Walking Home

It’s hot. I’m walking home after a birthday party. I’ve eaten too much dulce de leche cake and I’m feeling a little sick. The party was of a four year old, so it’s only 8pm but I feel worn out and sticky, resembling the remnants of the cake no doubt.

From: http://www.recetascocinas.com

I wait for the green (yellow) man and cross the busy street with the masses. No one walks quickly, it’s too humid to be in a rush, plus it’s Saturday so that means that doing as little as possible is not only desirable but expected. The shops on the side streets are obeying this rule, they have their shutters down and the lights off, but on the main avenue it’s business as usual.

A clothing shop boasts ventas por mayor y menor.  My latest Buenos Aires revelation is that this claim doesn’t advertise sales for old and young people, but in fact brags you can buy in bulk or normally. I marvel again at this discovery as I pass a shop with floor to ceiling tupperware. It says descuentos por mayor. A few months ago I would’ve thought that pensioners had a discount, but now I get that the more plastic bins you buy, the cheaper they become. I wonder whether I might need a tupperware bin. I don’t. I walk on.

I attempt to get out cash at 5 cash machines in 3 different banks before I eventually find one that has some money. To enter the cash machine booth I have to swipe my card to open the door. Everytime I do this I feel sure I am going to swipe the wrong way and be stuck there like an idiot for 10 minutes turning my card this way and that before I get it right. This happens. There is a woman waiting inside the bank and she watches me struggle, not bothering to open the door for me. She also lets me try out the cash machine she has just discovered has no money in it before looking at me with a “this country” shake of the head. I imagine she blames the newly reelected president for the lack of money in the bank.

From http://www.servicios.salvador.edu.ar

She is wearing white trousers and a cream top. I wonder what it about these colours that either signify someone as rich (Buenos Aires) or poor (council estate in England). She has strappy sandals and dyed blonde hair. She’s carrying several shopping bags and has painted nails. I know she has strappy sandals, painted nails and shopping bags before I even look.

When I do eventually find a cash machine that works, I feel surprised to hear the whir of the money coming out. It’s so shocking I almost walk away with my prize and leave my bank card in the machine. But then I remember for the hundreth time that here the money comes out before the card. And I remember that when I lost my last card it took a month and several hours of queues to get a new one. I retrieve card, money and receipt, and wonder why the security guard is staring at me.

I continue, past the bazaar selling chrismas lights and santa figuerines, past the man on the street selling holographic religious placemats, and past the flower stand, with its welcome whiff of jasmine.

From: http://www.fractalmegaforce.blogspot.com

I take a left, down a dimly lit street, the trees cast shadows on the cracked pavement, making the hazardous holes in the road difficult to make out. A thin woman walks past with a tiny white poodle on a lead. It has a bow on top of its head. A chubby man walks past with two bigger dogs, and shouts at them in an attempt to lure them away from the rubbish bags they are so eager to sniff.

At the next set of rubbish a man rummages through the bags, looking for cardboard to add to his haul. His pile is already far taller than him, and he wears the flourescent clothing of his trade.

From: http://www.border-blog.com

I cross another main street, and am narrowly missed by a motorbike which whizzes past me, ignoring the red traffic light. I realise my shoes hurt and stop to adjust them, I read the sign for the gym next to me, it boasts pilates, reggateon and aerolatino. I don’t know what aerolatino is.

Ahead, a girl jumps on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike. He wears a helmet yet she carries hers like a fashion accessory. They whiz off into the night. A breeze whooshes softly by, welcome in the stuffy night air. Drip, drip, drip go the air conditioning units above my head. They leave pools of water on the floor. they leave drops of what is probably other people’s sweat on my shoulder.

I turn another corner and, focused on the pavement, I nearly bash into a woman carrying her shopping bags. Perdon – sorry, we say, Nooo, esta bien – it’s ok, we reassure each other, and we continue on.

I’m nearly home now, and I walk past the estacionamiento – car park. The old man who works there has abandoned his usual glass office, he’s rolled out the wheely chairs and sits in front of the cars, proudly guarding those under his care whilst he contemplates the street before him. He looks at his watch. I look at the empty chair beside him. He looks at me and for a moment I think he’s going to say something. A younger guy approaches the other chair, mate in hand. Hollaa hermosaa – hello beautiful he winks at me. The older guy takes the mate and nods his head.

