CSULB’s PAC modern takes hip hop seriously

Listen here: https://archive.org/embed/jj2008-06-14.mk4/jj2008-06-14d2t04.flac

By the base of the Cal State Long Beach’s Walter Pyramid, a group of well-conditioned dancers kneel, cross their arms and link fingers before beginning a ground-shaking call-and-response prayer that the PAC Modern dance team has carried with them for 19 years.

PAC Modern began in 1995 as a branch of the Philipino American Coalition on campus, according to Gino Claudio, a senior kinesiology major and PAC Modern team coordinator.

Through a Philipino Cultural Night event, a few hip-hop loving members seized the opportunity to begin a performance-based, competitive dance team. Since its beginnings, PAC Modern has been competing throughout Southern California, and the team is going as strong as ever.

“We’re not only a competitive team, but we really like wowing the audience, giving them something to take from it and [inspiring] the rest of the dance community to start a trend,” said Skye Victoriano, artistic coordinator of PAC Modern. All of the 40 current members consider themselves family, and alumni are always welcomed back.

“We’re more than just teammates, we really act as a family, and [PAC Modern are some of the] closest friends I’ve ever had, for sure,” said Lauren Belyea, a senior animation major and executive coordinator of the dance team.

The team practices daily, sometimes for 12 hours straight during competition season.

“We’ve definitely seen the sunrise a couple times this year … sunrise meaning, 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. in the morning,” Victoriano said. “That’s what it takes to be a dancer, you need to push your body and yourself.”

Needless to say, PAC Modern is extremely selective. Of the 100-200 people who audition every year, Victoriano said only around 10 percent make it.

“If only 20 people completely killed it, then we would have a 20 person team,” Belyea said.

Dylan Tarrant, a senior dance science major, said that PAC Modern was the springboard into the wider world of dance. After Tarrant had the opportunity to work on choreography with a senior member, dubbed “Oldie” in PAC Modern jargon, Tarrant discovered his love for choreography that currently has him teaching dance classes to all age groups, multiple times a week.

“PAC Modern stays true to the roots of how hip-hop truly came about,” Tarrant said, referencing an emphasis the team places on starting from basic elements such as breaking, locking, “wacking” and house.

In fact, while teaching one of his own choreographies at a dance studio in Walnut, he was surprised with an invitation to audition for GRV, a professional competitive dance team that has seen members dance on America’s Best Dance Crew.

Not only do experienced dancers benefit from PAC Modern, but the club also reaches out to future dancers.   For the 7th summer, PAC Modern will be hosting their summer PAC Camp for kids in the surrounding Los Angeles area. The camp is designed to keep kids out of trouble while teaching them the fundamentals of hip-hop dance. Victoriano, Claudio and Belyea all started in PAC camp, and now hold coordinator positions for the club.

After roughly two decades of dancing late into the sunrise, the team’s hard work has paid off as PAC Modern was selected as one of the teams representing the United States at Hip Hop International, a world-renowned dance competition with teams from nearly every country. Victoriano said that they’re not taking this one lightly, and preparation will be fierce.

“We’re still making schedules for this and we’re really going to go above and beyond for this one,” Victoriano said. “I can’t even imagine what the rehearsals are going to be like.”

– See more at: http://www.daily49er.com/diversions/2014/05/22/pac-modern-packs-a-punch/#sthash.qe8Hh2fz.dpuf

All or nothing: California needs to take a solid stance on marijuana

It’s like beating a dead horse. Of course, a Californian college student is gung-ho for the complete legalization of marijuana. But now, it’s a matter or life and death.

Well, sort of. An article in the Los Angeles Times Thursday revealed a sad truth about the unregulated marijuana industry: Butane hash oil chefs are burning in lab explosions, almost as much as buyers burn their product. In a little over a year, 17 chefs and bystanders have landed in burn centers after these cooking accidents, a toll far worse than meth lab explosions, according to the article.

I’ve witnessed the hash making process before, and it’s obviously not the smartest process to undergo in one’s own home. A tray full of crystallizing butane and resin—known as butane honey oil— sat on my friend’s table, stinking up the room with the faintly pungent gas as it evaporated, making an amber goop of nearly 70% THC content, compared with 20% of most marijuana.

Dabs have gotten popular more recently because stoners are no longer happy with getting high from the natural herb. Frequent smokers will do dabs because the high blasts any developed tolerance out of the water, bringing on an eventual blissful brain death.

The ingredients — simply butane, shake and water— as well as the product itself are as legal as the buds, but “blasting” in one’s own home is illegal under current law. However, the patchy regulation has black market chefs suffering while the demand for underground oils is still burning. According to Section 11358, “Every person who plants, cultivates, harvests, dries, or processes any marijuana or any part thereof, except as otherwise provided by law, shall be punished by imprisonment pursuant to subdivision (h) of Section 1170 of the Penal Code.”

While patients with medical cards are exempt from this, butane production still falls under a different subsection: The use of Butane as a processing solvent has been illegal since the Bergen decision in 2008.

Under Colorado state law, there are safer ways to make the hash oil in the same way that plant extract oils are made, in a properly ventilated room and in compliance with health and safety codes. This safer system doesn’t exist in unregulated California, where friends of Mary Jane worry that black market wax is tested only by the dabbers and blasters themselves, and may contain impurities due to being improperly evaporated.

