A friend requested I translate this for use in his anthropology class. I'm not sure it is closely connected to my research, but I thought I'd put it here, since I spent a little time doing it:

CHAMAKAT SARTASIRY

We Aymaras[1] are original peoples of America.
We lived here for thousands and thousands of years
From these lands
He’s saying that its growing in the shade
He is beginning to talk forever
[these last two lines, I’m not sure I’m entirely understanding the poetics of what they’re saying]
No and without shame
Thousands and thousands are millions my Aymara community
With the blood of Tupac Katari[2]
This name we write on the walls
Aymaras, Quechuas[3] are rising up with force
With force they are coming

Our forefathers left us all that is good, beautiful and grand
Their children should learn the Ayllu[4] is an organization
Our forefathers left us all that is good, beautiful and grand
The original Aymaras should continue to guide us
And we should not depart from this life
The voice of the Aymara of the Quechua
Rises up from darkness
Lighting Latin America with a great light that emerges, creates
Now the sun is going to leave
Now for us we arrive on the path
On the path we will illuminate
White clouds that seem like swirls of wind
That lift to fly like the condor Mallku[5]
To be like the cold snow of the mountain range
Aymaras, Quechuas are rising up with force
With force they are coming

My community I don’t want to see suffering
My community I don’t want to see crying
I don’t want to see them sad
Lets go, let’s go blood brothers
We won’t die kneeling, that’s how it will be
Now yes, now we’re going to do it
This great day for everyone will arrive
That [day] which is going to illuminate the dark is coming
The return, now yes.
Now, yes, now we’re going to do it
To complete the dream of our ancestors to walk on the paths of our ancestors
To sing together new winds
Aymaras, Quechuas are rising up with force
With force they are coming


[1] Most populous indigenous group in the Altiplano (high plane) where La Paz and El Alto are located

[2] Indigenous revolution leader agains colonists-he failed and was hanged. His last words were “I will come back as Millions”

[3] Second most populous indigenous group

[4] Allyus (pronounced eye-yous) are pre-colonial agricultural/community groups based on reciprocity

[5] The condor is a sacred animal in the Andes (for several different indigenous groups, including Aymara and Quechua)

Here is also a fairly recent article in the NYT about Wayna Rap. However, I should mention that I disagree entirely with the assessment that it is "not exactly the place you would expect to find a thriving, politically charged rap culture." In fact, it is precisely the place I would expect to find that. But NYT seems to clinging to a notion that "tradition" can exist in a world with neoliberal accumulation and extensive flows of people, goods, and ideas. 

I was at a La Paz bar around Purim this year, and there happened to be a lot of Israelis there (because there are always a lot of Israelis in La Paz). One young man, whose English was not particularly good, was hitting on me. He told me that he was a dj and occasionally (about every 4th sentence) mentioned “I’m famous in Tel Aviv.” Eventually growing weary of this statement I told him “Well, I’m famous in La Paz.”

This is not exactly true. But I find more and more that my “fame” in La Paz resembles the way I felt in the small town where I grew up. I’ve written already how I consistently run into people in the street here. But I think my day yesterday in general was a nice, comforting, and sometimes surprising indication of what I might egotistically (and not without irony) refer to as fame.

I woke up and was writing a bit at home. Sharing chocolatey cereal with my roommate Thomas, when our other roommate Jack came into the room. “Anybody want to go repelling today?”

Ummm…..maybe?

After hearing a meager amount of details, I agreed. “But I have to go pick up my package at the post office first.” So I set off, fully expecting this to be step 1 of 7 or 8 in customs forms and bank deposits before my old jeans and sneakers would fall into my hands. There was no line to pick up international packages, and the pollera clad woman behind the window found my box quickly. She held onto my passport while I went downstairs to customs. And there in the doorway was the man who was actually quite helpful when Alé and I were attempting to get the box of tattoo needles through customs. The man walked over, took one look at me and said, “You look familiar. Have you been here before?” I explained yes, and why, and he asked “There aren’t needles in this one are there?” “No, just some old shoes of mine from the US.” He handed the box back without opening it. 

So I ran back upstairs, reclaimed my passport, and headed to Hotel Presidente, La Paz’s 5 star establishment. In the lobby I ran into Brian, a Death Road biking guide I’ve met a few times before. This Urban Rush business is his, and he wanted to do a soft opening to practice to asked Jack to invite some people to try it out for free. He led me to the elevator, and we went up to the 15th floor, then up some grand stairs to a restaurant that looks out over La Paz. And then finally up a small spiral staircase to a smallish room on the very top of the building. There was an open window with some scaffolding around it for harnesses. Yep. That’s where I was about to step out of.

Eventually, Jack came around with some people from the bar he manages and we were all given awesome orange jumpsuits to wear and went through a little training. I, for some reason, volunteered to go first on the practice wall, and thus was first in line for going down the real thing. And so I did. 17 stories. With about 5 stories of free fall. And then they convinced me to do it face first. And that was even more awesome. So yes, I was the very first person, not employed by the company to try this all out. 

After my thrilling experience, I had another. Dropping off laundry. Umberto, my laundry man, always strikes up a conversation. This laundry place is nowhere remotely convenient to my new apartment, but Umberto always gives me a discount along with good stories, so I return. This time he decided not to charge me at all. “Why pay? You can pay next time.”

