A lesson in Value

Bolivian Independence, July 16. I wasn’t prepared for the amount of people, the human foot traffic jams, the quantity of vendors. Thousands, likely hundreds of thousands of people meandering the Prado. Holding hands, groups of three, sharing té con té, Pacena beer, the Bolivian milk liqueur from red Coca-Cola chairs. Thousands lining the street, watching the parade. So many sections in the parade, so many bands. Frequently they played a shifted-key variant of The Final Countdown. A gringa joked that it was to reference Evo Morales finally having to step down from the presidency. Children and the poor would walk behind the seats of people drinking their sweet, warm milk, selling treats and tissues or simply begging a few coins. I gave. I believe in giving despite myself. After we finished our drink, we kept walking up the Prado towards the Plaza San Francisco. What was at the Plaza? We planned to meet a friend. So we pushed through thick human walls, “Disculpen, disculpen.” My hand on her back, guiding, connected, caring. So many people; they collapsed in. Pressure from all sides, my hand on her back. Something hit my neck. I didn’t feel the hand in my pocket; my wallet: taken. I saw the man who did it – I was holding on to him. But a woman pointed to the ground, and I hoped to find my relief on the dirt of the street, hoped I wouldn’t have to confront this man. So they got away, and I lost very little. We waited for our friend to arrive at the corner, and I, jaded. But I lost very little. I, adrift. Some two hundred Bolivianos, my Mississippi Driver’s License. And I, distanced from the celebration and Bolivia in front of me, was upset by things that don’t matter. But I wept anyway. Whose life so lacks that they feel they must steal on such a happy day? We stood waiting, listening to cheers of “Viva Bolivia!” and the music of a thousand horns. And I, jaded, was lost to its diversity and charm and the stars above. His face a constellation in my sky. Am I angry, or just sad? We finally found our friend. Gringas stand out in a sea of Pacenas. We walked back down the Prado – anticuchos the momentary goal. Again, the sea became condensed, just a trickle at the outlet. I’d both hands deep in my khaki pockets, fisting for pain. But instead a Bolivian, pressed up against us in the slow flow, told us to take care, to guard our belongings. I could only tell him that I knew. Past tense. Yet the dichotomy, drifting in the extremes. I guess that helped balance me, not then but now. Realizing this human condition – that some give, some caution, some take. This could have happened in any city; we’re not so different. Just metaphor that I should lose anything during their celebration. To be more careful, to be caring. My hand on her back. I have lost nothing.