The hairdressers

On my first full day in Bolivia, whilst chatting with the woman I lived with, I casually mentioned that I needed my hair cut. I hadn´t got round to getting it done before I left England, and could barely see past my fringe. She smiled and said that she was planning to go to the hairdresser that day, and why didn´t I join her.

I agreed, though I was slightly worried about the quality of haircut I would receive. Her hair looked pretty good though so I figured it couldn´t be that bad, and so that evening we walked together after work to her hairdressers, not far away.

The salon was in the rich part of town, but had quite a shabby appearance. There was one sink, full of products and a hairdryer or two (they´re not so big on health and safety here), a slighly larger than normal Bolivian woman greeted us with a kiss on the cheek and told us to take a seat. She was currently cutting someone else´s hair. Another woman was getting her nails done next to us and a young girl of about 10 was sat beside her, painting her own nails.

I could tell this was a place where gossip was harboured and men were to be talked about but not seen. There was a TV in the corner of the room showing some kind of Spanish game show.

I took a seat and didn´t have to wait long until it was my turn. I got up, sat in the chair and mimed a little off my fringe and the ends and stated ¨solo un poquito¨- just a little bit, ¨por favor¨. The woman promoptly set to work, chatting to me and the other women in Spanish as she did so.

She did not wash my hair but sprayed it with water until I resembled a drowned rat. I should´ve known this was not going to go well at that point, everyone knows you should never cut a fringe when it´s wet or you will end up with it halfway up your forehead. The woman, lets called her Betty, began to untangle the birds nest on my head, I´d lost my luggage and hadn´t been able to brush my hair in about 4 days, the poor woman did have a job on her hands. She began to cut and I watched in dismay as much more than ¨un poquito¨ of my hair was hacked off and lay looking up at me from the lino floor. Of course, by this point it was too late to say anything and anyway I didn´t know the Spanish for ¨you are ruining my hair you crazy woman!¨- (well, not quite, I was lacking the verb ¨to ruin¨).

I crossed my fingers for my fringe´s health and was tempted to close my eyes but felt too rude. Betty continued to question me on where I was from etc and complimented me on my Spanish. I warmed to her very slightly.

That was until she began to attack my fringe, yes that´s right, attack it. In fact it´s quite difficult to relive this experience, and I only can now without squirming because it is now a month later and my hair seems to have just about recovered. But know one thing..it was much much shorter than I´d hoped for, and asked for. I began to imagine being laughed at on the streets and stared at even more than normal.

I thought the ordeal was over, surely there was nothing more that could possibly go wrong, but Betty began to hack into the sides of my hair giving me a Jennifer-Aniston-in-very-early-Friends look, when feathering was all the rage, and proceeded to dry my hair with a round brush, completing the 90s throwback look.

She stepped back to proudly examine her work and asked my what I thought. I was inwardly horrified but managed to be outwardly grateful, I didn´t want to offend anyone on my first day on the continent. I was thinking I´d simply have to avoid mirrors, photos and possibly all human life until it grew back. I wondered if anyone had invented fringe extensions yet.

I took a short walk to shame back to my previous seat whilst the woman I lived with took her turn in the torture chair. Somehow, she managed to escape unscathed, and her hair looked as nice as ever. Perhaps this was some kind of test, inaguration or punishment for foreigners.

Lost in such thoughts, I barely noticed the little girl sat next to me. Eventually I realised she was alternating between staring at me, her newly painted nails and flicking channels on the TV. She stopped flicking on the O.C and I was surprised to see Mischa (though have since realised that cable TV is abundant here as are American TV shows)  and asked her if she knew the programme. She shook her head and asked me what it was. I explained the gist of the programme though I didn´t really know that much about it, never having been a fan. She began to interrogate me on where I was from etc, when I replied that I was from England she looked up at me in awe and said ¨wow¨- no exaggeration needed, before quizzing me on every aspect of my life in England, gazing at me mouth open.

I made my next mistake of the evening, and admired her nails. Her face brightened ¨let me paint yours!¨she exlaimed and she looked so excited that I couldn´t say no.

