Something to Write Home About

Emotions, Revisted

Bittersweet doesn’t even begin to describe it.

This morning as I watched our basketball team get presented gold medals I couldn’t wait to go home. Four days. So soon. There’s just so much to look forward to. I can’t wait to see my family and friends, to pet my dogs and take them to the Dog Days of Summer Giants game. I can’t wait for band camp and our first game day. I can’t wait to eat cheddar cheese again. By Friday I’ll be back in the United States and profoundly grateful for everything I have. My mom came back from Mass to pick me up to take me to my grandma´s house for lunch. I got in the car still in my fantasies of watching our game against Syracuse at Bdubs with my best friend. And then she mentioned how I was leaving soon and I was struck by the overwhelming urge to cry. I managed to hold myself together, but only just. I made it through lunch too. But perhaps that was due to my being wary of the sopa de Mani that upset my stomach last week. I drifted in and out of my fantasies of being back in the States.

After lunch one of my uncles shepherded us into the yard to take a picture. It was then when my mom grabbed me and said that she wanted “her Lauren” that it started. Tears well up in my eyes as I tried to put on a brave face for the camera. Afterwards I rushed off to the bathroom to try and clean myself up before anyone noticed. Pull yourself together Lauren, you still have three and a half more days with them. I walked out of the bathroom not completely sure that I was okay. I thought about how my grandma has asked when I’d be back. The tears threatened to come back. Inside the TV room golf was playing. Well this is good, watching a sport I hate should at least distract me a little from everything. My aunt came in and asked when I was leaving and if I was contenta or triste. Tears leaked out of my eyes as I tried to say both. I attempted being really interested in the golf game, but that didn’t stop and uncle and a cousin coming over and asking the same question. The tears started rolling; my cousin got me some water and a napkin. Somehow, our conversation of broken Spanish and English (my uncle wanted to practice) cheered me up, especially when we talked about NUMB and I got that glow that comes from talking about game day. Though every time I laughed it almost made me start crying all over again. It was saying goodbye to my grandma that was the worst. She told me to know that I had a family in Bolivia my uncle said in his broken English. And then I was hugging her and trying not to sob.

As soon as we got home I left for the internet café; I was pretty sure that if I so much as looked at any of the members of my family I would completely break down. The walk here was peaceful. It was a clear day, and the sun was setting. Trees and ravines outlined the mountains ahead of me. And I thought about Evanston and Roseville and mostly of the family I’m leaving behind in Cochabamba, uncertain if I’ll ever see them again. This is hard. I can’t honestly say whether I’m contenta or triste. The two emotions are so intertwined right now I can’t even begin to tell them apart. Let alone write a coherent blog post. Nothing in my life has ever been so bittersweet.

On Thursday I have to say goodbye to my family. And I’m going to be a hot mess. On Friday I’m going to be back in Evanston, Monday I’ll spend the night in my new little house on Garnett, and the following Tuesday I’ll be back in California. I’ll probably cry those times too. My little adventure is coming to an end and I have no idea what to do with myself.

Fogons and such

It’s been a while since I last posted and that isn´t due to lack of fun stories, but rather my lack of a computer. You see, at the beginning of last week I tripped with my computer in my bag and may have damaged my hard drive. Worst luck ever?  Yes. But are you surprised (dear friend that you must be since you´re reading this)? No. Anyways, onto a general update! And maybe a story about a spider depending on how long I feel like staying at this internet café.

The past week or so has seen my group working laboriously on our project which involves fun little things called “rocket stoves” that our organization, CECAM, has become pretty adept at making. These stoves are a huge improvement over traditional three stone fire cooking techniques as they reduce smoke inhaled as the stove´s chimney directs it away, and they use less wood;they´re better for people´s health and better for the environment.  Part of our project involves improving the design of the stoves. And we´re making ten of them to sell, at a reduced price, to beautiful little families in El Campo, which I will dedicate a post to soon (ish, still don´t have a computer).But yes, that´s right, we´re making stoves. As in using power tools and bending metal and doing things which I feel should earn my group of not engineers EDC credit. So the past week has been quite a time. The really exciting thing is that we are so close to being finished with them and ready to have a little party with the families that we´ve chosen next week.

