff on the Arab Spring and Occupy Movement. I’m still unsure if I will actually do that, but its made me think more critically about what is going on.




But here, I’m going to take time to comment on what to me has seemed the biggest debate associated with occupations: Specific Demands vs. Problematizing the Status Quo. From big news outlets such as the New York Times, and Wall Street Journal down to small scale political bloggers all emphasize the major weakness of the(se) movement(s) being a lack of specific demands. And much of the grassroots organizing communities (though certainly not all) have countered that essentially, it is not their job to write laws, and if the government had been doing their job all along, we wouldn’t be in this mess [I saw this summed up in a photo of a man with a sign at some occupation somewhere and now for the life of me can’t find the picture].

I’m still unsure where I fall in this debate. But the most cogent examination of this I’ve seen thus far has suggested we must “Turn the Shame Around.”

An unjust system’s first line of defense is shame. As long as we’re ashamed to admit that we’re victims, as long as we’re ashamed to identify with the other losers, we’re helpless.

It would be great to have a 10-point plan that solves everything. It would be great to have a party that endorses that plan and a get-out-the-vote movement to put that party into office. But none of that is going to happen until large numbers of us cast off our shame, until we turn the shame around: We need to stop being ashamed that we couldn’t crack the top 1%, and instead cast shame on an economic system that only works for 1%. The people who defend that immoral system and profit from it — they should be ashamed, not us.

He compares this movement to those of LGBT rights and Feminism, suggesting that before specific aims can be approached, a politics of visibility must emerge. He of course links to We are the 99%, which may be considered the first (or at least best publicized) online repository of shame shifting. [see also Matt Taibbi’s piece on Common Dreams]

He concludes

The old rules still apply. We’re going to need policies. We’re going to need agendas and lists of demands. We’re going to need leaders to represent us and armies of volunteers to knock on doors and make phone calls and write letters to the editor. We’re going to have to register millions of voters and get them to the polls. None of that is going to happen automatically just because people lose their shame about being victims of an economy run by and for the 1%.

But I don’t believe that stuff is going to happen at all — not on the scale we need — until people lose their shame about being victims and losers. It’s just a first step, but I don’t think we can skip it.




And so, I bring us back to the materiality of representation. As Butler (1998) and Fraser (1997) famously (for nerds like me) hashed out, representation is not “merely cultural.” Representations carry material consequences. For the luchadoras, using the image of the chola not only exploits but also reproduces indigenous women’s vulnerability to physical and structural harm, at times furthing the cycle of violence and subordination. For Occupiers, representation either grants legitimacy, leading to increased attention and solidarity, or delegitimizes the movement as fringe. So, to use Spivak’s (1988) notion that representation may be conceived of in two senses, the “re-presentation” of a group deeply impacts their ability to be spoken for in political representation.

So, yes, we Occupiers must eventually demand specific actions. But given the states of visibility and representation at the moment, we must still work on building solidarity, and strength. If we narrow our demands too early, they will not be heard. At the moment, the Nation is Waiting for Protesters to Clearly Articulate Demands Before Ignoring Them.

see more of my pictures on J & M's "letter to an @narquista in the oven"

enfermedades

On Sunday afternoon, I set out in the early fall rain to say goodbye to a good friend. The weather had recently cooled, so I had to dig my thicker jacket out of a box in the closet. When I put it on, I found a 5 Boliviano coin in the pocket, smiling and sighing at once. The rain was more of a mist really. My lack of hood wasn’t a problem and my canvas converse shoes held the dampness out. But it was enough to reactivate the runny nose I’d been periodically fighting off for the last two weeks.

I walked up the slight hill about half a mile, listening to Velvet Underground on my ipod. Watching the passing cars splash through the wet road, and leaves waves as raindrops pushed them around put me in a slight trance. Before I knew it I was standing in front of the bar that had operated under at least 5 different names in the four years I had lived in the neighorhood. I walked in the door and found my group; JK3 and her husband, Futurama with two of her coworkers, and the Otto. The warmth of the bar coaxed even more goo from my nose and I sniffled to keep it in check.

I slid up between Otto and Futurama and put an arm on both of their shoulders. They hugged back and we exchanged hellos. In the midst I must have sniffled some more because Futurama asked if I had a cold. “Oh, just the same old runny nose as always,” I said.

