Tiwanaku: My 12 hours as a Bolivian

The Aymara new year is celebrated on the winter solstice every year in Bolivia. Indigenous and tourists alike travel to a number of popular destinations to celebrate the festival, two of the most popular being Salar de Uyuni and Tiwanaku. Indigenous Aymara President Evo Morales has declared the Aymara New Year a national holiday, a subject of debate yet a popular festival among Aymara native and non-natives alike. During the ritual, the people worship Pachamama (mother earth of the andes) and Inti (the father of the sun).

I was originally going to go to Salar de Uyuni on a bus for press with my friend Alexandra, as visiting the vast salt lakes would be the prime way to experience the Bolivian tradition. However, Tiwanaku was much closer, slightly less glacial, and my Spanish professor was going. She said that there would be plenty of dancing to distract from the cold, and live bands. This was about to be awesome. So we stacked on layers until we were nearly immobile and packed blankets and sleeping bags. With huge bodies and huge packs, we trudged up the street with limited peripheral vision and  hailed the cab that we would be sitting in for the next hour.

From right to left, Maricielo, Catey and I.

We took the cab to the most dangerous part of La Paz, El Alto to meet with people that seemingly existed. El Alto is what a few of the girls called “real Bolivia,” which I prefer not to believe, as it is much more impoverished than many other parts. Tents fashioned from wood and tarp lined the road, and as the wind blew the makeshift doors open, we realized that these were homes, lit by a single lightbulb. Since I have complained much less about the draft in our Sopocachi house.

Our housekeeper, Virgenia, has a sister named Fabiola that was going with friends that owned their own minibus. This was more fortunate that we thought, because as three American girls in a non-tourist environment, we would have been hopeless.

It took ages to navigate to where we would meet Fabiola, as El Alto is an everlasting swap meet.  [photo] We sat in the taxi watching bundled Cholitas with babies bouncing in the sacks on their backs, bartering and fingering goods from shoes to Cholita skirts.

A cholita carries a baby on her back while sifting through goods at night in El Alto.

We stopped at the corner where we were to meet her, and the street was swarming with locals. Bundled up and barely mobile, we kept our backs to the wall of a building to avoid being robbed in what is known as pick-pocket central. We barely remembered what she looked like, so we were shouting her name at random people who must have been wondering what we were doing there.

She finally found us, immediately telling us to watch our backs as we weaved through the masses of late-night consumers. We finally came upon a privately owned mini bus parked on a dark street.

We sat in the back of the bus and waited to begin the journey, still excited but slightly irked. While we were parked, multiple people poked their heads in, asking if we wanted to buy coffee. Cholitas clawed at the sides of the bus, trying to get home, not knowing that we were heading towards the middle of nowhere, far from their homes. The boys began filling the bus with strangers, not quite as bundled as us, whom Maricielo, who speaks fluent spanish, later told us that they were poking fun at us.

The traffic was horrendous, but we finally got moving. The farther out of the city we traveled, the deeper into the darkness we plunged, and the more unsure we became. We came upon bumpy road, rumbling on rocks and dirt. We all had to use the restroom, which to privileged tourists is like a death sentence, because no matter where we passed during the journey, it was either desert or holes in the ground.

We finally arrived in the dimly lit town of Tiwanaku, the van spreading the people like a red sea, causing them to peer into our windows, their breath visible.

Tiwanaku, like many areas of La Paz, looked like a night market more than anything. Women selling clothing, food and alcohol stood in front of the graffiti-covered walls and next to piles of rubble. Lovely restaurants and hostels drew a sharp contrast with dilapidated buildings and makeshift signs. We laughed uncomfortably as we saw the sign for the bathroom we would be using, propped in a dark alley, and stopped laughing completely when we entered.

We needed to sit somewhere warm, and we were hungry, so we slowly made our way through the thick towards one of the many “cafes.” This one was run by two Cholitas who made sandwiches out of bologna and hamburger buns, coffee and tea, backed by shelves full of coca cola. I discovered here that the Cholitas are much more approachable and conversational that they appear. One was telling me about the “jovenes borrachos (drunk kids)” who passed out in front of her cafe the previous year. Conversations like these are what drives me to learn to speak spanish fluently, as well as gain some ground on local dialects and slang. These women are quite charming.

