Marci Soifer

After packing the dirty laundry, scattered gifts, and filthy hiking boots into my backpack, I took the final shower in my house. Once I emerged from the bathroom, Fabrizio and Belen had returned home from school. I hadn't time to put on clothes before they were already asking me if I wanted to play or if I was going out at all on my final night. I urged them to allow me to change into something other than the giant orange towel I recently purchased at the Supermercado, and jokingly, I said that I may stay or go out for a short while.

Belen got really into it, and asked me over and over-was I leaving? When would I come back that evening? After a couple of times, I thought...she must be kidding me. She asked and asked, no matter how times I answered her maybe, again and again...in front of me, to the resting Chris and Fiona on the couch, through the door of my room---is Marci leaving the house before she goes back to her country for always? It got rediculous.

Belen. So, when Chris and Fiona asked me if I would like to go out for a short while to get some Chinese food, I didn't flinch. I grabbed my leftover Bolivianos and said, "let's go".

As soon as Belen got wind that I would be leaving, she vanished. The house is not THAT big, so we immediately noticed her having locked herself in the bathroom. Fabrizio did not hesitate to tell us where she had gone and why - "she is crying in the bathroom. She is sad because you are leaving."

This was when I remembered that kids under 10 do not kid.

Giving them a little money, I told Chris and Fiona to go on to the restaurant without me and place bring some food back. I had to yell through the bathroom door for 20 minutes before Belen would listen-she was far more upset than I realized. Only when I got on a chair to show her my face through the bathroom window (on the top of the bathroom door) for her to see my face (and actually believe that I had remained in the house and was staying there) did she emerge, red faced and arms outstretched for a hug.

I helped the kids with their homework, we read a book in English, and we sang a few songs. By then, not only had Chris and Fiona returned with styrofoam containers full of fried rice, vegetables in light sauce, and dumplings, but Marisel and Willy also came home, with food in hand as well. They carried an enormous chocolate/cherry cake, with "Feliz viaje Marci" (Happy/good travels/trip Marci) written with dulce de leche. As a family, we all sat at the living room table, as we had done on the evening when I arrived.

We ate cake, told stories, and exchanged gifts. They gave me a beautiful woven bag, I gave the kids art supplies (including 2 full copies of English teaching coloring books they had come to love), and I gave the adults beautiful mugs I found in the market (because we drink so much tea). We took pictures, and swapped e-mail addresses and birthdays.

When it was time to go to bed, I slithered in and out rooms, hugging and thanking everyone for everything. Cleidy and Patricio told me not to go, and told me of how they really hope to come to New York one day. Fabrizio hugged me grudgingly, a frown prominent on his face and tears welling up in his eyes. Sebastian told me that he was going to practice his English for the tests we prepped a for in his school. Belen was no where to be found.

I left the house at 4:30 AM, and Willy and Marisel were up to see me out. They hugged me and told me to come back soon, please. I left a note on Belen's unfinished homework, "you didn't say goodbye/see you later. Write to me, and do art projects! I will miss you!-Hugs and kisses, Marci".

The streets were bare at this time of day-except, of course, a random couple passionately kissing on a street corner (classic Bolivia). As my taxi ascended the hills toward El Alto and the airport, I looked out onto the city-covered by patches of fog. Still, the city shone. The evening street lights up and down the Andean mountains illuminated the valley, the hills, and surely, all the way to Zona Sur (southern La Paz) and Obrajes, where the kids from my volunteer placements remained, now all fast asleep.

And now? I write this final blog entry from my aunt and uncle's home in New York, as I have returned. I can hardly believe that this adventure happened and ended, and I am back in the United States.

When I think back to Bolivia, I remember the energy, the hills, and the people. I can and will forever picture the traditionally dressed women-the cholitas-sitting on the sidewalks, street corners, and in marketplaces. Under a tarp or in a steel covered small hut, with all of their goods (toiletries, snacks, bread, or fruit) on display, these women are a staple of Bolivia. Their brightly colored skirts meet brightly colored mantas (blankets) at their backs, continuously carrying goods or perhaps a child, and their weathered hands and faces display patches of redness, smudges of dirt, and wrinkle kissed years much beyond them. Their eyes are wise and deep, their smiles missing teeth, and their short-brimmed hats resting atop pig-tailed, long braids, down their backs. They sit all day and into the night, waiting for a patron. All the while, they watch Bolivia pass by; the minibuses, policemen, kids en route to school, politicians, trucks with deliveries, men and women en route to work, the backpackers (many of them with rapid Hebrew), the buses pulling into town after traveling through blockades the night from Uyuni (haha), the show shining boys from the streets, and the volunteers. The volunteers who live atop one peak in Cristo Ray, La Paz, with a family who feels like family, and the volunteer who spends days holding hands, feeding, learning, singing, teaching, and laughing.

These cholitas see it all, and even though I have now gone, a piece of me feels good to know that volunteers will keep coming to La Paz and to Bolivia. If those volunteers are lucky, they will have an experience as meaningful as mine was. And, the cholitas will watch them pass by as well...maybe even sell them a banana.

To stick with my pattern from the last closing of my blog and adventure, and to quote "Madeline", "that's all...there isn't anymore."

Thanks for reading. Happy Passover, Easter, or any other holiday you may celebrate.

When I got the call that my bus company was going to depart for Uyuni, the entry point for the salt desert, I hurried home for an instant replay of the day before. I took a shower, the last I would have in a while, grabbed my packed backpack and my snacks, and headed off to the bus station.

When I got there, I stepped over groups of people sleeping on the floor, who had surely been stuck overnight, and I trudged back to the bus counter. The counter was flooded this time by tourists...tons and tons of white people, speaking English and using one hand to play with a braided, blonde pigtail or to take deep drags of their cigarettes. However, I looked around to notice that no other bus counter had any patrons. The blockade was on, but somehow, this company, OMAR, planned to take the assembled 50 tourists to Uyuni regardless. We would leave at 7 pm.

We waited, and some people started to visit. I listened to stories from traveling through Peru, hiking the Inca Trail, spending time in the Galapagos Islands. These people were merging with others, hauling backpacks in the other direction...people coming from the Perito Moreno glacier, Torres del Paine in the bottom of Chile, or Buenos Aires. I chuckled to myself, knowing that this...Bolivia is the center of all of these South American adventures. And I? Well, I have done all above and below, and on my final few days left below the Equator, I was just waiting to do the one outstanding attraction I had missed.

7:20. We were still standing there, idly.

7:35. Beads of sweat started to form between my fingers, grasping onto a plastic grocery bag full of bread, cheese, apples, and chocolate. I contemplated shedding one of my 5 layers. I heard it was going to be cold in the salt desert.

7:45. The main bus company woman who had checked all of us in motioned for us to follow her. Together, as the group of gringos (which we were), we walked behind this woman.

Normally, you board a bus in the bus station. Not this day, and not with blockades. All of the tourists quietly eyed each other as we continued to follow this woman, trudging in silence. We walked away from the bus counters, past the bathrooms, out the back of the uncovered building, across the street, down a hill, and around a bend. Fifteen minutes of walking. We finally reached a bus, which did not bear the company name OMAR...or any other name at that.

I got on, knowing that we must have had to do this secretive boarding due to the blockades. Seat 13. A window. My favorite. The bus was crowded, and tourists jabbed one another to get to their non-reclining, hardly padded seat...where we would sit for the next 11 hours.

As I unfastened my sleeping bag from the bottom of my pack, took off my fleece, and got my Swiss Army knife out to prepare for cutting the bread and cheese (not a pun) for my dinner sandwiches, I heard a voice asking me to move into the row. Ah, the person who would share my seat. I had no interest in conversing...just moving in, abiding, sitting to eat, and then promptly place my IPOD over my ears, cutting myself off from the rest of the bus for the evening.

The ride began, and the light buzz of English immediately started to fade, as the lights darkened. Using the bits of La Paz and El Alto street light lumination that still leaked through my window, I cut my food up and ate, staring out the window aimlessly.

¨So, you come prepared.¨ The man sitting next to me said, from under his blue eyes and dark beard, covering his chin thoroughly. He could not be more than 27 years old. ´Oh great...if I talk to him now, it will never end´. ¨Yeah, well, I have done this a few times before. Night buses.¨ Try not to make eye contact. No eye contact.

¨Oh? Where have you traveled?¨ His English was not like mine. I immadiately recognized an accent...broken syllables...mispronounciation. He is a Spanish speaker---native.

¨Just around. In South America, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina.¨

¨I am from Argentina.¨ Of course you are.