So where are California dispensaries getting the hash oil? Best guess is, not legally. Nor from Colorado, because marijuana is still illegal under federal law, and transporting it across state borders is therefore a federal offense.

There are ways to get around it. In other states like Washington, dispensaries get around manufacturing hash oil by adding just a drop of something else such as olive oil or glycerin, turning it into a “marijuana-infused product” such as weed lollipops or space brownies.

Our system simply doesn’t make sense. If marijuana is still lingering in the twilight zone between legal and illegal, the production will remain underground while non card-holders will feed the demand for the often dangerous production. The Californian black market therefore pulls the profit from the state and goes instead to the big dogs of blasting.

While there are no clear answers to who really produces the hash oil sold in dispensaries, one thing we know for sure: legalization may save some lives.

See more at: http://www.digmagonline.com/1524/opinion/all-or-nothing-california-needs-to-take-a-solid-stance-on-marijuana/#sthash.k40oVE7I.dpuf

Thrifty is the new Vogue

Whether it’s a hipster paradise, trove of costumes or a place to score some cheap jeans when you are short on cash, thrift stores are no longer avoided by the younger generation.

When my mom dragged little me into the thrift stores to pick up cheap deals on those usually overpriced, little necessities like collared shirts or jeans, I was always embarrassed. Today, contemporary bohemians and teenagers alike rock “vintage” fashion—jeans with stirrups, jackets with Day-Glo colors or sweaters with psychedelic designs. Now we rock these items like they are the new Prada because one-of-a-kind is the way to go.

Consumers are tired of the see-through leggings at Target and ten dollar disposable jeans at Forever 21, products of the widespread trend of progressive obsolescence that results from the high demand in this culture of waste.

There are many types of resale shops that sell used goods, and some are most definitely not thrifty. Charity shops such as The Salvation Army put their earnings toward drug or alcohol recovery programs. Goodwill’s dollars go towards the developmentally disabled. Other thrift shops are run by hospitals, churches or schools, and donors get a tax deduction.

Some thrift shops are consignment shops, which agree on a selling price with the donor and then take a certain percentage from profits. These differ from thrift shops in that they are often for-profit. According to the National Association of Resale and Thrift Shops, sales at thrift and consignment shops are growing five percent per year. About 16 to 18 percent of Americans will shop at a thrift store during a given year, according to NARTS. First Research, a consumer research group, estimates that the resale industry has annual revenues of approximately $13 billion.

Some would say that thrift shopping is reemerging due to the economic recession, but others would beg to differ that the worn tags and soft, already-used articles are becoming popular, especially among the college demographic where individuality and that stretchy dollar are the best commodities. Although the average item in “Out of the Closet” on Sunset Boulevard is $10, shops farther from the center of Los Angeles send a sweater out the door for less than a dollar.

According to Daniel Hauger, community relations manager for The Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Clinic in Anaheim, Salvation Army stores all over the nation offer 60 percent-off days, and other sales a couple of times during the month. LA is full of for-profit stores that have sprouted from the trend of reuse.

Jetrag in Hollywood, a for-profit vintage boutique unlike The Salvation Army, is one store that offers a one dollar Sunday sale. Sierra Hood and Nicole Stayer, both thrifters from Los Angeles, said that you need to work a little to find those desirable pieces, but that’s what makes a treasure most precious.

Known by thrifters as “vultures,” some try to take advantage of the resale craze, finding vintage labels among the treasure and trash and resell it for not-so-thrifty prices. Hauger said that there are often vendors that visit his stores on half-off days, scrounging for goodies or buying in bulk, then reselling them at flea markets or boutiques for often-inflated prices.

Simone Harrison, a 22-year-old thrifter, has gone to thrift shops her whole life. She has worked in a vintage store and today buys around 90 percent of her merchandise from secondhand stores.

“As I got older and broker…I needed to find alternatives to Forever 21,” Harrison said. “Also, my hips don’t lie and vintage clothing is more suited to a girl with curves. The clothes are also made better, the fabric is more resilient and there’s always the promise that no one at a bar or party will have the same outfit as you.”

According to Harrison, buyers come from overseas to buy American vintage clothing, allowing American sellers to truly capitalize on the fad. She said that many vintage shop owners take advantage of their popularity by upping their prices.

“Don’t get me wrong, there are some very special pieces out there that I would drop a paycheck on,” Harrison said. “But more often than not they’re selling mass produced, cheap clothing for more than current retail prices.”

Buffalo Exchange is one consignment shop that buys used goods for cheap and raises the prices. Their colorful racks are where the rich hipsters spend their Saturdays. Harrison said that for the price, college students should visit cheaper stores and do the hunting themselves.

“I buy my clothes for no less than five dollars, then I sell to Buffalo and other boutiques who give me around six to ten dollars depending on how judgy they’re feeling that day,” Harrison said. “Then they sell it back to girls like me for $15-50.”

For many, thrift store shopping is about romanticizing the past, digging through shelves and racks of treasures from all over the world. Each piece tells a story.

“People take it as a badge of honor to see the gem that they found there… some take it as a competition,” Hauger said. “For me, when I go shop there you never know; there might be a diamond in the rough.”

