from I Never Did Tell You Did I?
(Unsent Letters)
by Susan Smith Nash
On Why Former Political Prisoners Make Good Drinking Buddies
Oruro, Bolivia
January 25
D:
I'm staying at the Hotel Terminal here in Oruro. It's thirty bucks a night. That's pricey for this part of the world. They have running hot water and heat. That's good. I need to get the green dye from the sweater I bought on the streets of La Paz off my neck eventually - I'm running out of turtlenecks and high-collared blouses.
I hope to be able to go into a tin mine. I have heard that it's strictly forbidden for women to go into the mines. We'll see.
Hotel Terminal. Who names these places? All I can think of is "Hotel California" (you can check in but never, never leave). Terminal. End of the line.
Actually, they call it that because it's near the bus station (the terminal).
Fernando and I took the "jumbo" luxury bus from La Paz. It wasn't what I was expecting at all. I was thinking pigs, goats, perhaps a chicken or two would be messing it up in the back. Instead, there were uniformed attendants and an "in-transit" movie. How am I going to be able to tell anyone that I sat and watched The Sixth Sense dubbed in Spanish while riding in a bus in the Bolivian Altiplano? No one will believe me!
I dropped off my bags in my room. Fernando lives in Oruro, so he checked in with his family. Then he said he'd show me the town. We went to a little café and ate dinner. Then we went to a small club where we sat in a dark booth, drinking a sweet, port wine-like liquor that was made from grapes grown in the south of Bolivia. The music was mellow and sad, with many American pop love songs, which I translated into Spanish for Fernando. I found out how Bolivians drink together, and the little rituals involved. They say chin-chin at the beginning, then drink together; that is, they only take a drink when the other takes a sip. Each time, they pause to wish each other salud.
It occurred to me that such a rhythm of drinking was set by a mutual acknowledgment of the need for the next trago - the next pain-assuaging sip of alcohol, to mitigate the realization that we travel through life in such a solitary manner.
Drinking that way creates a nice harmony. It's definitely a communion of sorts. I felt very comfortable.
Fernando waxed poetic at one song, and told me it reminded him of his days in prison as a political prisoner.
Well, needless to say, that got my attention." Wow. Really? Were you tortured? What was it like?" I asked. I was hoping that he would excuse my perverse curiosity as some sort of weird Americanism.
"Yes. I was tortured. But not much," he said.
"How can you say 'not much'? Isn't all torture the same?" I asked.
"No," he paused. He picked up his glass of port wine. Salud, he said. I picked up my glass, joined in with a breathless salud and took a sip.
"I'm alive," he said. "Many were not so lucky. They died. Either by torture, or because they sewed up their mouths and refused to eat or drink."
I was absolutely horrified. I hadn't realized that Bolivia had experienced repression. This sounded eerily similar to other countries. Bolivia's neighbors, Argentina and Chile, immediately came mind.
"I was released because I was not important. I was helping with organizing the laborers, and trying to form a sindicato (union), but they didn't care. Plus, my uncle was influential in the government, and they did not dare go too far."
We were seated in the chilly club, near the glowing coals of charcoal in a portable hibachi the waiter put near us. It was comfortable, and I imagined how miserable the nights must have been in prison.
An hour slipped by before I knew it. The conversation was fascinating - we discussed politics, prison conditions, philosophy, history, and torture techniques.
"I really must return to my family now," said Fernando.
On the walk back to the Hotel Terminal, I noticed that the stars were as bright and twinkling as Christmas tree lights. They seemed absurdly close. The air was dry and thin.
That night I slept well, but with weird dreams of being on a bus driving through the Altiplano, listening to a group of musicians play the lambada and sing of torture.
When I woke up, I was ravenously hungry.
And now it's time to meet Fernando for breakfast. Maybe he'll show me his scars.
Talk to you soon,
S