Six and a half months ago, I became that age coveted by children throughout the United States: sixteen. After years of fighting to be the teenager, the sixteen year old in games of dress up, I finally was one. The age was exciting, but my party was a lot more low-key. In fact, the most memorable part was sitting in the kitchen with a few of my closest girlies, soaking our feet, and reading from First Kiss (and Tell). I ignored the stereotypes. I didn’t get a car. I didn’t even try for my license. Heaven forbid I put the time and energy into a party when I was too busy just trying to pass math. (Which by the way, I didn’t get my A-. I’m still bitter about that, Mr. Sparrowgrove.) Turning sixteen was just another birthday. An exciting one, (Yay! I can date boys! *insert eye roll please*) but still just a birthday. Not everyone sees their Sweet Sixteen like this though. Well, maybe in South America, because down here, we’re all about Sweet Fifteens.
Last Saturday, I went to a Quinceañera, or Sweet Fifteen birthday party. It was incredible. The hours of preparation it took to get me there, was a pretty good indication that this was going to be a huge party. My preparations started two days before, when my mom pulled out some of my older sister’s dresses for me to try on. Dresses that could easily be from any prom magazine. I however, have a completely different build from my very slender, shorter sister. Luckily, I have a giant family in Santa Cruz, and many cousins and aunts with many beautiful dresses and bodies more similar to my own. I must have tried on at least seven dresses before deciding on the one. By then, it was the day of the quince, and, with only hours to go, I showered, scrubbed, exfoliated and moisturized every last inch of me. I swear, since coming here, my feet have never been so clean. I gave myself a French manicure that actually didn’t look too bad, and painted my toenails a pretty pink. My hair was an absolute flop. For unknown reasons the front curled, but the back refused to relinquish its straight silky texture. Blast.
The ride there was the most nerve-wracking experience since my first debate sophomore year, when I was just about sick. My mom laughed and reassured me all would be fine. I’d have friends there, boys and girls. I was pretty. I had my cell phone. She’d come to pick me up at one in the morning. She’s very good at reassuring. I was still anxious about walking in alone. It was a big club, and lots of guys in suits outside, probably passing around a cigarette. Scary! Again, prepared as always, she dialed a number on her cell and a minute later, I had a friend outside, ready to escort me into the building. Thank heavens for Mama.
Then inside. Oh my freaking goodness. Where to start? Music was blasting, and on the dance floor kids were rocking out in short shiny gowns, and dark suits and ties. Along the walls were a dozen tables, where similarly dresses adults sat and gossiped over cups of coffee and chocolates. One wall was entirely devoted to food. There were mini empanadas, salteñas, and these strange little hamburgers. One table had a chocolate fountain with skewers for dousing strawberries and cookies in liquid goodness. All of the tables, in the negative space between dishes, were dotted with confetti and chocolates. A disco ball was spinning, as were multi colored lights. Looking up, a second story walkway was home to photographers and parents. A giant chandelier hung from the ceiling. The room was elegant. The moldings and framework spoke of older days, but the decorations brought in a much more modern flair.
I greeted the birthday girl and her family. Of course they looked wonderful. Her curls bounced happily under a tiara. After making the rounds, I sat and watched the dancing for a bit. A lot of the kids were younger than me, fourteen or fifteen, but there were some my age sitting around the edges. This is when Folklorico really comes in handy. No, not because I danced it out on that incredible dance floor! I was thankful for Folklorico because of the people I met through it. I walked out to dance near a girl in my dance group. Unbeknownst to me, that was quite the faux pas. I learned later in the evening, you only dance with a partner, never in a circle with just a group of friends. Again, my Folklorico ties saved me, as a fellow dancer left his seated friends and asked me to dance.
More and more people arrived as the night progressed. I changed partners three times, pleading exhaustion when I wanted to sit down and find a new partner. One of these times I was in the bathroom and saw a halo around my big toe, in blood! I was having so much fun, I didn’t notice the cut until it dried. That was the nasty part of the evening.