See more at: http://www.digmagonline.com/1078/fashion/thrifty-is-the-new-vogue/#sthash.lzuRZmFt.dpuf

Dia de los Muertos brings Los Angeles to Life

Nestled in between Chinatown and Union Station, Olvera Street is a piece of history in an unexpected place. For nine days when October and November meet, its history spills beyond the borders of the small area during Dia de Los Muertos festivities held in the El Pueblo monument in Los Angeles Historic Park.

Once a year, the dead roam over the century-old bricks. They dress as their ancestors did in folkloric costumes or as firefighters, monks and brides. They all share one thing: a skull mask to represent that despite differences, our vessel on this earth is a skeleton while the true self and soul is liberated when we pass on.

Before the procession starts, a line snakes through El Pueblo and into the street to be chastised by the tartalejos, a group of Mayan and Aztec blood who perform cleansing blessings with incense. A brass banda plays a brief mourning song, and then a song of celebration and remembrance. Altars with candles, flowers, shelving toys, foods, knickknacks and pictures are all unique representatives of the dead.

“It’s not meant to be scary but it’s meant to serve as a reminder of what life really is (and) …to really treasure life and embrace death in the fact that you can celebrate youth after,” said Christina Mariscal-Pasten, a member of a merchant family working on Olvera Street.

According to Mariscal-Pasten, Dia de los Muertos is one of the events maintained by the multi-generational guild of merchants at El Pueblo, and she has participated in the event every year since she was born. She said that the majority of the merchants who organize the event are 4th or even 6th generation merchants who have survived in the Pueblo since 1930 when Olvera street opened.

“This is the cuña, or the crib where all the fiestas began and that is why we try to preserve the event,” Norma Garcia, a 3rd generation merchant, said.

According to Garcia, the event celebrated in El Pueblo at the beginning of November is a blend of the Spanish and Aztec cultures. Mariscal- Pasten adds that there has always been a Los Angeles spin in the mix.

The traditional Mexican novenario is a spiritual series of nine days where families of the deceased recite the rosary for the release of a loved one’s soul from purgatory. However, the one-of-a-kind “Los Angeles twist” is that the merchants at Olvera Street welcome people of all beliefs to rejoice in the lives of their lost ones so that everyone in the community will have a chance to experience the celebration.

In the Olvera Street tradition, each night of the novenario honors a particular merchant’s family and a specific category of the deceased, may it be those lost during pregnancy, accidents or even suicide.

Different groups set up an altar dedicated not only to people, but even causes such as breast cancer or heart disease. In the past, these community altars have honored the firefighters and police who died during 9/11.

“We do an altar, or ofrenda, where we put the picture of the deceased and everything they loved in life,” Garcia said. “If they loved to smoke, we put a cigarette.”

These ofrendas are similar to those in Mexican tradition, where families set up a miniature altar on the graves of the deceased after cleaning the headstone. They then create a trail of the symbolic marigold flower to the home, where a larger, more vivid altar blooms with more personal artifacts of the deceased. The spirit then follows the orange-golden trail of flora from the grave to the home to visit the family they left behind.

“So the spirits come back and visit you, not in a scary way but saying ‘thanks for remembering my favorite beer’ and they stay with you for the night,” Christina’s father, Mike Mariscal, said. “If they were a doctor, a nurse, or a teacher, you [make] a little fun (of) the fact that no matter who you are (when) we all die, we all become a skull in the long run,” Mariscal chuckled.

Mariscal emphasized that since children are exposed to death at such an early age in our modern society, the tradition serves as a cultural way to show them not to fear death but rather, celebrate life.

The sugar skulls that shroud the graves are all made differently to resemble the person being honored. They wear animate expressions to show that death is not sad, but simply the beginning to an eternal spiritual life.

“It’s a celebration not of death but of life, and it really is something spiritual but it can be for people of all walks of life…it’s something that allows you to have a sense of connection with somebody in the other world,” Mariscal said. “I think being able to remember somebody for whom they were, the life they lived and the lessons they taught you is beautiful. And why not do it in a big party sort of way?”

While the city of Los Angeles usually subsidizes the festivities, they have recently claimed it “the gift of public funds,” outlined in Article 16, section 6 of the California constitution.

According to Mariscal, the city attorney’s office has said that the funding for the event was cut, putting the merchant community in a tough situation with now only about a month to raise around $10,000 that would otherwise come from the merchants’ rents.

Now the event is open to bidders in an RFP process, in which large companies are invited to take over the event and their sponsors plaster advertisements over the tradition. These promoters have already taken advantage of El Pueblo’s Cinco de Mayo festivities.

“It’s a pretty drastic immediate situation and were really looking for help from the people to get the word,” Mariscal said.

Mariscal said that the Merchant’s Association is taking a stand against the city and the bidders, a battle that he compares to that of David and Goliath. He said it’s difficult because all the funds for the free event come straight from the merchants’ pockets, and he firmly believes that they have, and always will be, sponsor-free.

“Whoever the companies are…[they] make this place look like one big giant commercial, there is no historical significance to what they do,” Mariscal lamented, “they walk out of here with thousands of dollars in the manner that there is no history, no culture, no tradition.”

Despite their dire situation, the merchants have remained steadfast, surrounded by nylon-string, mini guitars and luchador masks to remind them of the importance of maintaining an ancient tradition amid the quickly commercializing world.

