Let's speed up a bit, I've advertised this blog some more at the weekend. Is anybody going to read it? Hop springs eternal.
Villa Abdullah
“Odd how my duties have suddenly been changed.”
“We all do whatever’s necessary.” Anna casts her reply into the bitter wind without turning. Heads down, we measure our distance in silence. There’s a fine new road to Villa Adela, but she’s decided against the bus, wanting the opportunity to talk with her constituency, the group members we meet on the way.
Scratching at scar tissue, I persevere, “Edgar’s distancing me on purpose.”
“That’s not my fault,” she snaps, hunching into herself. On we plod.
Since I misguidedly hawked the idea of a questionnaire around the second floor and word leaked, I’m no longer permitted to visit the groups. That’s my problem, but what’s bugging Ana?
Surely Ana never swallowed that nonsense about romance blossoming between us, but she may have yearned. And I do suspect Mama Rosa of plans, in which a certain volunteer figures as the knight in shining armour. Sorry to decline the role but I prefer my women a little more mercurial. On we plod.
“It’s that brother of yours, isn’t it?” I blurt out, thinking of Diego, the drunken devil. Her eyes widen, alarmed: “Just what have you heard about Pancho?”
No chance to reply. A group of women, crouching by a wall, hail us. Their tiny market, a pitiful, improvised affair, offers a few discoloured ears of corn and some sad potatoes. It takes me a while to recognise the leader of the Atipiris sitting there, she’s swapped her bowler for a Chicago Bulls cap.
“Joven Jaimito, where’ve you been?” exclaims Doña Teofila, pulling me down to her embrace.
“Busy,” I reply, remembering to be circumspect.
“Not too busy to visit your friends. There’s a meeting next Thursday and we want you to be there.”
“Right now I’m not permitted unscheduled visits.”
“Schedule it, because we’re expecting you. Bring some games,” by which I presume she means role-plays, not scrabble. “Shall we?” I whisper to Ana. She shrugs. “You’re the one they’re inviting.” To settle the deal, I’m handed a boiled apricot drink, sugared beyond diabetes. As I lift the glass to my lips, a flying plastic bag slaps my forehead. The vendors chuckle mercilessly, then stand, gathering their wares in those vividly coloured carrying-clothes, the awayos. Dusting grit and mud from the children, the women set off in a pack. We follow.
“Ready for the Mass, eh, Jaime? The padre’s expecting us,” jokes Ana, more animated now, punching my arm while I consider this news.
“No entiendo nada. We’re going to collect vaccines, what’s the connection? I mean, is this priest also a doctor?” Ana’s retreated to the stragglers where my words float past on the wind. I let myself be blown to the rear and ask again.
“Ignacio’s holding on to the vaccines because he’s considered the only non-corrupt person in the Alto, that’s why.”
“And who’s opinion is that?”
“Well, the president’s, for one. He’s given him exclusive control over all international donations to the Alto.” More señoras have attached themselves to our progress, we’re really trawling them in.
“And you go along with that, Ana? Don’t you find it a bit insulting to the locals? Like they can’t be trusted to manage their own affairs.”
“I never said I agreed, Jaime,” she blazes. “I’m simply advising you why el padre has the vaccines, and that he’s not going hand them over until,” ....... we’ve knelt in homage, end of discussion. It occurs to me that Ana’s accompanying me today because I can’t be trusted to negotiate calmly with this Ignatz.
It’s part of the message spreading from the top floor; James has become a loose cannon, a liability. Relieved of duties in the groups, I’m consigned to odd-jobs such as delivering these vaccines to the doctor (whose clinic is considered sufficiently remote). I look forward to meeting him. He used to be medical assistant to a professional football team by the intriguing name of Always Ready.
As we enter Villa Adela, Ignacio’s turf, the first of the priest’s twelve churches looms to the right, a Swiss chalet with optional wedding-cake trimmings. Villa Adela is a middle-class enclave, planned to serve as an example to all these migrants moving in from the countryside. I know others, Ciudad Satelite, Primero de Mayo, Santiago Segundo; none of them has exactly thrived.
Adobe homes are unsuitable for the alteño bourgeoisie, so the settlers were offered viviendas - bricky boxes, half the size of the usual immigrant lots, twice the price and so poorly constructed they’re impossible to enlarge. Wonderful credit terms though.
Inevitably, however, on the outer fringe of half a million newcomers, Villa Adela was lapsing into nowhere-ville. Until the coming of Ignatz, who had designs, a dozen or more. Squinting into the headwind, I now inspect the extent of his follies.
Church to the left, California mission style, a red-tile roof and white plastered walls - not so bad. But what’s that monster Minnesota barn doing next to it? A turn of thirty degrees, takes in the temple with Grecian columns, and, nearby, an abstract daub in concrete, his gesture to the modern. On the horizon, a fairy palace, or its outhouse. My oh my, in this dusty remoteness, Disney meets Dali in a surreal fantasia.
Like jealous children, they clamour for attention, though of course Ignatz’s own flagship church manages to trump their absurdity. Meet Cuerpo de Cristo (Christ’s Body), a transplant from Constantinople in the shape of a byzantine chive about to bloom. Each side of the central tower has a clock-face with no hands. Four timeless clocks, a reference to eternity or evidence of the priest’s utter disregard for reality?
On the perimeter wall, a painting of the crucifixion oozes blood. Is the man mad? Am I, for allowing a horde of market women drag me to mass?
Soon find out. The perpetrator of the sabbath din, white-faced, white-robed, white hair overflowing, waits in the courtyard. To the churning of recorded bells, the priest advances, pale blue eyes attempting to bore into my pysche. Boring! Establishing his omniscience, he addresses me in a correct, guttural English.
“Velcome. Let us enter and celebrate holee mass togezer.” The sweep of his arm brooks no refusal. The German shepherd guides his flock into a concrete tent-like structure of pews, statues and light. The setting is so elaborate (beautiful too, I have to admit), our knitting women are overawed. Always dignified, even when wiping baby’s bottom, here they seem dwarfed. Not that the building is big, but the cultural overlay is huge.
Within five minutes, I decide to sneak off for a smoke, forgetting that Ignacio has a portable mike. His wooing voice sidles low over the speakers, this time in Spanish. “No te vayas, amigo.” I will not be humiliated into compliance, though heads are turning.
The skyline is dominated by spires and towers, but peasant life seeps through the pretensions - after all, this is the Alto. I crank my spluttering rage into a list of similes. These buildings – as appropriate as a cigar after a lung transplant, handy as an encyclopedia in a kindergarten, helpful as an IMF loan to an impoverished dictatorship, useful as a hamburger chain in the desert, welcome as a cruise missile at a peace rally ...........
I become aware of an intruding presence. His voice, no longer mellow, scratches like a 78 disc. “You’re not a believer, then?” Ignatz wipes his wire specs, inspects me from head to toe. Hiking boots, faded jeans, favorite sweater, moustache (a recent addition), shock of hair - Ach so; ‘hippy’, he judges.