And then it hit me. People here are not always sick.

I was doing fine in La Paz for about a week. Then the sniffles hit. Fortunately, for the most part, the kids in my shared dorm room were far more into the clandestine cocaine bar than sleeping at night, so my sniffles were mine alone, and caused minimal disturbance. Though the last night in the room, there was a guy next to me sleeping who had to catch a bus to the lake at 6:30 am. I know my snorting of nasal moisture woke him up a few times.

And then the intestinal problems hit. Nothing awful or urgent, but just a constant reminder that things are “not quite right” there. And annoying climbing down off a top bunk several times in the middle of the night. As Alex put it, I was fully convinced “I’ll never have a normal poo again.” But then eventually things got a little more normal.

And then I went to Cuzco. And then I had my evening of constant farts and burps, and eventual rash which convinced me that the hot pepper I had eaten earlier that day was eating through my stomach lining, and through the inner layers of my skin causing it to get red. Turns out it was just a parasite. And after 5 days of taking nasty pills and not drinking alcohol, it resolved itself.

Three days later I returned to La Paz with a cough in tow. The cough lasted approximately five weeks. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, in the staff room, unable to stop coughing. I felt bad, because these people did not all stay out til 7am at Route 36 every night. Some actually had to work at 7.

That eventually cleared up about a week before I left. Along the way I also had brief relapses of the intestinal problems, as well as sniffles again. I had a cut on my hand that took two days to stop bleeding. A burn on the side of my face (from a stick of incense) that I kept forgetting about and scratching the scab off. I saw three people hobble around after stepping on glass. In essence, my existence in Bolivia was a constant stream of malady.

And then I came back here, and developed a sore throat and sniffles. But never really thought about them as a problem. Just part of life. And then people like Futurama remind me that life can exist without constant disorder. Though strangely, this is the place where institutions and prices make getting medical care and remedies so much more difficult.

So as I walked back from the bar, after giving a last hug (at least for 6 months) to JK and the spouse, I sniffled some more. And again I was reminded of Bolivia. But this time not because of sickness. Instead, because saying goodbye was such a quotidian event there.

en casa

This morning as I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed just to be stood up on a skype call, I thought to myself, “at least I’m in the land where hot showers are dependable.”

No such luck. I have discovered that the shower in my new home—in the belly of the beast, home of the Washington Concensus—likes very much to vascillate every 3 seconds or so, between what might be described as “cool” and “really freaking hot.”

Psht. I might as well be in La Paz then.

I would have 15 Bs lunches. Any pirata I could think of. A sunny afternoon on the roof. T’tkos mystery drinks. The excitement of dodging left turns. Api with Ramiro. Authentic salteñas. A visit to my favorite laundry man. My boy Sammy. Cebras. A cab ride to Zona Sur. Los Auténticos Decadentes. Lucha libre. Telephone calls instead of Skype.

But here I have some great things too. Phô. Fast internet. Cool nights in the garden. Maker’s Mark. The excitement of dodging undergrads. Wine with my roommates. Authentic tacos. Laundry that takes 2 hours instead of 36. My cohort. Leap. Rides home with the windows down. Wilson Phillips. Low altitude footie. Telephone calls instead of Skype.

2 bolos

Ok, do you know where the Obelisco is?

Despite the fact that I had walked past it at least twice a week for the last 4 months, I did not know where the Obelisco was.

No.

There were muffled discussions on the other end of the phone.

Ok, its across the Prado from the post office.

The post office I did know. So I walked downhill on Calle Colombia crossed the Prado and took a left. After a few blocks I found the fabled hotdog cart and squeezed past it through the doorway it partially occupied. I pressed on, down the concrete steps, past the scantily occupied plastic lunch tables, and there at the back I found the two hand-set bowling lanes and all six of them mid-game.

I was late and had to bowl five frames in a row. I realized quickly the lanes were warped, and as Justin put it, “these guys set pins like they’re on acid.” In the end, I was more than pleased with my score ( “chocho” as they would say in Bolivia—but not Spain or Brazil). I came in fourth of seven with 109 points, and was given a nod of approval.

A month later I found myself cruising down a Western North Carolina highway to the nearest bowling alley on the outskirts of Asheville. As my companion and I rounded a wide corner he told me the only time he’d ever scored a turkey was in Asheville when he was about 13. I responded that if I ever had such a fluke I’d be too stunned to finish the game.

