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I saw a great documentary about Bolivia this week. Called The Devil’s Miner, it’s about two brothers, ages 12 and 14, who work in one of the mines in Bolivia’s mining center, Cerro Rico. After their father died, their mother moved them from the countryside to a mountaintop, where she got a job guarding mining equipment for $25 a month. Since that wasn’t enough to both live on and allow the children to study, the boys worked in the mine during the afternoon, and studied in the morning.
In addition to the story of two boys, the movie portrays well the life and culture. It explains some of the history of the mines, of the forced labor the Spanish employed, in which every indigenous male had to spend six months working in the mines without pay. One aspect new to me was the concept of “tios,” devil figures located in every mine that must be worshipped and given offerings in order to not kill the miners. These tios receive more worship and respect by the locals than God does. But they go to church anyway, looking for double protection, hoping someone will help and protect them. It also displayed well the carnival, the happiness generated once a year among even the most destitute – the festivities, dancing and mayhem. Watching the dancing troupes reminded me of what I saw at the Festival de Urcupina outside of Cochabamba. And like what I saw in Bolivia, the celebrations in Potosi aren’t complete with random explosives going off all around.
These mines are located above Potosi, which at 4300 meters, is the highest city in the world. The children were living and working in very harsh conditions, at a very high altitude. Nevertheless, the movie inspires hope. It portrays the beauty of the harsh rocky landscape. And despite the incredible difficulties they face, these boys are determined to study and to find a career for themselves outside of the mines.
I’m currently reading Regreso del Idiota, (Return of the Idiot), a recently released book that seems to be getting some attention in Latin America. My colleague Maria’s brother was discussing it when I lunch with her family in Cochabamba. And I saw it prominently placed on the bookshelves in the Miami airport.
It’s written by three Latin American authors and is a diatribe against the far left socialist leaders in Latin America – mainly Chavez (Venezuela), Castro (Cuba), and Morales (Bolivia). They write that these “idiots”, with a purportedly social agenda, are actually harming the poor in their countries by prohibiting social advancement and the operation of free markets.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Babies from multiple partners and fighting back against road blockages
Last night I took a taxi from work into the center of the city. My driver, Leo, was a talkative man and since traffic was heavy at that hour, we had quite a bit of time together. Suddenly, he let out a big yawn.
“Are you ready to go home?” I asked.
“Yes. I work until ten, but I’m tired already.” It was shortly before eight. “The thing is I have a three-month old baby and he doesn’t let me sleep, crying all night.”
I congratulated him.
“I actually have two children, both born on the same day, May 6th. One is from my wife and one is from my second woman. I certainly didn’t plan to have two, but my boys are really beautiful, really special. One was born at 11 a.m. and the other at 8 p.m.” I wondered how he arranged the logistics of that.
His chubby face fell into a reverie as the images of his baby sons appeared in his mind. He didn’t even seem to think it strange at all to admit to his foreign passenger that he has two women, or two babies that may or may not know about their brother.
I had to stock up on food last night since stores and restaurants will be closed until this evening. Early this morning, around 6:30, I saw a couple of cars driving around. That might be early enough to be safe, before the blockaders get out of bed. A little after seven I heard the first firecrackers going off. And now, shortly after 8, I hear only an occasional car going by. I expect it will stay that way until the late afternoon, when people will start to reopen and try to recoup the income they lost during the day. As long as the strikers prevent a full day of normal business operations, they will probably be satisfied. The government estimated that the strike, taking place in six regions across Bolivia today, will prevent the exchange of $20 million.
People seem to accept the limitations on their freedom with surprising passivity. Yesterday, while returning from Samaipata in a taxi, I told the driver I’d read that in a national road blockage, the population only rose up against those blocking the roads in two places. One of them was Samaipata, a small mountain town.
“Yes,” he said. ‘They are afraid to block the roads near Samaipata now. When they do, we all go out, as an entire community – men and women and children, all carrying sticks. And we get rid of them.”
He told me how the church bells are used as a means of announcing community information. “Usually, when they ring, the children rung to the square to find out who has died, or what has happened. But when they ring urgently, as they do when there is a road blockage, the adults gather.”
I’d also read that it wasn’t so easy, that some citizens were severely injured. However, it seemed to have been a good investment for the community. Now, unlike much of the country, they are free from being trapped within their town. But today, even my driver who shuttles passengers between Samaipata and Santa Cruz, will be sitting at home. He hasn’t been able to stop the strikes in the big city.
“Are you ready to go home?” I asked.
“Yes. I work until ten, but I’m tired already.” It was shortly before eight. “The thing is I have a three-month old baby and he doesn’t let me sleep, crying all night.”
I congratulated him.
“I actually have two children, both born on the same day, May 6th. One is from my wife and one is from my second woman. I certainly didn’t plan to have two, but my boys are really beautiful, really special. One was born at 11 a.m. and the other at 8 p.m.” I wondered how he arranged the logistics of that.
