Potosi and the silence of the mines

Potosí : The Barren Earth

MUCOV left La Paz with solid memories of urban chaos against the background of steep hillsides and the clarity of blue skies. The end of its first cycle was drawing near, and there were only a couple more adventures and Herstories left to find before the end of our journey due south. In Cochabamba, we met a cooperative of womyn miners who have come from Potosí and who have given us a glimpse into its past and present. With the memory of these Herstories in mind, we accepted an enthusiastic pending invitation and made our way towards the city of Potosí accompanied on the long bus ride by our new friends from La Paz, Pancho, going back to visit his hometown, and Berthita, his caregiver and prominent motherly figure for the last 17 years.

The Cerro Rico of Potosi: Stolen goods, Stolen lives As we entered the city, it was difficult to ignore its most striking feature and the source of its fame: the towering red Pyramid-like triangle of "Cerro Rico" (rich mountain), at once majestic and whole in its solidity yet full of deep gaping holes, like that of a mouth missing half its teeth. The reason for its hapless figure is rooted in its tragic past as a mining town; after the discovery of silver in 1545 in the belly of Cerro Rico, Potosi was transformed into the largest and richest city in South America. But the Spanish empire, in its endless and blood thirsty quest for riches, left this mountain completely barren of all of its silver and precious minerals, a vast quantity of stolen wealth meant to fund their vast conquests. And like in all conquests, stolen goods come at the expense of stolen lives; the number of African and Indigenous slaves, who died as a consequence of the appalling conditions they worked under, is numbered in the millions. And this loss is felt in an almost tangible way; the town possess a quiet quality to it, a certain silence, almost as if the mines in the belly of the earth exude their force like a cloud over the town. The streets are cobblestone and dirt but the houses, in their colonial architecture, and the high number of elaborate churches in the town are there to remind the observers of its once opulent existence.

The Herstory of the Palliri: Sifting the rough pile We decided to take a tour of the mines; besides our desire to witness and explore what was once the heart of this town, we were also hoping to meet other womyn miners and hear their Herstories. With the advice of our guide, we went to the market first to buy presents for the miners we would meet along the way: 100% alcohol (for the cold in the mines that often gets to below zero degrees) hand-made cigarettes, dynamite (the only place in which this is sold legally) and coca leaves (which helps the miners work all day and numb the thirst, hunger and cold). Currently the mountain is mined by cooperatives of miners independently funded who take out whatever metals and minerals are left in the mountain. But we have discovered that womyn are not allowed to work in the mines of Cerro Rico; only the man. However, their work is equally important: besides their multiple tasks in the home and with their children, womyn who work in Cerro Rico are what is called "Palliri"-hand pickers. Their job is to single handedly find and sort out the minerals and metals into different piles. Before entering the mines, MUCOV listened to Herstory of the representative of the Palliri womyn, who, showing us her calloused dust covered hands, shared with us the difficult conditions under which the Palliri work, in which their rights and health are far from guaranteed. As opposed to their male counterparts, their work is done outside, under the hot sun or the pouring rain, without protection or shade or sometimes, a break. The womyn who work here, she says, have long days in which, once they are done with their sorting work, which often leaves them worn out and sore, have to go home and take care of their homes and children and husbands, who are most often miners as well. Sadly enough, she tells us, many Palliri womyn are widows; their husbans die from mining related accidents or dangers and they are forced to find whatever means necessary to survive and support their children. Unfortunately, the Palliri have very few cooperatives and for the most part their work is informal and autonomous, which makes it hard for them to earn what they deserve for their hard work. Her dream, she says, is for the Palliri to get the credit that they deserve and for them to get more organized. We gave her a bag of the treats we brought as a thank you and she run quickly to continue with her work. The Mines:

As we entered the mines, it seemed as though the world had always existed underground. The tunnels were cramped, wet and hot; we could hear the sound of water trickling in and the air smelled like dust and humid earth. We often had to duck under the tubes and hoses that snaked their way around the mines; we imagined the miners working day and night in these conditions, in the heat and cold, in the cramped space and the dust that takes possession of their lungs. We were told that many miners eventually get sick and die from inhaling all of the dust particles that put together become toxic to their bodies. The tunnels have sharp drops to the side, and so we had to constantly pay attention, with the help of our flashlights, where we placed our feet.