Around eleven thirty, many of the guests disappeared. Their absence stopped the others from dancing. We stood around the edges, nibbling food, and talking. I had no idea what was going on. Then the DJ changed the music to something soft and slow, and started to read from a paper. The Spanish confused me, but as my friend walked his sister down the staircase, pausing for pictures, I understood. It was like that moment in Cinderella. The men escort their partners down an elegant staircase and are announced like royalty. They walk the perimeter of the dance floor then wait for the next couple. This couple cleared another thing up for me. She, like the first girl, was in a metallic silver dress, he in a silver tie. These were the close friends of the birthday girl walking down the stairs, like bridesmaids. A dozen or so couples descended the stairs, and then the music changed again. There she was, the sweet fifteen princess, on the arm of her father. She had changed into a floor-length, poofy ball gown. They stopped for pictures, then walked the floor, stopping in front. Her mother, brother, and sister joined them. They were given drinks, I’m not sure of the kind. Her family spoke, she spoke. The music drifted into an acoustic ‘’My Heart Will Go On.’’ They set their glasses aside, and father and daughter began to dance. After a moment, her brother and sister joined them on the floor. He cut in, and danced with his sister, while his father danced with his younger daughter. A minute later, another couple cut in, then another, until all of the chosen men danced with the princess.
Later, regular dancing resumed, and she changed back into her short party dress. I left at 1:30am, but was told that they continued until three. More could be said about this incredible quinceañera, but really, that was the defining moment. I felt so privileged to watch this right of passage. The family looked so proud for their daughter, their sister. I admit, it was the family element that got to me. Their family made me think of my own, and of my other home, and that was bittersweet. Still, I was so happy to go. This was her coveted age, and she was nice enough to share it with me.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
unexpected crazies
So I was just reading some of Josh's posts on Facebook. That kid has it figured out. I mean, the part about not really knowing what's going on, but somehow knowing we'll come through.
Believe you me, there are some things here that I never expected to happen. I didn't dream I'd be going to a dinner less than a month in to say goodbye to a fellow exchange student. I don't blame her in the least, but it scares me just a little. She's going home ASAP...what if I get to that point? I guess I know that I won't, but the possibility's out there, and it makes me question myself.
I also didn't expect to be bookless. How silly is that? I could just ask my mom to take me to a library, but for whatever reason, I haven't yet. And so, in these long days of no school, I'm watching TV, and studying. How very much unlike me, to watch so much TV. And most of it isn't even in Spanish! Yes, so I'm a little disappointed in myself, but on the whole, I'm just staying alive here.
Not that if I weren't watching TV I wouldn't be alive. No, I've very alive. Just sometimes, I want to do something.
Last year, Fernando ended almost every conversation with ''Call me. Let's do something.'' I think I know what he was feeling. It was so easy in Alaska to sit home and and just hang, with myself. But here, myself is so confused that I NEED to be with other people to feel normal.
Other things I didn't expect: well, this ''situation'' for one. Don't get me wrong, I'm not scared for my safety, but my perspectives are changing so much because of the fighting and news headlines and death counts (in Pando! Not where I am!)
Then my Spanish...ha ha, I don't know what I was thinking about Spanish. I think I'm doing pretty well now, but I can't help but think What If. What if my friends talked to me in Spanish, instead of English? What if I didn't watch any English TV? What if I wrote in my journal in Spanish instead of English?
I know this is a little more angsty than usual. Please don't freak on me, I'm not depressed or anything like that. Just thought you should know a little.
Anyway, I'm off to that goodbye dinner.
Much love,
I am yours,
Erika
Believe you me, there are some things here that I never expected to happen. I didn't dream I'd be going to a dinner less than a month in to say goodbye to a fellow exchange student. I don't blame her in the least, but it scares me just a little. She's going home ASAP...what if I get to that point? I guess I know that I won't, but the possibility's out there, and it makes me question myself.
I also didn't expect to be bookless. How silly is that? I could just ask my mom to take me to a library, but for whatever reason, I haven't yet. And so, in these long days of no school, I'm watching TV, and studying. How very much unlike me, to watch so much TV. And most of it isn't even in Spanish! Yes, so I'm a little disappointed in myself, but on the whole, I'm just staying alive here.
Not that if I weren't watching TV I wouldn't be alive. No, I've very alive. Just sometimes, I want to do something.
Last year, Fernando ended almost every conversation with ''Call me. Let's do something.'' I think I know what he was feeling. It was so easy in Alaska to sit home and and just hang, with myself. But here, myself is so confused that I NEED to be with other people to feel normal.
Other things I didn't expect: well, this ''situation'' for one. Don't get me wrong, I'm not scared for my safety, but my perspectives are changing so much because of the fighting and news headlines and death counts (in Pando! Not where I am!)
Then my Spanish...ha ha, I don't know what I was thinking about Spanish. I think I'm doing pretty well now, but I can't help but think What If. What if my friends talked to me in Spanish, instead of English? What if I didn't watch any English TV? What if I wrote in my journal in Spanish instead of English?
I know this is a little more angsty than usual. Please don't freak on me, I'm not depressed or anything like that. Just thought you should know a little.