– See more at: http://www.digmagonline.com/1949/culture/dia-de-los-muertos-brings-los-angeles-to-life/#sthash.D97moIyW.dpuf

Despedida.

When you think of time as it pulses along a section of life’s a timeline, second by second, from beginning to end, it seems eternal, yet at the same time, it passes in the blink of an eye. How large are events on this timeline that for us is all we know? I left for Bolivia on June 15th, and on August 15th I returned, and it felt as if the world stood still while I aged and was enlightened by my two months.

Leaving the house in the taxi very similar to the first one I rode in South America, the one in which I sat as we descended down into La Paz, I saw the same dark street spilled upon by the dull street lights, the same graffiti, the same piles of rubble and potholes. But this time it was a street I knew well, one that I walked countless times, potholes that I knew to look out for, a familiar road that gave me relief when I stumbled back onto it during the wee hours of the morning, the final stretch before falling into my heavily-blanketed bed of which i grew fond.

This time I knew what was inside the house alight through the many windows, and I know who turned on that light, to whom that silhouette in the window belongs; I have grown fond of those friends who are now sleeping in beds identical to mine. I held to keys to unlock the gate that my new friends are now standing in front of, waving goodbye and reaching out to me dramatically as I press my hand against the cold window, my warm breath fogging the cold glass. Only an hour before this moment I had my last hugs with beautiful people with whom I intersected by fate, chance that we both took this opportunity at the same time and with the same intentions. That was the last kiss with a guy that charmed me a little too late, a bittersweet goodbye to passion that happened in the right place at the wrong time. I will try and try but possibly never see these beautiful people again, and such is life-the arrival and departure, the falling in love and forgetting. All in the blink of an eye.

I saw the same views on the way in as I did headed out, but this time in reverse- the sky was dark, but the sun was on the opposite side of the planet. It was still cold, but we were on either side of the winter solstice. My eyes saw the same sights but I now knew what it felt like to be a part of the once-obscure clutter in the basin below. Now the Cholita digging in the trash made sense, the robust dogs running in packs along the autopista were no longer a strange sight.

I converse with the taxi driver with ease, his lousily enunciated words make sense to me and I ask him questions to fill the space that would otherwise be filled by a language barrier. He asks me how I’ve liked Bolivia.

At that moment all I wanted to do was get home. I was tired of the cold, the underdeveloped tourism industry and the resulting attitudes towards well-intending people such as myself. I was looking forward to returning to sunny Southern California where all of my belongings besides my three overpacked suitcases were waiting for me in the house that my father built, where mom will be waiting for me with open arms, telling me that the fridge is full with all of my favorites. I had missed the fact that the californian culinary respected my picky eating habits and I am royalty in my society, a youthful middle-class college student with nothing to lose and so much to gain.

On the plane above Los Angeles, I was marveling at the geography of the city. There were miles of neighborhoods crammed together, stitched by threads of roads in an unchanging gridded design, everything accessible as long as you have a car to pass over the never-ending residential stew. In the center of it all is a distinct growth- a smoggy metropolis of tall buildings with a foggy crown of pollution.

Planes take the place that birds had in La Paz, and everything is flat. Rather than my eyes reaching to until obscured by the view of snowy peaks of the Cordillera, the sun shining through the haze of pollution prevents me from seeing beyond Los Angeles.

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.” -Mark Twain

When being herded to the immigrations line, I had trouble speaking in english to the security guard, who gave me a strange look when I greeted him in spanish. Everyone was wearing expensive, fashionable clothing and children were screaming and tugging on their parents in the long line. People were scowling and complaining; these are people that say “I’m proud to be an American” without realizing that the United States makes up less than a third of the Americas.

I got off the plane and realized that I still had two outrageously heavy suitcases besides my rucksack; I couldn’t make a quick escape to my awaiting family. We ate a pasta dinner for 10 bucks- 75Bs that I would never have spent in La Paz- with fantastic customer service from a waitress hoping for a fat tip. We drove for two hours on a clean highway that had wiped out tons of homes and nature years before. When I arrive home, I would pile all of my clothing onto my other heaps of clothing, probably get on my computer next to my brother while sitting in front of the TV in a house that we could never pack on our backs if we wanted to head to the next place.

 “Through travel I first became aware of the outside world; it was through travel that I found my own introspective way into becoming a part of it.” – Eudora Welty

I think I’ll be going back.

All of the fantastic things you can do whilst wearing converse.

Before a long trip anywhere, converse are the first thing I pack.

You can visit waterfalls.

You can enjoy the sunshine from the top of a tour boat.

 

 

You can work in the office.

You can walk everywhere.

You can dance on counters. Notice the black converse on the bottom center. I’m wearing mine of course, but they’re hidden.

You can climb to heights.

You can ride quads. Please note my converse, on the bottom right.

You can ride a river boat through the amazon, as well as walk through the amazon. These converse were on the Yakuma river, in Beni, Bolivia.

You can lounge in hammocks, like here in Copacabana, Bolivia.

You can lounge by a lake, namely Lake Titicaca.

The edges of the basin that is La Paz.

La Paz is constructed differently from other big cities I have experienced.

In many of the U.S. states I have visited, the shelved hillsides feature homes with glass walls and cliffside pools that continue to become larger and more extravagant as the elevation rises.