Somehow, he kept talking to me. Asking questions. Responding to answers. He told me about how he is traveling without a passport, hiked the Inca Trail (of sorts) without a permit, and has been trying to improve his English for the last two months throughout Peru and Bolivia. This trip to the salt desert is en route home for him.

Before I knew it, the bus was slowing and we kept talking. Talking and talking. Laughing, even. The bus came to a stop here and there, facing blockades. clearly, the bus driver didn´t know the way as well as he had hoped. We waited at one blockade for an hour, in the mix of a slew of other buses and trucks. Pulling away bckwards, we found another way out. But, I could have cared less. Me and my new Argentine friend were discussing the English language and it´s vague-ness. What does whether really mean?

At one point in the midst of our very present delay, I sent my native Spanish speaking friend to find out what was going on. A girl on the bus was sick...no bathroom on board...some lost their luggage in La Paz...the blockades were really delaying our route because the driver admitted not knowing where he was going at all...and, you know, it was nearing 12 pm at this point. We hadn´t made much progress at all, and I stopped caring.

I talked through most of the night, and slept a little here and there. When we pulled into Uyuni in the morning, it put an end to our 15 hour bus ride (4 hours longer than intended). But, I finally got to the entry point of the salt desert, and I had made a new friend as well.

The city is small without any buildings taller than a first floor. Most buildings are mud huts, with either mud or tin roofs. The sun penetrates in a way that brightly jolts you into the desert, and the air is crisp, dry, and trying to be cool, but still brings a little sweat to your brow. I unloaded the bus quickly after the ride came to a halt, and quickly went into the bus company office to call my tour agency and let them know that I had arrived and was exhaustedly ready to begin the tour. Grateful to have made it.

I came out to find that the hustle surrounding the unloading of backpacks from under the bus had expired. The people were gone. Including my Argentine friend. I didn´t even ever ask his name.

Staying directed and knowing that backpackers always come and go, I walked over to the travel agency, noticing how small the Uyuni streets are and how the marketplaces pack the streets with little tarps for just a few stands. Stands that sell bananas at the point that those from North America would likely throw them away.

I arrived at the tour agency and was quickly hustled into my tour group. Two girls, Canadian, friends from school and life, had never left Canada before, volunteered in Peru and were now backpacking, 20 years old. One man, Canadian, retired, white hair under his ¨safari¨ hat, traveling in the wake of his late wife´s recent death, likes to talk...a lot. A couple from Germany, in their 60s, also retired, not much to say, broken English, the woman immediately told us that she had traveler´s diaherria. Party on.

We met in front of our car, a Toyota Land Cruiser, which we would throw our backpacks and belongings on top of...to the driver, who stood on top, waiting to wrap everything together in a blue tarp and tie it to the roof...together, with assorted cooking equipment. His name is Juan, our driver and guide with a classicaly small Bolivian height and even smaller eyes...speaking only Spanish. The cook, a woman under 30 with a protrouding belly, long, flowing hair, and deep eyes, named Beatrice. We loaded into the jeep quickly, the girls and myself sitting in the way back, the elders, as I called them, sitting in the middle bench, and the driver and cook in front. These became our assigned seats.

We started off the tour in the Salt Flats, which is basically a natural, vast, expansive plane of salt. Imagine white, white, white for miles...looks like snow, but is in fact salt. Every so often, we would see men harvesting the salt in trucks. But mostly, we drove, drove, drove and it was just white. The water on top of the salt created a splash of salt on the bottom of the car, and the salt stuck to the bottom of our shoes in and out. This is one of the most incredible things I have seen. Miles and miles of salt. It hurt my eyes to stare at.

We climbed in and out of the car, stopping at a hotel made entirely of condensed salt blocks, a salt production center, and an island of cacti in the middle of the salt. I noticed that we kept going at the same pace, beginning and moving along, with tons of other jeeps coming along on the same tour. These groups were mixes of men, women, old, young, Israelis shouting in Hebrew to one another, and French adults with their own French speaking guide. I started to meet people...a Texan from Dallas who told me all about his Mamma...Israelis from Tel Aviv who thought the salt flats weren´t as great as any one thing in Israel, obviously...Belgians who thought that taking stunt pictures with the white and blue background was the best thing they ever did...

At the first stop, someone tapped on my shoulder. My Argentine friend. We found each other. Immadiately, I asked him his name...Francisco. Haha. I told him that I am Marci.

The day continued, following the other jeeps and traveling over the salt for an hour or so, stopping to eat lunch which Beatrice would whip out of no where. We were getting into the pattern of this tour...we would drive for an hour, stop and enjoy a trememdous sight or scenery, and then drive again for another while to the next landmark.

The next four days are sort of blurred together. The land changed from salt vastness to desert, proper. I saw rocks and boulders that towered over our jeep for miles. Natural hot springs. Hundreds of geyers in close proximity...a community, together. Lagoon after lagoon that both sparkled, bubbled with borax and salt, showed off a green, a white, a red, or an orange color, and reflected nearby mountains and clouds perfectly. Flamingos by the pack of hundreds. Lllamas crossing our road, in another herd of over a hundred. Desert mountains in reds, yellows, and browns, mixed together. A live, real, active volcano, oozing smoke. Military posts in the middle of no where, with nothing to show, other than Beatrice´s brother at one point...who she left with a bottle of coke and a bag of popcorn. Random, small villages that offered one room with six beds for all of us...which was a nice refuge from the freezing nighttime temperatures. And, much more.

I met a million people, saw things that are so incredible...they are better left to pictures, and got to know those in my jeep really well. I will try to upload the photos, so you can get a better sense.

4 days and 3 nights...ending with another all night bus ride (unfortunately without a good seat partner), in which my sister described to me the ending of the US reailty TV show, ¨Grease, You´re the One that I Want¨, and I ate pizza from a nearby Uyuni-based place that features tastes of NY (real ones...seriously)...because sometimes, you just want a little of your other life in your mind, ear, and tastes.

I got in at 7:30 this morning, and was greeted by my eager family...waiting to hear about how I changed my flight, how my adventure went, and how many more nights of art projects I had for the kids. I told them, only two more nights. And, perhaps we could watch a movie instead. I am exhausted.

But, overall, this was a perfect ending to the trip. Now I really have done everything I came for, everything. The next two days will be spent getting my last minute things in La Paz, visiting my favorite spots one more time, processing the end of my volunteering, and saying goodbye to my family. My flight is on Wednesday morning. I cannot believe that was five weeks. Over.

When beginning my volunteer placement in a developing country (now that I have done this a few times), I have gotten used to the fact that a goodbye is inevitable. This means that no matter how deep the connections run, the fascination settles, the fun runs rampant, or the dedication motivates, there will be a day when I have to say, goodbye. And, I do not know when or if I will ever see you again. But, maybe, we have created something here. Something for the person, the people, the community, the country, or maybe, me.

I went to my last day of work at IDAI (center for mentally disabled kids) and Hogar de Virgen Fatima (orphanage) in the same day---Tuesday---and, I meticulously prepared for these goodbyes. I gathered and photocopied materials I had brought to Bolivia from Peru about communicating with Spanish speaking children and ideas for programming. I also typed up a short listing and descriptions of activities which I had successfully pulled off with the kids in my casita. I put all of these materials together in a binder and gave it to the volunteer coordinator, in order to give her a basis of volunteer referrence, something I felt she was missing before. I also handed off the rediculous amount of art supplies which I had brought over from the States.

I went to the store and purchased a lot of Oreo cookies to share with the kids in Hogar de Virgen Fatima, and I went to the flower stand on the corner in Obrajes to get the women working with me in the infant area of IDAI a huge boquet of sunflowers. My favorite.

Perhaps sunflowers are their favorite too. Or, perhaps they hadn´t expected flowers. Either way, they were ecstatic. Susanah immediately took the boquet from me, while the others ooh-d and ah-ed, pushing the children on wheels aside. She used the yellow paper they were wrapped in and re-wrapped it around a large can, making a yellow vase. She put the flowers in the center of the table in the kitchen. As we all looked at how bright and wonderful the flowers looked, we surely all thought the same thing...which one of the mobile kids will be the first to grab a stem?

My final morning of work at IDAI was busy...taking a few of the kids outside, and of course, chasing Victor around, so as to prevent him from bulldozing other children, biting me again, or throwing his shoe or other random object aidly in the air. It seemed like I was the only one who would follow him around after a while, or the only ¨staff¨ person who seemed to think that there is a preventative or educational way of dealing with his destructive behavior. The others walked past him or put their hands out to push him away from their most current action. When he came toward me, I would look at the scar on my left hand as I invited him for a hug. He would push me away after a moment, and move on to his next tirade. He jumps, hugsd the wall, decides to climb on top of the (empty) book shelf, bang on doors, throw anything he can, break into the area for the small, small babies, or climb into and out of the small jungle gym that resides in the corner of the room. Meanwhile, no one watches him.