And then, an hour later, on a lane in which my first gutterball of the evening hopped out of the gutter and knocked two pins down, I stood ready to throw the first ball of my tenth frame. The eighth and ninth had both been strikes. I sent the ball down the lane in a way consistent with my previous rolls. And nine pins toppled over. I shrugged my shoulders, turned my back and laughed slightly. Who was I to think I could ever master The Turkey? And then, my partner stood up with a funny look to his face. What? Look. Yes, miraculously, a pin started teetering well after the ball had left the end of the lane and eventually fell. Fortunately, just a few more rolls and I finished off the game. Yes, still in shock, but apparently no so shocked I couldn’t finish.

After several more pins falling at random times far from impact from the ball, and no less than 3 times the 10-pin formation coming down with only 9, I declared that these pin setters, as mechanical as they were, also must be on acid. Apparently that’s the only way I can even hope for mediocrity.

papas fritas

there was a period of time when i constantly craved fries. these were the JC days, and options were abundant, though not always satisfying. there was the 24 hour mcdonalds, and plenty of drunken (usually crying) nights were accompanied by them. later i graduated to hollywood chicken, where the fries were tasty, but paled in comparison to the pizzarolls. but really, the crowning glory was white star, with their crispy steak 'n shake sized fries with just the right amount of seasoning. but even those couldn't compare to the pommes frites on second avenue.

in the years since, i've discovered the garlic fries at looking glass, and have drunkenly waxed on about how every bar with food should have a basket of fries for under $3. i've had district 2's disappointingly overpriced fries with truffle oil. and 4P's (still overpriced) sweetpotato fries opened up new possibilities. but when salon moved to cathedral ave. i started buying the $2.5o bags of frozen fries at giant and never shut up about how i'd beat the system. despite the rarity with which i eat "fast food" these days, i've even tried wendy's new natural cut, sea salt fries twice (conclusion: they are no better than wendy's previous fries, and in fact are worse than most fast food fries). though i wouldn't necessarily claim to be a connoisseur, i probably pay more attention to fried potatoes than your average fry eater.

salchipapas

and my first two weeks in la paz this time i had my fair share of fries. with sandwiches, in poutine, even with a hamburger. yes, i even tried salchipapas one fateful night (or 2). but they lacked something. is it possible i've grown out of my fry phase? i've moved on to mashed potatoes (pure de papas), and even the kinds that come out of a bag just seem so delicious these days. creamy, buttery, salt & peppery. utterly delicious. i still can't get enough ketchup, so the chips have their place, but in a way, i think fieldwork has brought on a new life phase. at least in my eating habbits. so, this place has changed me in a way more profound than perhaps even i realize. is 2am too late to go make my packet of kris pure de papas?

para rick

I’m missing people today. People I met when I was four, and people I’ve known only a few weeks. They have moved on to better places, whether that be a slightly less chaotic South American nation or whatever afterlife (or not) one might believe in.

My head keeps playing an annoying song I learned in girl scouts. Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold. And aside from the capitalist/consumerist metaphor of silver and gold having some sort of innate worth, I guess the song is ringing true to me. As I was packing up my bags in the capital city of the world’s biggest bully I whimpered to my mother that I wasn’t sure I could bear to leave people behind. That these people had become my rock in a time of so much growth. My four years in DC certainly were not my worst years (ahemjerseycityahem). They were also not my most triumphant. But they were years that (like all years) changed me. That fostered growth. That asked hard questions, and occasionally wandered through the door with a bag full of answers.

But my mother answered, in her infinite wisdom, that I too often forget exists, that I have always found important people to me wherever I go. And there is no reason to think that I won’t again.

And she was right. In a way, even in La Paz, I feel loved. I am happy here. This is not the first time I’ve made intimate friends quickly. And I hope that these last the way the friends I made in the desert did. I’ve enjoyed watching us grow older (but not up), even if we can’t even pretend to perpetuate our old water bottle lifestyles. But I’ve also made friends slowly over the course of decades. And I look at my first true friends and what we’ve become. We are distant, and some of us have little in common any more, but as recent events have made clear, when crisis strikes, we’ve got each others’ backs. We are there. Even if just to shout through the phone over the noise of endlessly passing L trains, we are there. And it makes me feel so privileged that can be there.