One of our first stops within the mine was at the shrine of The Tio (Uncle). Tio represents the god of the underworld (the devil), as opposed to the god of the above-ground world. In each mine, in a quiet and mostly hidden away spot, there is a place of worship for Tio. In order to have good luck in the mines, the miners bestow many gifts and offerings to Tio, and so did we, with the gifts we brought, so that he bestow this luck on us. On the walls, we saw the handiwork of mother earth which can only be done under its surface; haphazard paintings with an invisible brush of colorful patterns created by the minerals and metals. More than anything, we could still feel the presence and the marks left by the generations of slaves who have died with their hands and their bodies wasted, their silence and pain expressed in the silence that can only be heard in the darkness of the mines. Bertita´s Companionship: Herstory of the Caregiver an extra ordinary

MUCOV had the pleasure and good luck of getting to know a remarkable womyn. Bertita, a petite cholita (in Bolivia, womyn of indigenous roots who wear the traditional skirt) with two long graying braids flowing from her back and a soft face with a continuous worried expression, is a caregiver by title and by life. She had a difficult past, since she had to work for a living from a very young age. Her parents could not support her and so she feels as if she did not havr a childhood, like other children. And so she has been taking care of whole families almost her all life. In the last 17 years, she had worked with our friend Pancho´s family in Potosi. She has dedicated her life to be everything for his family: a nanny, a mother, a father, a housewife, a teacher and so on. She sees everything that goes around with a sharpness and a consciousness of all the idiosynchresies of each family member ; She makes her affection and connection to Pancho, her concern for his well being, abundantly clear, in the way she follows him at 2 in the morning as he walks his friends home, or the way in which she worries about his school work, or the way in which she look at him with the eyes of a mother. Her own family consists of her niece and her daughter, who she takes care of whenever she can. What she wants most, is for the people she loves to be happy. Yet there is a sadness to her voice, once that speaks of lost childhood and a world of burdens.

Potosi was a fascinating lesson into the past and gave us a world of information in tangible form. With our hearts full of gratitude for the time we spent with our friends, we continued on to the Salar of Uyuni, a world marvel, another silent world of pure salt that burns your eyes give the force sun’s reflection that comes from the ground. Here is our usual run-on style to summarize MUCOV¨S last adventure in Bolivia:

Bertita´s food, El Molino, green and red hills, walking on rocks, dry feet, Hot springs in a crater, I-pod days, laughter, laughter and more laughter, high above the world, quiet conversations, jeep rides, salt hotels, sunsets, differences of opinions, adolescent boys, heat and cold and heat again, islands in the midst of white, flamingos, lagoons, winds, gazers, more hot springs, train station, sleepless nights, robberies, borders and reflections.

We are on our way to Argentina, our final destination for a while, where MUCOV will rest and drink from the well of renewal.

La Paz desenredando el Caos

La Paz y Sus 3,800 Momentos Después de haber estado en las ciudades principales de Colombia, Ecuador y Perú, piensas que de pronto ya no falta mucho que conocer de lo que constituye una capital (de facto o no), pero me equivoque. Quede entusiasmada nuevamente recorriendo las calles con el Proyecto MUCOV. Las plazas, sus circunvalaciones, sus calles llenas de vendedoras de todo, el pan por cada esquina abierto para tus ojos, las humitas, la quínoa, y ante todo las empanadas y salteñas que aunque provienen de raices Argentinas pero ahora son el algo emblematico y mas Paceño que el Yaaaaaahhhhhhhh que cantan a final de cada expresiona. Los colores de La Paz empiezan a salir desde el aire que respiras, el color de su altura, el gris de la lluvia que no se decide si viene o se va con el sol, y después el aire se mezcla con los aromas de las calles y el plateado de las rocas, las esquinas con su vejez acumulada, y la gente con su propios tonos y auras de su día a día. Que Diversidad! Mujeres con polleras por toda parte, sus trenzas negras y largas como el camino de noche para llegar al Nevado Huayna Potosi . Los rostros de las y los bolivianos son tan variados como la flora y fauna de Sudamérica. Las características andinas predominan al mestizaje, y la modernidad se cruza con lo tradicional tan sutilmente que no sabes si los ojos son de una mirada antigua o de un mañana por venir. Es evidente que la política y el ímpetus que ha surgido en el pueblo compuesto de mujeres y hombres tienen reconocimiento de esta diversidad dado que Bolivia se considera un Estado PLURINACIONAL y hay que destacar que esto no es muy común en Latinoamérica. Va, pero hay tanto mas que analizar y decir sobre todo los procesos que estan hirbiendo en la cazuela del cambio aqui en Bolivia que nos tocaria quedarnos todo el 2010 para documentarlo...