It was freezing, and although windless, the temperature bit at us through our thin gloves, weaseled it’s way through our many layers. “Abrigado” and “prendas” were words I heard often through the bitter night, meaning “bundled up” and “layers”.

Turned out that there were no bands, no dancing, just a bunch of people using their vodka blankets to stay warm. Apparently some borrachos from the past year caught a tree on fire and caused damage while raging to a live band, and for this reason the fun had been revoked. But the people had other means of having fun. We walked through an alleyway where women made hot alcoholic drinks and people sat in the many tents laughing and drinking.

We came upon an open area with some dry brush, and the guys decided to start a fire for warmth. What would be highly illegal in the United States apparently is no matter for concern in this ancient town in Bolivia, and although police were crouching at every corner, they had other concerns (about what, it beats me). The fire was more smoke than anything, tainting our clothing and convincing us that it was time to attempt to sleep.

Once again I would like to express gratitude towards Fabiola and her friends, as we would have had to sleep outside-or not at all- if we didn’t tag along with them.

Nevertheless, we couldn’t sleep; still wearing all of our layers and wrapped forebodingly in blankets and sleeping bags. People were shouting outside, and when I heard drums around 3:30 am, I knew we needed to make the most out of this situation that we had unknowingly plunged ourselves into.

I woke up Catey, who said her leg was basically frozen, and we left the bus to keep our legs busy. Thank goodness we did, because the next couple hours were the snippets of experiences that made Tiwanaku worthwhile- or at least memorable.

We sat in a “cafe” and asked for tea; the woman promptly sat us down and proceeded to ladle a hot amber liquid into a reused alcohol bottle, handing it to me with plastic cups. It smelled of rum. In my terrible spanish I told her that “No quiero alcohol, solamente te..” to which she replied that it wasn’t alcoholic, but rather good for the cold. Potata-Potato, right?

We drank a few cups and left, for the first time not wanting to turn this experience into more of a party. We went to the neighboring cafe and asked a couple locals if we could share a table with them, beginning a great conversation, despite the slight language barrier. We ordered coffees and egg sandwiches which, at the moment, were the best thing we had ever eaten. The men, drunk, were great fun to talk to and very tolerant of our spanish. They told us about the tradition of tribute to Pachamama, through which the Aymara people will always pour a bit of their food or drink onto the earth before enjoying it themselves. He said that even the poorest people will do so, more so than the wealthy with their pricey libations.

We parted ways and were drawn to a fire like mosquitos, where a group of borrachos fell in love with us immediately. Whilst a swaying Bolivian was whispering sweet nothings into Catey’s ear, I spoke with a guy with a braid, his left cheek bulging with chewed coca leaves. He asked questions about traditions like these in the United States. After telling him that we’re journalists with the Bolivian express, he begged me to show the beauty of the tradition, not the borrachera. I assured him that we were simply there to learn about the tradition, and we’rent reporting on it, because in reality, the traditional culture was not as apparent this year.

At this point, light was beginning to appear along the horizon so we returned to the minibus to retrieve the others, who of course had been worried about us. We grabbed our cameras and followed the masses in their pilgrimage towards the Ritual of receiving the sun. The light revealed people laughing and stumbling, seated confusedly against walls. People were passed out in distant fields, and some were stumbling towards the sun, yet not getting anywhere. The colors of traditional dress were brightened by the lightened sky and Cholita women were still murmuring their sales pitches to passersby.

A makeshift nightclub housed in a roofless building was bumping with the beats of a DJ and drunk people rambled on stage, dancing to the tunes. The people that still had their wits danced an indigenous dance around broken bottles and the remnants of fires. It is now one of my objectives to learn this dance.

When we reached the gate through which people passed to attend the ritual, we were informed that locals costed 10 Bolivianos to enter, while tourists costed 80B. We turned around and walked as close to the fence as possible, which sufficed perfectly. Locals stood with their hands to the sun as it rose over the curve of the earthen plains. This was the beginning of the new year, and the Aymara people welcomed it by grasping at the sun that dawned upon the year of 2013.

