Día de Cochabamba

I'm realizing how lucky I am to have arrived here when I did. The festival of contemporary dance won't be happening again for another three years, pedestrian day won't happen until next year, and today is Cochabamba Day! There have been parades and fireworks all weekend and it's been so lively throughout the city. I love it here.

On Friday we had our second "drop-off." I didn't write about the first one because of its epic degree of failure (okay, so it wasn't that bad, we just didn't get to where we were supposed to go because it was several kilometers away and we didn't figure that out until there wasn't enough time left to get there) and I was so frustrated that I didn't want to write publicly about it. Now that it's in the past, though, I feel better about it. Plus, my second drop-off was so successful and enriching that I'm comfortable that my experience the first time won't be repeating itself every time. Anyway, the point of the drop-offs is to get us practicing for our ISPs (independent study projects) where we'll have to interview, take field notes, and orient ourselves very clearly, both geographically and culturally. This time it took place in Tarata, which is a pueblo just outside Cochabamba (or it might be considered within Cochabamba but it's far less urban than the city itself). Tarata was the second town in the region to be declared a city. It has existed since colonial times so the architecture there is incredible and varies through the generations. Claire and I received the assignment to find Huayculi and learn about its production of ceramics. We took a radio taxi from the main plaza in Tarata, which is where we got dropped off, and went several kilometers south (once again, we had one of the farther locations, but this time we were prepared to have to take a taxi). The taxi let us off in a completely deserted plaza, which was eerie, so we walked a few blocks from the plaza to see who was around. We met one man who had clay all over his shirt but when we talked to him, he said he would give us a demonstration if we paid him 50 bolivianos. Neither of us had brought much money so we had to thank him and go on our way, which was embarrassing because I'm sure he thought we were just being stingy and I would have liked to support his work, but I had only brought a little bit of money and it ended up being just enough to cover the two taxi rides.

Anyway, we continued on further down the road (there seemed to have been very few roads and the neighbors were really spread apart) and found a house with an open front yard where a woman was standing. We walked in and this time I tried to establish more rapport with her before diving into my spiel that was probably perceived as "we're students, now let us study your strange culture!" with the first artist. She told us her husband made ceramics and he came out into the yard and talked to us, and after a few minutes of chatting he told us we could watch the process and even film it, as long as we didn't film him. It was incredible! Claire had brought her video camera (she's doing a documentary for her final project) and I brought my notebook and together we took an account of how he does his work. It was so rewarding and the artist was so helpful--I even exchanged a few words with him in Quechua (I'm not being modest; it was literally very few words, but it was still really cool to put the classes to use for the first time). After a tour around his house/studio and then a chance to watch him make a few "cuellos" (necks) for some decorative vases, we had to go and meet up with the group again. Claire and I are going to try to go back this Friday because he said he would have all his pieces ready to be sold and we want to see them and possibly even buy one.

I just realized how much I have written already and how much more happened just that day, and I still have this fear that I'll never be able to really convey my experiences here and do them justice. I'll try to summarize with the disclaimer that the afternoon was equally incredible (all this happened before noon) and that if I could, I would recall every single taste and smell and sight because it was so vivid. We went to lunch at a huge house in Tarata, which, since its peak as a city about two hundred years ago, has become a town of campesinos. The house has been passed down through the family for over three hundred years and is made completely from the land around it (rocks, wood, and clay). Lunch was delicious (and enormous--the first time I physically had to leave food on my plate since I got here) and then Don Sánchez, the older gentleman of the house, gave us a talk about the history of Tarata and today's society there. I regret to admit that it was difficult to stay focused the entire time because my stomach was about to burst, but the talk was so rich and fascinating that it made it easier to pay attention. Don Sánchez is 86 years old and more lucid than plenty of people I know who are half his age. He spoke about the history of the town and of his personal experiences there and closed with some lines from some Quechua poetry about our relationship to the earth and our duty to maintain her (Pachamama, the mother earth). It was incredible and I didn't want to leave except it was evening at that point and we had to get back to the city. I wish I had brought a video camera because I don't think my words can do this place justice.

I'll leave you all with a picture of a drawing that Matias drew for me. I don't think it would be appropriate to post a picture of my family on this blog since it is public, but I am going to ask them this week if I can take their photo so that those of you who would like to see what they look like can email me and I will send it to you.