Anyway, I'm off to that goodbye dinner.
Much love,
I am yours,
Erika
Monday, September 15, 2008
*Smell, and Smile!*
Rain on a hot sidewalk. Cinnamon in the streets. Coconut scented dogs. Believe it or not, some people take these scents for granted in their daily lives. For example, I never see my Bolivian friends pause for a moment to realize that their dog smells like a dessert and their sheets like air, not Downy. So why is it such a big deal for me? I’m sure you’ve heard that when one sense is taken away, the others are heightened. It’s also true that when one’s situation becomes so completely opposite, the senses explode. Well, my situation has definitely changed, and my nose is having a blast…usually… trying to discern each new scent.
I’ll start with people. The Cruceños* are very fashion conscious people. We produce more beauty queens than all of the other Bolivian cities. There are hair salons on almost every corner, and almost all of my female friends carry their Victoria’s Secret* lip-gloss at all times. Image, however, is not enough. They have to smell good. Most girls bring a bottle of body spray to school and spritz it on between classes, or just when they’re bored. And the boys…aah, the boys. Do you remember sixth grade, when the boys first discovered Axe*? They’d spray it everywhere. Entire hallways reeked of the stuff. As they matured (age wise only, for the most part) their colognes morphed: a little more musk here, something slightly spicy there. Even so, they all still smell a little bit of that Axe-iness that I first came to associate with guys. Here, the same thing happened. I don’t know what the original scent was, or how it’s changed, but the guys all have that general yummy guy cologne smell. It’s just not Axe; it’s different. Probably what Axe and its cousins would smell like if they were born in South America.
Now, from the people, to the streets. The street perspective is important here, since the smells are completely different if you’re in the car, or out. Due to the heat, I usually ride with my window down. Something about the speed, or maybe it’s the elevation, wipes out all scents but dust and exhaust. I hate the exhaust, but when a smelly micro* isn’t in front of me, which is usually, the dust is kind of nice. It smells baked, like dried grass, and hot leaves. The feeling it brings is so warm, though that may just be the sun on my arm.
Being in the middle of the roads, with the people, is what really smells good. Yesterday I went to a little town called Cotoca. We walked from the outskirts to the center of town. Thirty seconds into our walk, Lauren, a fellow exchange student, said, ‘’I smell cinnamon!’’ It was true. The air was edible, though no food vendors were in sight. We continued until we were in the heart of the market. There, food is everywhere, so of course our noses feasted. Mine got a little confused because while passing an Arroz Con Leche* stand I saw a couple cuts of meat hanging on hooks in the open air. When we got to the actual cafeteria, it was even crazier. To get your food, you simply sit down at one of the long tables. Various vendors call the names of their food, and you yell what you want. Everything is cooked then and there. From my seat at a table, I saw corn and cheese cakes frying, meat ka-bobs turning, and soup boiling. Underneath all the food scents was the horsy-dirt smell that is everywhere. Speaking of horses, as we walked to leave Cotoca, the most interesting aroma permeated the air. I thought it was something akin to horse manure. Melissa swore it was pot. Dalton could smell onions. We’re thinking the horse ate pot and onions, and nature took her course. Stranger things have happened, right?
Besides the obvious, little things catch my nose (pardon the phrase.) Sun dried laundry, for one. Who would think that such a neutral scent could be so appealing? Then there is Pelusa*, my dog. He gets baths with human shampoo, hence the coconut. The bathrooms all have their own unique scent also. Surprisingly, it’s not disgusting. I thought throwing used toilet paper away would make bathrooms reek, but they smell like regular bathrooms, for better or worse. There’s more: the wood supporting part of the stage in my moment of backstage nerves, my hands after petting a non-coconutty dog, the salon where I got my first ever manicure. It’s these scents that will remind me of Bolivia after I leave. Studies show memory is strongly connected to scents, so I’m hoping that someday after this adventure, I’ll smell something familiar, and relive tons of memories. After all, my senses have been strengthened, and I’m praying my memory along with them.
*Helpful vocabulary:
Crucenños: Santa Cruz-ians
Victoria's Secret: Popular chain store, famous for its lingerie
Axe: Overused men's cologne...It smells pretty good.
micro: Micro-bus. When I first arrived I thought they were just buses for huge familis. No, they are one of the main forms of public transportation. They have terrible exhaust systems.
Arroz con Leche: Literally translated means ''Rice with Milk.'' Like a rice pudding.
Pelusa: Literally translated, it's ''fluff'' or ''lint.'' It's also the name of my little white poodle. I'm guessing it's the Spanish version of ''Fluffy.''