At the same time, I realized why the people stay all night to await the fleeting moments of sunrise. By enduring the freezing nights, the people were able to truly appreciate the redeeming warmth of the sun as it blanketed their stiff, open hands.

The Aymara flag (or the flag of the plurinational state of Bolivia) was raised beyond the chainlink fence where the ritual occurred, and the Aymara and Spanish-spoken ritual echoed over the field.

We walked and relished the warmth of the sun after leaving the ritual. We sat in the van, and although delayed with a dead battery, we were just happy to be warm.

A parade passes through Tiwanaku after the ritual of receiving the sun.

Coming soon: Hats that read “I froze my ass of and survived the Aymara New Year 2013, Tiwanaku”

A week down, this is what I’ve learned so far.

Graffiti is legal. As long as it’s not hateful or negative propaganda. I see tons of inked scrawling that reads: “Te Quiero mi amor” o “bonita.”

No seatbelts- but don’t worry mama, I walk more places than anything.

On the faucets, “C” means ‘calor’, not cold.

Bolivians are understanding of Gringa English, and thank goodness they speak slowly.

La Paz is actually the safest city in South America.

I can live on about 650B a week, which is less than 100 dollars. This is with going out to bars, restaurants, using public transportation daily, buying groceries, and buying an irresistible pair of custom shorts.

Police come in many different uniforms and styles, but I haven’t yet seen any in action. They often have shotguns or batons swung over their shoulders or clipped in their belts. They usually stand outside of banks, on street corners, or ride around on motorbikes. Last night, a whole gang of motorbike military police used their CUSTOM HORN to whistle at us. I’ve also been told that running in with the police isn’t the end of the world; you could just throw some bolivianos their way and they’ll let you off the hook.

There are multiple forms of public transportation, that compose more of the traffic than anything else. These are buses, minibuses-which are a total pain to ride, as you have to get up to let someone out every stop- and taxis.Traffic will not stop for you, unless you’re hailing it. You can hail a bus, taxi or minibus anywhere; bus stops don’t exist here.

Otherwise, They will honk to tell you that you are in their way, but they will rarely stop for pedestrians. There are few crosswalks and street lights, and unlike in America, cars honk when they pass you, not to cat-call, but to warn you that they’re coming through.

Much more simple than the united states: simply Make sure you take the bus in the right direction. Maricielo and I were told to get on the “M” bus to go to spanish class, but it turns out that it was going in the opposite direction, chugging up hills towards buenos aires street. Yep, no tourists there. We had to walk fast and puff out our chests, and thank goodness it wasn’t at night.

Minibuses are interesting. with three rows that fit three people each plus the front seats, these are slightly more expensive than buses because they travel faster, but sometimes can be a pain because you must get out every time someone behind you needs to get out.

Cholitas think you’re stealing your soul when you take photos of them.

Una Cholita en Zona Sur. These women are BEASTS.

Elderly locals can trek uphill on the cobblestone streets more efficiently than my so-called youthful self. I need to take breaks at the top.

Ordering coffee is a pain in the ass. I could just be missing the enormous coffees in the States, but my coffee experience has been disappointing.Maybe it’s the language barrier, but I was given one of these last night, something that I vowed to never be seen drinking.

Argentinian Hippies perform at intersections and make money off of stopped traffic. Although I think they’re awesome, both Bolivians and the English people I’m living with think they’re trash.

Stray dogs are everywhere, and they have tons of personality. they often travel in groups, eating garbage that is very rarely found on the side of the road, less often than in Los Angeles! This one stopped and posed when I brandished my camera.

DO NOT throw toilet paper in the toilet (??). The plumbing can’t handle it, and everything goes into rivers like these.

It’s freezing. The sun is the only salvation, and it doesn’t enter our house, so the house is constantly at a nice 40 degrees F.

That’s all that comes to mind at the moment, thanks for reading! xo

Resaca.

It means hungover.

But I honestly wasn’t, I was just really, really tired.

The previous night was fantastic. Well, yesterday in general was great, and last night was the cherry on top.

