Marci Soifer

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.