Lakshmi Ramachandran • Bolivia
Play. We arrive in Copacabana and find that we need to take a boat to get to the Isla del Sol (Island of the Sun), a picturesque plot of land that’s carefully planted like a seed by a gardener in the middle of Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world. The small motor boat was too heavily weighted in the back, so my two friends and I were directed to sit on the nose of the boat – the best seat in the house. The next 1 ½ hours were pure bliss, since we were gracefully gliding over one of the most beautiful lakes I had seen in my life. I felt like I was living in a picture frame, but as you round each bend, the painter chooses to make the scenery even more breathtaking. Pause. The beauty around me seemed so confident and concrete that it felt like time did not even pass. It was like I was sitting on this boat with the motor off and watching as the world around me maneuvered itself in ways that were pleasing to the eye and soothing to the heart. Play.
With hotels that were actually cute huts playing dress-up in slightly fancier costumes, the Isla del Sol definitely lives up to its name. Extremely high altitude replaced lack of exercise as to why our sound effects rivaled those of the Big Bad Wolf as we climbed the stone steps toward the sun. We hiked to see a tiny remnant of the Inca legacy as the island was sun- bathing in the deep blue topaz lake. Slow-Mo: We then made our way to the highest point of the island to watch the sun say goodbye for the day, as it was playing catch with the snow-capped mountains creating a hammock of pastel pink and orange rays, where the clouds could take a nap.
And then there were the stars. It was getting chilly, and to head back to our hotel meant dodging llama and donkey poop in a night that was darker than dried prunes or burnt coal – but none of this seemed to matter. We couldn’t help but crane our heads to the sky like we wanted to memorize every star in sight. To stay warm, I was wearing possibly every article of llama embellished clothing I owned all the way from fuzzy leg-warmers to mittens. Gazing at the sky felt like music that envelops you. When you hear good music, it doesn’t just come straight at your nose, but rather wraps around you like a warm blanket – almost like flames of a bonfire – you could feel it, hear it, breathe it and even smelt like it after the fact. The stars seemed to have this yearning to talk to you – to fly down, sit in your lap and cuddle up with your soul like hot tea. Freeze frame please!
This trip definitely reaffirmed the view that the earth is a beautiful place to live in. I feel like sometimes we wish life could be controlled like a tape recorder or like DVR – so we could take charge of it with a remote as we do with our television. We want to know what will happen and how we can prepare for it. We want to pause things that we love, turn the volume down when someone is bugging us, fast forward through things that we don’t enjoy, and change the channel when we don’t want to deal with something. Or, maybe this is just me.
I personally like to think that this seemingly lack of control we are blessed with is one that challenges us to truly appreciate the moments we love and learn from the ones that frustrate us. So, I guess its okay that we don’t always get to wield a remote control for the feature presentation that is our life…
It’s interesting because Bolivia is different from the US is such blatant and subtle ways. This past weekend, my group took a trip to Toro Toro, a village archaeologically known for its fossils, caverns and dinosaur tracks.
Driving on the interstate into the US version of this city would mean flying by billboards every 2 miles containing larger than life images and dazzling quotes reminding you why you can’t miss visiting your already intended destination. On arrival, every sidewalk, street corner and restaurant window would be plastered with tourist friendly jargon. Signs pointing to cafes that the town is known for, hotel recommendations, and popular attractions would dot every square mile – almost to a suffocating degree.
Going on a hike would be on nicely carved stone steps, lined with metal safety railings along the way. The entrance would warn you against going on this adventure if you were pregnant, had heart problems, or were not tall enough. The trek would be filled with little wooden signs that point to a certain rock formation which looks like an ice cream cone or a special tree that is “supposed” to bring good luck if you touch it. Waterfalls have cute names attached to them and informational signs about how the terrain looked thousands of years ago would be carefully placed at picturesque locations, coupled with rustic, wooden benches – perfect places to rest before moving on.
