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.

UNDIES, WIND and SISTERHOOD (Version en Español Abajo)

WELCOME TO BOLIVIA MUCOV!

During the last four months of traveling MUCOV had not had this sort of welcoming. What we are about to tell you is based on real events:

It was 7:00 pm and we had just returned from a very long walk through the Island of the Sun; our stomachs were empty and we were looking for a moderately cheap and comfortable hostel, one with a common kitchen we could utilize. After a search of about 6 overly pricey hostels in the center of Copacabana (the first city we entered in Bolivia) we walked through the central plaza passing through the ladies who encircle the cathedral selling candles. We arrived at the doorstep of ¨Hostel Florencia¨ as a last resort and hope of finding a good place to rest our bodies and minds in. The moment we walked into the hostel, we were greeted by Mery’s (the owner) wide smile, her dog Cachito and two other womyn: Vanessa and Maria.

We immediately went to unload our bags on the third floor (that had a beautiful view to the Titicaca Lake and the nearby cathedral) and went back down to the second floor kitchen to cook. From the kitchen we could hear the laughter of a number of womyn and the steady beat of salsa and cumbia playing in the background. Behind giggles and drumbeats we could hear the womyn asking Omar, a Cuban friend of theirs about dance steps and rhythms they could learn. While we were hungrily waiting for our pasta to boil, Vanesa, who lives at the hostel and assists Mery in its daily functions, came in and asked:

¨Would you two like to practice with us tonight? We are rehearsing the Colombian folkloric dance ¨La Pollera Colorada¨ (the Red traditional Skirt) and we are going to perform it tomorrow.¨

¨Sure…it would be fun to see them rehearse and maybe learn a few moves, ¨ we thought. Around 9:00 pm, we found ourselves in Mery’s living room with Daysi, Maria, Nata, Vanesa and Omar and we started rehearsing with them. Two hours later, after much laughter, silliness and uncoordinated dance steps, we decided that it was time call it a night. ¨I can’t do it anymore, ¨ said Mery with a long sigh.

The womyn had not finished learning all the necessary steps, nor had they figured out how to fill the 45 non-choreographed seconds remaining until the end of the song; but everyone felt proud of their graceful hips and dance moves, with the confidence that on the following day they would dance in public in the most coordinated and beautiful way imagined.

The surprise came almost at midnight, when Mery (who besides being the hostel owner also had a contagious joy to her) asked Mayra: ¨And why don’t you dance with us tomorrow? You have already rehearsed with us and we need one more dancer! Here, we even have an extra shirt and skirt for you! ¨

¨The thing is that we are leaving to La PAZ tomorrow and I don’t think I will have the time to do it, ¨ said Mayra with a surprised tone to her voice.

¨Stay another day, we will have so much fun! Please girls! ¨ And with these words, we accepted her offer.

Sunday of wind and underwear

The presentation was planned for 3 o’clock, yet at 2:39 they were still not ready. Some had only their skirts on and others were trying to place the decorative rose in their head while shouting: ¨I need a hair pin! ¨ The rest were not even there yet.

¨It doesn’t matter, ¨ they said, ¨The presentation has to wait for us because we are the main act! ¨

Mayra could not believe that there were only 30 minutes left for the show to start, that they were not ready and that the best/worst part was that they haven’t even agreed on what the last steps should be!

At 3:45 PM.

In the end, everyone had their flowers in their hair and their smiles that helped neutralize any nervousness or stage fright they could feel, and together we all left to the Copacabana Marine Base where the performance was to take place. Upon arrival, we were told that the other dance performances had already taken place and that it was too late for them to dance! ¨What! But we are the final performance, the best number; we will be ready in five minutes, prepare the music and please tell us where the stage is! ¨ They all exclaimed with pride and determination that the show must go on.

At 3:55 PM

As the Colombian music starts, the womyn come out with their long red skirts, flowers in their hair and their smiles the size of Lake Titicaca…The first minute everything is in order: the womyn, their hands holding the edges of their skirts, their hips swaying to the rhythm of the drums, and they are all moving in an almost perfect coordination. The next minute the womyn are still wearing their bright smiles, they continue their synchronized movements, their skirts coming up gracefully as they turn, their hands moving in a semi-circular motion and their shoulders rotating from side to side when suddenly a strong gust of traitorous wind picks up…

The third minute is a blur, as the unexpected gust shamelessly raised the womyn´s skirts (which refused to obey the hands and fingers that commanded them to stay in place). Between the laughter and surprise that ensued, it seemed that some of the womyn blushed furiously, others laughed, others tried to cover themselves to prevent the audience from seeing more than what they were meant to see! And all of this while still continuing to dance with mortified looks of: I-CANT-BELIEVE-THIS-IS-HAPENNING! The audience kept their eyes on the dancers and witnessed in an almost hypnotic way how the womyn kept fighting against the wind and any sense of shame—nothing was going to stop them! In real time, the incident only occurred for a couple of minutes, but it seemed like an eternity for the dancers, who were resigned to the reality of showing their legs and underclothes in public without prior warning.