Bear with me, the interesting part is coming up after this ramble.

Woke up, worked on research for my article. Deadlines are coming up, and the collaboration for this magazine is fantastic. We’ve had two meetings this week so far, during which we sat around the coffee table and discussed culture, politics, and people. We decided upon “Roots” as the next theme for our magazine, a theme that I came up with (woo!), as we’ll all be focusing on the beauty of origination in Bolivia, mine being the farming and organic movement, which I should be researching right now.

Ryle’s writing about Pachamama (the doctrine of mother earth in the andes, enacted by Indigenous president Evo Morales). She’ll be speaking with local anthropologists and said that I can come along for the interview. I’m going to try to go with others for their interviews so that I can glean as much as possible from this Bolivian experience.

Alexandra is covering the winter solstice, which I’ll be attending in Tiahuanaku as I freeze my ass off for good measure, and Catey will be doing a coming of age story, in which she travels to Oruro, her city of birth, to unearth her ‘roots.’ Finally, Maricielo (who is obsessed with asian culture) will be investigating the Asian communities in Bolivia.

We have an incredible housekeeper, Virgenia, who cleans up after us (we five girls and frequent guests are apparently horribly messy) and makes us INCREDIBLE authentic Bolivian food on the weekdays. Probably the best home cooked food I’ve ever eaten (sorry ma). She makes extremely flavorful soup with tons of grains and vegetables for the first course, as lunch is a huge, multi-course meal here, then some sort of rice, usually potato (a staple food here), often vegetables in the form of a salad or other emulsion, and  meat. The other day she made some random salad with peanut sauce stuff on it, so bomb. She even acknowledges my vegetarianism and makes alternatives for me rather than simply omitting the meat. I’m being pampered over here.

I set up my Spanish classes on Monday and started yesterday. The institute is fantastic, offering not only Spanish but also Quechua, Aymara (Indigenous languages), French, Dutch, and others. The two-hour sessions are extremely productive yet somewhat awkward; my instructor seems to think I’m a heavily partying Gringa because she asks me to describe evenings out, which I do, in nearly perfect spanish, but also in great detail.

I’ve learned a great amount from our sessions, which are mostly two-hour chats about everything from religion to coffee in our respective countries. I can imagine that I will be much closer to fluent, if not fluent, by the time I leave on August 14th.

Now here’s the fun part, thanks for hanging in there.

I’ve found a latin lover. Damnit, I didn’t want this to happen, but it did.

I’m not going to describe him in too much detail, because that would violate confidentiality.

But I will say that he has charmed me completely, with his sultry latino eyes and penetrating stare.

He told me that he couldn’t go out, but he surprised me and pulled me on the dance floor at Mangos, where we salsa danced for free.

The other men there were surprised at my level of dance, which in the United States is quite mediocre and under development . They said that I could move very well for being from The United States. Their styles were different, a regional difference that one could not find in the U.S, and they were all very skilled.

He didn’t whip me around or spin me or dip me, but he whispered the lyrics to the songs that the live band played in my ear, our cheeks pressed together, hands roaming from shoulders to arms to backs. Maybe it was the Pacena Cerveza that made me brave, but our eyes were always locked when our cheeks separated.

A random bar-goer that neither of us knew approached him and said that we looked good together.

We caught a cab to the next club, Tteko’s, officially my favorite place. Unlike the majority of the bars and clubs in the United states, this one had a personality of it’s own; and most of the British say that it’s full of “dirty hippies.” In my words, I’d say it’s full of beautiful people.

The music was playing quiet enough so that we could converse with each other but just loud enough so that we would consistently be swaying to the Reggaeton beats. Matamba, one of the most famous reggae musicians in Bolivia performed, and his music was absolutely wonderful. My latin lover showed me this song the day previous, and to my complete surprise, Matamba was the performing artist.

There was lots of hugging, beer and happiness. Although not authentically Bolivian and full of more English speakers than anything, last night I experienced an aspect of travel-encountering people from all corners of the room and all passions in one room. I met a person in my neighboring city, and I met men from Brazil and Israel. I held hands with a Bolivian girl while we danced in the bathroom. I group-hugged with travelers of all walks of life.