La Paz, however, is like a petri dish full of ants, swarming around a sugar cube in the center. The ants in the center, directly on top of the sugar, are swarming and fighting for their share, while the ants on the fringes either have no access to the bustle in the center nor have interest.

The center of the La Paz basin consists of Zona Sur, the very commercial and somewhat glamorous part of the city, and the Prado and El Centro, where business people swarm the streets and vendors are packed along sidewalks selling their goods fiercely and competitively.

You’ll also see many beggars in the city, trying to take advantage of the socio-economic gap. You’ll see an elderly woman outreaching her mangled hand, eyes sparkling as her mouth quivers with spanish supplications.

Sadly, children are often doing the begging. Walking along the Prado, you see a group of children looking up at you with fascination. You smile, wave and say hola, but they suddenly begin to cry and tug at your hand as if they’ll scream their way into your pockets. Although it’s sad, this is the way some kids are trained. I’ve never before seen a race in which every single child is absolutely adorable. While argentinian hippies stop traffic in the centre to entertain the drivers, you’ll see children doing the same. I’ve seen young hula hoopers and little boys playing instruments, but none have been as sad as a sight I saw the other day.

A girl who could not have been older than seven years old was somersaulting along the cross walk in front of the honking, fuming traffic. After tumbling a few times, she popped up, obviously dizzy, revealing a dirt-covered face, knotted hair and raggedy clothing. She proceeded to collect her earnings.

In the more developed areas of any country, the sights are sad. Anthropology has taught me about realization of wealth. In the cusp of the basin, men is business suits and tourists in their comfortable brand name clothing walk the same streets that the impoverished sit, causing the lower class to develop resentment towards the well-off tourists. However, travel to the fringes of the city- Chasquipampa and above- and the people live simple lives without desires for more material and prestige. These are people that unlike the United States, it’s okay to be irrelevant, to have the same routine daily. The more remote their homes, the less cares they have, and the more deeply they are entrenched in nature.

You would think that these isolated, impoverished areas are the sadder of the two and therefore as a privileged tourist, I would prefer to stay away. However, the case is opposite. Those who live on the fringes in farming regions work their hands to the bone each day, and sadly live in less privileged conditions. However, these people are more open, carefree and happy; they relish all they can get- beautiful weather, family and a chance to celebrate life. Sorata is a great example of this, where people have identical daily routines yet enjoy the sunny days during which their children can play hours of barefoot futbol.

Although La Paz is a lovely city with plenty of diversity and sights to be seen, I sought out opportunities to leave to these fringes, climb the edges of the basin and see the city from a bird’s eye view.

La Muela del Diablo

There is a rock formation jutting up into the sky, the highest point immediately outside of the city, Southwest to Sopocachi, where I lived for my two-month stay.

Usually people take a pricey taxi up to the top to picnic or enjoy the view, but we decided to walk for a couple hours uphill, first through a little town called Pedregal that shrunk until all that remained was dirt road.

One thing that amazed me was how far Coca Cola’s reach was in this city. People bathe in Coca Cola here, and amongst the houses was the occasional shop that had a huge Coca Cola banner across the side. Ascending into the countryside where only a few houses scattered the paisaje, A bottle of Coca Cola occasionally sat on a dilapidated table or next to a house with no windows as women washed clothing or families sat in the sunshine.

This sign welcomes passersby to La Muela del Diablo in English, Spanish, and Aymara, one of the two dominant indigenous languages used in Bolivia.

Climbing even higher we came across with which we will soon become familiar, the Bolivian countryside. Sheep were coralled in small areas guarded by Cholitas with staffs and Burros and cows were tied up and grazing along the hills. Pigs and chickens roam freely around the houses, and a lone scarecrow stands on the property. I’m not sure why, but cows and burros are tied up separately and isolated from the rest. My only guess is that the owners may be fattening the cattle before breeding them.

During the climb the views of the city became more and more panoramic, and from the top the entire area of the basin could be seen, until the mountains rose up, forming a barrier from the snowy mountains and the jungle in their respective destinations.

We saw trails of men and women walking up the mountain, climbing the steep parts between the winding trail to save time. They carried bags and buckets and we realized that they were farming at the top. An adrenaline rush that we enjoyed from our beating hearts and this once-in a lifetime climb, is something that these people endure, rather than enjoy, every day.

Valle de las Animas

It’s called Valley of the Spirits. Take a couple minibuses and a bus to get to this point, it’s a small lake surrounded by an unappealing sight. Since we couldn’t catch the right bus to take there, we spent a little too much on a taxi to get up there. When we arrived, I was convinced that we had wasted money. This was until we saw the view from a few meters up.

Scaling along the edge of the hills, we noticed a couple kids that couldn’t have been any older than 7 or 8. I struck up a conversation with them, asking where they live and what they like to do. They said that they liked looking at the animals, the Perros, Burros, the Vacas. They were filthy and their clothes were torn. They said they were from a town that was a little ways away, even farther out from the city. Finally, the little boy says, “Puedes darnos plata?”

I didn’t have enough money to spare if I wanted to get back home, so I playfully laughed and said no, and they continued on to my other friend who had chosen not to hike up with us.

A thin trail appeared alongside the mountain and we followed it, finally reaching the highest point. We looked at the neighboring peak and noticed a corral on top, where donkeys were being led down the side by farming men and women. It seemed that a ritual was being performed.