Tours would leave on the hour, every hour and be lead by enigmatic tour guides with unique senses of humor, who encourage you to entice your friends back home to take this same tour when they visit. Halfway through, there might even be a photo-shoot option – where you and your family can pose next to a statue of a dinosaur or wild animal that used to call the nature park home. So…you of course stand in a long line, snacking on the munchies originating from your backpack, and wait for the camera to work its magic. On your way out, the tour guide reminds you to check out the gift shop and not to forget to buy this gem of a photo containing your sweaty, motley crew for an infinitely small (practically nonexistent) fee. You leave knowing that you had a blast on this adventure.
But that is the US. This is Bolivia. Toro Toro is a village 5 hours from Cochabamba that you can only get to by a cobblestone road that weaves through mountains. Sometimes there is no road at all. There are no road signs or billboards or rest stops. If you need to relieve yourself, you gotta do it next to cacti and other thorny friends. At times you feel like you are playing Mario Cart in real life, but instead of maneuvering around banana peels, you need to swerve by huge potholes and stop for goat crossings. The village itself does not look like a tourist destination. There is one huge dinosaur statue smack dab in the middle of the village square and that’s about it. A surprisingly small percentage of villagers are actually involved with the tourist industry.
Hiking down a canyon takes on a much more realistic, adventurous persona. There were no signs, metal safety railings, benches for resting, photo checkpoints or gift shops. The tour guide’s name was Mario. He looked older than 70, had been doing this for 42 years and was one of the pioneers who discovered the caves in Toro Toro. He was this nimble little man who showed off his missing teeth when he smiled. The public restroom was behind a rock where the rest of the group couldn’t see you. At times, we were equipped with a handy rope tied to a tree to shimmy along parts of the canyon that were eroding away. He led us through crevices in caverns that had 1ft radii and led us down a canyon and back up again by scaling the canyon wall. He pointed out dinosaur tracks and fossils of prehistoric worms by acting them out.
I would trust the man with my life, and based on the riskiness of parts of the hike, I definitely did. Oh how Bolivia redefines the word “adventure.”
“¡A la madre tierra!” And we briskly tilted our coconut bowls to the side letting a swig of chicha splatter onto the ground. Before drinking chicha, it is a requirement to offer some to mother earth. There is a superstition in the picturesque pueblo of Anzaldo: if someone offers you a drink, it’s bad luck to say no… So what else is there to do but cock your head back and gulp down this earthy brew? How would one describe Chicha? Well, to me it looks like dirty bath water with a little more dirt mixed in and doesn’t taste all that much better. It is served in huge plastic garbage bins or the buckets used to clean floors. If I hadn’t been told that the liquidy muck was actually drinkable, I would have thought that I was doing our hosts a favor by pouring it all out onto the dirt streets outside of our house. Somewhere mixed into this lovely beverage is a wee bit of alcohol made by fermenting corn, and is the most commonly served drink at festivals and celebrations here. It’s like Dillo Day – village style!
But let’s not let this village cocktail take the limelight away from the real gem of this rural block-party: the dances! Starting just after lunchtime, hundreds of Anzaldo natives dressed in ornate costumes and headgear, rivaling those of Las Vegas show girls and Japanese Kabuki performers, paraded around the city while singing and dancing – all to honor Saint Santiago. From 6 year olds girls wearing cute hats with feather plumes to teenage boys chanting while simultaneously doing a sort of waltz to bands comprised of men from barbershop quartets, the cobblestone streets were filled with families showing pride in the traditions of their town.