From: http://www.taringa.net

I look up, and notice for the first time that a couple of the apartments have fairy lights on their balconys. Garish blue and green flash at me from the 5th floor. A softer yellow set keep a watchful eye from the highest flat.

I also notice that the doorways of a couple of apartment blocks have christmas trees in them. I wonder if my building will get a christmas tree. I doubt it. I also wonder if I’m supposed to give my porter, or portero, some kind of christmas tip.

I walk in the door, “buenas noches”, Washington, my portero is sitting on the step, his usual perch. H always has a contented look in his eye, whether he’s taking out the rubbish or cleaning the floor at 9 in the morning. “Buenas noches joven” he responds. We smile. And I’m home.

La Ferreteria

My favourite place in Buenos Aires is not the milonga, nor is it the steak house, and it is most definitely not the obelesico. No, mine is a pleasure that back home I’d consider a chore. The fruit and veg shop, the stationary store and the place you get your clothes fixed proved tough competition but somewhere else has won the battle. If all human life gathers at the dump in England and the The Market in Bolivia, then BA’s equivalent must be la ferreteria. The Americans say the hardware store, I don’t even know what the British call it  (it’s easier if you live in Trowbridge, then it’s Knees), but here it is ferreteria, where wrongs can be righted and no job is too small.

From the outside, window displays are feats in themselves. At my local (you heard it here first, hardware is the new beer) hairdryers are stacked next to jumbles of wires, on top of cutlery, balanced between bike locks and watering cans. I used to feel afraid of these places, which I felt sure were man’s worlds full of things I didn’t understand.

One day I was forced to face my fear to get some keys cut, and I was right, I don’t understand, but it’s not scary. Although the Aladdin’s caves makes me realise I don’t know half the vocabulary that surrounds me, (how do you say potato masher in Spanish? Or spanner? Broom?) this only serves to make me feel an odd mix of humble and curious. These objects are hung from all angles in a seemingly random order which I feel sure has a secret design. Not only do I respect this ordered muddle but I also admire the people amongst it who amicably help with questions and are accurate in their answers.

The other day I went in to buy a hosepipe –manguera, a word, believe it or not, I didn’t even have to look up (diez puntos para mi) My boss had advised me when I moved in to my flat that I needed one to clean my large patio. I had naturally ignored the advice and cleaning task by avoiding the purchase. However, 6 months, several al-fresco parties and one attempt later I realised he was right. A bucket and one of those rubber brushes (I don’t even know the names for this stuff in English, what chance have I got?) was just not up to the job.

“How big’s the tap?” the overalled man asked me. This question, along with the cleaning, was what I’d been afraid of. I’d tried to measure it but seeing as it was round and I only had a plastic 15cm ruler it had been a tricky task. I relayed my dodgy estimate to my guy and from what looked like out of nowhere but was surely some sort of treasure chest, a red manguera appeared. “About this width?” I really wasn’t sure and ummmed and ahhhed a bit, asking if I could bring it back if it didn’t fit. The man looked equally unsure.

Who knows how long we might’ve continued in this vein if an older guy who’d been sipping some mate in the corner and looked like a genie awoken from his slumber hadn’t come to our rescue. “Cut her off a piece of it so she can go home and try”. What a great idea! The suggestion made perfect sense, why buy what I wasn’t sure about when I could test it for free and make a wise purchase later on? With that the younger guy chopped me off a hosepipe chunk and off I hopped to try it out.

It was too big and fell off immediately. Back I went and yet again out of nowhere/the depths of the cave a hosepipe appeared. This time it was yellow and blue striped. “This is our standard”, said the younger man and he opened up a brand new packet containing a plastic tap to try it out. After a bit of wiggling (which, he informed me, was essential) it fit.

I declared that I would take it. Had I been less aware that I needed to get to work, I might’ve borrowed a tape measure to go and check exactly how much hose I needed, but looking at my watch I decided 4 metres would do. I didn’t have the 25 of AR$20.25, but the man said he’d forgive me, I thought he meant for not having change (indeed a sin) but it turned out he let me off altogether. It was only 25 cents but still, I was as happy as any Argie who gets to hold onto their coins (i.e. ecstatic).

The doorknob jiggled about happily as I walked out, maybe it knew that it had one of the coolest names in the Spanish language, picaporte. It was almost falling off in excitement though, you’d think they might fix that.