We followed a couple of our new friends to a place called Route 36, an actual cocaine-bar. What a trip. Like I said, there are no rules in Bolivia. I definitely didn’t enjoy the atmosphere of this place on the third floor of what looked from the outside like an abandoned building, but it was a new experience nonetheless. Nervous-looking waiters served nervous-looking people plates of lines of cocaine. The menu, interestingly enough, didn’t actually have the cocaine listed, so I was curious as to how the bar-goers ordered. We left pretty quickly after that.

We had no more Bolivianos for the taxi driver (I spent 60 Bolivianos on 4 beers, the equivalent to about 10 dollars, but it does add up) so I threw him a five dollar bill bonus (which equated to 10B more than the 25B fare) and we went home.

I already feel at home.

I arrived at 2 am.

The cold was dry, caressing my arms through the patchwork gaps in my giant sweater.

Amaru, the Editor of the Bolivian Express Magazine, pulled up in a cab with a couple of his friends. They had just been out at a club, the thing to do on weekend nights in Bolivia. These excursions usually begin around midnight and sometimes end as the sun rises over the snow-capped cordilleras to the East.

 

He let us into the house, surrounded by gates with a huge padlock. The house is beautiful and old fashioned, three bedrooms with two bunk beds in each.

We were immediately greeted with hugs and cheek-kisses, an aspect of Bolivian (all latin american) culture that i absolutely adore. We drank many cups of coca tea, a Bolivian beverage made of the coca leaf, illegal to bring into the United States. According to my new friend Catey, it’s the solution to everything.

It’s funny that the United States is so restrictive on natural remedies such as the coca leaf, but allows millions of people to put chemicals in their bodies daily in the form of pills. I’m looking forward to researching this much more while I’m here, as I’ve always been fascinated in botany and medicine.

Flashforward: we traveled to El Prado, near the city centre, where a mini-ferria was going on. A group of women had set up an informational booth with samples of natural plants and coca tea, accompanied by specifications as to which ailments these herbs cure.

From what I understood of her Spanish, one of the women was telling us that many people in Bolivia cannot afford health care and for this reason herbs and plants are much more widely used. They are crushed and mixed with oil, and rubbed on the affected area (i.e., the lower back for kidney ailments). Although the Bolivian Express has already covered alternative medicine, I will be researching the pharmaceutical industry here and investigating how far reach these herbs have in medicinal practice.

Flashing back to the first night: We stayed awake until four thirty, causing us to sleep in until noon. But we enjoyed our first day nevertheless, with Mediterranean food- there is more foreign food here than Bolivian-and enjoying the sun in La Plaza Alvaroa.

The sunshine here is even more enjoyable than sunny california, because once it sets behind the buildings, then the mountaintops, it becomes absolutely freezing.

We sat in La Plaza Alvaroa and people watched. No matter where we travel in Bolivia, the scenery is colorful. Cholitas (who deserve a post of their own) dressed in brightly colored skirts and shawls sell fruit of every color of the rainbow. Children ran and chased pigeons, dogs and each other. No matter what time of day (as long as the sun is out) a wide array of people will be lounging in one of the many plazas.

A Cholita sitting in La Plaza Alvaroa.

A makeshift carousel.

 

 

 

We headed to a small music festival, where we drank lager and listened to a wide variety of music, from the lovely acoustic stylings of Veronica, Amaru’s best friend, to a band that very closely resembled System of a Down with their spanglish-accents. We met friends of friends, and they became our friends.

Our table was a mix of spanish and english, laughs and marvels. That night we went clubbing, after an affordable pregame and cheap taxi ride, we paid a 20 B (about 3 dollar) cover charge, not to shabby! However, I can see how expenses can add up with this mentality.

Of course the music was american, but it was a really good selection. We bought cheap drinks and danced on stage. This is an example of being able to do pretty much whatever you want here in Bolivia. Cows can, too.

Journey to La Paz

My whole family woke around 2 am to leave for LAX by 3. They’re wonderful.

