A Whisper of the World

Most South American cities have a Plaza de Armas, a sort of
town square/park that is central to the city. The park that was our backyard for my
week in Bolivia was called “Plaza 24 de Septiembre” and may not have been Santa
Cruz’s Plaza de Armas, but I think that it is. I cannot express how I enjoyed
these Plazas, and the one in Santa Cruz was my favorite. Here are some thoughts
I wrote in my journal during a couple hours of contemplation at my favorite
South American Plaza.

This place is a whisper of the world. A quiet, subtle, and
beautifully authentic example of humanity. At its best. At its worst. Real and
unapologetically human. Too real to even consider being apologetic.

There is a statue central to the Plaza; an immoveable
constant commemorating some great life or moment that turned history. The Plaza
has about two-hundred benches, facing all different directions, housing all
sorts of occupants.

Elderly men play chess and banter with each other in the
short and sharp strokes that age brings about. A man in his twenties swoops
down low and unexpectedly lifts his girlfriend off the ground. The girlfriend
squirms and lightly complains, but is only let down after paying the price of a
kiss. A toddler stomps around at the tails of the hoard of pigeons that inhabit
the Plaza, the toddler giggles gleefully as the pigeons bob away inches from
his feet. A homeless beggar solemnly approaches people at a bench and mumbles
something hard to understand, even if you know the language. The beggar gets
nodded off and makes his way with desperate and fleeing hope to the next bench.
There are security guards here that whistle away beggars and fuss at me when I
put my feet on a bench.

A pregnant woman eats ice cream and talks with a friend. A
cluster of European tourist stroll through with designer sun-glasses and
glistening tan skin. They seem to glide like they are floating on a cloud and
have never known a moment of struggle in their existence. A trio of gypsy-types
crouch barefoot and Indian-style on a bench, smoking cigarettes and playing
guitar. A blind woman slowly makes her way through the center of the Plaza, led
with her hand on the shoulder of a younger companion of obvious relation. A
young couple flirts and kisses with exuberance. The initial vomit reaction
inside me subsides and transforms when I notice the ring on both their fingers,
the small opened box that once housed a pregnancy-test, and the paper they are
doting over. A few feet from them, a man sits in dirty rags, smoking a
cigarette with an insistently shaky hand, wrinkled and smelling from a life of
struggles.

The Plaza is host to hundreds more. Whispering the world.
Many people just sit and stare, covering the Plaza with thousands of
contemplations of hundreds of days, vast circumstances, and mysteries pondered.
The hoard of pigeons bob around in search of being fed. They break the search
only to coo at each other in a bizarre mating ritual that has me hoping these
bold creatures are not attracted to my tennis shoes.

This place is a microcosm of the world. Truly teaming with
life. Music plays, while laughter radiates, silence permeates, and crying breaks forth like piercing
thunder. People are here, turning this empty square into a fascinating mash of
intertwined story. There is a sense of solitary freedom in the air, one that
allows for sloppy kissing and nose-picking. But there is also an astute
awareness of the atmosphere, of the energy of togetherness, of unspoken unity.

This place is a whisper of the world. A glimpse at our
collective humanity. I have been here for a couple very short hours. Every now
and then, I get up and find another free bench, looking at it all anew
from a different angle. I think this is what travel is: Moving benches, feeling
the breeze from another direction, adjusting to where the sunlight shines
clearest, searching out new things and new people rather than demanding they
find their way to me. Inviting the whisper of God to be louder and more
encompassing.