His chubby face fell into a reverie as the images of his baby sons appeared in his mind. He didn’t even seem to think it strange at all to admit to his foreign passenger that he has two women, or two babies that may or may not know about their brother.
I had to stock up on food last night since stores and restaurants will be closed until this evening. Early this morning, around 6:30, I saw a couple of cars driving around. That might be early enough to be safe, before the blockaders get out of bed. A little after seven I heard the first firecrackers going off. And now, shortly after 8, I hear only an occasional car going by. I expect it will stay that way until the late afternoon, when people will start to reopen and try to recoup the income they lost during the day. As long as the strikers prevent a full day of normal business operations, they will probably be satisfied. The government estimated that the strike, taking place in six regions across Bolivia today, will prevent the exchange of $20 million.
People seem to accept the limitations on their freedom with surprising passivity. Yesterday, while returning from Samaipata in a taxi, I told the driver I’d read that in a national road blockage, the population only rose up against those blocking the roads in two places. One of them was Samaipata, a small mountain town.
“Yes,” he said. ‘They are afraid to block the roads near Samaipata now. When they do, we all go out, as an entire community – men and women and children, all carrying sticks. And we get rid of them.”
He told me how the church bells are used as a means of announcing community information. “Usually, when they ring, the children rung to the square to find out who has died, or what has happened. But when they ring urgently, as they do when there is a road blockage, the adults gather.”
I’d also read that it wasn’t so easy, that some citizens were severely injured. However, it seemed to have been a good investment for the community. Now, unlike much of the country, they are free from being trapped within their town. But today, even my driver who shuttles passengers between Samaipata and Santa Cruz, will be sitting at home. He hasn’t been able to stop the strikes in the big city.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Sergio's Fifth Birthday Party
Yesterday afternoon, Oscar’s wife Rosario and her two children stopped by my apartment to drop off an invitation to Sergio’s fifth birthday party. The invitation read 4:30 this afternoon.
I arrived at 4:40, thinking I was late. But barely anyone was there. I later found out that other people’s invitations read 3:30. Yet many didn’t show up until five.
Oscar and his family rent an attractive house, surrounded by flowering trees and enclosed with a large black gate. In the back of the house is another building with three separate doors. These seem to be rooms, or apartments, that other families live in.
The theme of the party was cars. I think there was a movie about cars recently, because everything had the same logo – the folded cardboard gift boxes, the sticks put into the gelatin cups and the soda bottles, the Congratulations Sergio poster on the wall and the pull-string bell piñata.
They had a two-man DJ ensemble, who blasted children’s music so loud as to rock the eardrums and make conversing very difficult. Nevertheless, I was able to meet an interesting woman from Cuba and her Bolivian husband. They left Cuba a few years ago due to the worsening economic conditions there. She is an English teacher and has a sister in Miami. But she found it impossible to speak any English when she went to see her sister in Miami. “It’s a purely Spanish city,” she said.
We talked about the importance of the family in Bolivian life and about the way the work culture supports strong families here.
“In the US, the work culture drives families apart,” she said, and I agreed. “It becomes normal for children to leave at 17 or 18 and the parents end up alone, just seeing their children at Christmas or holidays,” she said. “And the majority of them end up in a nursing home. But not here. Here, old people remain a part of their families until the very end.”
I told her how delayed childbearing can make it difficult for some middle-aged people to take care of both children and elderly parents. They told me that here, people have children much earlier, age 21 or 22 on average, but frequently at 15 or 16.
I surprised that the lack of having an abortion option probably played a role.
“Yes,” she said, and her husband nodded. “It’s really a debate here. There are cases of young girls who are violated and are forced to bear the children. There was recently a case of a 12-year-old who was raped. And during all the time they spent going to court, she eventually carried the child to term. They delivered it by C-section, but still. Someone of that age doesn’t have the capacity to be a mother.”
She told me that the numbers of unwanted children are high – that many families continue to have one child after another after another. That children are abandoned, mistreated, and many turn into criminals. She said that birth control is available, but the lack of education and a culture of using it mean it is not very effective.
What I find most troubling is the lack of options for women who are victims of violence. The other day in the newspaper I read an article about some neighbors who found a woman in their neighborhood. She was about 30 years old and seemed to have been drugged and violated. What if she should become pregnant?
As if suffering the violent act wasn’t enough, can any lawmakers or religious leaders with a conscious truly believe she must continue to be reminded of the horror for another nine months, or twenty years?
Back to the birthday party, where the upper-middle-class children in attendance seemed to have been wanted, we were served muffins, donuts and sodas as we tried to shout to each other over the music. The adults sat in a semi-circle around the patio, while the children sat in the center on small red, blue and yellow chairs. The boys sat separately from the girls.
When the festivities began, the DJ led the children in games – a dance contest, hot balloon, musical chairs. One girl, when she was eliminated in hot balloon (the equivalent of hot potato) ran to her mother crying. Sergio blew out the candle on his cake, then everyone was served a slice of cake with an empanada and another soda.