I’d love to reply, “Sure I believe, but none of your gods lives in these dolls’ houses,” but restrain myself. The Mullah of Villa Abdullah, maniac and saint, impales me on his stare. At work I’m merely a nuisance, an ant ambling round the rim of the sugarbowl. Here, I meet some serious antagonism.
Some twenty women are streaming into the sunlight. They can’t leave me without a formal farewell, but Ignatz glaring over their shoulders flusters my aim - backslap, shake ....... how does it go? Left hand, right hand, embrace ........ bastard., the priest has made me loose the thread.
Teofila and other two Atipiris knitters kindly steer me away. “Thursday, then.”
“I’m not so sure I’ll find the place again.”
“My son will meet you at. Can you remember how to get to Senkata?”
“And if I don’t recognize your son.”
Laughter; “Don’t worry, he’ll know you. Nine o’clock in the morning, entonces,” and they disperse into the dog-smeared streets of Villa Abdullah.
Ana and I start walking to Rio Seco, towards the doctor, vaccines tucked securely under our arms, leaving the Ignatz bizarchitecture heritage-site behind, re-entering adobe precincts. But the priest’s amplified voice floats behind us, cooing and hailing in total-surround sound. Maybe he also controls the heavens, since a sudden, stinging hailstorm lashes our faces..
“Quit sulking, Jaime. And don’t invent enemies. The padre’s truly a kind and generous person,” Ana insists. “His heart’s in the right place.” We’re approaching the corner of the airport perimeter-fence. It inspires her to launch into the following anecdote, about the day Ignacio blessed the new installations so kindly donated by the Japanese.
Natural enough to include the local priest from an adjacent parish. He could even make a little speech to express the thanks felt by all alteños for this push towards modernity.
Under a blazing sun, the guests have assembled near the runway. El gringito Goni, president of the republic, surrounded by bodyguards in sun-shades, behind them ambassadors, ministers and sub-secretaries, the municipal brass band, press photographers, you can imagine.
The platitudes are gushing nicely, like crude oil, until Ignacio steps forward. Beginning with a few words to the Japanese ambassador, he wonders if the $30 million mightn’t be better invested in projects within the Alto itself. The airport, he continues, is not connected to the lives of the local people. In fact, it’s a real threat; apart from the noise of the aircraft and the contamination Who knows but that at any moment one of those flying machines might drop out of the sky. Why not move the airport elsewhere, he suggests, and turn the space into a park?
The president’s trained smile holds steady, but his cheeks redden. Ignacio fetches a sprinkling device called a hyssop for the holy-water rite. But he isn’t sprinkling, he’s chucking the stuff around - well, the morning’s hot.
Ana rocks with glee. She has to steady herself on the chain-link fence of the airport. “Ignacio had arrived late as usual and disracted, without any of his equipment. So he asked the janitor, Demetrio, to help out.” Her merriment peaks. “And Demetrio gave him the pail and the mop from the men’s toilet.”
“He used the bathroom wiper to bless the president? You’re kidding.”
“Don Demetrio is my neighbour. He told me himself. The padre gets very enthusiastic.” Or righteously angry; el gringito had just gifted the country to the multi-nationals. “He soaked the president from head to foot.”
The tale is interrupted by a jet thundering in low to land, barely above us, deafeningly close. I look up into the belly of the beast. Around us, on the riverbed, men and women continue shovelling gravel, sand, stones onto battered trucks.
Ana later shows me a newspaper clipping of the event. One embarrassed minister is staring at a distant mountain, the other is cleaning his glasses. A sub-secretary is fishing a speck of dust from his eye. The Japanese ambassador smirks most undiplomatically and the members of the band have laid down their instruments, they’re guffawing. El gringito’s hand is raised to prevent his bodyguards attacking the turbulent priest. Ignacio looks rapturous, his reputation as a holy idiot secured.
And this is man I crossed today.
The clinic is locked.
The doctor isn’t always ready, evidently।
Chapter 12
An Appearance
My entry doesn’t disturb the rhythm of the group, no-one pauses. Just another worker entering the hive, quite a compliment. I circulate clockwise round the room, bending to greet each Atipiri. Needles clack, spindles spin.
The protocol of introduction: “Joven Jaime, whom you all know, has come here today to teach us.”
The applause induces my mouth to gallop ahead of good sense.
“Actually, I’m here to learn,” I exclaim, baffling the señoras. “About your lives, your work and your reality. You can teach me so much and at the same time learn about yourselves.” Doña Teofila bravely conducts another round of applause, but, having lost my audience, there’s really no option but to perform.
Ana stresses the importance of a warm-up. Fine, she always begins with a bit of horseplay, so I’ll do the same, though I feel foolish inviting reluctant volunteers. Teofila urges and then finally coerces a few women to stand warily by my side in front of the worktable. The loan of a hat, please. A simple game, Ana had said, to build confidence. Into the hat, that bowlerful of identity, sweat-stained and personal, I throw the slips of paper she’s prepared. Dip your hand in, madam. Qué dice, qué dice? What does it say? Her friends crowd round.
From the first they perform with gusto. ‘Dance a morenada’ - no problem - two women, then half a dozen, shuffle and swagger like troupers, so contagiously that the rest join in, some clapping, others humming or singing. The joint is rocking.
Next paper out of the hat, eat a sandwich while standing on one leg, should be good for a laugh if they can just manage to find some bread and a filling. Imitating an animal I consider borderline, undignified maybe, yet Ana’s chosen well; the hen and the dog have them rolling in the aisles. Imagine any London schoolkids above the age of seven exposing themselves to ridicule that way.
Then eddies interrupt the flow. The final slip of paper reads ‘Voy a contar mis tristes penas’ (Gonna tell you about my sad troubles). It’s the chorus from a popular folksong and I expect the señora to sing. Instead, she launches into her troubles. A tale of hail; the storm that fell on the potato plants and ruined the whole crop, and now there’s no cash to pay back my aunt, who’ll complain to my husband and he’ll beat me again, he will, before disappearing on any excuse, again, he will.
The woman falters tearfully, but others take up her lament – my son run over by a bus and the doctor who mis-set his leg. A stolen tv, the documents to the house gone, a husband who turns up drunk only when the other woman has thrown him out. The potato-saga woman rejoins in Aymara and soon more contribute their tristes penas. Stately as a Greek chorus, the wailers sway to the centre of the room, their kids scampering clear.
What have I gone and done? Or is this Ana’s trick set to destroy a promising career? Burning with embarrassment, I’m ready to apologize when an outbreak of laughter suddenly purges the plaint. Men, predictable as planets in their orbits, but these women, I can neither guess nor gauge their responses. Last sighs subsiding, they’re now facing me with complete attention.
Well, the idea of forming into groups according to birthdays had seemed logical enough last night under the gaze of my spider. No birth certificates, Jaime, they claim, date of birth unknown. I don’t insist.
Rolls of poster-sized paper, a range of markers, paints, rulers, pencils, crayons, innocence and energy: I’ve arrived dutifully eqipped, but I’m stumbling into this venture without experience. What the heck - freeze or fly.