Walking around the town square meant running into stalls of women selling salchipapa (fried potatoes and sliced up hot dogs) and leche de tigre (literal translation: “tiger’s milk” = a type of alcohol called Singani, mixed with hot milk and sugar), and of course, groups of friends carrying buckets of chicha. The vibe was that of a cross between July 4 celebrations, a huge family reunion and a block party, but all x 500. It was complete with wailing toddlers, kids play intense games of tag, old folk sitting by the road and chatting away about “back in the day…” and tons of youth savoring every 3-step dance, sip of beer and firework that got up close and personal. It was a sight and experience that made me feel like part of the family, even though I am a gringa from far, far away. The night ended, or should I say began, when a huge display of fireworks. They were not launched from some barge in the middle of a river, but rather from 10 feet away from where we were standing! It was the first time that I had to look directly above me to see the bursts of light flash throughout the sky, loving it but simultaneously praying that none of those sparkly little wonders would come and kiss me on the head…
Community has become a buzz-word for conversations on international development. The importance of seeking out, learning about, understanding and appreciating communities is practically one of the requirements to help be the catalyst for any type of change or development. I assumed that this would need to be an active process – where I go and seek out some group of people with common goals. It would take work and time and money. But, I guess the biggest lesson learned here is that I didn’t really know what I was looking for.
Communities emerge when a group of people actively play a role in sustaining their shared values. The strongest communities don’t need to be embellished with flat screen TVs or lots of bling. They don’t need to be up to date on the latest technology, water distribution systems, fashion trends, or even the latest world news. Instead, they take daily pride in savoring and protecting the traditions and culture that have been the catalyst to their survival. It’s surprising how much a seemingly underdeveloped village can truly enlighten a citizen of a “more advanced,” 1st world country. Regardless of the quality of education or the variety of organic diet plans that the US can offer, we all still have so much to learn…
So what does the word community mean to you?
“Now I’ve seen a lot of special things around this world/You can see them too, you can…” (“Wanderer” -Marc Broussard)
“How I wish, how I wish you were here” (“Wish You Were Here” – Pink Floyd) to experience the culture of Bolivia with me, so I’ve decided to give you a taste of Cochabamba through a camera lens, but simultaneously still ”hoping I would see the world through both my eyes” (“3×5″ – John Mayer).
Although I’ve had my share of ups and downs with cold mornings, plane delays, and sickness, I truly believe that “the remedy is the experience” (“The Remedy” – Jason Mraz).
In all honesty, “Yooooo ohhhhh/Oh nothing else compares/Oh nothing else compares…” (“Clocks” – Coldplay).
This is a collection of photos ranging from my visit to La Cancha (Biggest market in South America), a trek up the mountains to see the city from El Cristo (The largest Jesus Christ Statue in the world), a bus-ride on a micro through the city, la Plaza de 14 de septiembre, la Plaza de 25 de mayo, and just strolling around my own neighborhood – enjoy!
Overall, my time here so far has been “cooler than the flip side of my pillow, that’s right” (“Smile” – Uncle Kracker)…
“A la esquina por favor!” – and immediately the bus comes to a sudden halt: the passenger dangling off of the bus briskly steps onto the street as an influx of new passengers flood the micro. As I was venturing through the narrow streets experiencing travel like a true Cochabambino, I felt like a child whose face was plastered to the window of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory…if only it had a window…
The 3v micro is the cheapest bus you can take in all of Cochabamba, which means that my roommate Chelsea and I got a 2 ½ hour tour of the city for 1 Boliviano each – or about 14 cents. We drive by Plaza Colon, home to two of Cochabamba’s most popular snack shops – Globos and Dumbo’s (and yes, Dumbo’s logo is an elephant with abnormally large ears…). We drive by the Plaza de 14 de septiembre, which is a one of Cochabamba’s markets: a labyrinth of little stalls selling everything from cloth purses to electronic equipment to tasty sweets. We see fountains in city squares, cholas selling juice of every type of tropical fruit, infants wrapped up in hand-woven, vividly colorful blankets on the backs of their mothers, children hopping on the micro to sell fresh caramel treats or popcorn made from kernels that are 5 times bigger than those back home, stalls with hundreds of stuffed animals hanging from makeshift tarp ceilings, fruits stacked to look like little edible Eiffel Towers, shoes of every style, shape and size, and tiny frying pans making papas fritas (French fries), plantanos (plantains), and frying dozens of other types of meat. We get stuck in deadlock traffic for 17 minutes, we pass by pharmacies with bags of diapers hanging from their shop’s overhang, stalls of hundreds of bedazzled cell-phone covers, school notebooks, and apparel that looks like it’s from the movie Flashdance or Girls Just Want to Have Fun, hundreds of Taquina logos (a natively brewed beer), fresh empanadas, pastries and cakes embellished with colorful frosting and toppings looking like creations made by all the Food Network cake decorators together, fresh vegetables – smaller than our ridiculously large American counterparts, but are without a doubt significantly more flavorful and juicy, and this was only in the first 45 minutes!