I followed him for a few hours on each of my last few days. And, on my very last day, I walked behind him in a tentative manner for a while...waiting for him to make a move that was likely to be harmful. He and I always clapped, and he always seems to be whispering about something...nonesensical. On that day, he walked ahead of me and stopped suddenly. He turned around and clapped, while his little, 7-year-old eyes stared at me. He had a look, which is not uncommon, that screamed something painful...something like an expansive confusion. His mind must be moving and convincing him of things that frighten him but trap him. I clapped back to him, as I had come to do often. He reached up and grabbed my hands, which he had not done before. Slowly, and allowing his lips to continue whispering nonesense, he placed my hands over his ears. For a few moments, he stood still, my hands lightly held in place. I wondered what purpose my hands served in his life. Or, these last few weeks.

When I got ready to leave IDAI that morning, I thought a lot about my being able to walk out of there and those kids having to stay. I thought about how they would still need to be fed again tomorrow, and about how if any of them would get out of the infant section of IDAI, where would they go? The older kids area of IDAI? And what from there? This is their life. And, I was there for a moment, to do anything that I could to make it better...with sunlight, kisses, dancing, walks, and food.

The women at IDAI and the main doctor, Dr. Velasco, whose extraordinaraily soothing voice, soft, slow limbs, and patient glances happen to convince me that he is the best pediatrician I have ever met, made me promise them that I would invite them to my wedding. They seem to think that just because I am 24 that I will be nearing a wedding planning phase of my life...but I told them not to hold their breath.

As they shoveled food into the mouths of those who hadn´t been fed yet at 1:30 that day, I glanced around the room. Standing up, and wiping off Magdalena´s face (having finished feeding her her blended meal), I smiled at her. She would have another bowl of blended lunch tomorrow, and the next day. And so would Luis. And Victor. And Jackie. But, they are okay. They are safe. They will always get the blended food, and another volunteer will come to provide the rest.

I walked around to each child and gave them a special goodbye. Jackie did her traditional smacking of her lips when you ask her for a kiss. I made Luis giggle with his high-pitched, bubbling laughter as a result of my tickling, and watching his little head move SSSSSSSSSSSSSLLLLLOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLLLLLLLYYYYYY one more time in a circle. Hugo put his hand on mine when I presented my fingers for his grip, finally. We had been working on that one. Victor, in a wheelchair, and I played our favorite game...where is Victor? I ask, he giggles, I look around, he giggles more, I get on my hands and knees and pretend to look for him, he looses it and cannot stop giggling, and alas, I find him in his wheelchair, and he keeps giggling, because he cannot say much else.

As I walked out of the gate for the last time, the security guard, who happens to be a cholita, or tradition woman, said to me, ´bless you´. And I said, ´thank you, and best of luck´. She sat there at the table next to the front door and smiled at me. Under my breath in English I said, ´take care of yourself. All of you.´ And I left. Deeply breathing as I turned the corner. I walked out the gate. I left.

After my final lunch on the grass of a nearby park with Chris and Fiona, I headed off to the final day at the orphanage, with a final art project and Oreos in hand. When I got there, the kids were in the back of the casita with the mamita. The mamita had given them the job of weeding the back...in sort of a natural lawnmower style. The grass had gotten tall, so, she told them to pull it out of the ground. And they did. I arrived and they screamed, ´MARCI! Look what we are doing!´ They loved it. So, I bent down, and started to pull out weeds and long grass as well. It was pretty wonderful. We would pull, run around with the grass in hands, and throw it in an enormous pile. The kids must have been doing this for a while, because the pile was as tall as some of them. But I could see why...it was a blast.

Soon enough, we got bored. Pretty soon. And, we moved the outdoor play festival to the real playground equipment, as rusty and broken as it is. The mamita made everyone wear a hat...old baseball caps in faded red gone pink with peeled off Mickey Mouse and Pooh bear figures. Joseline needed convincing that she could climb to the top of the jungle gym, and that she could always grab my hand when she got scared. Noel hit a few kids, because I obviously told him not to, and I made him take a time out. The twins, Kevi and Iban, tossed around a dusty, plastic red ball they stole from a child in another casita, and then cried and screamed on each of my shoulders when the other little boy stole it back. Until, of course, I showed them how much fun it is to stand on my feet and hold my hands when I dance. Eban discovered the water spout in the middle of the playground, used as a source...or a tool to soak everyone he sees. Guadalupe hated her hat and cried a few times when I made her put it on, and then laughed when I gently tickled her and braided her long hair out of the tail end of the hat. Juan held my hand. He walked with me. And, he sat down when he got tired.

One of the kids asked me if I would be back tomorrow. Knowing that I wouldn´t, and knowing that the kids knew also that I would not be there (because I told them), I decided to avoid the question and bust out into song. I started to sing ¨Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow¨...in my translation of Spanish. ¨Mañana, mañana, te quiero mañana...¨¨, the kids repeated me. We sang it over and over again. ¨It´s only a day away...es solo un dia mas¨. Suddenly, as I watched the kids sing from the tops of the playground equipment, I realized that these kids are orphans, and I had them singing a song from ¨Annie¨. I laughed, hard, to myself. And, transitioned into the ever popular ¨If you´re happy and you know it¨.

Without paying attention to the time at all, it was soon almost a quarter to five. That meant that I would be leaving soon, and that the kids had to have their tea. We went inside, washing hands in the bathroom, to sit down for tea. By the time all of this happened, I realized that we had time for the Oreos, but not for my final art poçorject. Sort of disapointed, I opened the packages and handed out the cookies. They were gleeful-´chocolate!,´ each exclaimed.

However, as they stuffed the cookies down their throats, I told them that we did not have time for coloring or art today, and that I had to leave. The room fell silent. Somberly, I went around and kissed each kids on his or her cheek, knowing that these kids, better than many in the world, know that ciao and see you later really mean goodbye, permanently.

Noticing that a little bit of black Oreo coiokie from some of the lips was collecting up on my cheek, I smiled, and continued to circulate. The only noise in the room was my saying ciao, and the shuffle of my feet. Finally, when I had reached the end of the room, I put of my backpack, and smiled at the kids. I told them to be nice to each other, and to remember to sing.

And, with all of them sitting at the their spots around the tables for tea, I turned to walk away from them. The room was silent, as I opened the door to the casita. I was sad for a moment that they weren´t up and about, so that I could blow them kisses from the window, like we had done some many times before. I thought about how they would scream my name from the window, after I had worked for the entire duration of my time in the casita to tell them, ´my name is not voluntaria, it is Marci´.

My foot out the door, and my body in the process of following, I finally heard a noise. Neysa, the eldest girl in my casita and most helpful, shouted, ¨GRACIAS VOLUNTARIA!¨ I swallowed, smiled, and shouted back, ¨DE NADA¨ (you are welcome).

I didn´t have much time to process any of this happening, since I literally ran to the corner, got in a cab, and hurried home to shower and prepare for a departure to the salt desert that evening. I knew that if I didn´t hurry, I would miss my bus. If I missed my bus, I could not start the tour on Wednesday, which would mean that I couldn´t make it back to La Paz on Saturday. If I didn´t make it back, I would miss my flight back to the States. And, next to volunteering, this was my other purpose in coming to Bolivia. Had to get to the salt desert.

I got in the house, ran to the shower, emptied out my backpack of leftover art projects and leftover Oreos, and shoveled in long sleeved shirts and woolen socks. Gets cold at night in the desert. My fleece. My quick dry pants. My contact solution. I had to go. I shouted to Sebastian that I would be back in a few days and he should tell everyone in the house not to worry about me, as I fly out the door.

The cab took FOREVER to drive the 15 minutes between my house and bus station. I even told the driver at a certain point that if he went faster, there would be more money in it for him. Did not help. Slowly, slowly, we wadded through traffic in the marketplace, weaving in and out of eager, newly arrived tourists and the traditional women sitting on the ground, selling grapes and ears of corn (among ther things).

When we finally got there, I ran and ran to the back of the station, passing police orfficers and men laying on the front steps. I finally reached the bus company´s desk, breathlessly, and handed over my ticket, waiting for them to tell me that I was a little late, but that I should board immediately. My mind was focused on my own frustration that I hadn´t visited the bathroom prior to getting on the bus when I heard the cleark say, ¨the bus is not running.¨

¨I´m sorry, what?¨

¨The bus will not go.¨

Tears welled up in my eyes. Confused, I stared at the woman.