Can’t decipher the scribble in my notebook. Oh yeah, it reads ‘let the women express themselves’ - how praiseworthy. The Atipris skill being handicrafts, I’ve planned to bypass language and get them to draw a mural. The first group will focus on their families, the second on the neighbourhood and the third on work. Neat, except that the women are grumbling again. Why this civil disobedience?
“I’m only a tenant.”
“My family here or in the countryside?”
“We work on the sweaters at home. Is that family?”
They’re baiting me, gently, amicably, efficiently.
More pre-textual tension; the group by the window has taken the paper from the wall and laid it on the ground. Those children who aren’t stamping on the sheet are chewing crayons and markers. Relax, Jaime; the señoras are on the job, consulting each other, painting first sketches between their kids’ toes. Think positive.
I’ll go over and say a word to the ex-miners (you can tell because they’re in mufti not traditional dress) who’ve stuck their sheet on the wall and then resumed knitting. No, they inform me, we’ve never felt at home in the city, why should we take part in this childish game? Then show life in the mining community, I hazard. The slightest spin and they’re sparking, enthused.
The room hums; this might work out.
A third set of women need to be stopped copying sweater designs onto the sheet. Sure, I agree, that’s work but your world is wider. How do they receive you in the office, for example? When there are no orders for the knitting, what do you do to survive?
My intention is for the groups to rotate so there’ll be only one sheet of family images, one for the neighbourhood, one for work. The groups refuse to change places. Too much bother, the women explain, what with our kids and bundles. OK, you can stay where you are and the posters move round. No - as adamant as diamond-headed drills - each group must draw everything they know. I give up, wouldn’t dare to oppose their will and, anyway, tienen razon, they’re right, a series of complete visions makes more sense.
The women present the murals, cautiously at first, then blossoming with a grace and economy of words that would shame most orators. Doña Juana, heavy bell-curved skirt of green, brown shawl, bowler hat poised on the crown of her head, points a metal ruler at stick figures, crudely drawn, clear in meaning.
“Is that a child’s coffin on the shoulders of the mourners?” I enquire.
“No importa – doesn’t matter, could be young or old. There aren’t any doctors near us.” But I saw a hospital on the way over. “You go to hospitals to die. They’re not for the healthy.” Murmurs of approval from her companions.
Behind the funeral cortege, the man with the bottle and a woman collapsed at his feet - domestic violence? The other members of the group chime in. “He drinks all the money when he’s home.” “Better that he’s far away.” “Let his other woman suffer.”
What else? Gangs and robberies in the neighbourhood scenes, a rubbish tip or two, precious little communal activity. “We work together to get the water and electricity laid on.” “Or to organize a fiesta” suggestion from the corner - yaah, they heckle, “but, beyond that, forget neighbours.” “Each for ourselves,” interrupts a mining woman. “Didn’t used to be like that. I knew everyone in the zone - not now.” “You mean you used to gossip about everyone and now you can’t.” Yaah.
Not quite what I anticipated.
The world of work; they draw the sweaters, of course, street markets too and a mining camp on the flanks of a mountain. The Copcap office, leaning angled and tall like a deranged rocket. A meeting, probably of the directorio, is in progress around a table. On the stairs, Ana, neither up nor down, returns rejected jumpers to a line of women, while Elvira counts money. A stout bearded figure and his spindly accomplice are jumping from the hatch, their pockets stuffed with dollar bills. No wool over these knitters’ eyes.
The presentations over, this is my chance to weave the yarns into a fabric, and represent it, neatly bundled, to the señoras so they can swoon with enlightenment. Instead I stumble over a few points already made, then, on the brink of disaster, have the sense/luck to ask the right question.
“So, tell me, how was the Atipiris group founded?”
This oral history is composed of equal parts enthusiasm and pride.
“We were working for the food handouts......... madres abandonadas in the Mothers’ Club........... had to work........ they made us lay roads and dig trenches........ the rice and sugar and beans and flour came in useful though........and that’s how we met, those that didn’t know each other before, but we needed some othet type of work ........... we attended courses, and one was a knitting course...... the speaker told us that we could sell jumpers all over the world........... well, knitting’s something we know ....... around the mines you’d die of cold without the layers of clothing....... in the countryside too........used to knit our own, wasn’t like now with all this foreign second-hand clothing .............. and we are good at knitting, our hands, you know ........ the spare wool comes in useful too, we make extra things for our kids.”
The woman who added that last statement is ruthlessly elbowed by her neighbour. This loss of wool, about which Ana constantly complains, is a group secret Forefinger over my lips to pledge silence, complicity. A flow of sorts resumes.
“Then the padre got us an order from his country.” Ignacio again? “Yes, just once, though. After that we had a long workless time until the association turned up.”
The association?
“That’s who you work for, Jaime.” Oh yeah. So what’s in a name? But when it comes to discussing Copcap, by association their thoughts fog, they’re not eager to talk.
Have you any idea what happens to your work after you’ve sent it to the office? No clear notion, not beyond Ana’s tape-measure and her verdict. If the sweater’s rejected, they re-do it; if accepted, they’re paid. The lucky knitter gets three dollars in local currency for a sweater that can’t possibly sell for less than fifty on the European market. Spinners receive less.
Proudly, they place knitwear on the table for my inspection. I’m careful not to insult the group, but don’t reckon I’d buy any of these. Even to my untrained eye, the jumpers seem badly proportioned; is it the waist, the sleeves or the neck? I wouldn’t wear that snowy mountain and llama design, my mates’d laugh. The fingers of the gloves don’t correspond to human anatomy and the scarves are too long, too short, too coarse, too vivid, too drab.
Later, when I tackle Ana about this design problem, she scoffs, calls me ignorant though I must be right, since no client ever repeats an order. Bought with goodwill, the unsaleable items are mouldering on charity-shop shelves from San Francisco to Berlin, a clear example of how Copcap runs a show, not a business.
We break to share a mid-day meal of fried eggs and noodles in a chilli sauce capable of vaporizing most known life-forms.. The lakeside merienda was fresher, but lunch with these women is a great honour. We visit Julio’s greenhouse, before they retire me gently to a corner, where I’m free to savour the bustle of the hive.
The skirts, the blouses, the shawls, vibrate in colours of affirmation, challenging an outside world that’s dun and tan. The rhythm of the needles, the whirl of the spindles, set me nodding as soundly as a cat slumbering at granny’s feet.
I’m nudged awake: “So, what were you doing last night that made you so tired, Jaime? Tell us her name.” And they send me home - if I can find it.
“No, guide, gracias. I’ll manage.”
Afternoon shadows stretch, almost substantial, deeper than darkness against the glare of the sun. My shadow moves ahead, a loping stick-figure out of the mural. Alteños pass by, oblivious, with their peculiar, stooped walk, not bent as when carrying a sack of cement, rather, scanning ahead for trip-wires. The kids don’t point. No-one stares, no-one stops open-mouthed at the apparition of a young gringo, at home and out of place in the Alto.