My senses were challenged to multitask in ways that I could have never foreseen, and I had quickly forgotten that the initial intention of taking the micro was to eventually return to our humble abode. After an hour on this carousel around the city, my face and camera lens still stuck to the window by my seat, I turn to find that a small child had magically materialized onto my lap. In my attempts to catch everything we drove by, I failed to realize that the micro was now packed fuller than a suitcase you need to jump on to close. A man and his toddler had just gotten on the micro. The old lady who was sitting next to me took it upon herself to find this toddler a place to call home for this bus ride and ended up choosing my lap as her solution. So I was holding this stranger’s plump little child, wearing this soft wool hat, carrying a small bag of freshly popped popcorn, pointing out the window saying “Yola! Yola!” every couple seconds. When we had gotten on, we asked the bus driver if it goes to the stadium, and he responded that the bus goes “everywhere!” Well…it certainly did.
Suddenly, the bus started to empty out and finally stopped in this abandoned, dirt parking lot. The route was over – but we were still on the bus. Okay…so what now? After clarifying yet again that we had wanted to go to the stadium, the driver motioned to another bus that was about to leave into the city. As we were heading back into the city, the route didn’t overlap with anything we had driven by the first time. It drove through La Cancha: the biggest market in South America – this was yet another test of my senses. I counted 22 different smells just within a span of about 2 minutes! After many more twisty roads and one-way cobble stone streets, we finally reached the stadium, from where we could walk back home – but were now equipped with a significantly greater understanding and appreciation for the city and people of Cochabamba.
I had the unbelievable pleasure of getting onto a micro headed in the completely opposite direction: how lucky…
This past week, I got sick. Not like your common cold or cough – but body deteriorating, appetite loosing, raise that body- temp to the roof like you’re on a dance floor, bring on the vomit, sick. And let me tell you, travel is really glamorous until your facing the toilet and puking what feels like your whole abdominal cavity out at 3 in the morning – when oh yea, there’s no water. I’m hoping that this is my body’s last attempt to rebel against my relentless thrusting of it into a new environment with a carb-heavy diet, a language where “ll” is pronounced “ya,” higher altitude, a new pillow that kinda feels like it’s made of the Styrofoam peanut packing material, and an oh so loving family. As much as I detested this physiological malfunction, it did open my eyes to a department which I would eventually like to snuggle up to for my career: Healthcare. The treatment I received was like the first bite of an appetizer of the healthcare system in a country that is so very different than one that recently celebrated its 236th birthday on July 4th.
After the secretary at the NGO I work at heard that I was feeling slightly under the Bolivian weather, I was quickly greeted by the 2 doctors that my team had been interviewing hours earlier for our project. They both have huge smiles on their faces and think it’s slightly comical that Sonrisa (my Spanish nickname which means “Smile”) does not feel like smiling anymore. They immediately start bustling around the small room to excavate 3 different thermometers and promptly start taking my temperature with all three of them: the reading was different on each thermometer – so what does that mean? Do I take the average? Why did it take two doctors just to check my temp? As much as I wanted to keel over in that exact minute, I couldn’t help but smirk at the comedy of the situation: I felt like I was in a 3 Stooges episode and I was the 3rd Stooge…
But more importantly, how did they have time to see me? In a 3rd world country, you would think that any sort of medical staff is in high demand. However, because these doctors work in IDH, an organization that works on HIV/Aids related issues, there is a HUGE stigma associated with coming in as a patient, even though the treatment is far superior to other clinics in the area. Sadly, they are wonderful resources that Cochabambinos just don’t want to take advantage of.