AT 3:59 PM

Walking as fast as they could without actually running, the girls went back into the dressing room mumbling to each other: ¨I can´t believe we showed everything! ¨ And others: ¨What a shame! ¨ and Mayra: ¨I never imagined that I would stay in Copacabana to show my underwear to everyone in public! ¨

But it was all worth it. This experience bonded us and we enjoyed spending four more fabulous days with these womyn while waiting for the transportation strike that started the day before to end.

The way we have all created a family of womyn in the next few days was an incredible experience: we ate together, danced in the living room and in the kitchen, yelled our love to each other and cried when the time for saying goodbye drew near. With a cake and a delicious-lick-your-fingers lunch and with our hearts nearly spilling over with gratitude, we finally said goodbye to the beautiful city of Copacabana and to the womyn that danced ¨La Pollera Colorada.¨

And here is a summary of the Womyn MUCOV met:

Mery: What a beautiful womyn! An altruistic person and womyn´s rights advocate who also promotes the preservation of our environment. With her loud laugh and evident friendliness, Mery demands and deserves the respect of everyone around her. In addition, as one of her hobbies (she does everything for fun) she organizes a group of youngsters to promote community building, and is a godmother to some of the young womyn of Copacabana who adore her.

Vanesa: A happy young womyn with a capacity to love and assist both friends and strangers alike. Vanesa, who dreams of traveling to and exploring other countries, is waiting to complete her goals in Copacabana to be able to make her dreams of traveling and of creative art projects come true. A student, artist, dancer and a goddaughter of Mery, Vanesa shared with us her dreams, sorrows and happiness. She also taught us that sisterhood can be as instant as a Ramen Noodle soup.

Maria: Is a womyn who dances with solitude and who awakens in one the desire to join her on one of her spontaneous dancing debuts along the hostel´s long corridors. No one knows exactly how she arrived in Copacabana from the de facto capital city of La Paz, given that Maria lived on the streets for many years. We know that Maria survived in the midst of urban neighborhoods and all kinds of street corners, seeking ways to continue with her life after her husband kicked her out of her house and ran away with her four children. Maria told us that she has suffered from severe violations of all kinds before and during her life in the streets. It was in Copacabana where she found a new home in Mery’s hostel. ¨This womyn has been reborn, she is another person and now we do not speak of the past and focus only of the present, ¨ says Mery as she looks at Maria with sincere affection. Currently, Maria works at the hostel as she laughs out loud, dances, jokes around and sings, while she continues to heal from the violations that her body and mind suffered for so long.

Our gratitude to tall the womyn who shared HERSTORIES…and

Hugs for the dancers of ¨La Pollera Colorada¨! Nata, Deysi, Vane and Mery!!!

P.S. Copacabana is the doorway to the grandeur of the city of La Paz (The Peace) and we will update you on this Later…

AND NOW WE ARE THREE!!! (Abajo en Español)

What? Another womyn joins MUCOV in their travels?

Who is the new womyn who has recently joined our team? She is a young womyn who calls herself Malinche. We met her on the bus during our trip from Lima to Arequipa, Peru’s second largest city. That Saturday night we were feeling a bit hyperactive due to the fact that we had one too many cups of Yerba Mate and the thought of sitting down for 9 hours was already causing us anxiety. After the first two hours of the journey at night, we were frustrated due to the frequent stops we being forced to deal with. We thought that we would never arrive to our destination, given that every 45 minutes the driver stopped to collect, in a very informal but traditional manner, people from distant villages on their way to the cities. In this way, the driver and his assistants manage to earn a few extra soles (national currency), and those people living far from the central terminals also manage to board the bus midway on its journey.

