Subject: A day in the life Date: Tue, 13 Feb 2001 11:40:27 -0800 (PST) From: Evelyn Dean To begin this weekÕs edition of ÒWhat the heck is Evie doing in Bolivia,Ó I will start by describing my typical day. I wake up around 7:00 to get ready for classes, showering in the lovely bathroom (one of three in my familyÕs home) and joining whoever is around for a quick breakfast of bread rolls and butter or cheese. By that time, my host-sister Chiru (whose real name is Nayr, 13 years old) ) has already donned her white duster all the schoolchildren wear and is heading out the door. Chiqui (whose real name is Alina, 17) has left to take her university entrance exams. She will study to be an architect like her mother, whose name is also Alina. My pap‡ Freddy left the house early that morning for his work as an engineer with the city. Only my mother Alina has not yet left to teach her classes of architecture and interior design at the Universidad Mayor de San Simon. Gulping the last of my cafŽ con leche (or rather leche con cafŽ, hot milk with a bit of concentrated coffee), I walk out my front door onto the beautiful marble starburst design that is the front porch and bid ÒChaoÓ to the housekeeper Sylvia. After one last admiring gaze at my accommodations Ð a four-story, modern stucco multiple family dwelling designed by my mother Ð I venture into the streets. IÕm fortunate to live a fifteen minute walk from the building where we take classes. Most of the other students have to take Òmicros,Ó crowded little old busses sporting Japanese letters and sparkly stickers of Jesus or the Virgin Mary on their exterior. The sky is blue with huge puffy clouds; a perfect day were it not for the black smoke spewing straight from the carsÕ exhaust pipes into my nostrils and contact lenses. I have deduced that there is no translation for Òemissions standardsÓ in Bolivia. Inhaling as little as possible, I continue on until Ð SPLAT!. All of a sudden my backside is drenched. Had it not been for a similar attack on our tour bus on the first day, I would be quite alarmed. However, now I merely smile at this most quaint aspect of Bolivian culture: the duty of every boy under 20 to peg every possible target, especially vulnerable gringitas, with at least one water balloon. This signals the coming of El Carnaval, a country-wide celebration of parades and general revelry. The practice is so wide-spread that every day upon my return, my father asks ÒÀTe han mojado? (did they get you?)Ó and is quite surprised in the rare event that I answer in the negative. The water-bombings, combined with the fact that traffic lights are merely suggestion, make my daily jaunt exciting indeed. I spend the morning in Spanish class, then leave for lunch at noon. Lunch is the most important meal in Bolivia, and everybody returns home to eat together. While the contents of the meal may vary, one can be certain of at least one component: meat. Lots of it, usually at least two different kinds, deliciously prepared. (With a few exceptions, namely yesterday«s soup of cow stomach and kidney). My mother didnÕt hide her utter relief when I assured her I wasnÕt a vegetarian. Not that there isnÕt a cornucopia of delectable vegetable matter to sample: potatoes, of course (which were invented by the Incas), fresh fruit including papaya, bananas, prickly pear fruit (tunas), and several others I can neither pronounce nor spell. Then there is maiz, the Paul Bunyon of the corn family with huge sweet kernels. DonÕt worry mom, IÕm eating like a queen. More classes in the afternoon, from 3-5:30, and then IÕm home again for a light meal with the fam. Afterwards, I will probably hear Chiqui singing her scales in her rich operatic voice or Chiru practicing violin. Or perhaps Mariana will call, the oldest daughter who is studying music in Cuba. Although this isnÕt quite the experience of third-world scarcity I was seeking, I canÕt help but adore these people. And the icing on the cake of my homestay experience is: THEY DANCE! Not only do they dance, they are the head of a folkloric dance fraternity. They Ð or rather we, for I am officially a temporary member Ð are preparing to dance in the parade for El Carnaval. The style of dance is called Caporal, and the male dancers represent the men in the fields of the haciendas that kept the African slaves in line. Admittedly, I find the history of the dance is less than tasteful. Caporal is part of a triad of dances, the others being Tundiqui and Saya, which are danced only by black Bolivians (of which there are quite few. In fact, a black girl in our group was warned that she might be randomly pinched because it is considered good luck to encounter a black person!) I asked my father what the womenÕs Caporal dance represents, and he said they were more or less added for ornamentation. Another flattering aspect, but nonetheless, I am having a blast doing it. The fraternity practices together for four hours every Saturday night on a block with a spectacular view of the mountains and sunset. In addition to these and other intensive practice sessions with my sister Chiru, I am working on the elaborate sequin embroidery for the costume, which reminds me of that of a modern cowgirl: short flouncy skirt, long sleeves with poofy shoulders, and a small hat with a round rim. The dance consists of short steps that swivel the hips, which makes the skirt twirl, and shaking the shoulders (Òshimmying,Ó for all you swingers.) Don«t worry, IÕll have lots of photos to share. I was also fortunate last week to experience the quintessence of South American recreation: FUTBOL! The match between our boys Wilstermann and a Buenos Aires team was quite a trip. For about 8 bucks, we sat in the ÒgoodÓ section on the long side of the field right next to the action. Although the view was fantastic, we found ourselves looking wistfully towards the cheap seats where the masses were going absolutely crazy with songs and confetti and the occasional burning tire Ð seriously. The people around us all wore their business suits, cell phones, and vacant expressions, standing languidly to clap only when a goal was scored. Next time, weÕll know better. A few things about the stadium told me I was not in Kansas anymore. Number one: forget the flashy Coca-Cola snack bars and bring in the cholitas with their homemade popcorn and ice cream. Number two: police with rifles and body shields all over the field. Just in case someone should try to throw a water balloon at the opposing team as they exit. Well, I suppose I should actually go do some homework, since I am getting credit for this semester. Sorry I havenÕt responded to everyone yet, I hope to get to it soon! Best wishes to all. Chao-chao, Evie