Potosi and Sucre - Excursion #1

Potosi is an old colonial mining town and the highest (altitude) populated city in the world. The mines were once rich in minerals and the city used to back most of Bolivia’s industry. Side note: at one point, it was more densely populated than Paris. Now, the mines stand only as a reminder of brutal colonialism. Aside from the freezing cold and the mountainous backdrop, the architecture gave it a quaint Mediterranean feel.

Potosi

There are a lot of issues with child miners and mining unions and fair working hours, etc… the working conditions for miners are horrendous (The Devil’s Miner – put it on your documentary list). We got to enter the mines and climb for a few hours. I was a little unprepared and our guide kept making fun of me during scary steep climbs by pointing out that 10 yr olds do this everyday. I also breathed in lots of asbestos.

Cerro Rico - a once mining mountain in Potosi

El Tio - the miners worship this god with coca leaves, cigarettes, and alcohol in return for safety and minerals

Rooftop cafe in Potosi

The same day, we went to a school for miners’ children. Most children of miners start working in the mines when they’re young, and breaking out of the cycle is hard. We went to the school to play with the children and, in my opinion, it turned out to be pretty inappropriate. We entered in the middle of a teacher’s lecture and interrupted his class to announce that we were going to take the kids out to play. We started with silly games and soon the kids were out of control. Watching the teacher watch his class running around, hitting each other, misbehaving, and knowing that he could do nothing about it was sad. No matter how many years he’s taught, no matter how hard he’s worked to discipline his class and gain their respect, he can say nothing to a group of Americans who come in for a day to play with the children, except thank us for “helping.”

Potosi has a really strong history of colonialism and racism and exploitation of indigenous people and, to me, walking into that classroom and assuming authority over the children was reinforcing the power structures that are so historically saturated in the society. Yes, the kids were THRILLED to be playing with us, which is great, but what does that say about their skewed views of their positions? By “giving up our time” to play with them, how are we contributing to their oppression? I mentioned this to a friend and his response was that we were helpful - we were giving the teachers a break. Were we giving them a break by stealing their accountability and authority and allowing their classes to go wild instead of being educated?

It was only a few hours at a school, and I’m definitely over-reacting - I guess I’ve become sensitive to issues concerning “helping” and race and my role when the two collide. In eleventh grade I co-directed a one-week day camp at my private high school for students in inner-city Birmingham public schools. The kids, all African American, had mostly white, mostly VERY privileged counselors. In an already racially sensitive city, how did this contribute to the way these kids see themselves? Since then, encountering high school missionary groups in Africa, working with kids in transitional housing in downtown DC, and being viewed as a “white angel” in Kampala have steepened my awareness of how I affect the people around me. I think it’s most important for me to understand and admit that what I’m doing is mostly for my own self-development. To label myself as someone who is “helping” is dangerous, disempowering, and destructive to communities I’m involved with.

There’s not much to say about Sucre, a colonial, racist town with beautiful architecture and tasty chocolate. Sucre sparked an interesting explosion within our group. It’s racist undertones brought up a lot of issues about how we, as a group, are relating to each other and are relating to other Bolivians.

Pretty graveyard in Sucre

On a lighter note, Rosh Hashana was pretty classic. I went to synagogue with people in my program, but sat alone because of the questionable mechitza. There were more or less 40 people at services. I sat next to a woman who complained the whole time… Every time someone walked in, she would explain how they were related to everyone else in the synagogue, what their professions were, and how they were annoying. Eg, “that’s the baby… granddaughter of…. Who works as a secretary for…. The baby is always crying. Always.” Or, “those are the women who come to synagogue just to chat. They sit in the back and chat the whole time.” Afterwards we did Kiddush with the congregation… and substituted shots of whiskey for wine.
p.s. in Bolivia challah is spelled "jala"

Before the holiday, I had mentioned something to my “parents” about it. When I got home after spinning class on the first night of Rosh Hashana, my “mom” was running around and lighting candles, saying that we have to get ready. I was confused until my 14 yr old brother ran through saying “hoy es el dia de los judeos!” Translation: today is the day of the jews! Our aunt came over and my mom prepared a fancy dinner table and served the honey cake that I made with ham and cheese sandwiches. So cute.

Rosh Hashana dinner

The last weaving class that I went to was in a different location to those I’d been going to, in an isolated town 45 minutes outside of cochabamba. Class was at this woman’s house.. basically a small artists colony with drunk/drugged people constantly passing through. The house owner was a white woman who had grown her hair long, dyed it black, braided it, and dressed like a cholita (traditional indig woman). As she was weaving, her blond children were running around and at some point during the session a band was formed on the front porch. Very weird.