Would you rather stand in front of a crowd in your underwear or...

At the end of the past week, Mano a Mano invited me to join them in helping open a clinic they had just finished building in Aramasí. Don't feel bad that you don't know where that is. No one does. I think that's kind of the point. Suffice it to say, that Aramasí is about an hours drive from Cochabamba, and one of the most pathetically ugly villages I have ever seen. It sits in the center of an extremely flat valley and is just a very large collection of small mud huts. Approximately 10,000 people call this paradise home, and I hope all of them like brown, because that is the prevailing color.
On Thursday, we took a large crew to Aramasí to outfit the newly constructed clinic. After Mano a Mano builds a clinic, they bring all the supplies to get it up and running. We set up everything, including the staff housing, so that the final product is a turn-key operation for the receiving village. Then, on Friday, an inauguration was scheduled, in order to have a Grand Opening of the new clinic and turn over control to the village and their leadership.
Of course, Friday, after working through Carnaval and few extra days for good measure, the transportistas went back on strike. Large blockades were set up at all the entrances to the city and no public transport was running. I think the strikers got a little lazy over the holiday, as some of the found objects from which the blockades were constructed bordered on ridiculous this time: small branches, leaves, dirt and coconuts don't strike me as the most efficient way to stop traffic.
However, Mano a Mano has a four wheel drive vehicle and is not to be deterred from their mission so easily. We found back roads and tracks out of the city, and Dr. Velásquez, Mano a Mano's director/blockade-runner driver, fittingly drove like he was being chased by an naval warships.
We bounced into town just slightly behind schedule and about 300 meters from the clinic came across a bike accident. A boy had somehow fallen and gotten his leg wedged in between the spokes and frame of his bike. He couldn't get free and his foot was bent at a very unnatural angle. We jumped out of the 4WD and went to help. Dr. Velásquez used a tool kit to disassemble the bike frame and free the boys foot... basically a "jaws of life" operation, but quieter. After deciding the boy would still be able to walk, he was advised that there was a brand new clinic just down the road, and we headed that way.
The inauguration ceremony was very well attended. Hundreds of villagers were there and hundreds of students from the school arrived in a parade carrying flags. The clinic was festively decorated and huge speakers were set up. Multiple Mano a Mano directors joined the mayor of the village, the doctor for the clinic, and other local officials. Everyone took turns giving speeches and loud music was played.
I was tasked with photographing the event, so imagine my surprise when someone announced into the microphone that "Our volunteer from Alaska will now come forward and read the dedication plaque!" I think that was the last Spanish I clearly understood. My peripheral vision went white and my knees went weak. I politely tried to beg off. I am functionally illiterate in Spanish. From a distance as if thru water, I heard the man with the microphone offer that I could 'read in English if I wanted.' Since the plaque was in Spanish, that meant adding translation work to the horror in front of me.
Not wanting to be rude and not seeing a hole to fall into, I took the microphone, looked at the group of almost 1000 Bolivians gathered in the sun in front of me, and began to read,  croaking out pieces of words in Spanish. I stumbled over syllables and paused at least once in the middle of every word. But that's not the bad part. Do you have any idea how many numbers are on a dedication plaque? The plaque was between 15 and 20 lines and at least every third line had a multiple digit number: my Achilles heal! I almost cried every time I came to a number I couldn't pronounce. I stupendously finished by reading the date: "Marzo de..." and having no idea how to say "2011". Someone finally whispered "dos mil once" and got me out of the spotlight just as I was thinking I would rather be standing in front of all these Cholitas (traditional Bolivian women that dress in big skirts, hats and wear braids) in my underwear.
After all the speeches were finished, it seemed that half the village wanted to say 'thank you' and I learned that in Aramasí, you shake hands, kiss on both cheeks, and then shake hands again. This is cumbersome in a crowd of well wishers. Eventually we were escorted to the market and were fed a ridiculously large 'thank you' meal. Everyone was staring at me for the rest of the day, and I figured they were all thinking: "there's that stupid gringa that can't read numbers in Spanish." But, I guess it's just as likely that they were just staring at the tall white girl, which is pretty common reaction to tall white girls here in Bolivia.