Wandering in the maze of mudbrick townships, I spot a half-formed wall, enclosing a surviving patch of altiplano, twenty metres by ten. A perfect site to light up and enjoy the of the Israeli’s grass. I deserve this, don’t I?
The weed scythes through tangled thoughts.
Those women are incredible.
I’m a lucky fool who has blundered onto an enjoyable day.
There’ll be a price to pay when Edmund and Oswald find out.
“My instructions were very specific,” shouts Edmundo. “Weren’t they?”
Silence.
“You did understand them, young man? Or do you consider me some sort of clown that you feel free to ignore?” Insubordinate if I reply, guilty when I don’t. The controllers in my life who’ve pulled this ploy.
Both are apparently furious, though only Edmundo looks livid, the fat of his face discolouring. Oswaldo stands behind, waiting for the heart attack that will ease his chief from the swivel-chair. A pendulum ride; from a safe height, I observe a comic pair of grown men, the Laurel and Hardy of small-enterprise, faking a fit over my insignificant offense. The next oscillation, I’m staring at power; Jim on the carpet, over the coals, on the rack, about to be repatriated just when he’s settling nicely.
Luckily, Pamela shimmies through at this point, whispers something into Edmundo’s ear. I sense her tongue explore his lobe, her hand carress his back. He shivers with delight, then drags himself to the door. Oswaldo makes a slender excuse to escape. My pacing unnerves him.
After five minutes, Little and Large return, scenting blood.
“It was deliberate. You disobeyed orders and just went off on your own mission.” The military metaphors are fine, but in terms of stalking, Stalker’s far ahead. During their absence, I set to studying the array of certificates and diplomas on Edmundo’s wall (summer course at the London School of Economics last year, that’s interesting – just when the Copcap recruitment ad appeared in the papers) and also happen to glance at a sheet of paper on the desk. $135,000 is a hell of an amount for one year’s budget of the health project and I still haven’t caught sight of the doctor.
“I shall be submitting a report on your behaviour to the Directorio meeting next Tuesday,” storms Large. “I expect you already know what my recommendations will be.”
“Yes,” snipes Little, “I can’t imagine what we were thinking when we engaged your services, such as they are.”
Chapter 12
An Appearance
My entry doesn’t disturb the rhythm of the group, no-one pauses. Just another worker entering the hive, quite a compliment. I circulate clockwise round the room, bending to greet each Atipiri. Needles clack, spindles spin.
The protocol of introduction: “Joven Jaime, whom you all know, has come here today to teach us.”
The applause induces my mouth to gallop ahead of good sense.
“Actually, I’m here to learn,” I exclaim, baffling the señoras. “About your lives, your work and your reality. You can teach me so much and at the same time learn about yourselves.” Doña Teofila bravely conducts another round of applause, but, having lost my audience, there’s really no option but to perform.
Ana stresses the importance of a warm-up. Fine, she always begins with a bit of horseplay, so I’ll do the same, though I feel foolish inviting reluctant volunteers. Teofila urges and then finally coerces a few women to stand warily by my side in front of the worktable. The loan of a hat, please. A simple game, Ana had said, to build confidence. Into the hat, that bowlerful of identity, sweat-stained and personal, I throw the slips of paper she’s prepared. Dip your hand in, madam. Qué dice, qué dice? What does it say? Her friends crowd round.
From the first they perform with gusto. ‘Dance a morenada’ - no problem - two women, then half a dozen, shuffle and swagger like troupers, so contagiously that the rest join in, some clapping, others humming or singing. The joint is rocking.
Next paper out of the hat, eat a sandwich while standing on one leg, should be good for a laugh if they can just manage to find some bread and a filling. Imitating an animal I consider borderline, undignified maybe, yet Ana’s chosen well; the hen and the dog have them rolling in the aisles. Imagine any London schoolkids above the age of seven exposing themselves to ridicule that way.
Then eddies interrupt the flow. The final slip of paper reads ‘Voy a contar mis tristes penas’ (Gonna tell you about my sad troubles). It’s the chorus from a popular folksong and I expect the señora to sing. Instead, she launches into her troubles. A tale of hail; the storm that fell on the potato plants and ruined the whole crop, and now there’s no cash to pay back my aunt, who’ll complain to my husband and he’ll beat me again, he will, before disappearing on any excuse, again, he will.
The woman falters tearfully, but others take up her lament – my son run over by a bus and the doctor who mis-set his leg. A stolen tv, the documents to the house gone, a husband who turns up drunk only when the other woman has thrown him out. The potato-saga woman rejoins in Aymara and soon more contribute their tristes penas. Stately as a Greek chorus, the wailers sway to the centre of the room, their kids scampering clear.
What have I gone and done? Or is this Ana’s trick set to destroy a promising career? Burning with embarrassment, I’m ready to apologize when an outbreak of laughter suddenly purges the plaint. Men, predictable as planets in their orbits, but these women, I can neither guess nor gauge their responses. Last sighs subsiding, they’re now facing me with complete attention.
Well, the idea of forming into groups according to birthdays had seemed logical enough last night under the gaze of my spider. No birth certificates, Jaime, they claim, date of birth unknown. I don’t insist.
Rolls of poster-sized paper, a range of markers, paints, rulers, pencils, crayons, innocence and energy: I’ve arrived dutifully eqipped, but I’m stumbling into this venture without experience. What the heck - freeze or fly.
Can’t decipher the scribble in my notebook. Oh yeah, it reads ‘let the women express themselves’ - how praiseworthy. The Atipris skill being handicrafts, I’ve planned to bypass language and get them to draw a mural. The first group will focus on their families, the second on the neighbourhood and the third on work. Neat, except that the women are grumbling again. Why this civil disobedience?
“I’m only a tenant.”
“My family here or in the countryside?”
“We work on the sweaters at home. Is that family?”
They’re baiting me, gently, amicably, efficiently.
More pre-textual tension; the group by the window has taken the paper from the wall and laid it on the ground. Those children who aren’t stamping on the sheet are chewing crayons and markers. Relax, Jaime; the señoras are on the job, consulting each other, painting first sketches between their kids’ toes. Think positive.
I’ll go over and say a word to the ex-miners (you can tell because they’re in mufti not traditional dress) who’ve stuck their sheet on the wall and then resumed knitting. No, they inform me, we’ve never felt at home in the city, why should we take part in this childish game? Then show life in the mining community, I hazard. The slightest spin and they’re sparking, enthused.
The room hums; this might work out.
A third set of women need to be stopped copying sweater designs onto the sheet. Sure, I agree, that’s work but your world is wider. How do they receive you in the office, for example? When there are no orders for the knitting, what do you do to survive?
My intention is for the groups to rotate so there’ll be only one sheet of family images, one for the neighbourhood, one for work. The groups refuse to change places. Too much bother, the women explain, what with our kids and bundles. OK, you can stay where you are and the posters move round. No - as adamant as diamond-headed drills - each group must draw everything they know. I give up, wouldn’t dare to oppose their will and, anyway, tienen razon, they’re right, a series of complete visions makes more sense.
