It is the August meeting of one of our groups in the town of Yotala. Something tells me I won’t get to my class today (which, ironically, is about communication and conflict resolution). Señora 1 wants to guarantee Señora 2, but no one else. The credit assistant and I explain that participants in a solidarity group loan must guarantee every other member of the group. Señora 2, ignoring what we just said, thinks Señora 3 shouldn’t even be allowed to take out a loan. Señora 1 says that most in the group are being irresponsible. Señora 4 says Señora 5 insults her when she’s drunk. Señora 5 says now is not the time to talk about that. Señora 4 says well, it’s true. Señora 6 is sleeping and Señoras 7-12 have not attended the meeting, as usual. I’ve finished counting the bricks in the courtyard archways. There are 256.It’s not always this way. And when it is, I’m usually more resilient. But almost a year of slow, frustrating work plus losing a string of volunteers in my region, including my best friend in the Peace Corps, is really getting to me. I have no buffer here, nothing to control swinging from wild optimism to crushing disillusionment. I don’t want to sound like a discouraged idealist who wanted to save the world, or a pampered suit expecting to be admired and obeyed. I am honestly neither; I am just tired.
I think my poor city is tired too. In August, Sucre began a movement to be reinstated as the capitalia plena, the sole capital of Bolivia. There were protests, blockades, and paro cívicos (complete shut down of the city, including businesses, schools, and all air and land transportation) almost weekly. The pretty white buildings are now marred with political graffiti and after each protest the streets are littered with the ashes of burnt tires. In September the protests were bad enough to make the Peace Corps nervous and those of us in Sucre were evacuated to Santa Cruz for a week. Sucre even had to postpone the parade for Virgen de Guadalupe for a month.
The Virgen de Guadalupe Entrada is our biggest town festival. There are more than half a dozen traditional dances, performed by numerous dance groups in beautiful, elaborate costumes from 8 a.m. until 2 in the morning. I joined a group to dance chacarera, an Argentine dance from the Chaco region. 6 practices a week and the delays from protests weren’t so terrific, but the parade itself was one of my favorite days in Bolivia. I didn’t fall on my face even once (powered by obscene amounts of caffeine and fabulous volunteer friends and Mama Lu, bearing water and snacks) during 6 hours of dancing in a long skirt. This is a huge accomplishment; next, I’m going to try learning to walk in a straight line.
FUN FACT / QUOTE OF THE DAY: Next week is our mid-service conference! 1 year down, 1 to go..
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