After that I headed over to a café to do some writing, and along the way ran into Jack and Samuel, one of the bar’s owners. Less than a block later I saw Gonz from Tito’s and explained that I had just been repelling to him. “Que Bueno!” He walked off with a “Nos vemos esta fin de semanana” and a kiss to the cheek. 

The rest of the day was less exciting. A bit of writing, eating dinner, hanging around the house. But its nice to live somewhere that doesn’t feel strange any more.

They always warn you transportation is the most dangerous part. Its always in the movement from one place to another that the anthropologist is most vulnerable. Michelle Zimbalist Rosaldo was just walking down a footpath when she fell to her death.

Even more anthropologists have written on the perils of transportation in their fieldsite. Ellen Moodie writes about an bus crash in El Salvador and points out the ways global inequalities and institutions actually bore quite a bit of responsibility for a seemingly “accidental” incident. And certainly, anthropologists such as Lynn Stephen—who works with undocumented immigrants—can’t ignore the perils of transportation for such a population.

But you never think it will be you who is in that crash. I suppose because the academic anthropologist is among the first-world privileged and can choose to use “safer” forms of transportation than the public busses Moodie describes. And are privileged enough to be able to obtain visas rather than illegally crossing borders (aside from Bourgeois’s famous example).

And indeed, I was returning from getting my visa to remain in Bolivia. It was an annoying bureaucratic process that took far longer than it should have, but it was not impossible. And the kind (but paternalistic) Consulado kept assuring me they would give me the visa if only I could provide a little more documentation. Obtaining the visa was a vastly different experience than my middle class Bolivian friends have had when trying to get tourist visas for the U.S.

And as for transportation, I decided to avoid the 30 hour, somewhat comfortable tourist bus from Lima to La Paz and opted for what I assumed to be a more posh option. Flying to Juliaca would—yes—require me to take some local busses rather than a fancy full cama option. But would also be much faster and presumably safer. Of course, this was not exactly the case. As the taxi from Puno to Desaguadero went spinning off the road and those mortal thoughts when racing through my head, I never once thought “this isn’t supposed to happen.”

But I did think that later. As I reflected on the events, I couldn’t help but think of the endless stories you hear in the Andes of busses careening off the sides of cliffs. All the passengers and driver die. And they all remain nameless locals. This doesn’t happen to the tourist or anthropologist because they can afford the safer option. And that comforts us the night before we travel. We have paid our $70 rather than 120 Bs. (about $18) to travel, thus ensuring our safety. We will arrive in (relative) comfort and be happily on our way.

But the truth is, there is an element of luck. Sure, it seems the more you pay the better your chances are. But things like blockades, weather, and poorly maintained roads treat us all somewhat equally. Of course, some have the luxury to avoid travel when conditions are less than perfect. Some have the luxury of flying rather than taking any ground transportation at all. But even if I had flown directly to El Alto, I would have still had the blockades on the autopista to deal with. Money and status help, but they don’t take away risk completely.

And so, as I sat in the back seat of that recently-demolished taxi, and watched the Peruvian man next to me bow his head and cross himself, in a way I wished for something to thank other than luck for my survival. I had been given enough of a shake to be reminded that wealth and status can’t always protect you. I wanted something else to believe in to keep me safe. But I had nothing.

And the truth was, it wasn’t even myself that I was afraid for (except maybe in the moments when I was sure I was going to freeze to death). I have lived a good life. I have done amazing things and been loved by amazing people. And my attitude toward transportation is often: I would rather die in the process of going somewhere than sit idly at home, afraid to take a risk. And I stand by that still. But I was afraid for the people I love. Perhaps I’ve just read the introduction to Culture and Truth by Renato Rosaldo (Michelle’s widower) too many times, but I didn’t want my parents, sister, colleagues, professors, and friends to wish I had never come here. To wish they had stopped me or proposed I do local research. I had no regrets. I don’t want to be the cause of regret for anyone else either.

And so, having returned to La Paz, I sit in my cushy SoHocachi house, writing this on a day when all the choferes (taxi drivers, bus drivers, and voceodores) are striking and blockading the streets of La Paz. And I wonder if perhaps they don’t ask for enough. I argue with taxi drivers over the difference between 10 and 12 Bolivianos (about 30 cents) to take me home at 10pm. But that taxi driver could be keeping me out of harm. But that’s just the beginning. Perhaps better roads, more structured public transportation, more accountability. And this is starting to sound like I’m making a bigger government argument, but hell, this country has already nationalized about every industry it can get its hands on, and the Movimiento A Socialismo party is in power, so maybe that’s a moot point. A little more reliability for transportation would go a long way around here.

But at least the Cebras are a start. 

Moodie, Ellen
2005  Microbus Crashes and Coca-Cola Cash: The Value of Death in “Free-Market” El Salvador. American Ethnologist 33(1):63-80. 

Rosaldo, Renato
1993  Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis. Boston: Beacon Press.

Stephen, Lynn
2007  Transborder Lives: Indigenous Ozxacans in Mexico, California, and Oregon. Durham: Duke University Press.