Every existence, especially if it is long and varied like mine, is full of anecdotes. Among them are some that relate to travel, family, work or public life. However, in my case, I am grateful to “Società Dante Alighieri” because, as someone born and trained in Italy, they proposed that I gather some of those anecdotes related to “being Italian” and share them in an informal talk lasting almost an hour. Now, in this column, I further synthesize those memories into a five-minute reading column.
The anecdotes began with my arrival at the airport of El Alto on a rainy night in October 1973: I read a great concern on the face of Fr Pascual who came to receive me, a concern that, as he revealed to me, was not due to the consequences of my arrival on Salesian “life”, but to whether the newcomer, because of its height, could fit on the mattress he had bought that afternoon.
My Spanish was limited, so that, in spite of myself, I had to live the first months in Bolivia listening more than speaking, forced to assimilate all communication with the strange environment made up of sounds, expressions, tastes, smells(!) and very different visions, until one morning I woke up happy: I had dreamed in Spanish!
During my long university career at UMSA, I had to represent teachers at a national meeting during the conflicts caused by the famous Supreme Decree 21060 and, especially, by the Tax Reform, rejected by the universities despite the fact that it granted them greater tax revenues. That schizophrenic, masochistic conflict bogged down the meeting, until I took the floor to tell a story I had known since my youth. I reminded the audience of what the Victorian handbook suggested to young British women “in case of…” with a whole casuistry of real situations. “In case of rape,” the Manual – I quoted – advised fighting tooth and nail, defending oneself with hands and feet, screaming and calling for help at the top of your lungs, but, if all that did not work, the advice was to “relax and enjoy it”. That attitude, I concluded, was precisely what it was like at that point. Great general laughter and prompt reaction from Rector Capra who was chairing the meeting: “Next item on the agenda.”
In 2004, as a Presidential Delegate, I was sent by President Mesa to the Chaco region to resolve the seizure of an oil field. For a whole day, and faced with the strategy of the villagers to retain the official entourage as much as possible in that wasteland, I chose to dialogue with humility and patience, without showing any hurry. In the end, by candlelight, an agreement was signed and the blockade was lifted. On the way back to Camiri, in the car I was able to listen Radio Fides announcing the solution of the conflict on national television, with compliments to the Delegate included, while my chest swelled, until the liaison officer revealed to me the real reason for the success: my unmistakable Italian accent reminded the local Guarani of the constructive presence of the Italian Franciscans in their midst for centuries. Finally, in 2005, I agreed to board, as the last passengers, a flight with Evo Morales, then the most sought-after candidate for the presidency, with whom I had collaborated, at the request of Filemón Escobar, so that he could have an objective vision of the natural gas issue; a role I fulfilled at least until other advisers convinced him to take more radical positions. With his typical seal humor, Evo looked at me smiling and asked, “What about the Italian mafia?” To which I replied, “Well, I guess, doing good business with the Chapare mafia.” Silent, his head down, Evo entered the plane.