Next to me, a man with long, dirty blonde hair shagged under his wide-brimmed hat asked me if I understood what was going on. No, I told him. He introduced himself, as another English speaking traveler, from New Zealand, who was also trying to get to the salt desert. He explained to me what was going on:

In a country with a realy unstable political scene, the city of La Paz had gone under seige. This sounds quite a bit more serious than it actually is, because this apparently happens all the time. Sort of. This time, a group of people from a nearby city (between La Paz and Oruro) decided that they no longer like their electric company and because of this, they were not letting anyone in or out of La Paz until the government changed the electric company in their area. The truth is, most of them probably dont even have electricty, but that is a moot point. These people created blockades on every road, sitting on the roads, every road, with fire, atop of barrels of gas. They could hurt lots of people if the government didnt do what they wanted.

Tremendous, I thought. After re-grouping and realizing that I was just going to have to wait to see when I could get out of La Paz, and change my flight back to the States. I would not not not go home without seeing the salt desert. Rebels acting up or not.

Today is Wednesday, and I have been waiting all morning to hear if the blockades have been taken down. They haven´t. But, I did just recieve a call from my bus company that they ¨sent a car out to see how they could get through the blockades and found a way around them¨. In the United States, this classic Bolivian statement sounds like something rather shady...and not to be trusted. But, this is not the United States. I am in Bolivia, and I will be damned if I don´t get to the desert as soon as possible. So, readers, whoever you are at this point, this is it. I am going home to get my already packed backpack, and continue the adventure. Off i go.

I want to know what is going on with the fruit stand lady who is stationed on the corner where I wait for the bus. Everyday, I see her, and she sees me. She knows when I will arrive, with my cargo pants stained with food spit up from Luis and Magdelena at IDAI and my face smeared with sunscreen, and she knows what I am looking for...bananas. All I want from her in the morning is one banana. NO. She only sells them in threes. So, I can buy 3 for 1 Boliviano, which is the equivalent to 12.5 American cents. Or, I can go banana-less. If I buy the set, then I am in a race to give away the leftovers (always 2) before they get destroyed in my backpack. I want to know why she won´t take my 1 Boliviano and just give me 1 banana. She is mean too...shouting at me about needing to take all 3 in her deep, manly voice from under her traditional, colorful dress and wide-brimmed hat. And, the best part of this...she is not the only crazy fruit lady. They line the streets, and won´t budge on a thing. Such an industry...the selling of fruit on the streets of La Paz. Fierce.

There are other things about La Paz and South America that keep me wondering. Why is there always passionate kissing between random couples on the streets, at every time of day? And, how do I meet these people? What exactly is the difference between the plumbing here and in the United States that disables the use of toilet paper (as we know it...disposed in the toilet) and makes for a slow flush? How do I capture the attitude of ease and lost sense of time that allows these people to just show up when they choose, open or close stores as they choose, and move about at their own pace (we all know how much I hate to rush)? Do I really have to pick up all my things in the pharmacy, leave them on the counter, allow the pharmacist to write them all up on a reciept, turn around to walk two steps and pay the cashier with my reciept, to only then return the two steps collect my purchased items? Why do Bolivians insist upon putting an -ito\a suffix on the end of every, single word, insinuating that it is a little smaller, cuter, or more endearing?

I wonder about a lot of things while in this country, but now, the most significant thing that I consider is when the time started to move so quickly. When I arrived at work last week, coming off of my million hour, all night bus extravaganva, work felt normal and the kids felt routine. I knew that the twin boys in the orphanage were going to cry for pretty much the entire 3 hours that I work with them, except for those moments when they are sitting on my lap. I knew that Victor, the terrorist, at IDAI needs to be followed because at any one moment, he will either pounce on or attack one of the other children (or, me). I knew that the kids in my casita were going to call me ¨voluntaria!¨ again and again, until I started to stricktly enforce that my name is not voluntaria, but Marci. I knew that Erika at the orphanage cannot either pronounce colors to tell me what she wants to use when we color, nor can she decide which color she wants to use when they are all in front of her. Eban (orphanage) loves to be read to. Diego (IDAI) will sit on the steel swings behind IDAI for hours, if I let him, and stare at the sun or the deaf children playing football next door (really interesting...playing and signing with their hands at the same time, silently). Jackie (IDAI) wants to and will try her hardest to sit up from the laying down position, if she has the hands to help her. All of the kids in the orphanage can be expected to be standing in the front window of the casita, shouting, ¨MARCI!¨, when I arrive, and ¨CIAO MARCI!¨ from the same positions when I leave. I always turn back to them, and blow a kiss on my way out.

One thing that threw for a little loop last week was that there is a new girl in my casita (orphanage). She is a little smaller than the bigger girls, but not quite as small as the younger ones. I have no idea how old she is, and she doesn´t say much. In fact, she does not say anything. I know that understands because she will listen, but she prefers not to interact. She stands behind where the kids play, never laughs, and will cry from time to time. While we are singing ¨If you´re happy and you know it...¨ (a favorite), she will just watch from behind. I can see that she is a sad child, but I do not know why. She wants to say something or for something to happen, and does not say what. Where ever she came from must have been very difficult for her little body, wide, dark eyes, and long brown hair. She has an eye infection that she came in with, and the nurse comes by every so often to rub some salve into her face, which also makes her cry. None of the kids could even tell me her name. Not even her. Roxanna.

I went about the week, as planned. Working here, catching a meal or a bar evening with other volunteers there, working on art projects with the kids in my house...the usual. Life in La Paz. I have started to take at least two, if not more, of the kids at IDAI outside to play or walk around each day, which is a great treat for them since the mamitas do not have time to go outside.

One of the biggest failures of the week was my attempt to run the stained glass window project that was so sucessful in Peru with the kids at the orphanage. I waited for the older kids to be home (as opposed to being in school), in the interest of inlisting their help with the project. I put the kids into pairs...an older kid with a younger kids, passed out black paper, laid our assorted sheets of tissue paper, gave the older kids scissors and glue. I showed them an example, with a detailed explanation. Then, I let them go to work. Walking around, I discovered that very few of them understood the project, demonstrate the knowledge of how to use scissors or glue sticks, or could think of shapes or things to sut out of their paper. The kids sat, threw things around, and grabbed onto the bottom of my leg, grasping for help. They wanted to do the project, desperately, but did not know what to do with themselves. The mamita, who was the one I don´t like much, actually came through and helped me get to each kid, cutting and gluing furiously. Tissue paper was flying. Kids were crying when we didn´t reach them. Before too long, the chaos settled, and the little ones were either being assisted by mamita or myself, or an older child who miraculously got the idea. It was a long 30 minutes of my life, but I lived through it. And, the kids were really proud of their work in the end. They made me hang them up on the walls before I left.

I had to go eventually, however, because this was on Friday, and my weekend was starting with a trip to the local synagogue, and I did not want to be late. I rushed home to shower and change into the nicest clothing I have...my jeans and clean, cotton, long-sleeved t-shirt. I hopped in a cab and arrived at the shul, which coincidentally is located two blocks from my casita. When I got to the correct address, I was confused. Buildings were all unmarked, and a seemingly sleeping while standing police officer stood on the corner.

I went up to him and asked, ¨excuse me, where is the synagogue?¨ He swung a clipboard from behind his back, and said, ¨it is here, but I need to sign in with me before you can go in.¨ Okay...I wrote down my information for him, and he led me to a plain, steel painted white doorway. The doorbell brought a young girl to the door, asking me in perfect English, who I was and what I wanted. I told her that I was an American Jew, and that I was just looking to attend a service. After a few more questions from this probably 15-year-old, braces wearing, strangly blonde haired girl, and of course, letting her review a copy of my passport (thoroughly examining my picture), she welcomed me.

The building is large, although mostly empty courtyard space. It was dark, so I could not see much. She told me that this building was actually more like a community center for the Jews of La Paz, and that they use the room at the top floor as a sanctuary. With only 150 families, they do not need much space. She told me about how they have holidays, services, educational classes, and everything else right there, in this sparce, brick building (which is extremely secure, thanks to her). When I asked her how English was perfected, she told me that she, just like any of her other Jewish peers, attends an American school. It is the best school in the area, and although La Paz does have a Jewish day school, Jews don´t go there. She said she doesn´t know anyone who goes. Weird.

She led me up the main stairwell of a dark, dim buildling, passing a series of posters advertising visits to Israel and pool tables (yeah...I also thought that was weird), I reached a large room, with two sides...one of which reminded me of any Jewish sanctuary I had seen before. A wooden ark, decorated with stained glass windows, siddurim (prayer books), a tree of life (complete with tons of perished family members, all from Poland and Germany), a rack of tallisim, and a looming podium. In front of these collections were about 50 chairs, seperated by an aisle.