But I am missing people tonight. And honestly, this doesn’t feel so incredibly different than sitting in a quiet room in Washington, DC wishing I was in a bar with my best friend in New York. Or watching Netflix with my best friend in Chicago. Or sitting on around the firepit with my parents and sister. But alas, I am missing people tonight. I miss my friend who was wise beyond his years and it destroyed him. I miss the person who loves me so deeply that I can’t fully comprehend it. I miss my mother who always suprises me with her insight, and my sister who I admire so much for her bold resolve. I miss my dad, who always has too much to say, but I’d never wish to quiet. I miss my new friend with whom I profoundly disagree philosophically, yet still like to hear the insight. I miss my cohort who always have the right (anti-capitalist, feminist, Marxist, queer, anti-establishment) answer. I miss the one person I allow to call me baby. I miss so many people in so many ways, and just keep accumulating more.

But maybe it’s the constant accumulation that keeps it livable.

viajeros verdaderos

(crossposted at fieldnotes)

Two years ago, I saw Bolivian lucha libre for the first time live. I took a tourist bus and was fascinated by the conversation that ensued. The riders grappled with “knowing” that it “must be traditional” yet calling it “far too WW[E].” And while I recognized the tour company that leads the tours is probably the real culprit here (wasn’t it Ani Difranco that said “look at where the profits are/that's how you'll find the source/of the big lie that you and i/both know so well”?), I saw these young travelers as naïve, exploitative, and at times offensive.

And it was easy to write about that. To follow the age-old critique of colonialist/ imperialist/orientalist travel. And I don’t mean I did so in a righteous way—in fact is was a matter of accidental convenience, but I ended up challenging those assumptions (and isn’t it Tom Robbins who said “You risked your life, but what else have you ever risked? Have you risked disapproval? Have you ever risked economic security? Have you ever risked a belief? I see nothing particularly courageous about risking one's life. So you lose it, you go to your hero's heaven and everything is milk and honey 'til the end of time. Right? You get your reward and suffer no earthly consequences. That's not courage. Real courage is risking something that might force you to rethink your thoughts and suffer change and stretch consciousness. Real courage is risking one's clichés”?). So I stayed in the Ekko* hostel for two weeks, to get a better ethnographic perspective on the tourism in La Paz (and also to give me time to find a permanent place).

And my fieldnotes are filled with an undertone of “OMG” and “What is wrong with these people?”, but I also met some really amazing people who I respect and at times admire.

And so, amidst emails to tour companies and the Fulbright office, phone calls to friends of friends in La Paz, and no small amount of viewing wrestling, I find myself editing this paper/(hopeful)journal article on tourism and the Cholitas Luchadoars, and just can’t find the voice I want to convey.

I guess that’s always the worry with ethnography. Maybe sometimes you get too close to be critical. Or you can’t find the balance between compassionate writing and dismissing wrongdoings. But in any case, I’ll submit a piece of fieldnotes that almost didn’t happen.

I went to bed around midnight on Tuesday, and was sleeping peacefully, but around 4:30 some of my young Irish bunkmates wandered into the room, likely on some sort of substance, and talked loudly, turned the lights on and off several times, and giggled themselves to sleep. They giggled me out of my sleep, and when I was still staring at the ceiling at 7am, I decided I might as well go have some free breakfast in the bar instead of continuing to count the cracks.

I had some rolls with jam, but by 11am was falling asleep while trying to type, so I went back to the room (still containing the sleeping Irish men) for a nap. I woke up just before 1pm, and was starving. I decided to go back to the bar and order some lunch while using the internet there. I was looking for a menu when I noticed that Vijay (an off-duty bartender) had one. I sat down next to him and asked what he was ordering.

“Actually, nothing. We’re going to the factory for Amanda’s birthday.”

I had learned about the factory earlier that week, when Mike, another bartender, was traveling to Cuzco to tend bar there. The factory, according to legend, had the best chicken wings in the world and he was taking about 15 dozen for the staff of Ekko’s sibling hostel there. All week the Ekko staff had been talking about “The Factory” and I pictured some sort of distorted Bolivian Perdue factory where they would sell you wings right off the line or something.