And such:

-I went to La Cancha, the biggest open air market in Bolivia, last weekend and bought all of the cosas. Including a pan flute! That wasn’t my last trip though; I still need to spend more money on you lovely friends of mine.

-I´ve managed to work the preterite, imperfect, and a little bit of future tense into my speech. My Spanglish is impeccable.

-Iré (see!) al Chapare this weekend! I´m so excited to see rainforests. Bolivia´s biodiversity is described as “megadiversity” so I cannot wait.

-You don´t know happiness until you´ve sat in a park, eaten greasy quesadillas with your friends, and listened to a Bolivian band sing “You´re the One that I Want.”

-Sorry about any grammar errors, I´m typing on a Spanish computer and it freaks me out.

Flutes on flutes

Someone once joked that it’s hard to play a woodwind instrument because, unlike a guitar, you can’t just pick up a saxophone at a party, start playing it, and expect to not go home alone. I still remember that joke from years ago because 1) the delivery was much, much better than what I just wrote and 2) for my primary instrument, that rule applies times like 8.

When I was around three, a member of the cast of Barney and Friends played the flute during an episode. It was then that I knew I wanted to play it too. I finally got my chance in 6^th grade when Beginning Band was offered, and I’ve been playing ever since. Music was all I did in high school. No NHS, no Key Club. But you name an instrumental ensemble – jazz band, marching band, winter percussion, etc - and I was in it for at least two years, mostly playing my flute. I don’t play nearly as much anymore, but I like to keep up my chops in NUMB and NUBB.

But let’s be real. In America, the flute isn’t cool. Don’t get me wrong, I love my instrument to death. But I also know that I’m not earning myself any points when I tell people that I play the flute, of all things, in the marching band. Still, at the advice from one of the pre-departure summit speakers, I brought my flute to Bolivia. Where, go figure, they do pull out flutes at parties. Okay fine, there were still acoustic guitars, but there were also two different kinds of flutes - three when I brought mine down.  

Yesterday was my host dad’s birthday and he had a lot of friends over to eat grilled steak and chorizo, drink, and apparently, play a lot of music. I was watching TV with my host brothers when it started. At first it was just acoustic guitar stuff (in Spanish so Wonderwall wasn’t a thing). And then I heard it. That’s not real, I thought, there is absolutely no way somebody brought a flute to this party. The music soon came inside due to cold, and there they were, a pan flute and some kind of wood recorder/flute. I just sat and watched in awe from afar for a good ten minutes before getting up the nerve to approach the table.  I brought down my flute at my host dad’s suggestion and ended up playing Go U for everyone as I had no sweet little flute solo up my sleeve unlike the guy who brought the South American flutes. We made attempts to play each other’s and I could make sounds out of both! I just wanted the guys to leave me the flutes and like a fingering chart so I could play with them all weekend long. I’m determined to learn the pan flute this summer. They kept telling me to play more. At one point, one of the guys started playing the Titanic theme and I picked it up pretty quickly and played along. Eventually I started to pick up on the other melodies and would join in every so often. It was really nice to realize that I still have some kind of ability to pick things up by ear.

But that was another thing cool about music here. They encourage you to participate and no one cares if you make a mistake or two, there’s just no fear of judgment. Our GESI group definitely judged the other FSD interns when they pulled out a guitar on the Fourth of July.

Also, their clapping patterns are so different. It wasn’t simply clapping on 1 and 3 or 2 and 4, or even the increasingly popular +2, 4 pattern. The simplest rhythm they taught me was +1+2+3+4.

And they just keep playing and singing like no one is listening. Until about 4 in the morning.

So my fellow flautists, if your parts in marching band are ever bringing you down, just find a nice Bolivian family. Because the flute is super cool here.

Home is wherever I’m with you

Happy Fourth of July everyone!

