What it means to be a gringa in Bolivia

President Evo Morales declared in no soft terms during a speech in January 2007 exactly what Bolivians should think if they see a student or tourist from the United States in their country: that said individual is a spy sent by the CIA to undermine his government. During the 2.5 days we spent in Bolivia, two episodes distinctly marked my place within this volatile international relationship.

The first was a rally in the political center of the political capital of Bolivia. With the Presidential Palace on one side, the Senatorial Palace on another, and the rest encircled by museums and banks, the plaza we visited was truly the heart of La Paz. But much more than the landmarks made our visit interesting: we happened to be there in time to see a rally for Morales' pursuit of a Nobel Peace Prize.

All events of political nature hold a special energy for me, but this was much stronger than I had experienced in the past. The plaza was packed with people: businessfolk on their lunch break, students, families, a military band, indigenous women dancing traditional dances complete with a llama-bird-man, and us, the 4 American students enthralled with all that we saw. No one paid us too much notice, except maybe an extra million glances from the police and army guards when we brought out our cameras. What caught my attention the most was just how powerful this apparent foe of peace and capitalism is in his section of the world, and that in reality, the USA might have reason to be nervous of this kind of popular power in our hemisphere.

The second, and stronger of these episodes, was of a much more personal nature. Through a serious of misunderstandings and changed plans, we ended up visiting Lake Titicaca through an absolutely non-tourist village or probably some 200 citizens and a naval base. We did a boat tour with some 15 ten-year-olds on a field trip, and headed for the only restaurant (with only one menu item: chicken with rice) in town. Four men from the navy base were just leaving as we sat down at one of the three tables. With Latin American friendly curiosity, they came to say hi and welcome us to their town. Friendliness accomplished, next came the justified curiosity: the question of where we were from. Hearing our nationality, their faces changed, but their curiosity continued: for which governmental department do we work? Between our difficulties with Spanish, the assumptions encouraged by their President, and their certainty that no tourist would ever end up near their town and base, we never did establish that we were, indeed, only students.