Most of the bar staff at Ekko are travelers much like the patrons of the hostel (and thus of the bar). They simply agree to stay for a minimum of three weeks and tend the bar for four shifts a week in exchange for free housing in a room shared with the other staff, and one free meal per day. Many of them, like Mike, start working in the Ekko hostel in one city and then transfer to another Ekko in Peru or Bolivia. Most other travelers stay in the hostel for only a few nights and spend most of their time at the city’s attractions like biking down the “most dangerous road in the world” (also known simply as “doing death road”) or climbing the Huayna Potosi mountain. I however, was simply trying to make contacts in La Paz, catch up with a few old friends, and start my “real fieldwork,” which consequently meant I was in the hostel a lot more consistently and for a longer stay than most of the other guests. And so, people started recognizing me, talking to me, and I became friends with the bar staff.

So when Vijay suggested I come along, I decided it might be good to get out of the building for a while and spend some time with him and Amanda. The three of us hopped in a cab headed for Zona Sur, and eventually arrived at The Factory Bar and Grill, which I imagine is somewhat of a Bolivian Buffalo Wild Wings (though I’ve never been to a BWW, so I really can’t make that claim).

But the important part of the story is what happened in the taxi. As we got further into Zona Sur, the upperclass part of La Paz, Vijay said “Being in posh places makes me uncomfortable.” Amanda, who grew up in the UK, concurred and told a story of meeting her family for Christmas in Ecuador (where her extended family lives). She had been backpacking for several months before that. “Its just such a different way to travel.” We stayed in these 5 star hotels where everything was taken care of and took private tours. It felt like being on a safari. Just seeing the world through rose-colored glasses….Then again, we are all staying at Ekko.”

So, I suppose my (initial) conclusion is something like this: The relations between travelers from the “first world” (North America, Western and Central Europe, Australia, New Zealand, urban South Africa) to the people and places they visit in the global south (and yes, I realize the terminology here is highly lacking) are at the very least problematic. However, I don’t think that young people who travel are entirely to blame. Yes, perhaps they are in a way taking advantage of structures that maintain their ability to consume of other “cultures” “people” and possibly most importantly food and alcohol thanks to beneficial exchange rates. But they are also doing so to learn something about the world. They take language classes and volunteer at orphanages. And again, I don’t want to minimize the problems of the NGO and volunteer-vacation industrial complexes, but simply want to point out that the travelers have good intentions. For the most part they are making decisions to experience other places rather than stay in their home country and only read about far off places and people like a new generation of armchair anthropologists. And given that the options for travel tend to be very polarized between five star hotels with private tours, and the more adventure tourism of hostel hopping and death road riding, I find that I have a lot in common with the hostel guests and staff. Even anthropology (gasp!) is not without its colonial and imperial history and undertones. So in a way, we’re all just trying to find a balance of broadening our knowledge, making the world a better place, and working within the structures that are so hard to subvert. Both Amanda and Vijay have moved on to other South American countries now, and I do find myself missing them a bit.

But don’t get me started on the gap years…

porque se amo mi comité

email from a dissertation committee member this morning:

Your research question should just be a photo of a luchadora mid-leap from the top rope follwed by "what the f* is up with this?"

yep, he can stay.

la difícildad de agua

after quite an interesting, almost entirely indoor experience in miami, i boarded a flight to la paz about 24 hours after i was supposed to. i settled into my seat near an older gentleman from a city in the department in la paz. we made small talk, and for the most part, my spanish passed.

but the crowning moment for me was when i ordered a water. simple you may think. but i´ve got a history there.

in 2006 i quit my job and went to peru. i had been spending a lot of time and energy brushing up on my spanish before i left. i took a spanish class at new school and spent most of my work hours using online flash cards. i was heavily in training.

i was naive and scheduled a 7am international flight to lima with a layover in panama city (panama). but what i did not think about is that for international flights you need to be there 2 hours early (5am) but i would have to take a supershuttle from manhattan to the airport (pickup time 3:30am) and that late at night it would take me about an hour on the PATH train to get to manhattan. thus, i needed to leave the JC around 2:30 am. so it was decided my farewell party was best planned for 10pm the night before i left. and my farewell party revolved around the group´s favorite drink at the time.

which happened to be SPARKS.