I arrived home, now running late but anxious to see if I had indeed made a successful purchase. The pipe did wiggle onto the tap but only stretched halfway across the patio. Well, never mind. I didn’t want to dampen my own success. Surely I didn’t need to 4 out of 6 clean metres would do.

Since then, I’ve been looking for excuses to return. The men in there had been so kind, I’d felt they were committed to my cause, not because they wanted my money but because they wanted to solve the problem. That’s what’s so great about the specialist shops that abound here, these people care for their trades. Who in Tesco really cares about the stuff they sells? Or even knows what they’re selling?

I’ve often wondered how all these tiny shops survive, within 4 blocks of me there are 3 ferreterias to choose from, but now that I know my guys, I wouldn’t dream of going elsewhere. I even feel a little guilty if I look in the window of a rival (it’s ok, they’re not as good).  I’ve discovered the key to the cerrajeria– customer loyalty. I bet some people are as loyal to their ferreteria as they are to their football team, and  around here, that’s saying something.

I’ve been back a few times, to get some more keys cut, to buy some drain unblocker – soda caustica (yes, I did have to look that one up) and to try to find a part for a broken heater. Today I wanted some new batteries for my guitar tuner, which I couldn’t even open. The younger guy prised it and a new pack of batteries apart in under a minute. He didn’t attempt to sell me the whole box of 4, but instead carefully selected exactly the amount I required. I adore this system, it also applies in the pharmacy, why buy 10 tablets when you only want 4? He tested out the tuner, and after singing into it to assure it worked (it declared him flat) we had a brief music chat before he charged me 11 pesos and sent me on my way.

On the way out (the door was still broken), I had a sneaky peek at the un-priced milk jugs, feather dusters and flower pots and thanked “underdevelopment” that I wasn’t in some garish supermarket. Forget Iguazzu falls, wine tours or glaciers, the real Argentina lives behind the doors of your local ferreteria. The allure is indeed so great, that I find myself wondering what I could possibly break in order to have to fix. I guess I could always go in for light bulbs or a torch, power cuts are pretty adundant these days.

Checklist for a good city

Anyone who has travelled to Buenos Aires (BA) can tell you about the abundance of tango, the delicious steaks and the national obsession with football. These things are not to be knocked, and should be explored and appreciated by any visitor. But for me, someone settling into a new life here, there are other, more subtle factors to be considered, and these are what make BA a place really worth sticking around in.

Direction Dilemmas

You can be utterly lost; frantically turning your map upside down, inside out and cursing the fact that being on the right road does not mean you are remotely near your destination, and there is no need to panic, help is at hand! Ask anyone on the street and they will try their absolute best to help you out, I have had people take the map from me for a better look, ask their friends to check and even better, their directions are correct! If you find, (like me) that you have an inability to remember directions however helpfully they are given (I am sure when someone is giving me directions a little bird flies into my head, buzzes around for a few minutes before going on its directionless way) there’s still no need to despair, there’s bound to be another friendly local just waiting to help you out at the next corner. Just don’t ask for coins for the bus, when it comes to change, you are truly on your own.

Parks

In a city as huge as Buenos Aires (around 13 million) you would think that the city would feel suffocating, huge and ready to consume you greedily at any moment. In actual fact, unless on the subte (underground), it does not feel like this, the streets are wide for one thing, and there are plenty of pretty squares, parks and green spaces in which to go and find solace. The squares tend to have some kind of fancy centre piece such as statue of an important Argentine figure, are often scattered with dog walkers (plus rather large quantities of dog pooh) and are great places to observe local life. The funniest thing about BA’s green spaces is that they are often just next to a busy road, one minute you are about to be run down by traffic coming at you in all directions, the next you are sat on the grass watching a football match.  Who know the path between motorways and pleasure was so small?

Waiters

The waiters in Buenos Aires tend to be incredibly helpful. For example, you can ask them what is in a particular dish and they will actually give you the entire list of ingredients. This quirk, albeit a slight information overload when all you want to know is if a dish contains nuts, means that you do tend to know exactly what you are getting. The menu is often similarly helpfully labelled. A salad of egg and potatoes, is in fact just that, egg and potatoes. The waiters are also courteous; they give you little bows or a respectful nod of the head when you leave. They appear to take pride in their jobs and they do them well. Of course, I have no idea what they are really thinking, perhaps they are secretly willing all their customers to be obliterated by monster hailstones (actually likely to happen here), if they are, they hide it well, and BAs waiting association (they should definitely invent one if they haven’t already) could easily hand out several Oscars for such convincing acting skills.