It’s sad that the best bonding happens hours before a punctuated moment, such as a departure. We laughed and got along perfectly as my dad drove the dark mountain roads. My dad laid on the horn as we drove through a tunnel near LAX to declare our presence in the big city, the whole car laughing wildly. My dad’s nipple was revealed through the opening of his lopsided shirt. My brothers chased each other next to baggage check, and my mom worried the skin off her hands. But I wasn’t bothered by the quirkiness of my family. I wanted to savor this bittersweet moment.

I had a lot of trouble holding back the tears as we group hugged by customs, but I did it. I didn’t say as much as I should. But I couldn’t, because tears would have taken the place of words. I should have walked backwards and watched them until I could see them no more, but I would have tripped or ran into someone. (Yes, that was a joke to lighten the mood).

Everywhere we go, I feel we make a statement, my family of six from the bubble of Big Bear Lake. My dad’s blue eyes are always brightened by all that he learns as he gains new experiences; it is from him that I inherit my lust for life and knowledge. My parents always tell me that they live vicariously through me and my travels, as I do things that they will never be able to experience. I would be nearly helpless without their support.

My travel buddy at my terminal at LAX.

The plane broke through the clouds that formed a landscape of their own. []I love clouds. I really do. Thank goodness I had a window seat, because the views were like a tour of Central and South America. I recognized the stretch of desert, it’s rocky hills and menacing contour, as the “Devil’s Highway” that many an immigrant have crossed from Mexico to America. [Great book, check it out]. We flew along the Western coast of Guatemala and San Salvador before landing, for once the ocean was not bordered by tall buildings and roads but rather green countryside and rolling hills. El Salvador was absolutely beautiful, 90 percent green and spotted by tin roofed houses, dirt roads, muddy ponds and streams snake through the countryside.

 

Clouds over barren Mexican territory.

How often do you see the way clouds cast shadows?

Mountains to the east, ocean to the west.

The airport in San Salvador was an experience. Birds sat on planes’ wings and cows grazed nearby. It was small and navegable (thank goodness) and smelled slightly moldy, which I attribute to the extremely tropical climate. The security was extensive, and a guard walked a german shepherd through the crowds sniffing them and their luggage.

I needed coffee. I had only gotten an hour of sleep the night before, and I had a long journey ahead of me. I spotted a cafe, and upon trying to reach it, I was stopped by a security guard. “Quiero comprar un cafecito?” A well-planned request.

He replied in Spanish too fast for me to understand, gesturing away from the cafe. “Oh, gracias.” Abort mission.

In a way, this is what a culture shock feels like. It’s refreshing (I’ll be using this word a lot) to be in a place that for once, doesn’t cater to me as an American girl. There are not always english translations on signs or following the hurried spanish announcements over the intercom. I was almost invisible, except for my oversized backpack that was hardly carry on size and giant yellow sweater. It’s refreshing to be invisible.

The journey was almost over. I was nearly delusional. I sat in the terminal waiting for the plane to La Paz to board. Having multiple layovers before arriving at your destination is interesting, as you see the travelers become less diverse as you get closer to the final destination. At the terminal in Peru, I saw a group of Cholitas with their brimmed hats, bundled up for La Paz’s arid cold.

I met a boy from Venezuela who was heading to La Paz as well. He makes films for Red Bull, and was flying first class to film a professional motorcyclist in one of the nine districts. He invited me to the event, which I wish I had gone to if it weren’t for my much needed sleeping in the next day. He told me he was planning a sort of “Diarios de Motocicleta” film with the motorcyclist, and would be filming his travels across Bolivia as a novel remake of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid. Marcos. Very cool guy.

After three different airports and three different flights on three different planes, we began our descent into La Paz.

I felt a funny sensation in my head as I struggled to stay awake, and I knew I was the highest in altitude I have ever been.

I responded to the high elevation better than I expected, however, and even now, I don’t feel any epoxia symptoms.

Maricielo, who had also been picked up at the airport with myself, is still sniffling and miserable due to the elevation.

The driver was extremely friendly, but only spoke spanish so I was forced to continue trying to communicate in my delusional  state. I was semi-successful, and as my first impression of Bolivians, the driver was understanding of my being a Gringa.