The following day my host mother takes me to the Doctor’s office. Walking into the waiting room was like stepping into an airport, except instead of being surrounded by people for all parts of the globe, I was pleasantly greeted by a montage of faces from all walks of Cochabamba life. In the corner, a gentleman was waiting with his wife who was wrapped in beautiful hand-woven blankets. Next to this couple was a cholla, an indigenous woman known for her velvety skirt and long braids. And of course, no doctor’s office is complete without its dosage of squealing children.
The secretary kept books via 2B pencil and a little notebook. No computer. No fax machine. No fishtank filled with tropical, neon-colored friends. After taking my temperature with a mercury thermometer, and asking me questions about my diet, bodily fluids, and stomach pains, the doctor triumphantly declared that I have un “infección del viajero” – aka a “traveler’s infection” and prescribed me 3 different drugs. A traveler’s infection?! What the hell is that? I could have self-diagnosed that…In a way, it’s kind of nice to know that regardless of what country you are in, some things never change: the doctor still tells you what you already know and his writing is still completely illegible. I guess it’s good to be home.
I curiously peep my head around the blue gate that leads into the cute 3-tier cake of a building which will be my place of work for the next 6 weeks: The Instituto para Desarollo Humano (The Institute of Human Development). IDH opens out before my eyes with canary yellow cake batter adorned with cerulean frosting. My “grupito” and I have been anxiously waiting to dive in and craft a project that we will need to plan and implement in the next 6 weeks that we are here. In travel lingo- This trip is going to feel like attempting to become fluent in Turkish faster than you can unpack your suitcase: an experience that will without a doubt force me to crawl out from under the warm blankets of my comfort zone where I like to snuggle up with hot chai and my favorite book.
IDH is an organization that works on HIV/AIDS related issues. Their primary program called SIDAcción (AIDS Action) consists of 4 departments: Health, Prevention, Political Action and Human Rights. I take a quick lick of the deep blue frosting to quickly find that their walls are plastered with hundreds of posters, images and other paraphernalia showcasing Aids Activism. Phrases like “No Está Solo” (You are not alone) and “SIDA-VIDA: El SIDA no nos ha quitado las ganas de vivir” (Aids doesn’t take away the will to live) fill the doorways, walls, desks, calendars, pens, stationary, postcards, and any other available space in the building.
At 10am, everyone convenes in the kitchen for some coffee and fresh bread. The atmosphere and people have personalities as warm as the hot tea they are drinking. They are passionate about the work they do, but simultaneously have a mentality that is a 180 degree opposite from the Starbucks drinking, taxi-cab infested, New York City life. Here, everything is done with a genuine sense of serenity, like relaxing into a warm bubble-bath. Meetings tend to start late and end late, but they rarely feel like meetings – rather like a group of friends who are chatting about something they’re passionate about. What a wonderful perspective to have at work. As the sugar delicately disappears into my tea, I munch on my piece of fresh bread, and I’m eager to melt into this work mentality for the rest of the summer…
We had a technically simple and straight-forward task: go to the 4 places listed on our sheet of paper: El parque de ninos, La universidad mayor de san simon, el mercado de frutas, y la estación de trenes. We weren’t allowed to ask any of the FSD Staff (our in-country resource) + no taxis + use public transportation at least twice + map + make it back by noon = Scavenger Hunt: Cochabamba version. Oh yea, one thing: since all of this is taking place in Bolivia – everything is in Spanish. You can ask natives, but if they speak Quechua, any hope of understanding them is pretty much lost. Having never taken the public transportation in South America, let alone Bolivia, trying to locate the bus route (does it actually exist?) proved to be fairly challenging. Chelsea, my roommate, and I quickly learned that attempting to find actual bus stops or signs to locate the correct micro or trufi, two type of public buses that operate in Cochabamba, is more than a lost cause. People can flag a micro or trufi wherever they want and can say “baja” to get off wherever suits them best.
