#005: Fieldnotes, La Paz. 06/17/06
6-17-06. La Paz. 9:24 pm.
Back in La Paz, after a stretch of what felt like a week, but was only three days total. I’m glad to be back, feel like I needed a break … from the pressure (literally, on the brain and brow) of trying to conduct conversations in Spanish, of trying to be productive, trying to be brave. Ethnography, if I know anything at all about it yet, is really difficult, like trying to do homework at a wedding. You’re invited into something wonderful and fun (in theory, at least), but can’t quite lose yourself in it, and can’t quite get your work done either. Add to that the awkward discomfort of being a gringo outsider, not having the luxury of going to the bathroom in privacy, and being able to communicate at a level no higher than that of a four year-old.
All that aside, though, it’s not really so bad. We should have an outhouse by Monday (last year’s collapsed, apparently), and, in truth, it’s beautiful out there, and quiet, and the air is cleaner, despite the dust. It’s a nice change of pace from La Paz, and the challenges of living out there – the cold, lack of bathroom and shower, being disconnected from the world – aren’t serious. The only thing I worry about is my project, and my Spanish, and how to begin conducting interviews. My team members tell me not to sweat it, to just hang out and get to know people, learn along the way; I think they’re right. There needs to be a certain level of comfort before you can start asking people things at all, let alone asking them to give you meaningful information, and I’m definitely not there yet. At this point, it’s just hanging around with people, tagging along to the site, watching situations, picking up as much as I can. I guess that’s what ethnography is, too, if not just homework (funny, that’s what my friend E. called it at the party the other day, as I scribbled down observations in my little notebook – “why do you have so much homework?”): hanging out, waiting for the right time and, as I said, trying to be brave in awkward situations.
Despite some uncertainty and awkwardness, the people here are great, and I’m starting to develop relationships with them. Everyone likes to joke around a lot with us, and my name’s a good target for it. When greeting me, people have taken to saying, “Hola, Casimira! Casi-te-mira!” which means “I almost see you” – a pun on my name. I don’t have enough Spanish to joke back, so I usually just laugh and say, “si, si, casi me miras” (you almost see me), and we all have a good guffaw over it.
I’ve kind of befriended the cook, W. She often just sits around between meals with her baby, so I try to keep her company when I can. We talk about our families, and La Paz (where she learned to cook working in people’s houses), and I do the dorky anthropologist thing, asking her about babycare and home remedies for illnesses and stuff like that. I often have to ask her to repeat things twelve times, or pull out the dictionary to find certain words, but we do alright.
My archaeo-team is pretty damn wonderful too – a very good thing, considering that when it’s as cold as it is in Khonkho, you don’t really have a choice but to work and eat and drink and sleep in the same room to pool your heat. They’re hilarious and laid-back and dorky, and enormously patient in teaching me about Khonkho politics and customs, Spanish verb conjugations, which foods to stay away from … and I try to sound interested when they get to talking about stone-paved patios and decapitated monoliths. Oh, archaeology. ;)
Back in La Paz, after a stretch of what felt like a week, but was only three days total. I’m glad to be back, feel like I needed a break … from the pressure (literally, on the brain and brow) of trying to conduct conversations in Spanish, of trying to be productive, trying to be brave. Ethnography, if I know anything at all about it yet, is really difficult, like trying to do homework at a wedding. You’re invited into something wonderful and fun (in theory, at least), but can’t quite lose yourself in it, and can’t quite get your work done either. Add to that the awkward discomfort of being a gringo outsider, not having the luxury of going to the bathroom in privacy, and being able to communicate at a level no higher than that of a four year-old.
All that aside, though, it’s not really so bad. We should have an outhouse by Monday (last year’s collapsed, apparently), and, in truth, it’s beautiful out there, and quiet, and the air is cleaner, despite the dust. It’s a nice change of pace from La Paz, and the challenges of living out there – the cold, lack of bathroom and shower, being disconnected from the world – aren’t serious. The only thing I worry about is my project, and my Spanish, and how to begin conducting interviews. My team members tell me not to sweat it, to just hang out and get to know people, learn along the way; I think they’re right. There needs to be a certain level of comfort before you can start asking people things at all, let alone asking them to give you meaningful information, and I’m definitely not there yet. At this point, it’s just hanging around with people, tagging along to the site, watching situations, picking up as much as I can. I guess that’s what ethnography is, too, if not just homework (funny, that’s what my friend E. called it at the party the other day, as I scribbled down observations in my little notebook – “why do you have so much homework?”): hanging out, waiting for the right time and, as I said, trying to be brave in awkward situations.
Despite some uncertainty and awkwardness, the people here are great, and I’m starting to develop relationships with them. Everyone likes to joke around a lot with us, and my name’s a good target for it. When greeting me, people have taken to saying, “Hola, Casimira! Casi-te-mira!” which means “I almost see you” – a pun on my name. I don’t have enough Spanish to joke back, so I usually just laugh and say, “si, si, casi me miras” (you almost see me), and we all have a good guffaw over it.
I’ve kind of befriended the cook, W. She often just sits around between meals with her baby, so I try to keep her company when I can. We talk about our families, and La Paz (where she learned to cook working in people’s houses), and I do the dorky anthropologist thing, asking her about babycare and home remedies for illnesses and stuff like that. I often have to ask her to repeat things twelve times, or pull out the dictionary to find certain words, but we do alright.
My archaeo-team is pretty damn wonderful too – a very good thing, considering that when it’s as cold as it is in Khonkho, you don’t really have a choice but to work and eat and drink and sleep in the same room to pool your heat. They’re hilarious and laid-back and dorky, and enormously patient in teaching me about Khonkho politics and customs, Spanish verb conjugations, which foods to stay away from … and I try to sound interested when they get to talking about stone-paved patios and decapitated monoliths. Oh, archaeology. ;)
posted by kazmira at 9:28 AM
1 Comments:
Hello from Nashville! The blog is fantastic, and I really look forward to the next update/s. It seems to me that you've learned a heap about ethnography...the awkwardness of it, the humbling feeling of being an outsider, the inability to lose yourself in the experience because of the pressure of the notebook, etc. But don't forget the magic--allow the unexpected to happen, keep your sense of excitement and mystery. Sometimes our insecurities, discomforts, etc. keep us from *using* outsider status to unveil what even insiders may have forgotten that they know. I'm writing all this as someone wrapping up a month of fieldwork on another set of "natives"--country music fans. Humiliating. All my indie/academic street cred amounted to exactly zero. Illustrative example? I walk into a honky tonk at 1 PM on a Sunday. Four patrons, all of whom seem to be drinking themselves to a premature death. Solo older male artist up on stage, singing the old Miller beer advertisement (It's Miller Time!). He stops, mid-strum, to provide commentary on my presence (There's what a REAL woman looks like, etc. etc.). I bow my head, walk toward the back. I've just tucked myself behind a table when I hear him say, "Hey young miss...what's your favorite country song, country artist?" And I can't think of a single one. Truth is, I don't much like country. My humiliation deepens. I finally come up with Willie Nelson (whew), but felt about 3 inches tall. Thought to myself, why am I putting myself through this? Moral? You're not alone. Granted, I get to speak in my native language, and I have access to modern plumbing, but I bet the food where you are is loads better than the fried treats on Lower Broadway. Forte!
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