We drove through El Alto, the city that hangs over the edge of the La Paz Basin, in many places reduced to rubble and decorated by political graffiti.Stray dogs ran the streets at this hour, running dangerously close to taxis that drove all over the road until we turned the corner.

View from El Alto.

This is a city in which you can see the stars, and living near the city centre and it’s traffic does not keep you up all night. Despite some of its run down aspects, it’s incredibly beautiful. So simple, refreshing. As I’ll soon realize, much about this different environment is refreshing, so much so that I fell in love with South America immediately.

Keep reading, I’ll get into the interesting stuff pretty soon!

Ciao for now. xx

2 a.m. view from my street, Prolongacion Armaza in Sopocachi, La Paz.

Best Coast at Fingerprints record store

To read the full story about national Record Store Day, visit the Daily 49er website here.

Family Portraits

Standing at Laguna Beach, this photo really captures my parents at their best.

A leisurely morning shared in the Carson home.

My brothers are always reluctant to have photos taken of them, but I snagged this one before they had a chance to run away.

June Gloom

Everything looks better in black and white.

The not-so gentle green giant.

“Big agriculture” is what they call it these days, because after all, bigger is better in America.

The FDA and the White House are in cahoots with Monsanto, a multinational agricultural corporation that controls nearly 90 percent of all genetically engineered seeds, from which nearly 90 percent of all corn, soybeans and cotton are grown. Genetic engineering of food represents one of the most rapid adoptions of agricultural technology in history.

Look at the ingredients on whatever you eat next. Chance is, it contains soybean oil, high fructose corn syrup, or any of a plethora of soybean or corn products.

Europe is over it, however. Monsanto, the most powerful pusher of GMOs on the planet, is heavily opposed in the EU, mainly in France and Germany. The protests are not as much about how genetically modified foods affect health-which is still debatable- but rather how mass production exhausts the environment.

The EU, which takes the process rather than product-oriented perspective on GM, has been labeling food containing food containing as little as 1 percent GMO for over a decade.

Just over a week ago, over two million people in 52 countries marched the streets in protest of Monsanto, which is working just as hard to quell controversy.

Monsanto has had a history of marketing harmful products, and there’s cause for concern when the soybean engineer is also a leading producer of herbicide and former manufacturer of DDT, PCBs and Agent Orange.

The government has always been a driving force behind big agriculture, seeking to promote the economic potential of GMO rather than focusing on environmental impact. In 1984, the White House granted the Cabinet Council on Economic Affairs, rather than the EPA, responsibility for regulating biotechnology. As a result, the EPA was only in charge of regulating agricultural pesticides, while the environment should be protected from much more.

Finally, in March, Congress passed the “Monsanto protection act”, which took regulatory power out of lawmaker’s hands, turning Monsanto into a lawmaker itself. Europe saw this as a red flag.

Farmers are looking less at their almanacs and more to banks and technology firms with which they are contracted; no longer are farmers independent to produce what the land and climate allows.

Restrictions result in decreased biodiversity, so the supply of unmodified organic goods is so low in comparison to GMOs that prices remain high, diverting consumers from buying organic.

While GM crops over accommodate the ever-growing population and our iconic American appetites, mass production and consumption overwhelms the ecosystem. Like the garbage landfill we fill daily, GM crops harm the land and facilitate conglomerate success.

For example, specific regions and seasons naturally yield different kinds of crops. When the land is drugged and contaminated with additive-filled plants to mass-produce mostly corn and soybeans year round, the biodiversity of the land is compromised.

Compared to the EU, our heavily conglomerated food industry is flawed. Contracted farmers buy genetically modified products that are enhanced to resist pests, yield more successfully and bring in more revenue.

It is under corporate control that small farmers that don’t comply with monopolies such as Monsanto are shut down.

It is for this mass production that cattle are injected with growth hormone, drowned in antibiotics, and crammed into despicable conditions that, if experienced first-hand, could convert half the nation to vegan.

The sad part is there’s no escaping it. One can choose tofu over a steak, but the tofu is made with soybeans that are overtaking the land that was once biologically diverse.

Stop feeding the corporate giant, he’s destroying our environment.