so about 3 sparks in, i grabbed my giant duffle bag and backpack and headed into manhattan. by the time i finally got to the airport i was a mix of sleep deprived stupor and still shaking from the sparks. and then i tried to speak spanish to the ticket agent. i eventually got on the plane, and thought i could just relax eat some food, drink a drink i definitely knew how to say in spanish and take a nice long (and longed for) nap.

and the drink cart came around...."solo agua por favor"
and then the nice man responded with something that sounded like "ee-ay-lo"
yellow. no i do not want yellow water.
after asking "como" several times the man finally said "ice."

so simple. such a massive fail.

but this time, after ordering the chicken dinner and getting the right customs documents on the first try. i ordered agua again. and when asked i simply responded "no, sin hielo, porfa"

success. however small, i´ll take it.

24 horas en miami

It is the first real spring-like day in Chicago, and all the Lincoln Park Trixies are dressed like they are headed to South Beach, and I’m the only one on this plane to Miami with a giant suitcase full of sweaters and wool socks. I thought my stay in Miami would be limited to a mad dash from the domestic terminal to an international flight gate, but it seems I’ll be staying for about 24 hours.

The flight out of Chicago was tight to begin with, and after being delayed twice, its just downright late. So the trip I’ve been waiting for since four years ago. Waiting for since I was a junior in college, really, I suppose. Waiting for tens years to set off on, has now been delayed another day.

So tomorrow, rather than sleepily stumbling off an airplane at 5am, through customs, and into the Ram’s car, I will be waking up in a cozy Miami hotel bed and wasting most of the day before my 10:30 pm flight. But perhaps this will give me a chance to get some work done. Perhaps I’ll work on that impending grant application. Or that book chapter, or journal article. Perhaps I’ll be productive and pay for hotel internet and send some emails to feminist groups or travel companies. But I’m totally unprepared for lounging by a pool or stolling along the beach. And the air conditioning may be the only thing that makes my misplaced wardrobe manageable. So, alas, productivity awaits. A Florida!

because on international flights, they're not allowed to release luggage once its checked, i only had the contents of my backpack and purse:

1 bra

1 underwear

2 hair bands

1 long sleeve t shirt

1 pair jeans

1 pair tall wool socks

1 pair leather boots

1 down coat

1 scarf

1 wool sweater

15 altitude sickness pills

1 nalgene bottle

1 wallet

1 swatch watch

2 pens

2 mechanical pencils

1 flash drive

1 pair bvlgari glasses

1 pair sunglasses

1 pair apple earbuds

1 canon camera

10 twenty dollar bills

1 canon G12 camera

1 zoom h2 voice recorder

1 jansport backpack

1 dell inspiron mini

1 binder

1 college ruled composition notebook

1 small recycled paper notebook

1 culture and truth by renato rosaldo

1 lonely planet bolivia guidebook

1 larousse pocket spanish/english dictionary

2 hotel vouchers

4 meal vouchers

1 new flight ticket

en heyworth

Most of my friends from this place scoff at the local establishments. And for the most part I don’t blame them. The “Family Restaurant” (refered to as “res-turnt” by most of my family) presumes that a Greek Salad should include bacon. The grocery store carries no veggie burgers and only Boone’s Farm Wine Products in the alcohol section. And Bell’s Lawn and Video, the only known store this side of the Mississippi where you can browse the video rental library while waiting for diagnostics on your riding mower, closed years ago. But one thing I do appreciate, in spite of it all, is the bar scene.

Once upon a time, before I was old enough to really be aware of such things, the American Legion was the only place in town serving booze. Then, I believe during my jr. high days, the owner of the Irish Circle bar, in the next town over, decided the market was gaping and opened up Circle II (the logo to which is a branding iron style circle with the II emblazoned in the middle). And then finally, sometime when I was off at college in Chicago a real “Chicago style” bar opened. Yes, in the building that had been vacant since 1982, when the historic Hickory House Saloon shut down, Pit Row opened its doors. Now the place does have a nice wooden bar. It has a well kept pool table and a long row of electronic poker games along the back. The ceiling is high and they do actually enforce the now ubiquitous Illinois smoking ban, unlike the bartender only known as “Smokey” over at II. But after having spent the better part of 6 years in Chicago, I have yet to find a NASCAR themed bar there. So while I find the paintings of a racetrack crowd on the walls, the racecar hanging upside down from the ceiling, and the cardboard cutouts of Dale and Dale Jr. in the corner endearing, I would not exactly call this place a Chicago bar.