La ciudad te impresiona por su sorprendente caos. Es rápida pero todo se mueve lento: él trafico, las filas, las llegadas, las partidas. Las montañas le dan todo el cuerpo a la urbe, El Alto es la garganta, sus calles las venas, el cielo su piel. El horizonte de sus calles es frecuentemente interrumpido por lo vertical de su arquitectura. Las subidas y bajadas retan a tus pulmones y músculos a adaptarse a andar sobre los 3,800 metros de altura. La Paz es una paz urbana que te invita conocer los rincones y curvas de su laberinto de momentos… Estuvimos hospedadas con Julieta Parede y Victoria Aldunante de la Comunidad de Mujeres Creando Comunidad nos invitaron a un taller sobre el Feminismo Comunitario de lo cual aprendimos mucho sobre la propuesta del feminismo autónomo y comunitario que se ha ido construyendo desde una mirada que parte del contexto Boliviano. Fueron tardes de mucho compartir y aprender de las experiencias de estas mujeres que llevan un trayecto largo de trabajo muy fuerte politicamente y que continúan luchando por un cambio político y social desde las bases comunitarias y por supuesto desde una mirada muy feminista. Y entre entrevistas y andadas por La Paz con unas buenas amigas/kuatas/parceras/compañeras nos ensimismamos en muchos momentos inolvidables. Momento de noche