A panoramic view of the valley features tall peaks, made of mudrock and molded by erosion, that look as if they were formed from mud that fell from the sky, creating tall “drip castles” like the ones I would make on the beach as a kid. It’s called Valley of the Spirits because these rock formations are said to resemble petrified souls. In the background sits the grand Illimani that, according to myth, fought with Illiampu, an opposing mountain. Today, the Illiampu is formed as if the top is chopped off.

The righteous one, looking away from the Illimani and towards the Illiampu, which is sheltered by clouds.

Waterfalls and the Inkachaka dam

A local took me to some waterfalls that have no name. Well, the name is unknown to he and his friends, and they can’t be found anywhere online, so in today’s context, they have no name. We drove through Miraflores and up to an isolated town, then back down where the road turned to dirt and wound into the western side on the edges of the city. It was a bumpy hour’s ride, during the rock began to smooth sheets of slate and we came upon the Inkachaka dam- Inka meaning “Inca” and Chaka meaning “dam”- holding back one of the city’s two reservoirs. Sheep were corralled so tightly in pens that they resembled dense cloud of off-white wool, and cows were scattered amongst llamas alongside the road. The only passersby we saw were local people on quads.

The reservoir, maintained by the Inkachaka dam.

We finally came upon the waterfalls, almost randomly placed and tumbling down the land that was formed like giant steps. It was so clear and cold that ice sickles formed along the edges of the cascade. The rock was all slate, and llamas roamed on the dead grass that surrounded. We were experiencing Bolivian water in it’s clearest form, before it could stagnate in the reservoir, moving too quickly to be contaminated.

Lots, and lots, of Llamas.

Spanish Lesson.

“Es importante que no metas la pata, especialmente porque eres una gringa.”

-The words of my spanish teacher, letting me know that for a tourist, less speech is more.

My conversational skills have improved monumentally, and I’ve also realized that formal speech and using all the tenses that we learn in Spanish class is not necessary on a simple level of communication. It’s even gotten to the point that I would rather say “No me importa” than “I don’t care”, and I usually say “Claro” instead of “Of course.” Here’s some local terms and phrases I’ve learned over the past month.

Se hizo pepa- Essentially, to haul ass, take off.

Ser camote de alguien- to be smitten by a person, such as some of the charming latin men that are unfortunately difficult to find.

Mitas Matas- Approach a stranger at a bar. Hold up your drink and say “Mitas Matas?” If they respond with affirmative body language, down half the drink and hand it to them. They should say something along the lines of “Ya pues, carajo,” and down the other half.

Chela- Cerveza, beer. Drinks are commonly called tapas. The most popular beers here are Paceña, Huari and Judas, the strongest beer EVER.

Paceña- The people of La Paz.

Farrear- tomar, to drink.

Chapi- Rubbish, Sketchy. Use it jokingly with friends or to describe something you don’t fancy.

Chaqi- Resaca, hungover.

Chakra- A “lamo”, or “uncool” person.

Although it means “to pick up”, don’t use Coger unless you’re in Spain.

Gringita.- With the diminutive “-ita” tacked on the end, it’s a way of fondly acknowledging a non-latin, poor spanish speaking gringa: yours truly.

Dar la vuelta- Means go around the corner, this is easily one of the most useful phrases I have learned here.

Salud, Dinero, Amor [and Paz].- We all know that Salud is the proper reply to a sneeze, but here, each sneeze receives a different wish. Paz for the fourth sneeze is customary in Peru.

Buen Inversion- A good deal, like the fruit and veggies here.

Maestro- Typical name for the conductor of a taxi or minibus.

Voy a bajar- Literally, I am going to lower. What to say when you want to get off a minibus or bus, which will stop anywhere for you.

Casera/Caserita/Casero- Typical name for a street vendor.

Puedes regalarme un…- Literally asking someone to “gift” you something, like a little bag for your fruit.

…and it never hurts to refer to people as amigo/amiga.

And curse words. You’ll learn a lot of those at futbol games. It’s a great feeling to be a language student and finally be able to use curse words fluently.

“Al mal tiempo, buena cara.”

-A common phrase here, used to tell a sad person to keep their chin up.

Alimentos [food and drink].

Te con Te- Add an extre Te, and it’s alcoholic.

Secombe- I’m assuming how this is spelt, it’s a traditional drink served during the same occasion as Te con Te. It looks incredibly enticing, foamy goodness bubbling out of the top of a glass. It’s prepared by mixing singhani alcohol into a hot brew with condensed milk and whisking it.

Salchipapa- Sausage and potato, fried or made on a grill. Usually made with a mix of sauces including ketchup, which here tastes like sweet and sour sauce.

Tucumanas- Somewhat like empanadas, they are fried and filled with meats while the vegetarian ones have eggs and potato. Only served during breakfast time, unfortunately. Tucumana stands have containers of vegetables and different sauces that you can top your breakfast with while you eat.

Salteñas- Similar to Tucumanas in appearance, yet these are baked and taste completely different. They taste somewhat like cornbread on the outside, and contain a soupy mixture of either meat or vegetables on the inside [vegetarian ones are difficult to find]. They’re also eaten for breakfast, and are absolutely awesome.