I’ll start with people. The Cruceños* are very fashion conscious people. We produce more beauty queens than all of the other Bolivian cities. There are hair salons on almost every corner, and almost all of my female friends carry their Victoria’s Secret* lip-gloss at all times. Image, however, is not enough. They have to smell good. Most girls bring a bottle of body spray to school and spritz it on between classes, or just when they’re bored. And the boys…aah, the boys. Do you remember sixth grade, when the boys first discovered Axe*? They’d spray it everywhere. Entire hallways reeked of the stuff. As they matured (age wise only, for the most part) their colognes morphed: a little more musk here, something slightly spicy there. Even so, they all still smell a little bit of that Axe-iness that I first came to associate with guys. Here, the same thing happened. I don’t know what the original scent was, or how it’s changed, but the guys all have that general yummy guy cologne smell. It’s just not Axe; it’s different. Probably what Axe and its cousins would smell like if they were born in South America.
Now, from the people, to the streets. The street perspective is important here, since the smells are completely different if you’re in the car, or out. Due to the heat, I usually ride with my window down. Something about the speed, or maybe it’s the elevation, wipes out all scents but dust and exhaust. I hate the exhaust, but when a smelly micro* isn’t in front of me, which is usually, the dust is kind of nice. It smells baked, like dried grass, and hot leaves. The feeling it brings is so warm, though that may just be the sun on my arm.
Being in the middle of the roads, with the people, is what really smells good. Yesterday I went to a little town called Cotoca. We walked from the outskirts to the center of town. Thirty seconds into our walk, Lauren, a fellow exchange student, said, ‘’I smell cinnamon!’’ It was true. The air was edible, though no food vendors were in sight. We continued until we were in the heart of the market. There, food is everywhere, so of course our noses feasted. Mine got a little confused because while passing an Arroz Con Leche* stand I saw a couple cuts of meat hanging on hooks in the open air. When we got to the actual cafeteria, it was even crazier. To get your food, you simply sit down at one of the long tables. Various vendors call the names of their food, and you yell what you want. Everything is cooked then and there. From my seat at a table, I saw corn and cheese cakes frying, meat ka-bobs turning, and soup boiling. Underneath all the food scents was the horsy-dirt smell that is everywhere. Speaking of horses, as we walked to leave Cotoca, the most interesting aroma permeated the air. I thought it was something akin to horse manure. Melissa swore it was pot. Dalton could smell onions. We’re thinking the horse ate pot and onions, and nature took her course. Stranger things have happened, right?
Besides the obvious, little things catch my nose (pardon the phrase.) Sun dried laundry, for one. Who would think that such a neutral scent could be so appealing? Then there is Pelusa*, my dog. He gets baths with human shampoo, hence the coconut. The bathrooms all have their own unique scent also. Surprisingly, it’s not disgusting. I thought throwing used toilet paper away would make bathrooms reek, but they smell like regular bathrooms, for better or worse. There’s more: the wood supporting part of the stage in my moment of backstage nerves, my hands after petting a non-coconutty dog, the salon where I got my first ever manicure. It’s these scents that will remind me of Bolivia after I leave. Studies show memory is strongly connected to scents, so I’m hoping that someday after this adventure, I’ll smell something familiar, and relive tons of memories. After all, my senses have been strengthened, and I’m praying my memory along with them.
*Helpful vocabulary:
Crucenños: Santa Cruz-ians
Victoria's Secret: Popular chain store, famous for its lingerie
Axe: Overused men's cologne...It smells pretty good.
micro: Micro-bus. When I first arrived I thought they were just buses for huge familis. No, they are one of the main forms of public transportation. They have terrible exhaust systems.
Arroz con Leche: Literally translated means ''Rice with Milk.'' Like a rice pudding.
Pelusa: Literally translated, it's ''fluff'' or ''lint.'' It's also the name of my little white poodle. I'm guessing it's the Spanish version of ''Fluffy.''
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Tarea from Sitka and DANCE
Hey All,
To those who don't know, I am working for an English credit while here. Every post with asterisks around the title are going to be graded by my English teacher, Ms. Christianson. (Btw, Hi, Ms. Christianson!) I'll be posting one of these entries every week...if there are no computer difficulties.
On a different note, I'm still dancing!!!!!
On Monday I performed with my folklorico group for three different TV stations. And one of them INTERVIEWED ME. Me, on TV. Speaking English. EEEeeekkk... Ximena, one of my classmates, translated the questions from Spanish to English, then my reply from English back to Spanish. And then, blast it, I was made to look a fool in front of everyone. He asked me to dance! I had no idea what do, until my partner, thank heavens, saved me by basicing until we were deemed boring. And not a moment too soon.