In the other side of the room, a large screen TV blasted a nearby soccer game, and three men sat on couches before the TV, smoking cigarettes. My pre-pubescent friend, the security guard, introduced me to these smoking men, who seemed totally indifferent. I explored a bit, walking through and around the room...trying to flee from their chain smoking (which you actually cannot escape in this country).

As the service time got nearer, and more and more people started to arrive, I noticed that all the men were sitting on one side of the aisle, and the women on the other. I am really glad that I did not sit in the wrong place, before I realized that the congregation seperated. Sitting with the women, who seemed to be eye-ing ne, interesting in my attendancem I began to page through the siddur. It never ceases to amaze me and provide a very strong feeling of belonging when I look through a siddur in another country...it can be in Spanish, or German, or anything, but the Hebrew is there, and I know what it says. Maybe not what it means, but I can follow.

The smoking men eventually turned off the soccer game, and one of them rose to the front of the sanctuary, putting on a tallis to lead the service. Ah, the rabbi. Love Bolivia.

The congregation was mostly al over 50, although there were two children. The service was fast, and the people remained unfriendly to me. I was glad to have gone, and consider it an important part of my experience in La Paz. Granted, I had to leave at the end of the service while the president was making announcements and therefore, did not give the people a chance to talk to me afterwards. But, I did not get the vibe that I was really cheating anyone out of their big chance to meet the American girl or anything.

Saturday morning began Willie´s, my homestay dad, birthday. The big 3-8. I woke up to the family hustling around the house, cleaning and organizing things, and at 10 AM, the first guests arrived. 4 people from nearby in La Paz, but whom had grown up in Arequipa, Peru, like Marisel (homestay mom). Breakfast lasted two hours, and was cake and hot chocolate.

The family continued to hustle around the house once the guests left, and I went out to run a few errands in town. I returned to the house forlunch at 1:30, as requested. At 3:30, we sat down, and so began the endless stream of guests, food, sweets, and the abundance of alcohol (singani, the Bolivian preferred liquor, mostly). We ate, relaxed, eventually migrated from the tables to the couches, and listened to the kids romp around the floor above. The IPODS came out eventually, and somehow, I ended up doing the ¨Thriller¨ dance for the assembled birthday party guests. Don´t worry-we went back to salsa eventually, and the party went on. I ended up opn the couch with Pato, the nephew, talking about the World Trade Center and what the destruction meant to America (he was asking...I did not provoke that) at 2:20 AM.

The morning brought the awakening that my time here is actually far shorter than I even realized. Sunday morning of this weekend meant rushing out of the house to run errands, prepare for only two more days with my kids and at work, and to depart for the Salt Desert on Tuesday night. The trip is crunched now...and, all of sudden. If I depart on Tuesday to see the Salt Flats, which I have been waiting for since I arrived, then I would be back in La Paz on Saturday morning...just in time to shower, re-organized, and make it to a Sunday morning flight to the United States. One more week in Bolivia.

I am sort of jarred at this realization. But, I also knew that this would not last long, and certainly not forever. Time to bring it all together.

Last Thursday evening, as Chris, Fiona, and I sat around contemplating the pending weekend, I asked if they wanted to join me while in a venture out to the local synagogue for Shabbat services. They sort of nodded, and Chris said, ¨that sounds good. But, we were thinking of going to Potosi (Southern Bolivia) this weekend. Do you want to come with us?¨ I paused for a moment, and said, ¨sure¨. I could stand a weekend away from La Paz.

Friday came, I went to work for the day, came home to pack up my backpack, fastened my sleeping bag to the bottom hooks of my pack once again, and headed off to the bus station with them. We were planning to take an overnight bus on Friday night, arrive on Saturday, spend time and see what there is to see, sleep in a hostel for a night, and then take the overnight bus back on Sunday night...arriving just in time for work on Monday. Why not? We didn´t have a hostel in mind, didn´t know what exactly we wanted to see, or when the bus ran. But, we were going. Rightfully so.

Chris and Fiona had tried to get bus tickets earlier in the day to assure that we would have seats on the Bolivian ¨bus cama¨, which is really just a fancier bus...in that the seats lean back and all, and there is probably a bathroom. However, when they had gone to get the tickets, they learned that not one bus cama going that evening to Potosi had a seat, or an aisle free. That meant that it was a regular, old local bus for us.

The bus station in La Paz is a funny place. It is probably the largest building for miles, in the north end of the city...where it stands like out a sore thumb on a main road, surrounded by small fruit stands and a mess of store fronts the size of doorways. The building is a large, burnt orange set of walls, with an open cover of black corrigated steel...not likely to be tin. The circle drive in the front bustles with taxis, locals trying to sell anything they can carry and shout about, other locals trying to haul their large, plastic, painted plaid bags to a departing bus, and backpackers...with their backpacks. The inside is the same mix of chaos and chaotic people, but the perimeter walls are lined with bus companies and bus company employees shouting about their destinations and the center of the building is a few lines of vendors selling transportation essentials...like tissues and M&Ms.

I liked it there. Felt very real to me.

We had tickets on the regular bus, newly purchased chocolate products in hand, and I had already switched from contacts to glasses for the night. We headed off to find that the bus wasn´t really too bad at all. In fact, while the seats were crowded and didn´t really lean much, I was perfectly happy. I took out my sleeping bag, hopped in, and waited for the 10 hour ride to begin. Chris and Fiona were in the two seats just in front of me.

Unfortunately for me, and for her actually, a random girl in the company of a few others (with seats in other places) had purchased the seat next to me. I know that she said a million times to them how sad she was that she had to sit next to me...a gringa...and not any of them, and I know that she didn´t think that I understood Spanish. I was sorry for her, and for me too actually...when she busted out her roasted chicken in a plastic bag to eat with her fingers during the beginning of our ride together. I slapped on my IPOD, drew my wallet into my shirt for safety, and forced myself to stare out the window.

We drove through some kind of fair happening in El Alto, with a mess of roasted meat and bright colors. I was intrigued at this festival and it´s purpose, aside from the massive number of very obviously impoverished people who were wandering through the booths, until I got distracted. While our bus had no empty seats, a host of people got on at our one stop in El Alto. What were these people doing? Well, they set up camp in the aisles. Apparently, bus companies in Peru give out food, feature bathrooms on all buses, and play bingo with their customers en route, and bus companies in Bolivia just try to make as much as possible by selling out every single space...not seat...on the bus. The people laid out blankets in the aisles, leaned against the plastic bags they carried, and went to sleep. I was thrilled that I had gone to pee a few times before departure, so I did not have to deal with this. Chris, however, was pretty infuriated.

We did stop along the way, but still managed to make it there somewhat on time. Not that I cared much...since I had no place to be. But, we arrived, and I was wide awake by then, since I had woken up with the sun at 6 AM.

We collected all belongings, I had a teary goodbye with my seat mate...ummmm...or just asked her to move out the aisle, and we got out of the bus, to figure out where to go next. A taxi driver took us the first hostel that we found in the Lonely Planet, giving us a chance to see this new city...and what it looks like at 8 AM on a Saturday morning. The outskirts of the city are run down, sparse, and not particularly interesting, with stray dogs wandering, large, cement roads, and people seated against the sides of building structures asking for money. The main part of the city felt different...quaint streets made of laid brick, buildings of an array of colors with quirky doors, signs, and decorative fronts, plazas and parks, and markets here and there. The city is completely uphill (the highest elevated in the world-Potosi-look it up---rivaled with another small city in Asia)...unless you walk the other way, and features many alleys and nooks. It felt accessible, unchanged over time, in a personal way...as if time had come and gone and people had moved in and out, and nothing in this whole place had ever been moved.

That is not to say that tourists don´t come through here...because they do. As stroes started to open, places showed off their featured tours to the local mineries, which is their featured tourist attraction. They city apparently has a great wealth, due to the mines. And, 60% of the city depends on either the profits from the mines themselves (because they work in or around them) or work with the tourist industry, interested in mine visits. These agencies advertise a tour, with the complete miney outfit involved as well (boots, helmet, and coveralls). We were going to get in on that action.

After some relaxing in the hostel, a little eating, and a stroll around the block, we had booked our tour. We departed in the afternoon from our hostel, and were greeted by an English speaking guide who pointed us in the direction of a red mini-van with ragged tires, rusty doors, and an exhausted sounding exhaust. When the guide opened the door with a heave, and the door nearly fell to the floor, I laughed...and got in. Chris, Fiona, and I were joined by another couple from New Zealand. Immediately, as my foot entered the van, I was struck by this woman´s shrilled English started in with complaints about the rediculous state of this 27-year-old red van...asking me questions about where I was from and who I was...and telling me about her and her boyfriend´s traveling. Oh, I love these backpackers...my favorite.