Hacia la media noche buscábamos en donde disfrutar de buena música y ambiente. Así llegamos al as puertas de Tetekos, un local muy conocido lleno de una diversidad de visitantes que parece una sopa de artesanos, extranjeros, locales perdid@s, forasteras encontradas, músicos y artistas, anomia@s transitando como conocidas, y como de punto final nosotras. Bailamos, nos sentamos, dialogamos, escuchamos, miramos y disfrutamos de todo lo que percibíamos, sentiamos, y pensabamos. En momentos nos quedábamos en el pensamiento transitorio de tratar de ubicar y entender las historias que llegaban a nuestra mesa. Una chica inglesa que dice que un chico la robo, el chico que dice que la inglesa le fue infiel, un hombre ebrio por el amor y la traición, otro celebrando su cumpleaños con amigos y amigas que daban vueltas por la pista, otra chica extranjera hablando de su compra de un vehículo en Chile que no puede sacar del país porque no es chilena que tenia un tenedor como anillo, un chico que me contaba sobre el asesinato de su mama, y así se cruzaban destinos y historias al son de un buen reggae mientras participamos en la configuración de esa dimensión única. Frase favorita de la noche: “Creo que Tetekos es un punto energético”-Leo Cavernícola. Momento de Día Estábamos esperando que saliera Silvia (a quien ibamos a entrevistar para el Proyecto MUCOV), de su trabajo como abogada en el Ministerio de Trabajo pero no salía. Estábamos sobre la puerta lateral del edificio al la par de un kiosco de confiterías. El Kiosko (muy comun por toda La Paz) tiene de todo: dulces, chocolates, chicles, jugos, agua, y muchas veces tambien te ofrecen un teléfono publico. Mientras observaba los detalles de ese kioso o mire a una niña hermosa con cabello rapado, con un vestido de color amarillo de verano, zapatos rotos y un cuaderno en la mano izquierda. Su madre realizaba una llamada, o más bien intentaba porque no le contestaban y levantaba, marcaba, y colgaba. Este acto se repitió una docena de veces. La niña esperaba y su altura quedaba justo enfrente de la primera hilera de dulces. Que tentación para una niña que parecía y no tener mas que seis ciclos solares de vida tener que estar justo cara a cara con las golosinas. En eso, mire que se alzo el cuaderno justo para que le tapara la mirada sobre su cabeza. Ojeaba por encima, con los ojos casi mirando hacia el cielo a la dueña del kiosco quien estaba sentada al fondo de toda su izquierda. Cuando ella alzaba el cuaderno sobre su cabeza era imposible ver lo que la mano diestra hacia. Así la pequeñita podría aprovechar con y agarrar unos caramelos, metérselos a la boca y derretirlos mientras su mama repetia la llamada. Mi sensibilidad a esto no me permitía analizarlo como un robo, mas bien quede impresionada por la delicadeza con la cual la niña alzaba la mirada tan sutilmente para asegurarse que la dueña del kiosco no la pillara, y como velozmente cogía los dulces y se los metía a la boca como quien se roba un pedacito del pastel del cumpleaños de alguien mas. La mama seguía marcando y marcando a alguien que no contestaba y en eso la dueña con su intuición de vendedora miro a través del cuaderno que la niña se estaba comiendo sus dulces! La pequeña fue regañada y humillada. La madre colgó al fin el teléfono dada por vencida de que no lograría hablar y cogió su bastón. La niña con lágrimas gigantes chorreando sobre su rostro inocente cogió a su madre de la mano y partieron. Alli, mientras partian madre e hija me di cuenta que no habia percibido semejante realidad: la niña era los ojos de la madre pues su madre no es vidente me di cuenta que yo había presenciado algo grande. La propia madre de la niña nunca miro lo que sucedió, nunca miro con que gusto su hija disfrutaba el caramelo en la boca, nunca miro o escucho el regaño de la dueña del kiosco, nunca miro las lágrimas de su hija. Momento de mañana Cada par de días salíamos al mercado para comprar verduras, frutas, y cualquier necesidad alimentaría. Las frutas en su gran diversidad están de lado a lado por las calles de Sagurnaga y Murillo. Allí las naranjas, papayas, sandía, palta (aguacate), higos, cebollas y ajos tienen un reinado cada uno mientras que la reina vendedora despacha. Estábamos antojadas de jugo de naranja y decidimos ir a comprar las frutas frescas. Le pregunte a la dueña “Cuanto cuestan las naranjas?”. “Ocho por veinticinco”, me respondió, pero no le entendí. Ocho naranjas por 25 pesos?, me pregunte a mi misma y para aclarar le volví a preguntar, “Cuanto me dijo?” “Son 25 naranjas por ocho pesos,” me respondió ya sin mucha simpatía. En eso mire que había toronjas (pomelos) y decidí preguntar el precio. La señora no me respondió. Le volví a preguntar y me miro y me ignoró de frente. No percibía yo su actuar entonces le hice la tercera pregunta que fue la final, “Señora no me va a vender?” “NO,” me dijo sin mas ni menos. ¿! QUE?! En eso me puse a reír. La señora había decidido que como yo no entendía el precio ella no me iba a vender. Lógico. Yo jamás había vivido algo así. tan claramente firme. Me fui a buscar naranjas a otro lado con risa y una mirada de esas que nos sabes si sentirte ofendida o sentir una gran admiracion por la soberbia...

La Paz fue un nido inolvidable. Las personas que nos ayudaron a entender ese contexto se merecen nuestro agradecimiento profundo! Gracias Leo, Eugenia, Julieta, Victoria, Los Artesanos, Las Mujeres que trabajan en El Solario, Las vendedoras en el mercado! Y GRACIAS A LAS MUJERES QUE SE UNIERON AL PROYECT@ MUCOV!

CHIO Y GLADYS MARFA Y EUGENIA!