Sadly, we didn't win the competition. Oh well, it was great fun anyway. And our pictures made the newspaper...Wait a minute, MY PICTURE made the paper. I was sitting on Fernando's lap, being quite the flirt (coqueta)and they snapped a shot! Still haven't gotten comfortable with putting pix up, but you will see it someday. Because frankly, I'm a babe. Okay, okay, maybe that's going a bit too far, but it was a pretty sweet shot.
Today we went to a university to perform for some function. And let me tell you, this was a very VERY interesting show. The audience was great. There were tons of college guys! Ha ha, I think guys learn to whistle here at a very young age. But I discovered a problem the second I stepped on stage. We were dancing in complete sunlight. The stage was completely carpeted in red. After eight counts my feet were burning. We danced and smiled the best we could, but it hurt terribly. One girl even left the stage, still smiling, to dance on the grass. After a long series of basics, and turns, all on the stage of fire, we got to jump to the grass. Hallelujah. Somehow I didn't realize my partner wasn't there until I reached for him, and he wasn't there. I basiced through eight counts of partners until I could get another partner to save me. From there things went smoothly, until twenty counts later. My favorite part of the dance comes half way through. In it, four guys form a circle and grasp wrists. The girls sit on the links and are lifted above the men to smile and wave at everyone. But somehow we were a couple short. It was a small circle. Then another partner completely spaced a fight scene, where Paula and I fight over him. Later on he was on the opposite side of the field. I had to flirt across a whole freakin field of grass!
Up until that point I thought it could get no worse. It was a ton of fun, but so many mistakes! Well, it got worse. Remember the stage of fire? Yeah, I can't walk normally now, and my blisters are throbbing. All of the girls are suffering. Really, a red carpeted stage, when it's 28-30 degrees out! (Celcius. That's roughly 88 Fahrenheit. Very roughly.)
On the bright side, because there is always a bright side in sunny Santa Cruz, there was some fighting near my school, so it was cancelled for the rest of the day, as was my Spanish class! This is a different world, but if you're smart, you'll be fine, and you'll get to skip school. With the whole school, and hang at a friend's house.
I'm hoping to do just that after I shower and bandage my feet and wash off this blasted stage makeup. So this is it for now.
TKM (short for Te Quiero Mucho...or I love you a lot)
Eri
To those who don't know, I am working for an English credit while here. Every post with asterisks around the title are going to be graded by my English teacher, Ms. Christianson. (Btw, Hi, Ms. Christianson!) I'll be posting one of these entries every week...if there are no computer difficulties.
On a different note, I'm still dancing!!!!!
On Monday I performed with my folklorico group for three different TV stations. And one of them INTERVIEWED ME. Me, on TV. Speaking English. EEEeeekkk... Ximena, one of my classmates, translated the questions from Spanish to English, then my reply from English back to Spanish. And then, blast it, I was made to look a fool in front of everyone. He asked me to dance! I had no idea what do, until my partner, thank heavens, saved me by basicing until we were deemed boring. And not a moment too soon.
Sadly, we didn't win the competition. Oh well, it was great fun anyway. And our pictures made the newspaper...Wait a minute, MY PICTURE made the paper. I was sitting on Fernando's lap, being quite the flirt (coqueta)and they snapped a shot! Still haven't gotten comfortable with putting pix up, but you will see it someday. Because frankly, I'm a babe. Okay, okay, maybe that's going a bit too far, but it was a pretty sweet shot.
Today we went to a university to perform for some function. And let me tell you, this was a very VERY interesting show. The audience was great. There were tons of college guys! Ha ha, I think guys learn to whistle here at a very young age. But I discovered a problem the second I stepped on stage. We were dancing in complete sunlight. The stage was completely carpeted in red. After eight counts my feet were burning. We danced and smiled the best we could, but it hurt terribly. One girl even left the stage, still smiling, to dance on the grass. After a long series of basics, and turns, all on the stage of fire, we got to jump to the grass. Hallelujah. Somehow I didn't realize my partner wasn't there until I reached for him, and he wasn't there. I basiced through eight counts of partners until I could get another partner to save me. From there things went smoothly, until twenty counts later. My favorite part of the dance comes half way through. In it, four guys form a circle and grasp wrists. The girls sit on the links and are lifted above the men to smile and wave at everyone. But somehow we were a couple short. It was a small circle. Then another partner completely spaced a fight scene, where Paula and I fight over him. Later on he was on the opposite side of the field. I had to flirt across a whole freakin field of grass!