Chris, Fiona, and I huddled in the back, hoping to hide from this woman, Bridget, although she was two feet away. Her boyfriend, a tall, dark, handsome, but totally silent Dave character, sat in his own seat, hunched over his own body. Bridget started in...they are on a world tour, saw NY and loved it, saw Canada, saw Central and South America, don´t like Bolivia much, are going to Europe after this...blahblahblah.

I was thrilled when 10 mintues were up (a long 10 minutes) and we reached the top of the city, where the door of the red van again opened and we hopped out. There we were, in the middle of the Miners´ Market. Here, stand after stand featured the same set of supplies the miners require and desire each day. You know, the usual things like hard liquor, home-made cigarettes, coca leaves, and dynamite and dynamite detinators. Yes, that is right...it is totally legal to sell and buy dynamite in this country. I could have bought it. You could have bought it. A child of 3 years old could have bought it. It is really important to the miners to use of these supplies each day, as the alcohol helps them stay in the dank, difficult conditions with their senses about them (they use it for smell and to actually quench thirst), the coca leaves are chewed all day and the empty bag helps them tell time, and the dynamite, well, that´s to keep working.

We purchased some packets of a little of each supply and went to our tourist vendor´s dressing space, if you will. Here, we got ourselves some miner´s outfits. I have a picture of this...literally, hysterical. In my helmet, coveralls, big, Wellington boots, and the battery pack and headlamp secured around my waist, I felt like Derek Zoolander. Well, maybe more like his family members.

We drove uphill some more, to a portion of the city that literally perched on top of a mountainside overlooking the entire city...including the seperate barrack looking structures where the miners live. The entry is a mess of clay and nearly burried train tracks, at the foot of dark, dank hole. And, that is sort of how the whole thing seems. With a smell of pungent fire, alcohol, and chemicals, we tromped through the mud, along the train tracks inside. Headlamps as the only light, we walked alowly, and had to move aside on the ocassion that a group of miners working on Saturday (with mud up to the knees as they had been digging, pushing, and pulling in the wet conditions) would come by with their cart of collected stones.

This mine is mostly for precious or valuable stones. And, the carts are seemingly just rocks, but the men take those out to women who are paid to use mallets to discover just how much of the stone they can uncover to find value. 2 tons in four hours, ricking their lives in these dangerous conditions, inhaling all kinds of toxis fumes, and they get paid a fraction of the men they work for. You know how it is...they get paid better than anyone in Bolivia, which doesn´t say much, but they may only live to 50.

We went through paths to here and through there, watching holes and chutes everywhere. We gave out our gift bags of supplies to the men we saw, and asked them if we could take pictures. They said they don´t like pictures, but we snapped a few of them smiling. I am sure it was the only time they smiled all day.

One of the really interesting parts of the mine was how much Andean lore they bring into it. They supposedly are allowed to worship the devil inside, as he is the god of darkness. And, they have statues in a few corners, where they go a few times a week to pray to the Tio, their devil god. The statues happen to have been decorated with cigarettes, empty bottles of alcohol, and streamers from Carnaval. Supposedly, the devil takes care of them in the darkness of their world.

When we left the mine, we noticed a small shack next to the entry. This shack held a family, who supposedly watchs over the mine. I watched a little girl and little boy play outside the entry, knowing that their lives would revolve forever around that entry. Their faces were sad, for kids, and with heavy expressions. Pigs walked past them, their feet too heavy to follow. They stood expressionless, eye-ing us and I´m sure wondering who we were and what we thought about their world. Their world. The best way to make profit in the country. The best way to loose your life, or your mind.

I was not at all sad to say goodbye to Bridget, or her rather beautiful, but totally lacking personality boyfriend when the outting was over. We shed out outfits, and headed back to the city. At dinner, over three bottles of wine, Chris, Fiona, and myself both decided that we were done seeing Potosi and would head to Sucre, another famous and supposedly beautiful Bolivian city that was 2.5 hours away. We also decided that it was time to try out the Bolivian kareoke places. I sand a mean All-4-One tune, and an equally spectacular Boyz II Men song. And, I had to be really serious about it...to match the Bolivian vocalists. Standing up, walking around the place with my mic, and belting out the bad notes...like I didn´t even know they were bad. Quite good.

The next day, we paid a taxi driver a little bit (really little) of money to drive us to Sucre, which was a classly breathtaking Andean adventure. Green mountainsides, lined with lilly pad-like bushes and clouds that cast suck a dark shadow because they are so pronounced that you feel like they should be statues-permanent. Winding roads, through small villages of adobe huts, and women trying to sell bottles of drink, locally grown fruits or corn, and bread to any passing car.

Arriving in Sucre was sort of whimsical. The place looks like Arequipa, Peru, but more beautiful. The streets are all laid brick, the plazas have tamed gardens and palm trees (it is a bit warmer there), and the buildings are all white, classic archictecture, complete with black gates, characteristic doorways, and well-kept courtyards. There is a mix of poverty, which is noticable in the beggars, the boys with calloused feet and no shoes walking past, and the less impressive structures on the outskits of the main city. I was astonished to see how many nice restaurants and bars lined the streets, feeling like this might be the tourist center of Bolivia. This, and one drag of La Paz. Well, maybe that is because we stupidly went to the gringo restaurant that Bridget had recommended in Sucre. Why we went there? I do not really know...and we didn´t like it. Too much English...too little Bolivia.

We decided to head up to the top of the city, to a juncture where there is an outlook of the whole city. While it was amazing to see the red cielings and white buildings, organizing the city, we decided to go into the nearby monastary to get a tour. I am not really sure why, or why not, but we ended up with our own personal tour from a Spanish speaking monk, complete with a viewing of costumes, prayer centers, chorus quarters, and a historical journey of the monastary. I wasn´t that into it, but I really appreciated the pristine gardens and breathtaking views over the city.

By the time we had finished taking a few deep breaths in this spot above Sucre, we started back to the bus station. A pit stop at the grovery store, to supply our en route dinner, brought back many memories of my days traveling with Mollie. Not only because I purchased my own supplies for cheese sandwiches, but because I found our favorite Argentine candy bar...which I hadn´t seen since the Mollie traveling days.

The bus cama, which cost more than our local bus, lacked a bathroom and video watching equipment. I was disapointed, but took it as a sign that it was time for me to go to sleep. The now 12 hour ride was sort of like a sauna, and sleeping was a bit of a challenge, but I managed somehow. I guess anything is possible when you press your face up against the window. Oh, South America.

We rolled into the La Paz bus station at 7:45 AM, and I was at work by 9:30, smiling. And, now I have seen a little more of this country. I won´t be able to see much more...other than the Salt Desert. But, these are supposedly some of the highlights. I can see it.

I have to be honest with you. Sometimes, updating this blog is as much fun as playing in Bolivian traffic (keeping in mind that everytime I cross the street here, it is sort of like playing in traffic...as cars do not really yield to pedestrians...it is survival of the fittest, really). Alas, I sit, trying to force myself into remembering and recording the week. I am appologetic to those who have been avid readers...didn´t mean to keep you waiting.

This week has been about working, and getting used to the routine. I wake up every morning around 7...naturally, which is really uncharacteristic. It´s not the kids lately either---the blinds in my room aren´t so stellar, which means that when there is real sun, I am awake. And by awake, I mean, laying in my bed and trying to convince myself to go figure out if the bathroom is free (since I share it with 9 other people).

I descend down the hill, the full 15 minutes, and head directly to one specfic corner of Avenida 6 de Augusto, because I figured out that this is the exact spot where the morning traffic from the main drag of La Paz burns off. I hop on a minibus headed in the right direction, confidently, and welcome the sounds and scents of the minibus and it´s passengers on our 10 minute ride into Obrajes.

Mornings---IDAI (the center for children with mental disablities)

Only some mornings do I find the padlock to the gated stairway on the third floor undone. If it is closed, I stand patiently, until one of the higher functioning, older children who wander the halls yells to a mamita to come with a key. Or, if I am not feeling so patient, I just stand there yelling myself, ¨KEY¨ (in Spanish). Once I get inside, the children are all up and beginning their morning. There are mornings when they are all watching Susana, the warm mamita, dance and sing before them, with an educational video playing in the background. Or, perhaps, she has taken out some of the worn, hardly usable musical instruments, and is singing along with the kids banging. There are mornings when a few of the kids are already on mats, or have fallen back to sleep. There are even mornings when one of the mamitas will hand me one of the three kids who can walk and ask me to take the child down to the broken, worn down, dirty playground that happens to be behind the building. Those are the really fun mornings.