I held out my hands, with my thoroguhly bitten nails and she asked me what colour I wanted. Feeling dejected and reasoning that my appearance couldn´t get much worse, I said she could choose. Purple it was. The same as hers, ¨like sisters¨, she commented. I grinned weakly and she beamed up at me.

She then proceeded to paint both my nails and fingers with a rather shaky hand, I watched for a bit but subsequently turned my attention to the OC until she´d finished. She eventually announced her handiwork was done and I looked down to what can only be described as a purple mess.

¨Gracias¨I said ¨eres un profesional¨ (what else could I do?!) She was grinning from ear to ear, evidently delighted. She turned to her mum who was getting her nails done (rather more professionally) to repeat what I´d said and her mother smiled at me appreciately. I had a feeling the girl would be boasting to all her friends that she´d painted an English girls nails for the next week.

My housemates hair was now cut, and while my nails were drying, she paid for both our haircuts, at least the butchering was free I suppose. We said goodbye and walked out into the night. I wondered if I could get away with  only going out in the night from now on. We took a taxi home, though had to change for another one on the way as someone went into the back of us. This night had been such a success: whiplash, butchered hair and ruined nails. I think the word car crash is definitely appropriate.

We eventually got home and my housemate handed me the nail varnish remover with a wry smile on her face. I thanked God nail varnish wasn´t permanent, and that hair grows back.

However, almost two months later  I have a bit of a problem. My fringe has indeed grown back and is currently blinding me, but I don´t know what to do! I do not wish for a repeat of my last experience but on the other hand am too attached to my fringe to grow it out, perhaps I´ll cut it myself. Could be interesting. Also in need of a leg wax but cannot imagine what horrors might await me in that department. I have a feeling I may return from South America a rather hairy girl.

Hospitals

I feel I should write something about my recent stay in hospital. The truth is I don´t really know what to say about it; should I comment on the feelings of dread I felt as I realised I had just eaten a nut, and when I felt my newly blown up face? Or perhaps on the walk to the hospital, when I had to be propped up by two people to stop me from fainting. Alternatively I could remark on my horror at waking up the middle of the night to discover my right drip·attached arm was paralysed with pain and that the ¨help¨button didn`t actually result in anyone coming to ¨help¨(switch the pain to the other arm) for a very long and painful twenty minutes. I think not, I don`t particularly want to relive these experiences, although I am aware that I just did.

Instead of further comment on such matters, I shall write about one of the most stark differences between English and Bolivian hospitals, excluding the obvious geographical and linguistic contrasts. One is free, the other, you have to pay for.

This difference became apparant pretty soon after I`d arrived at the hospital. After some oxygen and a couple of injections that is. The doctor said that I should be transferred to another clinic with beds, where I would need to stay to be observed. This began the lengthly debate of which hospital I should go to, unlike my normal self, who enjoys a good discussion, I barely participated. I couldn`t really talk through my oxygen mask, and was too whacked out on a nut·drug combination to really think much, let alone formulate and express an opinion. I also knew nothing of La Paz`s clinics. However, my friend informed me that those around where we live (the rich area) cost a fortune. Luckily the clinic I was at had a sister clinic in a cheaper district about twenty minutes away. Pros and cons of proximity vs. cost were bandied about, but eventually cheapness won, and it was decided I would go to Miraflores.

Next decision: how to get there. I was told I could take an ambulance if I wanted, for a small fee of 250 Bs, this is a lot of money. The alternative, a taxi, costs between 1.50 and 15 depending on which type you get. I wasn`t sure I needed an ambulance, though did feel that I might vomit. Again, cheapness won, and it was decided we would get a 15 B taxi, and that if necessary I would just have to vomit on the driver.

This decision made, my friend paid my first hospital bill, roughly 100Bs for some oxygen, 2 injections and a consultation, all in all lasting about fifteen minutes or so. I had abosolutely nothing on me, funnily enough I hadn`t considered money, seeing as I wasn`t sure if I would return, and I`d  left the house in a woozy, puffy, unable to breathe rush. Anyway, after paying we left the hospital and got a taxi to the new clinic. Luckily for me and everyone else involved, I managed to contain my vomit for the journey, the lucky toilet in my new room would instead receive such pleasures.