Up until that point I thought it could get no worse. It was a ton of fun, but so many mistakes! Well, it got worse. Remember the stage of fire? Yeah, I can't walk normally now, and my blisters are throbbing. All of the girls are suffering. Really, a red carpeted stage, when it's 28-30 degrees out! (Celcius. That's roughly 88 Fahrenheit. Very roughly.)
On the bright side, because there is always a bright side in sunny Santa Cruz, there was some fighting near my school, so it was cancelled for the rest of the day, as was my Spanish class! This is a different world, but if you're smart, you'll be fine, and you'll get to skip school. With the whole school, and hang at a friend's house.
I'm hoping to do just that after I shower and bandage my feet and wash off this blasted stage makeup. So this is it for now.
TKM (short for Te Quiero Mucho...or I love you a lot)
Eri
*Rules of the Road*
Sophomore year: Erika, are you going to get your license? Erika, you’re going to drive home. Now, Erika, this car won’t go anywhere until you take the wheel. Now! It’s less than a mile. Drive home…Woah! Erika, slow down, slow down! No, to the left! Inside the lines. Turn faster. The brake is on the…!*
And thus went my driving lessons in Sitka, the whole three times I tried. Obviously, they were painful experiences. Even so, unskilled as I was, I understood the basics: stay inside the speed limits, watch for pedestrians, light your turn signal a telephone pole away from your turning point.
I’m beginning to redefine my definition of ´´basics,’’ mostly because none of these apply in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia. In fact, the only rules I’ve noticed have been less than unorthodox in my culture shocked brain. It’s a very different, very exciting culture and I´m trying to learn as much and as quickly as possible. To do just that, I’ve compiled a list of the South American rules of the road.
1. Lock doors at intersections. Whether this is to discourage robbers, or beggars, I do not know. Maybe it’s only to deny the boys washing windows at stoplights a comfortable seat.
2. If traffic slows unnecessarily, every car has a built in communicator to ask the other cars, ´´What the heck is going on? ´´ This device is called a horn, and is used more liberally the closer to the center of town (and the heart of traffic) you get.
3. Your truck isn’t full until there are three people in the cab and five in the bed, sitting on stacks of wood. I’ve seen people sitting on the rims of the backs while driving. If I tried it, I think I would be scared to death. I’d also probably fall to my death.
4. Absolutely no driving until you’re eighteen years of age! This is an actual law, but like the Pirates´ Code, is more of a guideline. My friend’s fifteen year old brother is a regular driver. He also regularly carries cash to tip the cops who don’t catch him.
5. Like the age limit, the street lines are also a guideline, especially if you’re a motorcyclist. Intersections hold the most obvious examples of this. What would normally be a three way road becomes four when a motorcycle weaves through the stopped cars and waits with the first of the line to go when the light changes.
There are other rules that I’ve yet to put into words, but they are very much out there. In fact, I doubt most of them have been written. Who would write them when this country is constantly in a state of flux? Contrast between worlds is everywhere. Beauty queens walk the same streets as the women begging on the streets. ‘’Señorita, Señor, por favor…´´ Sometimes the cultures mix just a little when la Señorita drops a few Bolivianos into the other’s upturned hand. Horse drawn carts compete with the cars and buses for road space. Jiffy Peanut Butter is in the same store as las empanadas and los guineas. I, an Alaskan Mormon girl, am going to a Bolivian Catholic school and learning to say the Rosary.
Bolivia is changing, a lot. In fact, today half of school was cancelled because of fighting. Despite these changes, I think the Rules of the Road are here to stay. It’s more exciting that way.
*The author has taken some liberties with quotations of her mother. Mom, please don’t take offense.
And thus went my driving lessons in Sitka, the whole three times I tried. Obviously, they were painful experiences. Even so, unskilled as I was, I understood the basics: stay inside the speed limits, watch for pedestrians, light your turn signal a telephone pole away from your turning point.
I’m beginning to redefine my definition of ´´basics,’’ mostly because none of these apply in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia. In fact, the only rules I’ve noticed have been less than unorthodox in my culture shocked brain. It’s a very different, very exciting culture and I´m trying to learn as much and as quickly as possible. To do just that, I’ve compiled a list of the South American rules of the road.
1. Lock doors at intersections. Whether this is to discourage robbers, or beggars, I do not know. Maybe it’s only to deny the boys washing windows at stoplights a comfortable seat.
