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.