By Ben Mustin, '04
Funding: Tucker, Anthro Dept., Dean of Faculty
I originally traveled to Bolivia in the winter of 2003 on a Tucker Foundation fellowship. My work with FIA (Fundacion Indigena Amauta), a locally run NGO in Sucre, led to a research project with the anthropology department at Dartmouth. I returned to Bolivia in the summer of 2003 - courtesy of a Goodman Grant from the Anthropology Department and a Richter grant from the Dean of Faculty Office - to research my senior honors Anthropology thesis: the role of local organizations in Bolivian rural development.
From where Hernan and I sat, on a cafe patio, the tear gas was less severe. It had been a couple of hours since the police had come through, and the mist that hung in the air was thin. Instead of weeping, tears rolled down our faces, one by one. In the courtyard in front,daily routines had resumed, and the people of Sucre were in the plaza, strolling, gossiping, and flirting. In front of us, children bought balloon animals and candy from a man in a rainbow- striped hat. Delicate drops of water absurdly clung to their cheeks as they smiled and ran after each other with inflated cylindrical giraffes in hand.
Tears dripped slowly into our coffee as Hernan and I discussed politics. I was clearly the novice - Hernan gazed out and pontificated, seemingly immune to the chemical barrage, while I blinked madly, unable to adapt to the stinging under my eyelids. I squinted, stared, closed my eyes, and looked out of place in a scene that seemed surreal. I considered the possibility I was allergic to tear gas. Not more than 3 hours ago, the plaza in Sucre had been chaotic. No one had cleaned up the broken picket signs and discarded banners, but they had made their way to the gutters like refuse after a massive flood and the streets were finally clean; a gentle stream of cars had returned.
For a week now, campesino communities around the country had been blocking the highways leading to and from Bolivia's major cities at the bidding of Evo Morales and El Mallku, the country's two most important indigenous leaders. Evo, the head of the coca workers union and perhaps the single most important indigenous leader, was demanding the participation of campesino leaders in national debates regarding sale of Bolivia's natural gas to the United States, joining the FTAA, and the cessation of coca production. Felipe "El Mallku" Quispe was demanding an autonomous indigenous state to the north of La Paz.
The nation's newspapers had, for days, been full of pictures of gleeful campesino families rolling rocks, trees, and refuse into the roadways. The army had been rendered useless, because they were unable to get anywhere, and so the country had shut down. Since last Thursday (when this had begun) the price of mangos and tomatoes had almost doubled, and the same was predicted of noodles and potatoes.
Earlier that day,there had been protests, and the streets of Sucre had been stalled and riotous. Sucre's campesinos - the poor indigenous farmers who live in the hills outside the city - had marched into town. Men and women had assembled amongst the palm trees, park benches, and tailored gardens of the plaza. They wore the brightly colored ponchos that had become a symbol of indigenous identity.
Many had never been officially registered as citizens and so could not vote in general elections; others wanted access to national health care benefits. The signs they brought, and the songs and chants they sang, demanded political recognition from the government. Like Evo and Mallku, they bore the mantle of indigenous rights, and they also carried with them the body of a campesino killed by government soldiers at a roadblock the day before. Perhaps inadvertently, they brought a message of militant indigenism that was driving Bolivia's white and Latino elite to the brink of panic.
When the procession came to town that morning, the terrified protestors seemed to be the only ones surprised when, from the rooftops and streets of downtown, Sucre soldiers and police officers had rained tear gas, rubber bullets, and batons on the campesino parade. According to Hernan, two people were killed in front of the white-washed colonial cathedral across the street. Their corpses joined that of the first casualty on the shoulders of their companions and were marched back out of town. I hadn't seen anything, but from my hotel room I had heard the crisp sound of gunshots and felt the air gradually turn acidic as I picked at a six day old mango that was rubbery and warm. I had been horrified. It had taken Hernan 15 minutes of prodding to get me outside and downstairs onto the street when he came to pick me up three hours later.
Now that I had reluctantly come outside, it was hard to understand what all the fuss had been about. A teenage boy whistled at a girl in tight jeans and a t-shirt. She playfully gave him the finger and giggled to her friends. A man with grey hair and watery eyes slowly bent to pick up the droppings of a small dog. Hernan told me that this was all a CIA plot to eliminate the campesinos. My nose peeled from fresh sunburn, and I listened to Jennifer Lopez blaring from a passing jeep. I blinked madly, rubbed at my eyes, and sipped my coffee intermittently.
Hernan reprimanded me: "don't rub your eyes, gringito, it just makes it worse. You have to pretend there's nothing there." He continued in Spanish that I couldn't fully understand.
I blinked hard and nodded and acted like it made sense. "Pobre Gringito - Poor Little Gringo," he commiserated knowingly, "you really don't seem to understand anything."