Entre otros enredos y experiencias aquí va nuestra acostumbrada frase llena de violaciones a la gramática castellana: Memoria USB de 16gigas pirata y la pelea con la vendedora sobre la calle comercio, soberbia andina y el derecho de no venderle a alguien así nomas, colectivo a Las Delicias en Villafatima que no pasa los domingos desde el centro, taxista abusivos, empanadas sobre empanadas, palta con pan el las plazas, Cholitas Luchadoras en los afiches, electrónicos baratos en la calle Eloy Salmón y el regateo de diario en todo lugar para comprar no pagar precio de gringo, conversaciones con Silvia sobre conocimientos esotéricos, visita a Tiawanaku, ir a Coroico y deleitarse con las cascadas de naturaleza a naturaleza.

La Paz: con todo tu caos nos sentimos armonizadas y con muchas ganas de volver a estar a tu altura!

¡NO A LA PIROPERIA!

El Insulto Macho detrás del grito de Mamacita!

-Malinche Opina:

Ese derecho a insultar busca aplicarse por encima de esa mujer que camina sola por las calles, confiada en que la calle también es de ella. De noche ese insulto busca ejercerse sobre esa mujer que está reclamando el derecho a su espacio, un insulto disfrazado de silvido, de un "shhuu chuhuuu", o de un "eeyyh tuuuuu". De día nos busca por las esquinas, por el andén, en los buses, y afuera y adentro de lo publico. Nos busca en cada instante cuando ese macho se siente libre de piropear y de expresarse vulgarmente sobre el cuerpo ajeno, el cuerpo de la mujer, con semejante libertad que el mismo ha reclamado sin lucha alguna.

¡Y no solo busca a una, busca a Todas Nosotras! Busca a mujeres que aunque estén en un grupo de 3 cuatro o 5, por el hecho de estar solo entre mujeres, se les pregunta con todo tono machista, “¿Y porque tan solitas?” ¿Solitas!? ¡Carajo, pero si estoy con cinco otras personas! ¿Por qué hemos aceptado que los machos se sientan libres de decir lo que se les de la regalada gana, especialmente cuando no hay un hombre con nosotras? ¿Por que permitimos tanta impunidad?

¿Pero acaso nosotras las mujeres también tenemos derecho a gritar, “Oye, papacito, dady, cachorrito ven paca que quiero invaginarte” o “Con esas huevas seguro que eres capaz engendrar hasta ganados?

¿Por qué entonces no lo hacemos? Esa pregunta es válida pero no espero una respuesta, más bien existe solo para satisfacer a las reaccionistas. Mejor sería preguntar: ¿Quién le dio el derecho a ese tipo de gritarme piropos?

Yo no acepto que nos insulten y por eso tampoco voy a reivindicar el derecho de expresar de esa forma la vulgaridad humana. Si también lo hiciéramos, estaríamos aceptando oficialmente lo que ya aceptamos al ser neutrales frente a esta violación verbal en contra de nuestros cuerpos. Al reclamar el mismo derecho estaríamos incrementando, multiplicando y nutriendo al machismo ambulante. Es como decir, “nos gusta tanto que queremos replicarlo".

¿Que pasaría si le dijéramos a un irrespetuoso macho con verborrea ofensiva a la mujer lo siguiente?:

“Papacito imbécil, sigue exhibiendo la desnudez de tu estupidez en pleno orgasmo de tu sinvergüenzada. Epitomizas la deslumbrante ignorancia hormonalmente macha y por ende bruta. Es tan transparente la cruda morbosidad que nutre a tu PENEsamiento, que no mereces ni hablar!¨

La verdad es que no sé porque nunca lo he hecho, pero lo que sí puedo decir por experiencia es que no dejo pasar esas opiniones de, “Mamasita que piernas, Mamasita así, Mamasita asa” desapercibidas! ¡Y yo Exijo que me respeten en voz alta!

Mujeres tenemos que detener esas violaciones verbales contra nosotras. Hay que enfrentarlo, cuestionarlo, y dialogar sobre esto. No podemos seguir incorporando esta práctica en nuestra cotidianidad como quienes se acostumbran a la basura en la calle.