The women present the murals, cautiously at first, then blossoming with a grace and economy of words that would shame most orators. Doña Juana, heavy bell-curved skirt of green, brown shawl, bowler hat poised on the crown of her head, points a metal ruler at stick figures, crudely drawn, clear in meaning.
“Is that a child’s coffin on the shoulders of the mourners?” I enquire.
“No importa – doesn’t matter, could be young or old. There aren’t any doctors near us.” But I saw a hospital on the way over. “You go to hospitals to die. They’re not for the healthy.” Murmurs of approval from her companions.
Behind the funeral cortege, the man with the bottle and a woman collapsed at his feet - domestic violence? The other members of the group chime in. “He drinks all the money when he’s home.” “Better that he’s far away.” “Let his other woman suffer.”
What else? Gangs and robberies in the neighbourhood scenes, a rubbish tip or two, precious little communal activity. “We work together to get the water and electricity laid on.” “Or to organize a fiesta” suggestion from the corner - yaah, they heckle, “but, beyond that, forget neighbours.” “Each for ourselves,” interrupts a mining woman. “Didn’t used to be like that. I knew everyone in the zone - not now.” “You mean you used to gossip about everyone and now you can’t.” Yaah.
Not quite what I anticipated.
The world of work; they draw the sweaters, of course, street markets too and a mining camp on the flanks of a mountain. The Copcap office, leaning angled and tall like a deranged rocket. A meeting, probably of the directorio, is in progress around a table. On the stairs, Ana, neither up nor down, returns rejected jumpers to a line of women, while Elvira counts money. A stout bearded figure and his spindly accomplice are jumping from the hatch, their pockets stuffed with dollar bills. No wool over these knitters’ eyes.
The presentations over, this is my chance to weave the yarns into a fabric, and represent it, neatly bundled, to the señoras so they can swoon with enlightenment. Instead I stumble over a few points already made, then, on the brink of disaster, have the sense/luck to ask the right question.
“So, tell me, how was the Atipiris group founded?”
This oral history is composed of equal parts enthusiasm and pride.
“We were working for the food handouts......... madres abandonadas in the Mothers’ Club........... had to work........ they made us lay roads and dig trenches........ the rice and sugar and beans and flour came in useful though........and that’s how we met, those that didn’t know each other before, but we needed some othet type of work ........... we attended courses, and one was a knitting course...... the speaker told us that we could sell jumpers all over the world........... well, knitting’s something we know ....... around the mines you’d die of cold without the layers of clothing....... in the countryside too........used to knit our own, wasn’t like now with all this foreign second-hand clothing .............. and we are good at knitting, our hands, you know ........ the spare wool comes in useful too, we make extra things for our kids.”
The woman who added that last statement is ruthlessly elbowed by her neighbour. This loss of wool, about which Ana constantly complains, is a group secret Forefinger over my lips to pledge silence, complicity. A flow of sorts resumes.
“Then the padre got us an order from his country.” Ignacio again? “Yes, just once, though. After that we had a long workless time until the association turned up.”
The association?
“That’s who you work for, Jaime.” Oh yeah. So what’s in a name? But when it comes to discussing Copcap, by association their thoughts fog, they’re not eager to talk.
Have you any idea what happens to your work after you’ve sent it to the office? No clear notion, not beyond Ana’s tape-measure and her verdict. If the sweater’s rejected, they re-do it; if accepted, they’re paid. The lucky knitter gets three dollars in local currency for a sweater that can’t possibly sell for less than fifty on the European market. Spinners receive less.
Proudly, they place knitwear on the table for my inspection. I’m careful not to insult the group, but don’t reckon I’d buy any of these. Even to my untrained eye, the jumpers seem badly proportioned; is it the waist, the sleeves or the neck? I wouldn’t wear that snowy mountain and llama design, my mates’d laugh. The fingers of the gloves don’t correspond to human anatomy and the scarves are too long, too short, too coarse, too vivid, too drab.
Later, when I tackle Ana about this design problem, she scoffs, calls me ignorant though I must be right, since no client ever repeats an order. Bought with goodwill, the unsaleable items are mouldering on charity-shop shelves from San Francisco to Berlin, a clear example of how Copcap runs a show, not a business.
We break to share a mid-day meal of fried eggs and noodles in a chilli sauce capable of vaporizing most known life-forms.. The lakeside merienda was fresher, but lunch with these women is a great honour. We visit Julio’s greenhouse, before they retire me gently to a corner, where I’m free to savour the bustle of the hive.
The skirts, the blouses, the shawls, vibrate in colours of affirmation, challenging an outside world that’s dun and tan. The rhythm of the needles, the whirl of the spindles, set me nodding as soundly as a cat slumbering at granny’s feet.
I’m nudged awake: “So, what were you doing last night that made you so tired, Jaime? Tell us her name.” And they send me home - if I can find it.
“No, guide, gracias. I’ll manage.”
Afternoon shadows stretch, almost substantial, deeper than darkness against the glare of the sun. My shadow moves ahead, a loping stick-figure out of the mural. Alteños pass by, oblivious, with their peculiar, stooped walk, not bent as when carrying a sack of cement, rather, scanning ahead for trip-wires. The kids don’t point. No-one stares, no-one stops open-mouthed at the apparition of a young gringo, at home and out of place in the Alto.
Wandering in the maze of mudbrick townships, I spot a half-formed wall, enclosing a surviving patch of altiplano, twenty metres by ten. A perfect site to light up and enjoy the of the Israeli’s grass. I deserve this, don’t I?
The weed scythes through tangled thoughts.
Those women are incredible.
I’m a lucky fool who has blundered onto an enjoyable day.
There’ll be a price to pay when Edmund and Oswald find out.
“My instructions were very specific,” shouts Edmundo. “Weren’t they?”
Silence.
“You did understand them, young man? Or do you consider me some sort of clown that you feel free to ignore?” Insubordinate if I reply, guilty when I don’t. The controllers in my life who’ve pulled this ploy.
Both are apparently furious, though only Edmundo looks livid, the fat of his face discolouring. Oswaldo stands behind, waiting for the heart attack that will ease his chief from the swivel-chair. A pendulum ride; from a safe height, I observe a comic pair of grown men, the Laurel and Hardy of small-enterprise, faking a fit over my insignificant offense. The next oscillation, I’m staring at power; Jim on the carpet, over the coals, on the rack, about to be repatriated just when he’s settling nicely.
Luckily, Pamela shimmies through at this point, whispers something into Edmundo’s ear. I sense her tongue explore his lobe, her hand carress his back. He shivers with delight, then drags himself to the door. Oswaldo makes a slender excuse to escape. My pacing unnerves him.
After five minutes, Little and Large return, scenting blood.
“It was deliberate. You disobeyed orders and just went off on your own mission.” The military metaphors are fine, but in terms of stalking, Stalker’s far ahead. During their absence, I set to studying the array of certificates and diplomas on Edmundo’s wall (summer course at the London School of Economics last year, that’s interesting – just when the Copcap recruitment ad appeared in the papers) and also happen to glance at a sheet of paper on the desk. $135,000 is a hell of an amount for one year’s budget of the health project and I still haven’t caught sight of the doctor.
