Marci Soifer

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.