Declaro mi rechazo a la PIROPERIA! ¡Y el rechazo a la cultura que promueve la aceptación a esta práctica machista!

NO A LA PIROPERIA, mejor piratéate este mensaje! Copéalo, replícalo..!!!

PD.El Peor Piropo: “Bendito corazón de Alvaro Uribe ( el presidente de Colombia), que es lo que mis ojos ven?... Increible, hasta que punto llegan con pleno insulto de mi cuerpo y insulto politico! ….

Day of the dead and the accident (Español Abajo)

HAPPY to be alive after surviving the ACCIDENT!

We left Cochabamba after our pleasant stay at various friend´s houses and after the completion of excellent interviews with the MUCOV PROYECT. We were prepared now to embark on our four day bus-a-thon with only overnight stops in three different locations. We were ready to continue our way eastwards towards the northern part of Bolivia headed in the roundabout way towards the Amazon. We first headed towards Santa Cruz, which took us 10 hours. We did not like it much and the next day we continued to Trinidad on another 12 hour bus ride. We spend the night on the third floor of a crusty but cheap hotel where we slept only for a few hours given the suffocating heat and the buzzing of the all nighters mosquitoes. We spend the morning walking around the main Plaza and feeling frustrated after we were stood up by a womyn we were scheduled to interview. We then went to get our tickets to continue on a westbound route towards Rurrenabaque where the Amazon Basin lies. We had not visited the Amazon before in any of the countries we have visited so we were excited to finally be able to get to see the vast green tropics, the Beni River, the exotic plants, the wildlife and the beauty of such a sacred spread of mother earth´s richness. We knew that we had to wait to visit the Amazon in Bolivia since it is cheaper than the other countries that share Amazon territory.

It was now Saturday the 31st of October 10:30 am and we were boarding the jiggery bus, with huge tires, rusty shell, and dust all over it. We were paying 120 bolivianos (roughly $15) for a 12-15 hour bus ride and we were told that the road is a dirt road, very bumpy, long, long but that we get to see nice panoramic tropical scenery. We were off at 11am and the trip begun. For most of the way we were sticky, sweaty, and resisting to calculate how many hours we still had left on the road. We had to take advantage of every stop the bus driver made (which was every 4 hours) to be able to empty our bladders. Not fun. It was interesting, however, to listen to the conversations Bolivians from different parts of the country had with each other. Some were going to the border with Brazil (20 hours bus ride) and others staying in small towns along the way.

The Crash It was around 9pm and we were just two hours away from Rurrenabaque and quite tired of sitting for almost 11 hours. I was looking out the window, at the beautiful full moon, contemplating the magic that is felt in such hot land of green jungle spread all across from left to right. All of a sudden we heard the impact of a crash, the broken glass landing on every inch of metal in all corners and edges of the bus, and then there was an echo of pure silence. What just happened? Are you okay, am I alive? “An accident.”Yes”. “Yes”. Think fast… Everything was all of a sudden quiet. Nobody knew what happened except that there was an accident and that we were part of it. The bus with almost 50 passengers was stopped on the right side of the road, people were stupefied, nobody knew what to do, what to feel, what to ask. We were sitting in the middle of the bus on the right side of the isle and I opened the window, saw that I was about seven feet off the road and jumped off. Carly followed and then a lady asked us to help her get her daughter out. I ran to the front of the bus to find out what happened. The entire front left side of the bus was destroyed, all the windows on the left side of the bus where also broken. “Someone hit us! Someone hit our bus and they left! It was a hit-an-run!” we heard people say.

The rest seems all still too surreal to conceptualize in written language. It is where reality is way more than what you ever thought you could experience, and staying calm is the only healthy response your logic is focused on achieving. People started to come out the bus. There were many injured passengers, blood on their faces, shoulders, hands and everyone was still wondering what the hell was going on. I went back on the bus to see if anyone needed help and to see if I could find our camera bags that we left behind when we jumped out the window. “There is a dead passenger,” I heard someone say, “Cover her face, cover her face.” I walked on the bus, looking for injured passengers while walking over millions of pieces of broken glass, noticing the hats and sandals thrown everywhere. That is when I saw the womyn who seemed to be sleeping with her head reclining on the now fractured glass-free window. The metal part of the window frame had been hit causing it to break and hit her head, killing her instantly. I asked if anyone else was dead, but luckily everyone else survived.