“I shall be submitting a report on your behaviour to the Directorio meeting next Tuesday,” storms Large. “I expect you already know what my recommendations will be.”
“Yes,” snipes Little, “I can’t imagine what we were thinking when we engaged your services, such as they are.”
Chapter 13
I’m a Bolívar
I spentd a sulky Saturday weeding the garden, until Asunta makes her comment about not pulling up so many carrots. Sure enough, the evidence lies my feet, dozens of feathery leaves. Ah, that’s what baby carrots look like. When Asunta sees my anger, she switches from calling me joven to the respectful caballero – ‘horseman’, reference to the Spanish conquest, deference to me. Horseman, indeed! – of the apocalypse with that directorio meeting due soon.
Well, a condemned man deserves a break before his execution. So when Julio invites me to the football game, I accept. Spectator sport is the grand distraction of our age and I am suitably distraught.
Amnesia being a feasible option, once in town I head for the Israelis, hoping to find Tzipi alone, but I’d settle for a whisp of grass. Miracle; the lads have taken a jeepful to the salt plains of Uyuni. Inevitable; Tzipi’s a girlfriend is over, sharp and shrewd Naomi who doesn’t want to know me. Nothing for sale, says Tzipi, sorry, the boys have taken the supply, but we do have a little, try this. And then, Naomi’s scowl makes very clear, depart. OK, no hassle, I’m going to the match.
Forty thousand paceños and I, we’re here for el clásico, the game between the local giants, as in big fish/small pond. Bolívar, accent on the í, not the var, (that is ‘believer’) are eleven-time champions. Their rivals, The Strongest (I jest not), pronounced ‘dear-strong-air’, are nicknamed the Tigers. After the mauling I’ve received at the office, they won’t get my support, not even with a free safari thrown in.
Julio arranged to meet me at 2.30 by the flagpoles. Of course he’s late, but the excitement of the fans wound up for action is momentarily entertaining, though the dope is pressing on my eyes, blurring the crowd to a hypnotic swirl of gnats and midges.
Then I notice a brown sandstone idol, must be two or three thousand years old, marooned on the traffic roundabout opposite the stadium. What a spot for an ancient god to dwell, under continuous circling assault from the cars. Greater than human, its head and shoulders are shampooed in pigeon-shit, toxicity is crumbling its features. The monolith gazes blankly above and beyond the fans, their banners, whistles and rockets, their tame rivalries.
Julio appears an aeon and a half later, wearing a sky-blue scarf (light-blue, more accurately - the sky at this altitude has a deeper hue). “I’m not late,” he asserts, five minutes from kick-off. True, the rest of La Paz is also just arriving. Lengthy queues have formed at those few windows where tickets are on sale, leaving us at the mercy of the revendedores, whose livelihood is to buy early and re-sell to latecomers for a slight surcharge. Julio resents paying the extra, though it’s my treat and his fault.
The stadium disproves the argument that sport and politics don’t mix. Built in the ‘70s from unrepayable petrodollar loans, it’s an example of the Colonel’s unerring instinct for lavishing scant resources on popular schemes. Can buy me love. It’s el coronelito’s gift to his buddies in the cement and construction industries, is crude and minimal, the local architectural style. Row upon row of sweeping concrete, three tiers high. No thrills, no frills, no standing, yet no seats. The national soccer stadium
Julio makes for the south curve and, judging from the colours of the flags, into the tiger’s lair, an odd choice.
The stadium is filling fast
The teams emerge from the tunnels to ritual chanting, Bolivar looking delicate in their pale blue, the Strongest wearing a strip of black and yellow stripes, wasps at the picnic. Smoke bombs in team colours foul the terraces. I buy a paper Bolívar visor to protect my skull from the sun’s intensity. Despite the presence of hardcore estronguistas; doesn’t seem too dangerous, there are other sky-blues dotted among the yellow.
So much news for Julio, but instead of wasting breath on office babble, I tell him how impressed I’d been with the blanket of new seedlings in the Atipiris greenhouse.
“It’s not such a good sign, Jaime,” he responds. “The lettuces are all going to mature at the same time, and I’m sure that most will end up feeding the family pigs. They planted too many, too close”
“Can’t we transplant them?” I say, touching his tight, light clothing.
“Where?” He’s combing his black hair, fiercely. “There’s no room in the greenhouse.”
“Well, couldn’t the señoras take the plants home and grow them in their yards?”
“Claro, but they’ll need covering in plastic in case.....”
At this point something happens, so unlikely that I’d hesitate to put it in a novel.
“Meestair Estalkhair.” A thin hand grazes my right shoulder.
Approimately 39,873 spectators, and from that crush of humanity, to my right sits the prim bureaucrat from Immigration, the one with the air of a languid tango dancer. He’s barely recognizable in dark glasses and casual clothes, his moustache sandwiched between a low-slung cap and an ample scarf, both of which reveal his allegiance, yellow and black. What gives him away, however, is his grasp of the language - English broken here.
“Meestair Estalkhair, we are meeting again.” He doesn’t extend his hand to shake, so I nod and return to Julio. But you know how it is stoned, a negative presence throbs through the suburbs of the mind. And now I’ll need to chaperone Julio so he doesn’t talk radical within earshot of this official.
Attention, the game has begun.
The football has all the frenzy of a frisbee session on the vicarage lawn, it’s impossible to talk of atmosphere. The crowd responds sedately, the chanting never rising to a roar except at the moment of the goals. Still, Bolívar are awarded a penalty five minutes into the game, a leg somehow tripping itself, and take the lead. The tangocrat, who’s been enthusiastic, is crestfallen, which more than ever clinches my choice of team. I’m a Bolívar, I couldn’t leave ya, if I tried.
Never supported a champion before, goes against my principles. Not playing well, buy more players, use the winning brand-name to seduce fans in odd places, like all those Man United-shirted Malays, a malaise. But, here, both teams are so dreadful, I can kid myself there’s no harm done.
In the twenty-third minute, dainty play, passes slicing through the weakest of defences, 2-0 to Bolívar. My neighbour loses interest in the game and finally introduces himself.
“Waldo Ventura,” he says and offers his hand. “How is it going your time here?”
“What? OK,” Brief and firm, the way to maintain distance.
“And still you are working?”
The dope sugarcoats the scene, luring me into admitting that I do indeed continue in the Alto. He nods, asks how I’m enjoying the challenge. I lower my guard enough to confide a few of the problems. Remind me not to ingest substances before the next interrogation.
“Who is that guy?” Julio enquires at half-time while we’re below biting into spicy sausage rolls. Then he turns grey from the edges inwards.
“ The bitch!” Who? “Ana – never mind. Let’s go sit someplace else.”
“No, it would be suspicious. I can see this out.”
“You’re crazy. Desculpa, then, but I prefer to move.” Reluctantly, I let him go.
Strongest dominate the second-half, pull a goal back with a close header from a free-kick. They play hard and rough, living up to their tigerish nickname, and function well as a team, lots of fearful symmetry. Waldo chain-smokes American cigarettes; my pure tobacco fumes blowing into his face, discomfort him, I’m glad to say. Ha! Bolívar are hanging on.