Cuñapes- Awesome cheesy spongy patty-things.

Humintas- They taste like corn bread yet look and feel like tamales. Great with coffee.

Yapa or ‘yapita’, porfavor- Asking for a little more, like the remainder of a delicious blended smoothie.

Retreat to Sorata.

Every great adventure starts, and finishes, with a sketchy mini-bus ride.

This so far has been my understanding of adventures in Bolivia.

Last weekend, we retreated to Sorata for a photography project, as we had been told that both the people and scenery there are beautiful.

We climbed the streets to Buenos Aires to catch a bus brandishing the “Sorata” sign. Busing or minibusing to destinations is the main mode of mobility here in La Paz, for Cholitas with their sacks of who knows what [shel silverstein-children] and tourists tight on cash. It takes three hours to get to Oruro, one of La Paz’s neighboring departments, while traveling to Santa Cruz, the Eastern most and largest, takes over 24 hours. Nevertheless, buses still go there, and the fare is considerably cheap.

Sorata is right near Lago Titicaca.

I’m learning not to make the mistake that my friends and I will have the entire mini bus to ourselves. Each seats 9-15 people depending on how tight you pack it, and drivers will most definitely always pack it tight, even if it means shouting at the window at potential passengers, waiting around until it fills, or making numerous stops to pick up or drop people off at their respective destinations.

View from the back of the minibus, triple-threat Cholitas.

I was grateful that I was crammed in the back between two of my friends rather than a crying baby and smelly Cholita. As we descended about 2000 feet into the multi-biomic region that is Sorata, passengers began to leave, sometimes in places that seemed desolate and remote, which opened my eyes to the striking simplicity of life for some of the people here. People get off the bus in the complete darkness, swing their sacks over their backs, and disappear into the velvet black of the unlit road.

We got out of the minibus on a crowded road where all the buses drop off their travelers. After a month of confinement, my toes enjoyed the air reminiscent of Long Beach’s summer evenings, as we stepped over puddles in the grooves on the imperfect cobblestone streets lit by dim streetlights and convenient stores. The town was obviously small even at night, and walking there was a nice break from nearly getting debilitated by a taxi or bus in the streets of La Paz.

Our hostel was called Mirador, and it was an earthy little hostel overlooking, at that time, pitch black that we knew would turn into an incredible view the next morning, just because of the feel in the air. It had dream catchers and tapestries hanging around the area and reminded me of a beachy hotel california. I shared a room with a bed and nightstand and a key dangling with another dream catcher with my friend. For my first hostel, this was a privilege, as hostels are generally a single room with about ten bunk beds and a colorful array travelers with an equally colorful variety of smells and sleeping patterns.

Hostel Mirador.

A walk out at night would reveal restaurants with a greater variety of vegetarian options and cheaper prices, at which we had egg sandwiches, a pretty common “delicacy” sold anywhere from official restaurants to businesses with nothing but bread and cardboard signs.

We awoke early the next day and dressed to meet the president, as we were notified that he would be visiting the small town to check on the city’s construction progress and through that, further his campaign. Signs that read: “SORATA SUPPORTS EVO” were strung across the city, some dangling with stuffed animals and festive decorations.

People were already preparing, vendors were out and people were working along the sides of the streets. Women were holding campaign signs and those in opposition were setting up their own. We found the football field where Morales was scheduled to visit, and became acquainted with a few of the people in charge including a man organizing the event, who made an appoint to arrange the army in an appealing formation when we expressed interest in taking photos of a few of them.

While some Bolivians wish that we go back to our country while we buy things from their stores, walk in their streets and take photos of their gorgeous country, some absolutely love it. This troupe of soldiers basically waited in line to take pictures of and with us, in multiple different combinations, followed by asking us where our hostel was so they could come see us later.

The field slowly filled with people, mainly workers’ unions and indigenous groups holding signs, cohesive not only by their closeness but also the wide array of bright colors they wore on their hats or shawls. Not only was the field filled with excited Soratans, but the bleachers behind the fence were filled as well, Cholitas with children on their backs, munching snacks from bags and men knelt in groups awaiting word of the president’s arrival. Some said he was to arrive via helicopter, some said that he was in the black SUV with tinted windows, Bolivian flags blowing in the wind along each side. Instead, he was walking down the dirt decline to the field, officers surrounding him, militia men guarding him, and the colorful locals streaming behind, increasing their speed to catch up and catch a glimpse or a wave.

Multiple people introduced him on stage, some speaking in Aymara, some in spanish, but all hailing him as if he were a god, saying “Ja ya ya Evo!” between phrases. When he came to the stage, he was adorned with necklaces made of flowers, fruits and vegetables native to the Andes region.  He sat surrounded by his supporters on the stage as people spoke, whispering to his colleagues and at one point, point to my blonde friend and I, as if to comment on our out-of-place-ness.

Our assignment was to catch the reactions of those who were expecting the president, so rather than listening to the content of the speeches I was running about and capturing the awe-struck, anticipatory and concentrated faces of those in the crowd. These are the best of the bunch:

While I didn’t pay much attention to the speeches, they all seemed to be in worship of the president, and the “visit” seemed to be more of a sermon with many guest speakers than a presidential address. There was no direct campaign speech from the president whatsoever, just his sitting and enjoying the praise. There was mostly support from indigenous groups, as Morales was originally a Coca farmer, “The face of change” that appeared all over Bolivia, elected into office for his support for the indigenous population. Groups of construction workers, mechanics and other unions stood with signs in support, some stepping up on stage to say a few private words to the president and gift him with flowers or cover him with confetti.