Well, I’ve been in Bolivia for over a week now and I feel as though I’ve assimilated. I have a nice little routine that I follow every day to get to and from work and despite a few mishaps, I tend to get places on time. My group has at least kind of figured out a project and how things work at CECAM.  More routines include how to take showers when the “hot” switch is just for show. I’ve finally figured out that the bread that I eat after work is actually supposed to just be a snack and dinner isn’t until much later. Instead of just watching “Caso Cerrado” with my host family, my host brothers have taken to playing Monopoly, or whatever the Bolivian version of it is, with me. Lately, the kitten has been climbing on and falling asleep on me. At home, I feel like a part of the family.

Home is an interesting concept to me. I have two very separate ones, my one in Roseville and my Northwestern one. For the most part, I’m the same person in both places, except my mom forces me to clean in California. Sorry Northwestern roommates. And now I have this new one in Bolivia, and it’s a bit different than America. After all of the GESI pre-departure classes I’ve been trying not to compare these two countries in any way that would make either or “better.” Living conditions and language aside, the concepts of home and family here are a bit different.

Mauricio told us to spend our first week here with our families rather than hanging out with each other after work. So, when I told my host mom that I was going to go out with my friends Saturday, she was quite surprised. And then, she and my host dad spent about 45 minutes freaking out about my welfare and safety and taxis and things. My host mom ended up calling a friend rather than a taxi to take me to FSD to meet my friends. After everything was settled, they told me that parents here were very protective. Weren’t my parents protective too? Didn’t they worry? Well no, I tried to explain in my broken Spanish.

I know my parents worry, and I know they love me, but the simple fact is that Evanston, IL is a far cry from Roseville, CA. Three years of living a (longish) plane ride away and managing to not have gotten myself killed has formed a certain trust and understanding between my family and me. My living in Bolivia this summer doesn’t feel all that different to them from my living in Evanston. They’re used to me living far away and taking care of myself.  In Bolivia, students go to the closest universities and remain living with their families.

I had nice, long conversations with my dad, mom, and little sister before I arrived in Bolivia. My sister told me she’d take care of our dogs, my mom fretted over my finances in country, and my dad told me he was proud that I was following the tradition of Carbajals seeking new adventures in faraway places. I miss them as I type this and counldn’t help but tear up a bit when I went to the birthday party of my host mom’s niece (and my adopted niece I guess, as they introduced me to her as “Tia”) and was reminded of the big parties we’d have at home on Easter, and the Fourth of July.

But, I think one of the big reasons my family in California doesn’t worry about me is because they know I always manage to surround myself with wonderful people. They know my friends/family in Evanston are the greatest and take care of me and don’t let me get into too much trouble (that they know of…JUST KIDDING parents). They’ve kept me sane and in love with Northwestern for the past three years. If I’m proud of one thing I’ve done at this school, it’s the friends I’ve made. And my parents know I’ll only do the same in Cochabamba.

My family here and my families in the United States are similar in their intrinsic closeness. The big difference is in how we see distance. Here it’s not a thing. In the US, it’s just an excepted part of life as we grow up and figure out what we want to do and who we want to be.

Anyways, I miss you friends and family in the States. But don’t worry too much about me. Cold/scalding hot showers aside, I’ve got a good thing starting in Cochabamba too.

And sorry for the long, sentimental post, the Fourth of July gets me this way.

Mayonesa

Lunch that day was rice, a potato, and some type of breaded chicken. As soon as a plate was in front of me I served myself some salad and some juice and dug in. I was in the middle of a particularly juicy piece of chicken when Karen (pronounced KAH-reen), my host mom, spoke,

“Quieres mayonesa?”

Andre, my host brother, reached into the refrigerator to grab a packet as I let the thought sit. The part of my lunch that would call for mayonnaise was completely unfathomable, and quite frankly, there were few things I’d like less on my rice and chicken. I don’t like mayonnaise. Even back in the States the thought of it on any sandwich of mine makes me shudder with revulsion. I’m the one at who at BK, in any state of mind, can be counted on to make sure there is no mayo on my $1.29 spicy chicken sandwich; my sandwiches in elementary school consisted of solely meat and bread.

When my host dad asked me what foods I didn’t like on my first night with them I answered simply “frijoles.” Apparently in Bolivia there is another word for “beans” but I forgot what it was, but that’s okay because I don’t like them and this family doesn’t eat much of them. I didn’t think to include mayonnaise. That is, until it was present at every meal. And never at a time where I would deem it fitting.