This game is unreal and the placidity of the crowd worse. My last match in England, lower reaches of the league, Leyton Orient v. Brentford, Geordie and I escaped from a minor mob outside the ground, ducking under the bridge, then racing into the park. Or that top game, Arsenal v. Liverpool, when a half-brick came sailing past our heads. Here, it’s a family affair. Not to forget that
Nevertheless, fan means fanatic.Waldo, sweats and curses at my side as The Strongest throw away one chance after another, is not a child, even if he’s behaving like one. Pity the juniors at the office tomorrow; this man will make others suffer for his suffering. The game is slipping from his team. 2-1 to Bolívar. Bien.
Before the final whistle he turns, squinting against the sun and snaps; “I am wishing you for to learn me Inglis.”
“I’m not that sort of teacher.”
“I invite you like a friend, but you must to come and visit. Your permission in this country is illegal. I’m checking. You do nothing to correct it.”
He has crammed his yellow and black insignia tightly in a tiny sportsbag. The boyish spell, the sporting fantasy, is over. It’s a government official, that gold-plated ballpoint in use again, who’s writing his telephone number on a card. The address, Achumani, way down to the south of the city, among the élite.. He adds a rank to the name – Capitán Waldo Ventura.
Chapter 14
Rainshine
The directorio meeting must be Edmundo’s programming. Tuesday is an unlucky day in the Andes, possibly malevolent, certainly no time for business. Ground floor has been cleared of petitioners, and those foolish or needy enough to intrude are despatched to the outhouse, emphasis on ‘out’.
Members arrive in twos and threes, shaking the drizzle off their shawls and ponchos, the women unwrapping their hats from plastic-bags. In rainy weather, bowler hats are wrapped in plastic and worn thus. Greetings echo in the icy air.
I choose a free seat at the table that dominates the room (don’t ask me where the table’s stored when not in use). The temperature is close to zero, so steaming mugs of tea have been served. I sip at the welcome brew, alone among a strange crew.
Wrinkled rustic massaging his hands, mutters in Aymara; Don Eudoro of the flute-carvers. Two women in traditional dress sit cross-legged on the floor, one massive as an idol, her companion tiny and fragile, both chewing coca leaves, Lidia and Amalia. Another señora in re-stitched rags is waving a finger negatively at the handsome profile of Don Alberto, ex-miner, now maskmaker.
Scalding both hands on the metal mug, I feel uncomfortable, as if I’ve stolen someone’s place, though the gathering reps still smile and nod. A directorio session is, reportedly, a serious matter and I’m suddenly aware that staff attend by invitation only. Edgar strides in, glares at me but can’t deal with the problem while he’s feigning benevolence to a ruck of well-wishers.
I half-stand, but a hand pushes me firmly back down.
Elvira, hi, I mean buenos dias.
“First finish your tea,” she says and clinking mugs, winks, turns to the diminutive Doña Amalia of the gold and silver workers. Two serious ladies unfooled by Edgar’s entry. Keep them talking and perhaps I won’t be thrown out, yet.
How does all this work?
“Twelve groups in total,” explains Amalia, twirling her heavy gold ring.
Each has a representative? “Monthly meetings” Oh, I’ve missed three already. And you make decisions? “Of course, we are the maximum authority. “For example, I’m the Treasurer and keep the books” But real businesses have accountants, I don’t say.
At this moment, the 60-watt bulbs in the room stutter and fade. Somewhere, an electricity pylon, the Alto’s substitute for trees, has been hit by lightning. In the draining gloom, Ana enters bearing candles, apologizes, then leaves, proof that awe descends upon the Directorio in conclave.
But not for Edmundo, who has no intention of merging into the background. He flops into the chair at the top/bottom of the table, three candles illuminating his end to Faustino’s single stub.
For me, the central mystery is why the economists and sociologists who created Copcap should adhere to this masquerade of an association with rights of the membership, a written constitution, even an annual assembly of socios and this monthly caucus (oops - nearly wrote ‘circus’).
“We have a quorum and I now call this meeting to order.” The steady, thin voice is Faustino’s.
If it’s to display grass-root credentials to the funders, the facade is hardly necessary. Any number of governments, foundations, NGOs and busybodies of every description, seem desperate to throw away their cash, especially on educated and corrupt élites.
Talking of whom, Edmundo is humouring the board. “One moment, Mr. Chairman,” he intervenes. “I don’t think this young man has the right to be here.”
“Es muy probable, but let’s examine today’s agenda before any decision is taken. Then we can allocate a time for joven Jaime.” Faustino expresses his opinion with the firmness that marks leadership in all cultures.
The Secretary, a small woman in a cream blouse and brown baggy trousers, recites el orden del día. Various hands are raised. The nod goes to Don Alberto the maskmaker. “We need to shorten the list or it’ll take us till midnight.”
“La palabra,” meaning, permission from the chair. “All these points merit attention,” objects Lidia. “But I suggest we listen to last month’s minutes to remind ourselves of the business in hand.”
“Aprobado,” rules Faustino, releasing the Secretary to mumble through the minutes as if at prayer.
Here is no rabble; each speaker weighs procedure with the gravity of a law-lord. The idea that this court will judge my cause has me trembling beyond any reaction to the cold. Only Edmundo, anorak over suit for the occasion, appears to ignore the debate. Contempt is probably the deepest emotion in his life.
Eventually, the directorio decides to consider my impeachment later, much later, under the heading of ‘miscellaneous’. Wiser not to linger but retire gracefully before the bearded wonderboy has the chance to fast-track a motion of expulsion.
Outside, the cables sag beneath the downpour.
And now what? I might go home and catch Asunta eyeballing the morning rerun of her soap, “Amor Desafortunado”, the one where a maid dreams of marrying the son of the household only to discover that she’s his long-lost sister. I’d rather stand in the rain, thank you. And even if I do succeed in dislodging Asunta from the living-room, where can I relax there?
To the outhouse, where shapes huddle by candlelight. The crush of bodies has raised the temperature a degree. There’s laughter and chatter, a human warmth that’s missing from the meeting, acceptance too. I’m given a primitive scale, two metal pans fixed to the ends of a bar, and a pile of nylon bags to fill with soya flour. 5 kilos per socio, courtesy of the European Union who have generously dumped this genetically-altered muck on us..
A radio tuned to cumbia is the nuisance. Since the moment Ana demonstrated the intent within these songs, their insidious lyrics have hounded me. In this one, the male singer accuses his girl of being ‘hechizera, bandolera, mentirosa’, sorceress, bandit, liar. Message - trapped by your black magic, I’m under no obligations. You stole my freedom, I don’t believe a word you say. Appalling. Love at first slight.
Feet are tapping. Absurd that the roomful of women enjoy a song which insults them so? Either they’re immune or they simply don’t get it. When I request a change of music, someone obliges by switching to another cumbia station. Maybe the batteries will run down before the power supply returns.