In the middle of this chaos, a womyn of small stature wearing a deep red colored dress walks into the bus. Seeing the intensity of her attire’s color it was hard not to think about the scene that repeated itself too many times in the past: blood splayed out over the rocks marking the paths our ancestors constructed with their great knowledge of architecture and physics. Her two long braids, reaching down beyond her waist were a beautiful sight to behold. The mystery womyn, followed by her silky black pearl extensions, entered the bus and walked down its isle towards the center. There she stopped, and with s few graceful movements arranged her instrument and spread her legs to position herself with a perfect balance. Once she was ready, she placed her right hand over the strings of her most precious treasure: her guitar. With the same passion with which a singer performs on her best concert to thousands of hypnotized audiences, the womyn began to sing:

“Yo soy, yo soy, yo soy Soy agua, playa, cielo, casa blanca. Soy mar atlántico, viento de América, Soy un montón de cosas santas Mezcladas con cosas humanas. Como te explico cosas mundanas Fui niño, cuna, teta, techo, manta Más miedo, cuco, grito, llanto, raza, Después mezclaron las palabras O se escapaban las miradas...¨

It was the same song we heard a few months ago by Mercedes Sosa when we had just left Colombia one gloomy afternoon while sitting in a café in the border city of Ipiales, Ecuador. The voice of the mystery womyn was so beautiful and captivating that whoever did not keep their silence would have been offending the very same virgin that the agnostics continue to keep in the shadows. Silence transformed into a coir of angels materializing themselves through her undeniably smooth and mesmerizing voice, coming out of her belly button to be released through the window of her lips. Her melody was so in tune that not even the continuously abrupt jumps of the bus could disrupt the harmony of her voice. Two more songs accompanied the audience in their silence (Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds by the Beatles and Besame Mucho by Pancho Céspedes). When she finished singing, we got out of our trance as well, and noticed, somewhat in awe, that we were still on the bus.

The womyn began to collect the coins that her improvised audience offered her, passing through each row of seats until she reached us. We immediately asked her: “What is your name?” “MALINCHE,” she answered, with such firmness in her voice that it seemed as though the mere sound of her name marked the fine line of her lips. Right then and there we told her everything about MUCOV and that we would love to hear more about her life, about Herstory. “Of course sisters! I am an Americana (meaning from the western hemisphere) without borders and so are you! Not only that, I think that there is so much to learn about each other and I want to support you! I will fundraise for you with my music! I do not have a fixed nest on any tree in this world which makes me a sorta nomad so let’s go! But, where exactly are we headed to?”

“To Arequipa,” we responded, “and we will continue on our path through South America until we get to Uruguay.”

And that was the Saturday night; actually it was more like Sunday morning that our path crossed with that of Malinche’s ,or hers with ours? Or is it just one path?. “And does your name originate from the Malinche of Cortez’s era in Aztec land, or the volcano in Puebla, or the tree known as Delonix regia?” we asked.

“My name refers to me, to all of the past that has brought me to this present many moons ago. I can be gentle,misunderstood, strong, mother, volcanic, a tree with red flowers; and I can also be what I whole heartedly wish to be, whenever I want to, without limits or restrictions, and without having to explain the how and the why,” said Malinche.

“Understood”, was all that came out of our mouths, and that was the moment we realized that Malinche was going to show us, little by little, the world which lead her to the same bus that we were sitting in.

The voice of this young womyn reached our souls and it will continue to accompany us throughout our travels. “I want to visit all of the countries in which womyn govern in the Americas. The good thing is that it will be low cost for me because I am only missing Argentina. I have already visited Sra. Bachelet when she was first elected.”

“All right Malinche, but don’t let your trip end there. Imagine how many more womyn leaders there are that reside in hundreds of diverse contexts that are not recognized on a national level but that are nonetheless fighting for a better world from their own surroundings; it will be great to create connections and initiate encounters between all of us,” we said.

“Of course they exist, my human poppy seed, or better stated my heroines; like the empanada vendors in the street corners, like the womyn who get out of jail to keep fighting, like the womyn who sell their fruits and vegetables in the central markets sitting like goddesses amongst the garden of vivid colors, like the womyn selling Palo Santo (holy wood) for the passerby in need of a blessing, almost invisible alongside the towering churches and cathedrals they stand next to. My heroines are also those womyn who never learned how to read and write yet with their voice they gift us with poems, verses and their sweetest melodies come out of their hearts and through their bodies until they slide smoothly from their womb and out to the world.”

“Exactly. There are many heroines who fight everyday to overcome the difficulties they are born into, to move forward; womyn who refuse to give up, who do not tire of walking firmly on their path,” we reckoned.

When we got to Arequipa around 6:00 in the morning, we addressed ourselves in unison to Malinche: “Welcome to MUCOV Malinche! But where are your things? Don’t you have a bag?” we asked.

“Not at all! I only carry my Confession (referring to her guitar). Besides, I don’t need anything else, since this brain of mine weighs way too much already!”she respondes almost offended by our question.

“Great! Then you can help us with our bags, since those vainas weigh more than we do!” we responded.