I was fairly certain that the content of the packet Andre was cutting the corner of was mayonnaise. It had to be some sort of cognate from whatever godforsaken country the substance was from. But then again, was it? Maybe something got lost in translation and whatever this is was just called “mayonnaise?” The packets had been at many meals with mayonnaise-inappropriate host foods. There were also lemons and limes on the packet – two things I would never associate with the condiment.

My eyes fell on the salad of lettuce and tomatoes. The thought of eating the vegetables plain was, admittedly, causing me some anxiety. No salad dressing was to be seen on the table, except…

I reached out and took the Mayonesa that Andre held. Slowly I squeezed the packet and a squiggle of white fell onto red and green. That’s not how dressing comes out of a packet.

My fork touches the white so I can taste it just to make sure and my worst fears are confirmed. I scrape the tainted pieces of lettuce and tomato to the side.

Thiago, my youngest host brother has seen all of this. He either thinks I’m an idiot, or completely brilliant as he says, “Quiero mayonesa!”

It’s all yours bud.

Perdido en Cochabamba, parte dos

Como se dice, “I’m a mess” en espanol? I’ll be real, after today’s adventures a part of me wants to spend a few good minutes in my room weeping softly to myself. Instead I’m dealing and sitting next to one of the cats in the living room and watching people coo at the kitten. How exactly does one manage to get lost taking the same route twice in one day? Well, I’m not exactly sure, but I managed to do it.

Today was my first day at CECAM. We spent the morning doing introductions and learning about the organization, and then it was 11:45 and thus, almost time for us to head home for lunch (here lunch is the most important meal). The workers at CECAM were supposed to tell us how to get home. We spent a good few minutes pouring over a map. And then, all of a sudden, Kristin and I – our host families are related and live close to each other – were hurried into a taxi with some instructions in rapid Spanish. Neither of us knew what was going on when the taxi driver dropped us off on the side of the road. Kristin suggested that maybe I was supposed to call my host mom. Well, I left my notebook containing all my host family’s information (on accident) at the CECAM office, so that option was moot. So, we headed down the uneven street hoping we’d see a familiar one. We walked a fairly long ways until Mauricio, head of the Cochabamba FSD office, finally called us, presumably because our host families had no idea where we were. We had actually managed to get most of the way to Kristin’s house before my host dad found us and picked us up.

After lunch, my host mom went with me back to the street the CECAM office is on, in an attempt to show me how to get there and back. Well, I only learned so much. When the clock struck five at CECAM Will, Kristin, and I got on a taxi that would take Will all the way back home. At some point Kristin and I were to get off – Kristin to walk the rest of the way and me to take another taxi. A few seconds after Kristin got off the taxi I started wondering if I had let myself go too far. I got off a couple blocks down and turns out I definitely had. So I started walking in the opposite direction. During this, my host mom called asking what had happened. I replied that I got off the 120 Trufi Taxi and didn’t see any 40 Trufi Taxis. She told me to wait for a bit and I’d see one. But I’d also gone a lot further than I was supposed to and probably wouldn’t see a 40 taxi. See here, the less sketchy taxis are like buses and have routes. This made things infinitely more difficult as I couldn’t simply call on one to take me home and assume it was safe. So the next forty-five minutes consisted of me walking up and down Simon Lopez Avenue, taking a taxi too far once again, and finally waiting in front of a bank unable to not appreciate the beauty of the Andes that surrounded us. I would have taken a picture if I hadn’t been terrified of looking like a lost tourist. My host mom found me in front of that bank, and it just so happened to be a short bus ride from home.

So things I learned today:

How to actually get home from CECAM

Peri-urban Bolivia is pretty safe as long as you look like you know what you’re doing. And it’s before dark

 I’m pretty damn good at hiding my sheer terror

Whoever said sandals are good for everyday wear in Bolivia LIED. 

Altitude sickness, first impressions, etc.