Outside, in the middle of the road people were calling out for help and hoping for other buses or vehicles to pass by and assist us. The nearest town was 45 minutes south (Yucumo) and the nearest city was still two hours north (Rurrenabaque). We needed an ambulance fast… While we were helping the injured passengers we heard the truck that hit us was over a ditch on the side of the road. It was a huge truck that was about 100 feet away from us that had flipped upside down. From the side of the road you could see that someone was moving and people started to bring flashlights. Quickly the locals that had come out to help went to assist the passengers and the driver. There were two visible men stuck between the door and the metal. They couldn´t get them out without the help of machinery. Impotence before a suffering human being, stuck between the nearness of death and the confusion of pain and life. It is hard not to remember the moaning that came from that ditch and the feeling of not knowing how to get them out with just the human hand and the human will.

In the next minutes several of the surviving passengers asked us if we had a camera. They wanted us to film the scene, the tire prints on the road, the glass, and all in all what the results of the impact caused upon us. So we did. We tried to do it as calmly as possible, with the two small flashlights that we borrowed and filmed the post-accident scene, the comments, the fear in people´s voices, and the calmness felt by others who knew how to handle the situation. It was now midnight, Day of the Dead in most of Latin-America and we were on the back of a huge truck that delivered gasoline. There were about 25 people with backpacks, boxes, and personal belongings headed towards the hospital in Yucumo. We arrived to the local hospital that had one nurse on call and one doctor on the way. People were taking glass out their own faces, others where washing with water the backs of other passengers in the hallway while the driver of the truck that hit us was lying on the floor with his face almost split in half.

Then we got more information on the accident. It just happened that the driver who hit us was drunk. A witness had seen three men come out of a bar heavily affected by alcohol consumption get on the truck. Then they heard that there was an accident and were not surprised to find out that it was the same truck that they had seen the three drunken men get into. Our bus driver told us that he saw the truck coming in the middle of the road at high speed. He flashed his high lights at the oncoming truck to indicate that we were coming and that he needed to move to the right side of the road but there was no action taken. Our driver saw that the truck was going to hit us face on so he moved to the side of the road, almost completely flipping us over the edge to prevent the accident; but the other truck hit the left side of our bus completely, starting with the driver´s window and breaking every window till the end of the bus. Afterwards the impact must have caused the other driver to lose control and they veered off into the ditch.

At 7am another bus came to pick-us up at the hospital to continue on the route and original travel destination to the various cities all the way to the Brazilian border. We were still in shock; we had glass even in our bras, small cuts in our feet, baggy eyes, and felt worried about the situation of the other passengers. What is the family going to say when they find out that the lady died? What is going to happen to the men that has glass in his eye and can´t see? What about the drunk driver that died on the hospital´s hallway floor in front of all the survivors? Why does it feel like this is not real even though we know it is?

We got on the bus, not knowing what to say to each other except that we were glad we were okay. That we were glad we could help. That it was a symbolic welcoming to the Day of the Dead. We were also happy that most people had stayed calm and everyone was thanking each other for the help they received. We got to Rurrenabaque around 10 am and found shelter in a nice isolated hostal, showered, and slept all afternoon. We lit a candle that night for the womyn that we hope died truly in her sleep, pain free, and for all the dead that come and visit their loved ones on this day.

As we travel, we know that we always think about how we are living our life and we know that there are no guarantees, we are not eternal and so we only remind you that enjoying life should not be a luxury, it is an imperative necessity. We will let the Bolivian Jungle remind us that we are still here and that there is still much to live and see because we are alive…

P.S. Malinche Comments: Drinking is fine. Driving is fine. But 1 plus 1 equals stupidity squared. It doesn´t take a mathematician to figure this out, just common sense.