"Malinche, now that I remember, the Malinche of the land of the Mexicas was also known as Malinalli Tenépal, and back when I was taking a class at Los Angeles City College (LACC), my professor Kalinde told me that the word Tenépal in Náhuatl means: a person who possesses an easy manner with words, who talks much and animatedly,” commented Mayra.

“Well, what a coincidence,” responded Malinche, with a mischievous half smile on her face.

P.S. ¨Open Veins of Latin-America¨ by Eduardo Galeano: Malinche says that she will use the money she collected on the bus to send Hillary Clinton a copy of Mr.Galeano´s book since she doesn´t think Obama should be the only one expected to read it.

Learn about The MUCOV Proyect

What is The MUCOV Proyect?

The MUCOV Proyect is a creative initiative that arose from the need to connect with womyn through the power of the word and visual participation. The Proyect seeks to document the lives and experiences of womyn through informal interviews and in the form of open dialogue. MUCOV’ essence is in carrying conversations with a diversity of womyn who will share about their lives, their intimacies, fears, struggles, challenges, dreams, and achievements and above all, what it means to be a womyn in the XXI Century in her own voice and context.

MUCOV was created in the midst of much reflection and took up the arms of words against the silence that has vastly overshadowed womyn’s diverse experiences and stories. In our society/ies, in our mainstream media, and in all those patriarchic structures and paradigms that influence our everyday there is a sustained lack of representation (and recognition) of the experiences of womyn in general.

MUCOV in essence has chosen to eradicate the fear felt against the Other, HER, SHE, and that ONE who crosses your path. Through dialogue we seek to give impetus to social change using the power of the word(s) and through the recognition of the voice of other womyn. We seek to break those barriers perpetrated in society that lead us to ignore each other and to dismiss each other as strangers instead as of sisters/allies. MUCOV has opted NOT TO let borders (real or imagined), systematic or ideological, structural, invisible or social ones separate us from HER.

What inspired MUCOV?

Our reality and the silence that surrounds our own experiences as womyn, and the belief that there are so many experiences that need to be heard, shared, and documented inspired the creation of The MUCOV Proyect. We believe that in general, in the world, in our countries, in our cities, in our towns, and in our neighborhoods womyn are not recognized for who they are, for what they have created, for what they have contributed, or for what they are capable of manifesting everyday, every minute, and every second that passes by unnoticed.

The MUCOV Proyect seeks to directly affect the culture of fear by listening to the voices that will battle the silence that has systematically excluded the experiences of womyn throughout HIS/Story. Thus, we believe that by sharing HERSTORY, through the voices of a diversity of womyn, waves of social CHANGE can be inspired.

Why Latin-America?

We have beun a journey through some countries in Latin-America, starting from the tip of South America. Latin-America has historically and presently been seen as the neighborhood lab rat for the U.S., valued only in its ¨third world¨ contexts, where cheap labor is exported. Moreover, the Americas has been exploited greatly and it is still largely suffering from poverty, corruption, and corporate investments. It is the setting for much of U.S. foreign policy where war tactics continue to be the main component of Big Brother’s interest.

We, as MUCOV can not disregard the experiences that take place south of the U.S. Border. We feel that Latin-America should also be seen through different eyes and we chose to focus on the lives and experiences of womyn. Through their voices we hope to learn more about their lives in their contexts.

HERSTORIES provide a diversity of examples about the numerous experiences of womyn to audiences in their own countries and in the United States.

Read the small print: We also believe that most people that make-up the U.S. population are not always interested, exposed to, or stimulated to think, observe and learn from their neighbors or those seen outside of their comfort level and/or geographical borders. We want to create connections that can teach us more about their reality and break those barriers that divide us.

HOW will the MUCOV Proyect be Possible?

We have begun to travel by land through South America documenting HERSTORIES with audio-visual techniques in the form of film, photography, writing, and our own recorded memories. We are traveling by road, taking many buses, stopping in random cities, rural areas, corners, stores, houses, etc. all along the way. We believe that one womyn will lead us to another and we will follow that path to reach other stories. Where there is no path, we will create one. Thus, we will go about with the MUCOV Proyect eliminating barriers, challenging our own socially constructed fears, and breaking the silences that have created a veil between Herstory and Us (all of US).

SUPPORT

We believe that all womyn, with our infinite and diverse experiences, can continue to influence society and produce critical analysis about the indispensable roles that we play everyday; for example: the womyn who is collecting cans in the trash bins, contributing to the recycling system, and uses the cash earned to buy food from the other lady who sells tamales on the street, to the activist who is a single mom, going to college, and working part-time as a bar tender besides doing her volunteering community work.

With your help we can continue documenting HERSTORY and making it available in various creative spaces for other womyn. Our aim is to collect $5,000 to cover mostly transportation fees, and the equipment.