The Living Wild

By Clark DeLeon

The Globe Pequot Press, 2001

…

The Living Wild

By Clark DeLeon

The Globe Pequot Press, 2001

A group of Bolivians marched down the Avenida de Heroinas in Cochabamba, Bolivia, wearing bowler hats and following a band of brass instruments. The band played a somber song and the Bolivian voices rose above the ensemble, crying out the words “independencia” and “libertad.”

From behind, the Bolivians saw only my long, dark ponytail that resembled their long black hair. When I turned my head and my profile was revealed, I immediately blew my cover. I wanted to blend in but as soon as I started speaking my university taught Spanish, the question arose, “De donde eres?” or, “Where are you from?”

My journey began six months earlier when I saw a fluorescent flier tacked to a bulletin board at the William Pitt Union advertising a Global Service Center project in Bolivia. Eleven people from the University traveled to this Andean region to construct an orphanage in conjunction with a travel writing course.

Now I found myself sitting in the Plaza 14 de septiembre on a Saturday afternoon. I sat on a bench all day, watching the people and breathing in the dusty air. I enjoyed this foreign lifestyle. In the three weeks I was there, I lost all concept of time. The hours were determined by what my body felt at the moment. I woke to the sound of a rooster’s crow, I ate when I was hungry, and when I was tired, I took a siesta.

I could hear the mellow strains of the band in the distance as a woman with her baby sat down beside me on the bench. She lifted her shirt for her baby’s feeding. The lingering music turned into a lullaby, and the woman whispered in her baby’s ear. This nurturing act conjured feelings of guilt and envy within me. This familial relationship was one I had pushed aside in my own life to benefit my goals, my future and myself.

Now I was saddened, listening to the band that had followed me from the Avenida de Heroinas to the Plaza 14 de septiembre. Music and relationships were intrinsic to the Bolivian lifestyle. This plaza was a community of human interaction. Young children and old couples convened there to read the newspaper, to watch the people and to relax on the benches under swaying tree branches. The more of this way of life I saw, the more of it I desired.

And yet, I sat alone while the Bolivians reached for each other’s hands and kissed each other’s cheeks and held their babies close to their bodies while the music sang above the wooden benches and swaying branches. My concept of freedom and liberty had been tarnished by American conventions – conventions that made me believe that freedom was pushing people out of myself and then becoming more in tune with “myself.”

If only I could hear the Bolivian rhythms today.