2. If traffic slows unnecessarily, every car has a built in communicator to ask the other cars, ´´What the heck is going on? ´´ This device is called a horn, and is used more liberally the closer to the center of town (and the heart of traffic) you get.
3. Your truck isn’t full until there are three people in the cab and five in the bed, sitting on stacks of wood. I’ve seen people sitting on the rims of the backs while driving. If I tried it, I think I would be scared to death. I’d also probably fall to my death.
4. Absolutely no driving until you’re eighteen years of age! This is an actual law, but like the Pirates´ Code, is more of a guideline. My friend’s fifteen year old brother is a regular driver. He also regularly carries cash to tip the cops who don’t catch him.
5. Like the age limit, the street lines are also a guideline, especially if you’re a motorcyclist. Intersections hold the most obvious examples of this. What would normally be a three way road becomes four when a motorcycle weaves through the stopped cars and waits with the first of the line to go when the light changes.
There are other rules that I’ve yet to put into words, but they are very much out there. In fact, I doubt most of them have been written. Who would write them when this country is constantly in a state of flux? Contrast between worlds is everywhere. Beauty queens walk the same streets as the women begging on the streets. ‘’Señorita, Señor, por favor…´´ Sometimes the cultures mix just a little when la Señorita drops a few Bolivianos into the other’s upturned hand. Horse drawn carts compete with the cars and buses for road space. Jiffy Peanut Butter is in the same store as las empanadas and los guineas. I, an Alaskan Mormon girl, am going to a Bolivian Catholic school and learning to say the Rosary.
Bolivia is changing, a lot. In fact, today half of school was cancelled because of fighting. Despite these changes, I think the Rules of the Road are here to stay. It’s more exciting that way.
*The author has taken some liberties with quotations of her mother. Mom, please don’t take offense.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Dance dance dance!!!!!!!
Raise your hands if you've ever seen a show by the New Archangel Dancers. If yes, then you know what a character dance is. If no, then you should go see one before the season ends.
A character dance tells a story. Now I'm going to tell you one.
Once upon a time, on a beautiful spring Sunday morning, a group of lovely young women walk home from church to their house that is being frantically cleaned by their butler/manservant. In a few short minutes, a party will be held with many handsome gentlemen in attendance. And what is fun, but a good flirtation? The girls retire to their rooms to clean up and gossip, and the men enter below. The flirty young server brings 'round drinks to the men playing cards. Drinks and cards alike are abandoned as the girls descend the staircase. They look so delicate, that the men are awed and start seranading them on las guitarras. The mother enters the room and greets everyone. She is a great lady, of course, and commands the respect of everyone. Meanwhile, house work must continue, and the maid checks the bread in the oven. Even she, however, cannot resist the call of the music, and joins in with the other girls to dance. All girls are swept off their feet and dance with the men. They ''basic'' ( don't know what it's called really) and jump into the arms of their men, and toss kisses and smiles like candy at a parade. The drama picks up when the mens' eyes wander off their ladies. Really, in a situation like that, what else can be done but slap them? (the men of course.) The women fight valiently to regain their beaux, and in a great whirl, succeed.
That was my evening in a nutshell. And it was incredible! Really, a week and a half of hardcore (every school day) practice, then to be throw onto a stage in front of a million people with lights and music and dancing! It was the most fun I've had since coming here. Since I can remember!
The story was simplified a bit. I was the bread girl, though why a bread girl would wear purple satin, I don't know. And instead of one guy, I had four! One for nineteen counts of basics; one for leaping into his arms and being spun, being lifted with four others girls in a circle, basic-ing, kissing, and slapping; one for fighting over with another girl, and flirting outrangeously; and one for ''kissing'' behind his hat in the end pose.
Oh, and the costumes! Like I said, I was in something akin to purple satin. It's very formfitting down to the tops of my thighs, then a triple ruffle with pink and yellow ribbon goes from there in an assymetrical line. The ruffles are also along the neckline. We wore no shoes.
Getting my hair done for it was quite the party. No sarcasm. Sahsha and I went to the salon where the women washed our hair and braided it from the right side to the left and letting the extension hang over our shoulder. Ribbon was braided in for Sahsha, but I forgot mine and got it before the show. Our hair was finished with glitter hair spray! I love that so much. We shone. And we also got our nails done! My first professional manicure cost 40 Bolivianos...and with an exchange rate of 7 Bs to 1 US dollar, that's quite the deal! I'm toying with the idea of getting a manicure every other week, possible more, just because I'm in the beauty capital of Bolivia and can afford it. Speaking of affording, my total evening cost 120 Bs. That's for the hair, nails, and nude colored underware for under my costume. A little under $20 total.
