Vicepresidencia del Estado Plurinacional de Bolivia

Tuesday June 28, 2016

            As the table began to speak in Spanish, I realized the next few hours would likely be over my head. I did my very best to understand, but I could only pick out occasional words, most of which were of course only the basics that didn’t give away any context.  I still persisted, earnestly trying to understand, hoping that holding my eyes on him would help shed light on the conversation that was spurring questions all around me. I sipped my coca té and listened intently. Eventually, realizing my method was not as effective as I had naively hoped, I decided to try my eye at the exercises we had practiced the day before. I studied the man who spoke to us.

            We sit in a simple and bare room. The cream walls have a tall wooden base that stretches midway up the wall. A wooden coatrack stands in the corner by the door, a small space heater on the near wall. A whiteboard is propped on one of the wooden panels. An empty wooden display cabinet is in the back corner, opposite a chair whose void was filled with folded posters. We are at a table that comfortably sits us all.

The man who speaks to us sits across from me and seems to me fit for the cold, and perhaps I associate this look with an adventurous spirit. He has a mélange of gray and white hairs, a scruffy haircut and stubbly beard of the same color. He wears a colorful scarf of earthy tones interrupted by bright oranges and reds. It wraps a few times close to his neck and ties to drape in the front. The scarf sits atop his blue-green pullover, over which he wears a black leather jacket with simple lapels.

He has a pair of blue eyes that I have to study to be sure of. It may simply be my lack of looking, but I wonder if blue eyes are hard to come by here, in a place with such strong, penetrating sun. Beyond his appearance, he speaks in such a way that even I cannot lose focus on the conversation. I like to listen to this type of speaker. His voice is inviting, low and soft but with a rough edge that makes you want to listen. He speaks with his hands in a manner that makes the conversation relaxed. He places one hand palm down on the royal blue tablecloth. He moves his hands together, interlocking fingers to demonstrate a concept that I do not need to hear the words to understand. He continues to speak and straightens the short pile of books in front of him. His two forefingers approach one another and meet at the tips to demonstrate two conflicting ideas. His tea remains full as he answers complicated questions with long explanations. As I take large sips of my hot tea, I find myself breathing deeply. The altitude and the easiness to lose my breath are new realities that I still haven’t quite gotten used to.

            I can honestly say that I do not know exactly who this man is. I didn’t understand his explanation of his position in the vice-president’s office, and I indubitably do not know his stance on the government, his understanding of Bolivia’s history, or hopes for its future. Perhaps, this lack of understanding, however, the elimination of one sense, enabled me to enhance another.