As I said, I don´t particularly wish to relive the actual hospital stay, but lets just say that 2 days, 3 crappily dubbed films, several friends episodes, one urine sample, several toilet trips, 3 drips (not to mention an unfortuanate incident where my blood came out of my hand up the drip, and the nurse tried to push it back in, this was like no pain I have experienced and I am sure was wrong on many many levels) later, I left the hospital.

Only one thing remained after I had removed my gown,  collected my belongings, of which there were few, and got dressed. The bill. I had a rather conspicous wad of cash on me which I`d had to get someone to get out for me whilst I was there. I also had no phone credit, so couldn`t even call anyone if I needed to, although the woman I live with was coming to meet me to take me home (bless her, she brought flowers!)

After I`d walked down the stairs to the reception, and marvelled at my lack of memory of the hospital on the way in, I asked for the bill. I had to wait ages for them to figure it all out and had been to the loo 3 times in the process (I`d also got a urine infection as a nut·result) and sat down for fear of fainting.

The big moment eventually arrived· big being the operative word: the bill amounted to 1475Bs. Rather a lot of money (roughly 140 pounds) but at least I had enough. This meant that once I`d  paid my rent I would be rather poor for the forseeable. Good times. They`d also given me a long list of drugs to buy at the pharmacy, 6 a day for 2 weeks to be precise. I`d have to borrow money to buy them.

I was pretty horrified at the cost of this excursion, I`d expected 700Bs or so and didn`t understand what could possibly have cost so much (I think it was the cable tv). My Bolivian housemate remarked on how cheap it was for the area, my American friend said that same. I pointed out that the pleasure of being ill is free in England. They looked shocked, not to mention jealous.

Consequently,  I`ve made a few resolutions as a result of this experience, they are as follows:

1. I will be extra vigilant of what I eat and resolve not to let anything remotely pastry based pass my lips again.

2. I will always buy travel insurance.

3. I will never, ever, be one of those people that complains about the NHS.

Uniforms

I want to talk about clothes. Please do not despair, I am not another Carrie Bradshaw wannabe. I promise there will be no mention of manolo blahnik (I just had to look up the spelling, am definitely no expert), and let me assure you there is no sex in this city. It’s far too high up for such exertions and also is sadly full of shorter-than-me men.

Back to clothes; I have never been anywhere where what you wear conveys so much about
you. Sure, I’ve been to Africa, I’ve seen kids in rags displaying their poverty for all to see and those in their school uniform who can afford an education, but here it’s different somehow, I’m not sure why. There are uniforms, worn by thousands. One such uniform is that of the chola, a particular type of Bolivian senora. This uniform consists of various elements. One such element is a long pleated skirt made up of several layers of petticoats in order to make the woman’s hips appear as wide as possible. These come in many different patterns and colours, from shiny bright blue to dull dark brown.  The fancier and brighter the pattern, the richer the chola. On top the woman tends to wear a large shawl with tassles, and embroidery, again of varying colours. There is sometimes a further brightly coloured stripey shawl which is an additional extra. This shawl forms a kind of sack, and usually contains either the chola’s wares (fruit/bread) or a small child – whose hat-covered-head can be seen to poke out occassionally, demanding food or some other necessity.

Cholas have very dark hair, which is worn in two long plaits which are often extended by bits of wool and tied together at the bottom. However, for me, the most important part of the outfit sits above the body. It is the hat. A bowler hat to be more precise. This rests not exactly  on the head, but literally balances on top of it, in fact I have no idea how. Perhaps over generations these women have developed the appropriate head shape to wear such garments. Who knows.

As all good uniforms should, this uniforms tells us what the cholas do, and what they do is many things. The cholas are La Paz, and La Paz is the cholas, without them it cannot function. They are everywhere; they can be seen calling out destinations and collecting money in minis, they can be found lining the streets, selling their wares, many of them have little stalls that sell everything from phone credit to popcorn. Others sell freshly squeezed juices, that must be drunk upon buying so that the glass can be reused. Others clean houses, or do laundry. To my surprise others even shift rocks on the side of the road. The really poor ones simply sit on the side of the street and plead, or those slightly less poor have a small basket full of fairly useless objects such as chewing gum, sweets and tissues which they attempt to sell to any unsuspecting victim who happens to pass them by.