Finally, the piñata was brought out. Unlike Nicaragua, where they still have artistically made paper-mache piñatas, broken with a bat and blindfold variety (which I prefer), here the piñata was a commercialized paper bell with a bunch of strings. The children gathered under the bell. Rather than take turns at pulling the strings, the birthday boy was able to yank them all at once, guaranteeing that the piñata burst apart on the first try.
“Don’t look up at the piñata!” the DJ told the kids. “Look down!” As though children could look away from candy.
The bell burst and toys and sweets rained down in a cloud of dust and confetti. After the children gathered their treasures, they then swept the dust and confetti into piles with their hands and threw it in each other’s faces.
Each child was given a gift box. I wondered whether that was an American import. And while Sergio received gifts from everyone who came, he didn’t open any of them during the party.
It was a nice way to spend an afternoon and a rewarding little peak into local life.
I arrived at 4:40, thinking I was late. But barely anyone was there. I later found out that other people’s invitations read 3:30. Yet many didn’t show up until five.
Oscar and his family rent an attractive house, surrounded by flowering trees and enclosed with a large black gate. In the back of the house is another building with three separate doors. These seem to be rooms, or apartments, that other families live in.
The theme of the party was cars. I think there was a movie about cars recently, because everything had the same logo – the folded cardboard gift boxes, the sticks put into the gelatin cups and the soda bottles, the Congratulations Sergio poster on the wall and the pull-string bell piñata.
They had a two-man DJ ensemble, who blasted children’s music so loud as to rock the eardrums and make conversing very difficult. Nevertheless, I was able to meet an interesting woman from Cuba and her Bolivian husband. They left Cuba a few years ago due to the worsening economic conditions there. She is an English teacher and has a sister in Miami. But she found it impossible to speak any English when she went to see her sister in Miami. “It’s a purely Spanish city,” she said.
We talked about the importance of the family in Bolivian life and about the way the work culture supports strong families here.
“In the US, the work culture drives families apart,” she said, and I agreed. “It becomes normal for children to leave at 17 or 18 and the parents end up alone, just seeing their children at Christmas or holidays,” she said. “And the majority of them end up in a nursing home. But not here. Here, old people remain a part of their families until the very end.”
I told her how delayed childbearing can make it difficult for some middle-aged people to take care of both children and elderly parents. They told me that here, people have children much earlier, age 21 or 22 on average, but frequently at 15 or 16.
I surprised that the lack of having an abortion option probably played a role.
“Yes,” she said, and her husband nodded. “It’s really a debate here. There are cases of young girls who are violated and are forced to bear the children. There was recently a case of a 12-year-old who was raped. And during all the time they spent going to court, she eventually carried the child to term. They delivered it by C-section, but still. Someone of that age doesn’t have the capacity to be a mother.”
She told me that the numbers of unwanted children are high – that many families continue to have one child after another after another. That children are abandoned, mistreated, and many turn into criminals. She said that birth control is available, but the lack of education and a culture of using it mean it is not very effective.
What I find most troubling is the lack of options for women who are victims of violence. The other day in the newspaper I read an article about some neighbors who found a woman in their neighborhood. She was about 30 years old and seemed to have been drugged and violated. What if she should become pregnant?
As if suffering the violent act wasn’t enough, can any lawmakers or religious leaders with a conscious truly believe she must continue to be reminded of the horror for another nine months, or twenty years?
Back to the birthday party, where the upper-middle-class children in attendance seemed to have been wanted, we were served muffins, donuts and sodas as we tried to shout to each other over the music. The adults sat in a semi-circle around the patio, while the children sat in the center on small red, blue and yellow chairs. The boys sat separately from the girls.
When the festivities began, the DJ led the children in games – a dance contest, hot balloon, musical chairs. One girl, when she was eliminated in hot balloon (the equivalent of hot potato) ran to her mother crying. Sergio blew out the candle on his cake, then everyone was served a slice of cake with an empanada and another soda.
Finally, the piñata was brought out. Unlike Nicaragua, where they still have artistically made paper-mache piñatas, broken with a bat and blindfold variety (which I prefer), here the piñata was a commercialized paper bell with a bunch of strings. The children gathered under the bell. Rather than take turns at pulling the strings, the birthday boy was able to yank them all at once, guaranteeing that the piñata burst apart on the first try.
“Don’t look up at the piñata!” the DJ told the kids. “Look down!” As though children could look away from candy.
The bell burst and toys and sweets rained down in a cloud of dust and confetti. After the children gathered their treasures, they then swept the dust and confetti into piles with their hands and threw it in each other’s faces.
Each child was given a gift box. I wondered whether that was an American import. And while Sergio received gifts from everyone who came, he didn’t open any of them during the party.
It was a nice way to spend an afternoon and a rewarding little peak into local life.
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