February 17, 2004
Dear Friends,

It's summer here in La Paz. What does that mean? It means I get to sleep with only three wool blankets and one hot-water bottle instead of five wool blankets and two hot-water bottles. My apartment is unheated, year-around. At 12,500 feet, it can get a bit nippy. When it's 35 degrees outside, it's 35 degrees inside. To keep me warm and happy I've become very English—I drink hot tea all day long.

I may, in fact, be a tea fanatic. In Bolivia, more than tea, we drink "mate" or herbal tea. In my house I have a million mates, all part of the ecologically friendly fair trade campaigns picking up in the country. I've got peach, apple, green, mint, coca, trimate (a blend of coca, chamomile, and anis), chamomile by itself, and then regular-old black tea with milk and honey. I could just about open a tea parlor and sell little crumpets out of my back door. It's very Bolivian to have people over for tea and coffee in the early evening. My cozy little living room is perfect for tea visits.

And for having people over when the city is under siege.

For months now we've wondered if last year's upheaval would return. President Mesa's three-month trial period is up. He has presented an austerity plan in an attempt to reactivate Bolivia's economy, called for a referendum on the sale of Bolivia's gas supplies, and yielded to demands for a Constitutional Assembly. The Assembly will attempt to rewrite Bolivia's constitution to reflect the interests of the Bolivian people, especially those who have been marginalized and excluded.

UMAVIDA, the Bolivian network I facilitate, has assumed the Constitutional Assembly as a major part of its work this year. We want to be a part of this effort to construct an alternative vision for what we want this country to be.

In the next few months, the social conflicts will likely return as the country wrestles with voices that want to be heard and taken seriously. The Constitutional Assembly will be both an important space for giving people real voice, with legal backing, and a lightening rod for demands and mobilization.
But the pre-Lenten carnival puts everything on hold. Even the social movements stop blockading roadways for the days leading up to the parades and dances in Oruro. The social movements take a break, but the kids don't.

Being blonde with blue eyes gets me a lot of things here in Bolivia. Attention. Lots of questions. Overly courteous waiters. Power.

But during carnival, what it gets me is soaking wet. The Spanish word for target is "blanco." It's also the word for "white." And during carnival I'm a Big White Target.

In Bolivia, Carnival is all about drenching as many people as possible with water balloons or water guns. Preferably people who look like they are in a hurry or off to a big meeting. I am often one of those people getting drenched and left waving my fist at snickering eighth-graders. But the verbal spankings I dish out to the 14-year-old boys are not necessarily a good strategy. The minute I turn my back, five water balloons hit, and I am left grumbling away.

Every year my friends and I pick a day to go play. We buy dozens of water balloons to lob at preteens who are doing the same. Shaving cream is another favorite. The rest of the week we wait for our busses by crouching behind cars and ducking when someone comes along, armed for a water fight.

You develop a special radar during carnival. I can hear a truckload of screeching, armed teenagers from two blocks away—enough time to take off running or dive into the market stall of some bewildered Aymara woman. More dangerous, however, are my neighbors. They seem to spend their days looking out their second-story windows with buckets of water. This is a real test of my nonviolence. Are my verbal spankings respecting the personhood of that $&%^*@# kid? Yeah, probably not. But those kids are mean!

My years of playing bench for Louisville Collegiate School's field hockey team (the Amazons) has paid off. I am now the unofficial soccer coach and teen angst counselor for the girls team at my church, Light and Truth. Not because I'm qualified, mind you. Though my family would say I qualify for the teen angst part.

We've been working on the basics for about a year now. Stop the ball. Control. Pass. Stop. Control. Pass. Do not yell at your teammate!

Kicking the ball randomly only sends it into the sludgy "river" that runs by the concrete field. Fishing out the ball, you start to wonder what parasites are burrowing into your skin and when they'll hatch. And so we practice: Stop. Control. Pass.

Since most soccer fields in La Paz are either concrete or rock-scattered, staying on your feet is key. My first game with Light and Truth I took off with the ball towards the goal. This was it! My moment of glory. Until someone else took the ball from me. And I kept going, soaring into the air and landing daintily on my stomach, where I skidded for a while before coming to a stop at the goalie's feet. Blood everywhere. Horrified Bolivians rushing toward me. Teenage boys straining not to laugh.

Ah yes, the crowds love to see a flying gringa. I actually spend a lot of my time playing soccer feeling mortified. Falling down. See, what they don't tell you during the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)'s orientation program is that much of this work is about your humiliation as entertainment for others.

That, and my Bolivian teammates would be disappointed if I gave any less than my body for the game.

Susan

The 2004 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 152