Then back to one of Sahsha's houses for makeup. Her cousin dolled me up with tons of purple eyeshadow, and tons of blush (I'm too white dang it!) All of the girls do their own makeup, and somehow we all look great.
I can't go through all of this fashion detailing without mentioning the guys. Our men wore white shirts and pants, brown belts and sandals, and straw hats. And I do believe I have never seen hotter guys than those when they were onstage bursting with energy. I just may be in love. :)
What more to say? I will never forget my first South American performance. Oh, and if we did well, we compete again on Sunday (only downside in the whole situation. Only that one.) and if we do incredibly, then onto Brazil!!!! But I'm not counting chickens yet, since they've yet to hatch. Even then, I might not be able to go because of all of the legal crap I'd have to go through. But the idea of it all!
As always, I love this country. I love the people, and my friends, and my new life. Already it is my two week anniversary of coming here! And I am in love with it all.
Take care,
much loves,
Eri
A character dance tells a story. Now I'm going to tell you one.
Once upon a time, on a beautiful spring Sunday morning, a group of lovely young women walk home from church to their house that is being frantically cleaned by their butler/manservant. In a few short minutes, a party will be held with many handsome gentlemen in attendance. And what is fun, but a good flirtation? The girls retire to their rooms to clean up and gossip, and the men enter below. The flirty young server brings 'round drinks to the men playing cards. Drinks and cards alike are abandoned as the girls descend the staircase. They look so delicate, that the men are awed and start seranading them on las guitarras. The mother enters the room and greets everyone. She is a great lady, of course, and commands the respect of everyone. Meanwhile, house work must continue, and the maid checks the bread in the oven. Even she, however, cannot resist the call of the music, and joins in with the other girls to dance. All girls are swept off their feet and dance with the men. They ''basic'' ( don't know what it's called really) and jump into the arms of their men, and toss kisses and smiles like candy at a parade. The drama picks up when the mens' eyes wander off their ladies. Really, in a situation like that, what else can be done but slap them? (the men of course.) The women fight valiently to regain their beaux, and in a great whirl, succeed.
That was my evening in a nutshell. And it was incredible! Really, a week and a half of hardcore (every school day) practice, then to be throw onto a stage in front of a million people with lights and music and dancing! It was the most fun I've had since coming here. Since I can remember!
The story was simplified a bit. I was the bread girl, though why a bread girl would wear purple satin, I don't know. And instead of one guy, I had four! One for nineteen counts of basics; one for leaping into his arms and being spun, being lifted with four others girls in a circle, basic-ing, kissing, and slapping; one for fighting over with another girl, and flirting outrangeously; and one for ''kissing'' behind his hat in the end pose.
Oh, and the costumes! Like I said, I was in something akin to purple satin. It's very formfitting down to the tops of my thighs, then a triple ruffle with pink and yellow ribbon goes from there in an assymetrical line. The ruffles are also along the neckline. We wore no shoes.
Getting my hair done for it was quite the party. No sarcasm. Sahsha and I went to the salon where the women washed our hair and braided it from the right side to the left and letting the extension hang over our shoulder. Ribbon was braided in for Sahsha, but I forgot mine and got it before the show. Our hair was finished with glitter hair spray! I love that so much. We shone. And we also got our nails done! My first professional manicure cost 40 Bolivianos...and with an exchange rate of 7 Bs to 1 US dollar, that's quite the deal! I'm toying with the idea of getting a manicure every other week, possible more, just because I'm in the beauty capital of Bolivia and can afford it. Speaking of affording, my total evening cost 120 Bs. That's for the hair, nails, and nude colored underware for under my costume. A little under $20 total.
Then back to one of Sahsha's houses for makeup. Her cousin dolled me up with tons of purple eyeshadow, and tons of blush (I'm too white dang it!) All of the girls do their own makeup, and somehow we all look great.
I can't go through all of this fashion detailing without mentioning the guys. Our men wore white shirts and pants, brown belts and sandals, and straw hats. And I do believe I have never seen hotter guys than those when they were onstage bursting with energy. I just may be in love. :)
What more to say? I will never forget my first South American performance. Oh, and if we did well, we compete again on Sunday (only downside in the whole situation. Only that one.) and if we do incredibly, then onto Brazil!!!! But I'm not counting chickens yet, since they've yet to hatch. Even then, I might not be able to go because of all of the legal crap I'd have to go through. But the idea of it all!
As always, I love this country. I love the people, and my friends, and my new life. Already it is my two week anniversary of coming here! And I am in love with it all.
Take care,
much loves,
Eri
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