However, as far as I know, cholas do not work in offices in La Paz (unless they are cleaning them), they also do not drive the buses and they do not teach in the schools.  I did the other day see one on TV, and I am informed that she is in the government, so apparantly some cholas do progress a little further than simply cleaning the government buildings.

In stark contrast to your average chola, there is another breed of women here. These women do work in the offices and the schools of La Paz  (although they do not drive the buses). These women could not look more different to the cholas, they wear heels, straight hair and suits. They wear make up and a smile, and they carry no children or wares on their backs. They are the “new” La Paz, the “La Paz Lider” as the signs tell us.

I met a group of young teenagers lately, and I am sure they will grow up to be the second type of woman. One of them had a cosmotologist and another wanted to be a model. The one who actually looked like she could be a model, of course had no interest in such things (or perhaps she lacks the pushy mother of the other). The one who has both a desire to model and a pushy mother (I shall not comment on the relationship between the two) appeared to eat nothing but celery, she also told me that she regularly attends pilates and has recently plastered her waist (as if it was broken) in an attempt to make herself thinner.

She was envious of my height (short in England, tall in Bolivia) and my hips, and she gave a girly grin when her friend mentioned how thin she was looking (very). From what I could gather, she spends her days monitoring her height, weight and every calorie she consumes. But she will never be tall enough to be a “real” model, and I think, deep down, she knows this.

These girls wear different nice, expensive looking clothes, and go to the best schools in La Paz. They were nice girls and I do not wish to diss them, but they live in another world to the cholas. To them (and I suppose I am reluctant to admit, to me) the cholas are the women who clean their homes and sell them peaches on the street.

In another part of La Paz (not geographically, but metaphorically you understand) there is another type of uniform that I have yet to mention. This uniform is that of the shoe shine boys. These boys (usually about 17 years old but they can be of any age, the youngest I have seen being about 6) do not look across the streets but down them. They are searching for anyone who has shoes that may need polishing.

I am often accosted by these men, who offer to shine my boots for 1 B. Today, I was as usual offered such services, by manner of a boy looking at me, to my shoes, and back at me. I hesitated and looked down at my boots, they did indeed look rather scruffy. I succumbed and seconds later had my foot on a little stool whilst the boy feverently polished my boots. I asked him how much, I didn’t want to fall into the same trap as my friend who had forgotten to ask and ended up paying 20Bs for what usually costs 1. I also needed the little money I had on me to buy lunch, I had just spent all the cash I had (a rather large amount) on booking a tour to see the salt lakes in my holidays.

“1B?”  I asked? “I am very hungry” he replied. “So am I” I retorted (it was true!) I then reminded myself just why it was I was short of money, I had just spent it on a holiday, and I gave him 2Bs for his trouble. We chatted briefly about such nicities as his age, and where I was from, and I continued on my way and he on his, me striding ahead with my newly shined shoes and him once again scouring the crowd for potential business.

I have neglected to mention his uniform, he wears dark clothes, and a balaclava and he carries a shoe shine kit containing brown and black shoe shine, a cloth and a little stand where he does his work. The balacklava I used to assume was for the fumes, but I´ve recently learned it serves to hide his face from the shame of being a shoe shine boy.

Out of these three uniforms, the chola, the rich girl and the shoe shine boy, I wonder who has it worse? The boy making 1B at a time, who spends his life sat on the floor constantly checking the shoes of passers by? Or is it the woman who gets up at 6am every day in the cold, who spends her life in the hope that someone might want some chewing gum, she checks her baby is warm and her pockets for change, to see if she can afford to feed him. Or perhaps, it is the rich girl, who craves a perfect body and the success that comes with it. She spends her days checking her appearance, her height and her weight.

The truth is she will never be tall enough.