After asking a security guard, a traffic cop, and the vendor of a small shop next to a park, we managed to jump onto our first micro hoping that it would take us to our intended destination of the train station. Rules about the micro: 1) There is always more space – even if it looks like the bus is about to vomit its contents of passengers out onto the street at any minute, 2) You pay when you get on, 3) It has no doors, so you better hold on, 4) Make sure you take it in the right direction, and finally 5) Don’t be afraid to ask fellow riders where your stop is – strike that – you HAVE to ask fellow riders when to get off, or you could very easily end up on the other side of the Cristo (the largest Jesus Christ statue in South America, located on the top of a hill on the eastern side of the city). After trying to interpret the intended help of a cute lady on route J, who spoke a combination of Spanish, Quechua, seemed to have a thick Argentinean accent and threw in a couple French-sounding words here and there, we found ourselves in the middle of a huge Mercado (market). Only in India, have I even seen anything that rivals El mercado de frutas of Cochabamba. The smells of fresh cuñapes (a type of fresh bread with cheese), combined with the vivid colors of the faldas (skirts) of indigenous women, with piles and piles of fresh fruit that you want to grab and eat faster than Aladdin can, immediately enveloped and overtook all our senses.
The lady from the micro led us around and around the mercado to find this infamous train station. After walking around in circles, and around hoards of people watching the Germany-Argentina fútbol game on tiny 7inch screens in the small tiendas (shops), we managed to find our way to the EX-train station. So to answer the question posed earlier: Where can you go by train? – You can’t. The train station doesn’t operate anymore. Instead of being a hub for transportation it has turned into a beautiful microcosm of indigenous vendors, fresh foods, and vivid Bolivian culture. The fact that the train station wasn’t a train station at all didn’t really matter since our initially daunting task of trying our luck at navigating the 3rd largest city in Bolivia, became an adventure that turned this foreign city into a unique home.
Cochabamba at last! My experience in the city today was like closing my eyes and sticking my hand in a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans. My first one tasted like a combination of foggy air, curiosity, and fresh bread, but I’m not at all sure what I’m going to get next.
Pause: use the Time-Turner to rewind 12 hours – Before we had impatiently pranced off the aircraft, thrilled, but bleary-eyed and exhausted, into the night of the city we will call home for the next 7 weeks, we (The “Elite 5:” me, Yannell, Joan, Chris and Jenny) had the delight of executing a slightly startling feat: 3 countries, 5 cities, 12 hours – I never thought this would be possible. After leaving Miami, only to arrive in Lima, Peru, we found ourselves finally on the right continent but not the right country. From there, we jumped from Santa Cruz, to La Paz, where we made friends with one of the airport personnel – Isaac, and finally arrived here in Cochabamba.
I have one of those livestrong bracelets that say SuenaBolivia. In other words: Dream Bolivia. As much as I had been anticipating touching down in Latin America, and having my first authentic Bolivian meal of rice, papas (potatoes), eggs and spicy locoto (Bolivian chili pepper) salsa, I never thought that it would take me 5 flights, a Thanksgiving-like feast on meal vouchers at La Carreta in Miami, an attempted nap in the airport at 4:45am in Lima, Peru, or high-altitude discomfort in La Paz to finally get here. For the past 3 days in transit, Bolivia seemed like nothing but a dream. There were moments – when trying to converse with airline personnel in Spanish about our luggage or learning how exactly to use the payphone in La Paz without having the line cut in 20 seconds or it eating our Bolivianos – when it seemed more likely to get to our intended destination of Cochabamba via portkey rather than anything else.