Looking out the airplane window upon arrival in La Paz it was hard to imagine that we were about to walk into the highest airport in the world. The gray stretch characteristic of an airplane strip spanned in all directions; the airport looked like any other. But we soon stepped out of the airplane and then came the crippling altitude sickness. Okay, “crippling” may be too strong of a word. Everyone in our group of thirteen was more or less affected, my experience went as follows.

I managed to get through customs like a champ. I felt a little weird, but that could’ve been due to sheer exhaustion. After we checked our baggage again for the flight to Cochabamba my body politely let me know that it was time to sit down. Eventually we got up and headed to our gate after a few people exchanged money where I proceeded to sit down again. Free WiFi was exciting for a hot second as all of us alerted the Facebook world of our arrival in Bolivia. But then taking a nap seemed like a better idea. So far, the altitude sickness had been unpleasant, but I could deal. Then we got on the plane. I settled down and was happy to have a familiar face next to me. Will started talking to me as soon as he was settled, and I’m not quite sure what changed in the airplane but I soon felt acutely aware of my need to vom. I mumbled “Perdon” to the guy in the aisle seat and practically ran to the nearest bathroom. I somehow managed not to, but I was more than happy to fall asleep until we reached a lower altitude. So my group and La Paz weren’t too compatible, Cochabamba is a different story.

The city’s location is beautiful. It lies in a valley surrounded by the Andes Mountains. The weather is like Evanston at its finest, during those beautiful spring days when it’s hot, but not hot enough for any humidity to come into play. The nights are a bit chilly, but nothing a light jacket can’t fix. And the city itself is comfy. The houses and general feel remind me of the countries I’ve visited in Central America. And everyone is just so nice. The Foundation for Sustainable Development (FSD) sent us on another scavenger hunt. This one went a lot better than the Chicago one for some reason. My group met a cool old man who told us a bunch of conspiracy theories about who was running the world and gave us a short lesson in Greek mythology. I’d tell you his name, but then I’d have to kill you. But actually, he referred to his house as his bunker.

My host family is a beautiful little family of four – a mom, dad, and two boys of 13 and 8. They read the bio I had to send them and knew the basics about me. They also noticed my last name is of Hispanic origin and were probably hoping my Spanish was a bit better. But they’re gracious and patient and just so nice. I mentioned that I needed to buy an adapter for my chargers and they literally looked around their house for 20 minutes trying to find something that would work. When they couldn’t find one, they took me to a supermercado. This was after I repeatedly told them that it was fine and I’d buy one the next day.

As for the etc:

Is my Spanish ever going to improve?

I have a host kitten! And two host cats and dogs! Here most of the time the cats live inside while the dogs live outside. This makes no sense to wackos like me who take their dogs to baseball games.

Dogs here are super smart. I freak out every time I see one run across the street, but they know what they’re doing.

I bought that adapter for under $4. And probably managed to already look like a bit of a d-bag bringing $40 to the supermercado because I expected the price to be much higher.

The FSD office had a copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince in Spanish.

Peri-urban Bolivia provides a beautiful view at night.

I can’t even

13 hours. 13 hours ‘til I get on a plane to Miami and then from there to La Paz. And then finally, Cochabamba; it’s so unreal. I still feel like something will wrong and someone is going to tell me that I actually can’t go to Bolivia. But I think it’s actually happening. In 2 ½ hours one of my roommates is leaving for the airport to go to South Africa. She’s not sleeping. I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to either.

But I’m so excited. And not just for me and the group I’m going to Bolivia with. I’m excited for the friends I’ve made through this program who are going to Nicaragua, South Africa, India, the Dominican Republic, and Uganda and are going to do wonderful things. I’m excited for my friends here who are chasing their dreams at awesome internships/research jobs and/or spending time with the families that we see less and less of as we start to become real people. I’m excited for my senior friends who just graduated and are starting exciting new chapters of their lives. I’m excited for my little sister who is getting ready to begin her freshman year of college and who thankfully I’ll get to see before she leaves. It’s gonna be a good summer.

I wanted to end with a link to the song “Vivez!” from The Scarlet Pimpernel, but unfortunately it is nowhere to be found on YouTube. So instead I leave you with one that was stuck in my head a day or two ago. Make the world dance friends.