On Monday, I took one of the Victors (there are two---only one who can walk) down to the playground. And, later in the week, I was allowed to take him off to a neighborhood park with another child and volunteer (although he definetely did not notice the others with us). I had to make sure that he never let go of my hand, which tended to mean that I ended up tightening my grip, because he would run for the hills. He wouldn´t get anywhere, because the place is fenced, but no need to deal with that. Anyway, Victor ran, and I ran. Victor jumped, and I jumped. Victor saw on the see-saw, and I sat on the see-saw. That´s not true...I just pushed him up and down...if he would sit at that moment. It was hard to catch up with or help him, particularly because he doesn´t talk, and cannot tell me what he wants at any particular moment. But, he and I have found a point of connection...when I clap enough, he will clap. And, if I needed his attention, I just started to applaud him. This is difficult when his hand is fastened to mine, but it´s a good tool for our time upstairs. Sometimes, I have to hold both of his hands together in mine as we walk, because otherwise, he will hit himself with the free hand.

Victor, unfortunately, also likes to hit, jump on, attack, and throw things at the other children. Since they can´t really do anything about it, that leaves me to defend them. He has pushed kids out of their wheelchairs onto the floor. And, I´m working on the defense. I do have some of my own bruises at the moment, and he recently bit my hand, but I take it in stride. I have only been hit in the face once. And, it wasn´t as bad as I imagined being punched in the face would be.

In the meantime, I am getting to know all the kids. Luis, the little baby who I played with on the first day, is my good friend. He is wiggling a lot, and moving his arms in a way that looks like promising strides for being mobile. One can only hope. He stares at me from his wheelchair and moves his head ssssllllooooowwwwllllyyyy---back and forth, and around in circles. He sticks his fingers in his mouth. He is just like any other baby, but his eyes cross easily, one of his tear ducts is in the wrong place on his face, and he cannot sit up straight. But, when I tickle him, his overjoyed, bubbling, contagious laughter radiates throughout the entire room. I jump at the chance to hold him and play with him...even when I can tell that he is packin´ a dirty diaper (and by diaper, I mean cloth). He did have a moment this week when he was being fussy and would cry everytime I put him down...this meant that I had to hold him for 45 minutes. I am not looking to be a mother myself anytime soon, which is good, because after that 45 minutes, I was thinking, ´babies can be heavy, and I don´t want to hold them for long periods of time.´

Magdalena still isn´t sure if she can walk, and while she certainly does not talk, she does cry in response to the frequent fall or run-in with stationary furniture. Jackie cannot move, or speak, but she definetely knows what is going on and can laugh, say ¨hola¨, and make a clicking noise along with you while you clap (she likes applause). She also likes to practice sitting up and falling down with guiding hands...she can exert energy and with help, thrust herself forward (and you know, the falling backward is easy). Hugo doesn´t move from his chair or say anything at all, but when he likes something, he closes his eyes, and I am consistantly impressed with this form of communication. The wheelchair bound Victor says a few syllable-sounding things that are actually widely understood (even by me), really likes television, and giggles sweetly when you joke with, congratulate him on an accomplishment, or tickle him. He even is aware enough to know that when he gets fed last during lunch, he feels free to let us know that he is hungry by shouting, ¨YO!¨ (me in Spanish). Diego loves to be tickled, to play on the outdoor playground as well, playing ball, and will almost always take your hand and walk with you in circles, although he can´t say any words. Vanessa hits herself and is always climbing on things, and trying to take off her clothes, as they seem to irritate her. Dalina is easily soothed into taking a nap on the mats, but otherwise, wanders back and forth and all around (and usually ends up at the door, trying to get out). Nelly is a little older...maybe 10 years old, and her body fits into a larger wheelciar. She is totally immobile, cannot speak, and has an extra t-shirt fastened around her neck to catch unwanted food or saliva that dribbles down her chin.

I play and stimulate the kids for two and a half hours a day, with movies, dancing in front and with them, the few toys they have, the mats and pillows, and playing off of Susana, the wonderful teacher. The rest of my time there is spent feeding the kids. This has turned into something that I actually don´t mind at all---I find it relaxing (and fun...especially when the women offer me the spoons that are child-size, instead of the customary enormous metal spoons that are impossible to use). We wheel all of the kids into the kitchen area and line them up along the walls. I usually go around putting worn out, used, torn bibs on them, while the Bolivian women don´t seem to need them as much. We have snack at 10:30 AM, which is normally either bread mashed up in milk or a mashed up banana or papaya. Lunch begins at 12:30, and it is normally blended up something. Although, I have learned that depending on the child, this could be different. Hugo eats two courses...one as the blended soup, and one as the solid form. But, Luis only eats the huge bowl of blended food. I like feeding the little ones better...since they are really adorable. However, both babies, Luis and Samuel (pronounced Sam-well), seem to cough a little up on me...which I am not really so into. And, Luis closed his eyes while I was feeing him today, and I thought that meant that he just wanted to close his eyes. No. My feeding put Luis to sleep. Oh well. It was cute. His little curls ended up leaning up against the side hand-rail of his wheelchair, with blended food running down off his cheeks and onto his bib.

Yesterday, we had a scary moment. Nelly, the wheelchair bound older child, was sitting among the other kids and all of sudden, I heard a thud. She somehow slipped out of her chair, and it was terrible. I turned around from where I was playing with Diego and a ball, only to see the women run to a fallen Nelly, who was wailing and crying from the floor. She has soiled herself in the fall also. It was extremely sad to see. But, the saddest part was watching the other children respond. While I know that some of them are not really aware of the things going on around them, this was the moment that I realized how used to tears and wailing these children are.

They each have moments daily, sometimes hourly, when they may not be able to express themselves or tell us what is wrong (either because they don´t know, or because they cannot talk), and just cry. And, none of them are bothered in the least to listen to one another. The puncturing sound of a child crying is something that does not phase any of these kids, and has turned into something different for even the women who work there. It is as if a high pitched, loud wail is the only one they will respond to. I am getting used to deciphering tear noises. Although, I am not sure that I will ever get the point that forces me to prioritize a wail in response to the loosing of a shoe versus the falling out of a wheelchair. But, I guess that is easy for me to say...I am only a volunteer. Dealing with these tears is not my life. But, then again, even if it was, I have a feeling that I would deal with it differently.

Afternoons---Hogar de Fatima (the orphanage)

After consuming my packed lunch of PB&J (that is, until Willie, my homestay dad eventually will finish off the peanut butter that I brought from the States) in a nearby park in Obrajes with Chris and Fiona, I put on my backpack and sing-in to the orphanage---job #2. I walk through the courtyard of greenery, which is not really a courtyard at all...more like a playground of worn down equipment between casitas. As soon as I draw closer and closer to Casita Crema, I can hear the chatting little voices exclaim, ¨La Voluntaria, Marci!¨ over and over again. I open the door, although it is notoriously stuck and takes a moment of prying (which always builds a little suspense for the kids and their shouting). The open door is like an invitation for the kids to rush me and grab onto my legs, pulling on my arms, pants, and shirt with glee.

They are full of questions, ¨will we read today? Will we color today? Will you come back tomorrow? Did you bring a game?¨ I mostly just smile and make my way to the bookshelf filled with old, crusty stuffed animals, and don´t respond to any of their questions. The top shelf is where I place my backpack, at a height that none of them can match. And, I sit, dance, hug, tie shoes, and pick them up for the beginning, just to let the excitement of my arrival die down. They normally have split up into playing as boys and as girls, and the girls are mean to one another. The older kids may or may not be there, and Mamita Carmencita, who apparently is a support staff worker in the orphanage, will come and take some of the kids occassionally to work on homework.

Sometimes, these are the moments that get a little crazy. 5 of them MUST go to the bathroom at the same time. And, no one will wash their hands. And, when I force them and actually take each one of their little hands and wash it myself, they then immediately stick their hand in their mouth or on the floor or in their pants or in another one´s ear or wiping their runny noses (especially Juan, the boy with Down´s). I just laugh. What else?

To break the craziness, I will start to bust out my ideas for the day slowly. I have to spread them out, as they must last for the whole time.

Things get crazy, and all of sudden, I take out a book or two about counting. The kids don´t get sit down to listen, nor do they liek the idea that one of them is closer to me than another. I always put Juan on my lap, because otherwise he will likely hit another child or get upset that he cannot see the pictures or run away and be beyond consolation (although the only words that he can pronounce are agua and no---but he takes no very seriously, and even waives his index finger at me when he means it). The other kids do not like that he is on my lap, and I end up with another one on the other leg. Then, two behind my chair, looking over my shoulder. The rest are pushing, and moving around one other to catch a glimpse. I read over the shouting of, ¨I am that horse!¨ or ¨A mi, a mi!¨(to me, to me!). We count, read, repeat stories over and over again. Sometimes, I can convince them to sit for a few pages. It does not last.

