I was 21 and a half. I had graduated from Catholic University in Washington DC in June with a degree in speech and drama. The university had a terrific theatre reputation and among its many recruiters were the US Defense and State departments. Defense sponsored cultural and performing tours of the many US military bases in Europe and Asia. State worked with USIS to provide cultural programs for the hundreds of bi-cultural centers in places where America had a presence around the world. These were (and are) locales where people could go to learn about America, study English, and (at that time) listen to Gershwin, Peter Paul and Mary, Creedence Clearwater, watch reruns of “I Dream of Jeannie” and “Laugh-In” and attend live performances of music, plays, poetry reading, etc.
Both government branches had a contract with the university to develop talent and shows every year.
I auditioned for one of the really plum jobs, a tour of South America sponsored by the State Department, which would begin a week after graduation. I was chosen and spent the next seven months in South America – every country except for Paraguay and Bolivia – well, it would have been Bolivia except when we got to the airport there was a coup so we were quickly bundled onto a plane and out.
The first country we visited was Uruguay. And the first thing we saw as we were driven to our hotel in Montevideo were the palm tree-d plazas and protestors carrying signs reading “Afuera Yanquis” and “Muerte a Rockefeller” – to demonstrate opposition to US policies during Governor Rockefeller’s visit. They were (we later learned) the Tupamaros, an urban guerilla group that used political kidnappings to protest the declining Uruguayan economy. We had to stay inside our hotel for two days and our State Dept. attaché had to accompany us everywhere. We were shocked, surprised, and baffled but — for some reason, not really scared. It was like watching TV. When we finally did get out, we went to see the chief of the American consulate in Montevideo – it was winter since the seasons are reversed. He had a little fireplace in his stone walled office, with logs burning and it was the most wonderful smell. He wore a shawl, which I learned was made of llama hair — there are lots of llamas in Uruguay -– I’d never seen an American man wear anything like that but quickly noticed that most people wore them, as it was quite damp. He took us to lunch at a local parrillada where we watched the chef roast sausages and gorgeous cuts of beef; again, the aroma was dizzying. We came to love and look forward to our asado meals, always served with salads and lots of red wine.
I had a spectacular education – in growing up fast, in being exposed to the terrible poverty that existed in the world, to the selfless missionaries, to the leftist artists who admired Che but most stunning and sobering was the degree to which some people hated America.
Yet, as the weeks and months went by we also discovered that many people loved America and the good or wonderful things they associated with it. My fellow performers were a magician, two guitarists, and another singer. We’d created several versions of a one-hour show and tailored it to the audiences of the occasion. Magic shows for kids were easy and required very little talk. We knew no Spanish when we arrived but soon realized that we’d better learn some. One of our group spoke some Spanish and taught us some children’s songs. We also translated a one act play — “The Apple Tree,” about Adam and Eve, so universal but easier for our audiences to understand in Spanish. Little by little we learned Spanish, from expats, and Foreign Service attachés, waiters, students, other traveling artists and people we met after dozens and dozens of shows.
We performed in huge open fields for the poorest people in Peru, barefoot and stupefied by our looks, and in elegant salons with little gold chairs and velvet seats for the Anglos in Buenos Aires. We played in the American consulates in every large city, from Santiago to Sao Paulo to Rio, as well as in shabby churches run by Maryknoll priests. Once a Quechua woman with dusty legs, in a burlap skirt and bowler hat, came up to me after the show, put her baby in my arms and walked away. I didn’t grasp that she was giving the baby to me to have, not necessarily so the baby could have a better life, probably more because it was expendable and expensive. Another time, a man watched us one evening and the whole time he was busy doing something with his hands, hunched over, shoulders moving. After the performance, he gave me a wooden sculpture he’d carved during the show, of an Indian with braids down his back, holding a little stick and a cowhide drum.
Our audiences waited for us after the shows, or “Espectaculos,” wanting to touch our hair and skin and clothes. Staring at our teeth. We met well-known American, English and Latin performers, poets, writers and athletes. Each of us fell in love with someone: A student who accompanied us for a week in Chile, our State Dep’t. translator in Ecuador, a few Peace Corps volunteers, a wealthy vineyard owner in Argentina – all romantic, impossible, and somewhat reckless relationships.
The State Department encouraged us to chat with everyone, give autographs, and talk about what we liked about the country we were in – empanadas, ceviche, Pele, Rio beaches – you name it.
One night we performed at the Universidad Catolica in Belem, Brazil, near the mouth of the Amazon, in an auditorium designed by Oscar Niemeyer, the famous Brazilian architect. We could tell that the audience was a bit different from their reaction to some of the songs we did. We shifted gears and did some Shakespeare, Beatles and a few jokes we’d learned. They asked for Bob Dylan and Joan Baez songs and wanted to discuss politics. They were well dressed, and a few of the students stared hard at us during the show.
After the show a group of students asked if we would go out with them to have a drink or a bite. A few of our group begged off, but my friend Michele and I went. We didn’t speak Portuguese but could muddle along in Spanish and the students spoke English well. We said we’d go for a little while but had to catch a flight early the next morning so we couldn’t stay out late. We got in their VW bugs and soon realized we weren’t driving to a local restaurant or a bar but deep into the countryside. After about 45 minutes we came to a big house. They drank vodka and we drank Cokes. They became menacing and Michele and I became frightened. As they got drunker they accused of being US government agents. We asked them to bring us back to our hotel and bundled into the car in the black night — I was in the front seat and — as the car hurtled along, the guy in the back seat was burning a cigarette along my friend’s arm and she was shrieking. The driver told us that we should get ready to tell St. Peter how evil the US was and I panicked. In a split second, I shouted to the driver to look out for a cat in the road and when he slowed for a moment, I pushed the door open and tumbled out, screaming. Somehow Michele managed to open her door and pitched out. The VW gunned away into the night, doors flung open.
We were crying and agitated at the edge of a dark square. Soon, men in white nightcaps approached with lanterns and gaped disbelievingly at these two creatures, bleeding, scratched and disheveled, like extra terrestrials in their remote village. In my mind’s eye now, they seem like caricatures of the crooked nosed, protruding chinned puppeteers in the Commedia dell’ arte, illuminating the night. Women in nightgowns followed, and led us to the nuns in the local convent for the night.
It was the summer of Apollo 11, Judy Garland’s dying and Woodstock. And I experienced each of these iconic events representing my country in another hemisphere, far away from home through a new and clouded lens.
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