No big deal; I’m pondering more vital matters. The authority of a directorio, functional despite 500 years of powerlessness. And on a personal level, what I’ll say when Edmundo, with his unerring hunter’s instinct, puts the question I can’t answer, at least not in front of these doughty board-members.
“Young man, just what made you decide to come to Bolivia?”
Rewind the spool to London. Squeak memory, as gingerly as a fieldmouse.
Our house, I’m preordained to dwell in oddity, is an elegant affair, built for suburban clerks, now East End slum property. Over the doorway, a plaque ‘1888’ commemorates one hundred and ten years plus of solitude. The rent is very reasonable but other tenants shun these streets. Forget the occasional rat. The problem lies beyond the back wall of the garden, where a derelict mansion looms.
Any sketch of our house must include this fragment of eighteenth century London. The Hackney Academy was once an exclusive school nestling among fields to the east of London. But over the years, an ascending scale of madness and repression has recast it as orphanage, lunatic asylum and, finally, the Salvation Army world HQ. Overrun by the city, it survives disintegrating and silent, except for the snarling guard-dogs and an eerie resonance of all those vanished inmates.
That empty building dominates our house, although we can see only one corniced wing. Some day they’ll film the Jane Austen version of Frankenstein there.
Now let me introduce you to our household. In fact, I’ll draw you a mural. That group of contorted stick-figures is what passes for family in modern Britain. The large, bearded man playing blues guitar is Geordie. In the ground floor studio, sculptor Sarah, welding torch poised, proves her mettle. I’m the skinny lad gazing across skeleton bushes of the back garden towards the holy orphanage-asylum. Joshua the cat can be found napping in the kitchen or stalking rats.
While Sarah’s absorbed in her work, we move to Leaside where despèrate teachers and bored teenagers complete the sketch. Some students aren’t yet asleep, so they’re still actively disrupting the class with comments and knives. For classroom windows, pencil in shards of broken glass. What a drawing on this scale can’t show is the rest of the UK population turning their backs on the debacle.
Nine months between the coastal London damp and the drenched heights of the Alto today, an entirely appropriate span for the gestation of this infantile adventure.
That particular Sunday, the rain descended, weighty and choking. Geordie was slumped despondent on a cushion. No music, no beat of a chisel disturbed the household.
“Would it help at all if I went away?“ I finally venture.
“What’s the point?” says my best friend. “The damage is done.”
“Even so, you might work it through.”
“I know her. She won’t.” Geordie, the prophet of thundering phrases, curt and cut. I feel terrible. “Then there’s Leo,” he adds.
By now, Friday’s edition of the ‘Guardian’ should be lining the bottom of Joshua’s litter-tray. Not that he’s an intellectual cat, but dead trees are dead trees, even the recycled, upmarket ones.
As luck or fate (or neither) would have it, that the ‘Guardian’ is on my desk, intact, open at the appointments page. More to amuse Geordie than in earnest, I search vacantly for vacancies.
We dismiss those involving war-zone refugees, Muslim gender awareness programmes, rape, epidemics, rehabiltation, landmines, famine, assorted disasters. Any place on earth where nothing too drastic is happening?
“That’s the point,” quips Geordie. “If you’re really serious about vanishing, aim for somewhere off the map.” His spirits are definitely rising. “Here’s one.”
Ah, Bolivia, whence news pours like light from a black hole.
I cut out the innocent-looking ad. No warning bells sound. It’s so believable and persuasive, we’re even tempted into mockery.
‘Some field experience required.’ We’ve fucked in fields, practised substance-abuse there. Field experience - tick. ‘Dynamic networker’, not really my best card but I could fake it, we’ll tick that, too. ‘Community policy implementation’ - I misread that as ‘policing’, the true focus of every teacher’s life. Knowledge of Spanish preferred - that is, optional, itself a pointer to this advertisement’s lack of credibility.
Relieved to be relating again to Geordie, I mug myself with the joke which, like a kidney-stone, will go on to acquire layers of consequence. But at that moment, we’re rampant.
Sarah in overalls, brisk and sober, punctures the euphoria: “If you’re so keen on running away, why not both go, leave me in peace, play your dirty games elsewhere.” But I’m the one left clutching the ticket. And sometimes it’s not a question of what you’re running from, so much as what you run into, sidestepping a bike to fall under the bus.
The summons to the Directorio comes just when the pile of bagged flour threatens to topple, that radio still jabbering songs of blame. “Poor Jaime,” my companions sigh. “Off you go. Buena suerte.”
I savour a final Astoria in the yard and wonder at the state of my nerves. Why should the judgement of this untutored, ragtag tribunal matter? Whatever the outcome, I can simply walk away, travel round the Bolivia I’ve denied myself, muleback along the salt trails and over the mountain passes. Then return home to.......?
Doesn’t bear thinking about.
And I do care! I want to discover what ordinary Bolivians think of me, if, that is, puppetmaster Eddie allows them to express their opinions. Sticks and stones, career blips and blots, but I would like to know. As a token of hope, for the first time today, the sun shines through a break in the cloud-mass. God winks (or yawns).
Inside, the fatigue is focused on one guttering candle in the centre of the table. Faustino, hand on forehead, waves a pencil, which I take as permission to sit. No-one responds to my greeting, so I shelter beside Lidia. Maybe her bulk can protect me against draughts and ill winds.
Prosecutor Edmundo’s charges are predictable, valid even and his oratory quite convinces me. If there were a rotten tomato to hand, I’d throw it at myself. Between nnuendo and dramatic pauses, the picture builds of a foreign layabout wasting the association’s limited resources to satisfy his need for travel. Unfair; apart from beer and transport (freely given), I haven’t cost Copcap a penny, but mud sticks.
Should I anticipate the question before he can pose it? Stand and confess. Yes, your honour, on that rainy, optionless London morning, I saw an advert in a reputable newspaper. Minimal requirements to work in a country about which I knew next-to-nothing. Bolivia was irresistible.
Then, unexpectedly, Doña Teofila of the Atipiris raises her hand.
“Tiene la palabra,” Faustino rules. The word is hers.
“All I want to say is that is that my group learnt a lot about ourselves from Jaime’s last visit and I’ve been instructed by the members to vote against any motion to dismiss him. He’s the first person in a long time to take us seriously.”
A chain-saw might cut the silence, a knife won’t. Don Alberto does.
“We at the maskmakers would also like to see him soon.”
Which is when Edmundo, without the benefit of Oswaldo’s presence, makes his mistake or makes his move, depending how you look on it. He sneers at them.
“With all due respect,” (meaning none) “I do feel that the speakers lack a sufficiently professional background to judge this situation,” and more in like vein until the air bristles and the vote is a formality. The directorio quickly approves a timetable for my visits to each group and assigns me Elvira as overseer.
As I’m receiving congratulations on this small victory, a red-faced Edmundo stomps out. Yet, though witness to my own triumph, I can’t tell you what I’ve really seen. Would the directorio have supported me without Edgar’s indiscretions? It’s possible he planned the charade with Faustino while I was off bagging soya. Because, in the long run, Edgar needs me to stay and serve his true interests.
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