But despite the Dales, despite the smoke, despite the implicit proliferation of militarization in small town United States, I love these places. And I rather enjoy checking in on them during my infrequent trips to heytown. I suppose because you always run into someone interesting. And by interesting I do not necessarily mean someone who is leading a fascinating life (though its happened on occasion). Mostly I mean someone unexpected from the past.

So my most recent trip to heytown happened to fall during the NCAA tournament, and for the final game, Mama H, Papa H, and I decided that since none of us really cared who won, it might be more interesting at the Row. Papa H, in his sage-like way, predicted I would run into a young man who I hadn’t seen in 3-6 years. I agreed saying, “who will it be? Someone who will induce crying, like CT? a old flame like MN? Or maybe just someone silly dancing by himself in the corner like JC?”

And so, we all took the 5 minute walk to the Row, and plopped down at the bar. It was slow on a Monday night, and when we arrived was only populated by the bartender, the owner’s wife, and an older gentleman waiting for a to-go order of the night’s special, chicken wings.

But was we watched the game, JC came in and ordere more to-go food. MN came in with his home-wrecking new(ish) lady-friend. And the predictions came true. Two out of three ain’t bad. And to top it all off (despite the lack of a CT appearance), LM, the current mayor wandered by and said hello to Mama and Papa H as if they were best friends.

There have been times I’ve been creeped out a bit by the close knittedness of heytown. I don’t like knowing that gassing up on my way into town sets in motion a series of text messages which results in a former classmate calling my parents’ home to talk to me. But the flip side is, its comforting. People know you and care about you, and in a pinch would surely take care of you. They may not be family, or even friends. But there’s a trust and knowledge that develops just seeing people in the IGA that you can’t replicate in larger communities. And as much as I curse it at times, sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.

el doctór

the first time i used doc bronner's was showering at the texan's place (in maryland). it was of the peppermint variety and i wasn't a particularly big fan. not of the smell necessarily, but i thought it left my skin with a weird film. but as i spent more time in that shower, i grew to appreciate it.

not long after, in a love-sick clinging to old memories, i bought a bottle of the tea tree bronners. a small bottle. but it quickly became a prized commodity and the small empty bottle was replaced by a larger one. these were the days of a tea tree crusade. nature's gate tea tree shampoo and conditioner. tea tree doc's. even a tea tree facial cleanser. but tea tree, as it does, can get a little overwhelming. some time the next year i knew i couldn't handle it any more.

i tried the almond. too sweet. the lavender had always been too flowery. i knew too many other people that used the peppermint. and so i found myself happily settling on the citrus, and haven't looked back since. the medium sized bottle of wonderful citrus 18-purpose cleaner has sat in my shower consistently since then.


until now. i haven't given up on the citrus, but i've made a switch to the bar soap. i was hesitant at first. would it provide the same wonderful sudsiness? would it work well on hair? on dirty clothes? but it seems to be just as amazing as the liquid stuff. with a fraction of the weight and virtually no waste product. ah bronner's......you've done it again.

de donde eres?

well, in the last week i've been asked about twice daily where i'm from. and i don't know how to answer.

of course, there's the problem i've had for years. i was born on the west coast. grew up in the midwest. went to school in chicago. lived in new york. resided in DC.

but i could always fall back on the place i currently lived. the place i paid rent. where my car was registered. where i voted. where i paid taxes. but now that's over. my stuff lives in my parents' basement and closets. i sleep in a bed in chicago. my affiliation is with a school in DC. and in a week, i will physically be in Bolivia.

and so i stutter. i hesitate. i look to other people to answer for me. because i am no longer from anywhere. i am only to somewhere. to illinois. to chicago. a bolivia. and with my fromness, in a way, my history is obscured. if i'm not from dc, i have no school, i have no purpose.


leaving dc has been difficult. its the end of an era in a way. and i'm not sure i'm entirely ready for the next era. i'm hesitating about all kinds of things. but in a way, i suppose bolivia has come to symbolize a release. a relief. a place where i can just be. and there the answers are easy.

soy de los estados unidos.