The second half of our day was set aside for a long hike, 8 miles in 3 hours, to La Gruta de San Pedro, a cave with an underground lake. The hike was gorgeous, the perfect manifestation of our escape from the city for a few days; we walked through tropical forest, over a river and plunged into the canyon via a windy road that we could see from our hostel.

While catered to tourists as most places are, Sorata is quite untouched compared to the beautiful areas of Bolivia; while some restaurants lined the beginning of the trail there were mostly convenient stores for locals’ benefit and homes scattered along the rolling hills or grassy meadows on either side. Our futbol-loving friend spotted a clan of kids playing a game on their family’s property as parents and elder siblings watched, so we climbed onto the field and joined.

Yeah, it was pretty much like the movies. Groups of kids, first timid, later clung to our legs and ran after us as we zigzagged the grass, chasing the under-inflated ball. The air was warm and the scene reflected it, the sun bringing the brightest green out of each blade of grass. Chickens clucked and dogs laid on the sides of the misshapen field. It was Chicos vs. Chicas, and the girls won. When we left, the girls followed us to the edge of the property, begging for us to return and wishing they could come with.

We continued, being passed by taxis that bring those who don’t want to journey by foot to the cave. Some families or young people carrying buckets and bags were walking in the other direction; the length of the daily journey for some people to work or feed their families is humbling. We came across a frail man with a multi-gallon tank full of water. He was attempting to sling over his shoulder a thin rope attached to its handle. His eyes were glazed over and his skin was leathery and aged from years of labor. He asked us to help him place the load on his shoulder so that he could continue walking, but our friend helped him carry it a ways and down a hill to his home, which had been deprived of water as the city was using dynamite to dismantle the side of the hill, for reasons we didn’t understand.

Across the scale, there is an astounding disregard by the government of peoples who live secluded in this way, and Bolivia is like a look through the magnifying glass at this issue. It sometimes makes me wonder if they prefer to live isolated from the hustle and bustle, or if they have no choice. Around Bolivia one sees many unfinished houses-missing ceilings, windows, walls, etc, that are lived in. This is because the property law here differs from elsewhere, and if a residence is incomplete, property taxes need not be paid.

We were almost there, and quite hurried as the workers above were yelling for us to get out of the way of the explosion. When we arrived to the entrance of the cave, it was a lot more claimed upon than I had hoped, and they were asking admission. After looking us up and down, he asked 20B from tourists and 10B from Bolivians, which my American friend who had been born in Bolivia (yet speaks no spanish) was admitted for the color of her glowing dark skin.

The humidity increased significantly as we descended into the cave, and it was much less touched than commercialized natural attractions in the U.S., as the only addition to the cave was lightbulbs to light the path and some stairs for safe descent. A narrow passageway gave way to a bigger cavern, its ceilings limitless. We were using stalagmites as handrails as stalactites hung over our heads (nope, I didn’t mix those up, I just checked). In the heart of the cave was a lake that was so clear and still that it appeared to be a giant hole giving way to another level of the cave. The water was perfectly clear and in the heat of the cavern, a swim was extremely enticing but prohibited. The monopolizers of the natural phenomenon gave boat rides for 5B.

As captured by my iPhone.

This is what it really looked like. Photo Credit: Michael Dunn Photography

Somewhere in between, there’s a couple sketchy taxi rides as well. It was too late and we were too drained to walk another 8 miles back, so we hailed a couple of taxis. They told us vaguely that we had to travel a ways around the curvy trail to the cars that would be driving us, due to the debris-blocked road from the explosion. After climbing over debris, we came upon our ride, which was out of gas. After waiting a bit, we crammed two too many people into the taxi and headed back to town. The ride felt like Disneyland’s Indiana Jones. There were parts when it looked like his turn wouldn’t be sharp enough, and we would plummet off the side of the cliff, and bumps so big that we would hit our heads on the roof. And it wasn’t just the condition of the road, he was driving really fast and really recklessly, causing his random rainbow of knickknacks by the windshield to sway back and forth over the furry dashboard. I had a good time, but it seemed that everyone else was terrified.

We had another quiet evening with the Bolivian 20B three-course meal and wine in the tranquil, lukewarm darkness.

During the last hour of my stay in Sorata, I saw one of the most beautiful scenes of the movie that is life through my own eyes. I’ll try to describe it, but I don’t think my words will give it justice. It was about 8 am and the gray skies had not yet burned off. The morning bustle was the same as the every day, markets opening and people walking up and down the streets with sack loads of products to be sold. The chitter-chatter between my friends and I faded away, and at that instant, the activity along the sidewalks slowed. The only sound was that of little feet pounding on the stone streets, and we all watched silently as Sorata’s mascot, a young boy with a toy bow-and-arrow who I had repeatedly spotted around town, came running, momentum maintaining his speed, his wispy hair rustling like wild grass. He wore a simple T-shirt and cargo shorts with flip flops, and from whatever he was running, he gripped his bow-and-arrow with a liberated expression on his face as if it was all he needed.