Things get crazy again, and I break out into song. I realized that the kids are really into Simon Says, animal noises, ring-around-the-rosey (in English, although the cannot pronounce it), listening to me sing all of their names and things they can think of using the ¨Marci, Marci, Bo-barcy, banana fanah fo parcy, me my mo Marci, Marci¨ (which can be real hard with some Spanish words), and of course, the ever popular, If You´re Happy and You Know It (in Spanish). Actually, that one is my anchor. When things get really out of control and I want their attention for a long period of time, I bust that one out. I go through about 20 things that determine if you are happy and you know it. And guess what? By the end, they are all freakin´ happy and they know it. Really.

Things get crazy again. The twins are crying, or trying to console each other with their inquisitive, mis-pronounced, hard to understand Spanish. Juan watches the rain fall out the window, while his nose runs and he tries to take it back into his nose (and I go to get toilet paper to help him out). Neysa, the older girl, yells at the kids who are doing just about anything and helps the Mamita with whatever it is that she may need or want help with instead of playing. Guadalupe bosses little Erika around, and the two girls end up hitting me and running away perpetually, or giggling in the corner and telling the other kids that no one else can play with them (girls are mean). Noel will inevitably do whatever it is at that moment that I asked him not to. Eban just wants me to keep reading to him forever, and likes to correct my Spanish. Joseline likes it when I speak English, and immitates me (which I always do in moments of frustration with them...they all get confused and it works to neutralize the situation).

Things get crazy again, and the Mamita announces that it is time to have tea. When the kids sit to have tea, the room is silent. This is when I go back to my backpack and get activites ready, as they are seated and eager already. Ah. Quietly, I gather crayons, paper, photo copies of English learning worksheets that I brought from the States, counting games, craft projects, and a game that I just got at the grocery store which teaches the kids about fruit names in English and Spanish (it is like memory, with matching). Once they finish eating, I run smoothly into Marci activity time. The mamita dissapears, and I am there...setting up the fruit cards face down to begin the memory game with the older kids, while I pass out worksheets, crayons, and explain the worksheets (or just let them color) to the little ones.

I was surprised to learn that most of the older kids cannot read, and no one has ever taught them how to. Not only that, but they do not know what most fruits are called and have not seen a great many of them before.

Things get crazy, and I let them (as long as no one gets bloody...which only happened once under my watch). I think that in the moments that things are crazy in the casita, I get to know the kids the best. The think that I am realizing is that it is hard for me to organize a great many things for each day in terms of projects, because the kids are so different and what they really want is me. They just want attention. And, I am not here long enough to work out my own balance to perfection. Patience is something that I cannot teach them in another week and a half. But, I can give them some chances to have fun, keep getting to know them, and offer a lot of hugs.

When I leave, it is the same as when I arrived. Each of them requests that I bend down to their level to give them a goodbye kiss, as they whisper, ¨ciao¨ to me. I tell the Mamita that I will see her later walk out the door, once I can pry it open. Once I get to the outside, I take a deep breath...made it out again. And, I always turn around before I walk away. There they are...the kids are standing at the window again, waiving to me. I blow them a few kisses, and I smile.

By this time, it is 5 pm, and I will go back to the city to prepare for the next day, and maybe, get a couple minutes to myself. That is, before I go home and find Belen and Fabrizio waiting to play or color some more. They always get the leftovers from the day, and they have come to expect it. I know this is what I am here for.

The weekends in La Paz are quiet, and those that occur during the rainy season are rather wet. The streets are dramatically empty, storefronts closed, and you are forced to look at the hanging laundry beside homes longingly, knowing that it will never dry (even when it is yours...unfortunately). Lucky for me, I had a relatively eventful weekend.

Bailen and Fabrizio have showed me that Super Mario Brothers 2 has not gotten any easier for me, since I tried my hand at it before...right after it´s inception...in 1988. But, it´s a lot more fun to play when it is with them. I can hear them shouting out commands to one another, shouting them out to me, calling to Mario, Luigi, the Princess, or Toad (pronounced toe-add, in this case), and then suddenly, out of no where, they will scream, ¨GAME OVER¨ in English. Or, ¨BONUS!¨. It´s hysterical. They have no idea what any of that means, but they know where the secret doors are and what the special stars do. They even told me that I wasn´t that good at the game...compared to them. But, I don´t mind. I like them, and the game, so much that I have started to even get used to their shouting to each other about the game right outside my door while I am trying to sleep-in on any morning.

I gave them some extra copies of the worksheets that I made for the kids in my casita, and they got really excited. I told them that we would have art time at nights, because they seem to really love it (and that seems like the best use of the supplies that I brought from the States...now that I have been told that the kids I am now working with cannot really use much of it). I laugh with them often, and read them stories about pigs and Madagascar on the occasional night time. They even wanted to watch my old favorite, ¨Buscando al Nemo¨(Finding Nemo). These kids are a lot of fun, and I remain glad to be living with their family.

Yesterday morning, I went on my first real outing into the countryside of Bolivia. Joining Chris, Fiona, and Katherine (another volunteer), we hopped on a mini-bus, lugging us through the bustling streets of a crowded marketplace. From the window, I watched traditionally dressed women sit on the curb, outstretching their arms to display the seeds and grains they had for sale in burlap bags beside them. I noticed kids playing in and around huge plastic shoe piles on the edge of tarp-roofed stalls. And, I watched men and women stand beside their stalls, overflowing with overflowing piles of silver pots or panty hose or even fruit, wondering who is purchasing all of these goods. The Bolivians seem to be wandering aimlessly, from stall to stall. Interestingly enough, the market seems to be divided by types of goods; all alike things are grouped together---the pots and pans, electronics, food, and so on.

We passed over hills and went straight through the market to a bustling square, where we met up with another mini-bus. This one was headed out of town; we were on the way to Tiwanaku, the site of ruins from the eldest civilization of Bolivia (pre-Inca). This mini-bus was much more crowded, including loads of people who felt like were nearly spilled out of the windows and doors. I sat on an inside seat, next to Katherine, and hugging the foggy windows (it was obviously raining outside, causing condensation on the windows). Men and women in traditional dress, modern dress, carrying mantas full of goods, briefcases, and newspapers alike hopped on the mini-bus endlessly; the bus went through La Paz and up to El Alto.

Finally, in El Alto, we set off. In what felt like just a few moments, we were in the middle of the countryside, with rolling hills and Andean peaks, lined with plush greenery and grazing cattle and sheep. Stopping at a checkpoint (which are distributed among the Bolivian and Peruvian borders---and I would imagine any other country dealing with a drug trade), I was amazed to find 5 women who had been loitering shamelessly approached us, and shouted at the windows about the goods they carried. People inside the mini-bus bargained from their seats about prices for bread and chicken livers, and eventually made purchases, which got passed over and around me. We then drove and drove, with the random stop in the middle of a field or beside a straw-roofed home with clay walls for a random passenger or two to climb off the bus, fetch the goods they had strapped to the roof, and continue on.

After an hour and a half, the mini-bus pulled up to a museum in the middle of the Andes. He told us that this was Tiwanaku.

It was. Alas, we spent the next few hours wandering through the museum and the massive complex of outdoor ruins, reading ¨Lonely Planet¨ for explanations in English about what we were seeing. Many red, grey, and yellow stones, all carved with an indigenous brilliance. I tried really hard to get into it...alas, while I enjoyed the outing and I really love being within the depths of the countryside and mountains (as opposed to city and mountains), I do not think that I am much of one for ruins. I am pretty sure that my father would be disappointed to hear (or read) my admitting this. I mean, they are stones. Sure, the carvings are really interesting and it is good to see...but, they are stones. Old stones. Sorry.

I spent the remainder of the weekend exploring museums (including the highly recommended National Museum of Art), plazas, and parks that I had not yet found in the city. Time seems to be going fast, and I feel like I am really getting a grasp on what this city has to offer. I even know which corner to turn down to see the ¨Liverpool¨ mural, which has weird paintings of people who I presume are supposed to look like the Beatles (although I cannot tell who is who...and there is no Ringo), outside the ¨Liverpool Karaoke¨ bar (speaking of things that remind me of my dad). Did you know that Bolivians love karaoke? They do.

As Sunday night grows darker slowly, I start to think about the upcoming week of work. I am trying to decide what things to prepare for the kids in the casita (again, open for suggestions...15 kids, ages 3-10), and getting mentally prepared for another day of intensity with the kids across the way. I will say this...life as a volunteer in La Paz feels like a much different challenge than I have ever had before.