On arriving at the Cochabamba Airport, we were told to hold a sign reading “FSD” and find a man with a large mustache who would take us to Centro Palestro, where our in-country orientation would be held before we group off and work with our respective NGO’s. Really? All we have to go by is a mustached man? We walked to baggage claim to find it sans our suitcases but swarming with mustached men. Super…and the adventure had only just begun…
Later today, as we walked down Calle Antezana towards the center of the city on stone-studded streets, Daniel and Julianne, members of the Foundation for Sustainable Development (FSD) Bolivian site team served as our temporary tour-guides. Surrounded by beautiful mountains, the foggy air, fresh from the mass burnings done on el Dia de San Juan to burn the old and start afresh, clung to our skin. Anxious for the rest of my GESI compadres to arrive, I’m ready to jump right in, even if it means playing a game of lifesize, magical chess. I’m going to sleep at 8:30pm: exhausted, but with a smile on my face, and ready to create a summer full of memories to store in my pensieve.
Snippets of Chicago – As good as deep-dish pizza:
Almost 70 hours of lectures, class, and language training.
67 students.
22 Guest Speakers, Experts and Professors.
Over 20 meals consisting of lots of yum yum yums.
16 NGO’s.
7 days.
4 countries.
3 group members.
2 languages.
1 experience.
4 Letters: GESI, aka the Global Engagement Summer Institute. Although I’ll only be flying with mis amigos de GESI to Cochabamba, Bolivia this weekend, this past week of GESI orientation has been a whirlwind of instilling rich cultural contexts, Spanish vocabulary and key international development constructs, before jumping on a 747 Aircraft flying south of the equator.
Starting promptly at 7pm this past Sunday, I was quickly tossed into an international salad bowl of leaky buckets, ABCD, microfinance, Espanol, half-full glasses, PRA, feedback loops and asset maps. This jargon has quickly set up shop and found its niche in my mind, slowly helping formulate a framework and unique perspective on international community development. Therefore, this week has pretty artfully equipped us with the tools to successfully hammer together a sustainable project while working with an NGO in our respective countries.
Snippets de Bolivia – como una baile nueva:
200 dolares.
7 semanas.
4 miembros de mi familia.
3 días de orientación.
1 proyecto.
1 NGO.
1 país bello.
1 experiencia.
At 2pm this coming Sunday, we will be “El-ing” it to O’Hare Airport to embark on a 7 week long journey and try our luck at accomplishing a very familiar “buzz-phrase”; one that is very easily thrown around, but much more challenging to execute: “making a difference.” How is it that I will be able to tackle such a grand and fairly vague concept? Making a difference is something very relative, and while analyzing a number of case studies and distilling the essence of some larger than life concepts, I found the beauty in and necessity to start small – in other words, in snippets. Although I don’t know the exact scope of my project yet, I have begun to construct my own version of a diving board which I can use to delve into the heart of my experience and potential impact.
Although this week is quickly turning into a blur, below are a couple of distinct moments, distinct snippets that will settle in the back of my brain and give me the privilege of eventually seeing the bigger picture when in Bolivia:
LISTEN first.
The person you can fool the easiest is yourself.
Find those who want to be helped.
Allow yourself the freedom to fail.
When people need to accomplish something, a community is created.
Impact should be replicable.
You need to get people committed to their own development.
Accept that change does not happen overnight.
Outputs are different than outcomes.
Look for the natural leaders.
Engage.
Engage yourself.
Engage those around you.
Close the feedback loop.
Focus on the assets, not the needs.
A prison is made up of other people’s ideas about who we are.
Relationships are like muscles: if you don’t use them, they wither away.
Take a plunge.
I have 7 WHOLE weeks in Bolivia, not I only have 7 weeks.
Every community is half empty and half full: We only see the liquid in richer, healthier communities, and only see the air above for struggling ones.
If you do everything for someone, you incapacitate them. Never do what a person can do for themself.
I am not the expert. I am not a follower.
Just Do IT.
Keep it simple.
Conflict is created when you feel your identity has been challenged.
Let the story guide you.
Silence is okay.
Time is infinite.
Seek out stories of hope.
A good leader finds the sources of motivation for their constituents and links these motivations to the larger goal.
Cocahabamba, Bolivia.
GESI.
P.S. It is 2:24am, and I am watching fellow GESI’ers playing tag in Miami International Airport – instead of on a plane to South America. Let’s see what this travel adventure will bring…