Markets, dancing and community

The other day I went to my local market, it was, essentially, a jumble sale. Full of piles of unwanted clothes, a place where fishing rods are sold next to old adaptor plugs and the occasional gramophone. For any lover of junk-rummaging it was a gold mine, and there were bargains galore. But this market held more than just cast-offs; I got the sense that it was a very strong part of the local community. All the vendors helped each other out by looking after each other’s stalls when one popped off to buy a piece of homemade cake or something from the bbq. There was also a “music corner” with hoards of old records, a band playing folklore music and people dancing. I love folkloric dance, where else do you see people waving around handkerchiefs and clapping along to rhythms that everyone knows. Several people had even brought deckchairs to watch this event and everyone seemed to know each other. The folkloric music/dancing seemed to be mainly for the older generation. Later on I saw what the young people were up to, a group of drummers and dancers were practising in another park down the road.

People coming together to sell junk, eat homemade cake, dance and play music seems like an excellent idea to me. The more time I spend in South America the more I think that Latinos really do know how to have fun. Porteños (people from BA) can also give directions, have green spaces and nice waiters. Maybe I should write to the Lonely Planet and tell them I’ve come up for some new criteria to judge cities. Perhaps they could include them next to the “dangers and annoyances” section. I have a feeling this section is large in the BA guidebook and it might help to balance things out a little.

Leaving La Paz

As I prepare to leave  Bolivia at the end of the month, I have been thinking about my experiences here and the things that I like best (and least) about this country.

People here are  incredibly patriotic, something which I find really  nice. A lot of the local produce here says “proudly Bolivian” on it. People are also very proud of their culture, and they are incredibly culture rich. Each region has its own traditional dish and traditional dress. The music here is also a big thing. Sometimes it seems like they are stuck in a bit of a time warp, the same songs are always played and most music you hear is old. However they have their own rhythms and musical instruments, mostly to do with folklore, and everyone knows the songs. I went to a concert of a Bolivian band and there is one song called “viva mi patria Bolivia”  –  long live my homeland Bolivia. During the song everyone got out their handkerchiefs and waved them about, there was a group of grannies in front of me waving their handkerchiefs around though they could barely move otherwise, it was so sweet!

People here are also incredibly welcoming and generous, you meet them once and they treat you like family. For my birthday I was invited to the home of a family I know and was given a present, had a special meal made for me and I even got a birthday cake! As I left (with the remains of the cake) they kept telling me I mustn`t forget them and how good it was to meet me. It was so lovely, and I had only met this family once before.

Not everyone is quite so friendly unfortunately, some people just assume you are rich and try to rip you off whatever you do. Alongside the culture of generosity and welcoming people, there is also a side that tries to deceive you. A Bolivian friend once admitted that he knew that at the end of the day, he would deceive us, because it is part of his culture. It can be small things, an extra 50 cents for a drink, which direction something is in or whether your bags will go straight onto the bus. Or sometines it is bigger, I was being charged more rent than I should have been at my old house just `cos the woman I lived with felt like lying to me.

Maybe it is the culture of corruption, that leaks down from those with power. Or perhaps it is that people need to make such small deceptions just to get by. I guess you can`t knock them for trying, despite the manana culture here, people do work hard. As far as I can figure out, pretty much anything can be a job. For example there is the “sharpening man”, this man has a big metal wheel,which is itself on wheels. He carts his wheel around the city in search of those who need things sharpened. You can bring him scissors, knives even an eyeliner and he will push the pedal to make the wheel go round to sharpen it for you. When he`s sharpened all there is to sharpen in one area he goes off to the next.

There is also a man whose job it is to stand in the middle of the road and tell the minibuses how late they are for their rounds. I say it`s a job, he doesn`t actually get paid he lives off tips, though I doubt he gets many as he often gets abused by the bus drivers.

Some people make a living selling just one simple thing, for example they sell pens, and they stand on the street all day shouting “pens, one boliviano” or whatever. I used to think these people were ridiculous until I realised it`s `cos they cannot afford the inital investment to buy more stock and so are stuck with their one item.They can sell all sorts of things, for example there is a shoelace guy who walks around with a bundle of different coloured shoelaces. Or the cableperson, holding reels of cable. It can be very useful, one day for example I was preparing to go on a trip to the salt flats and had everything I needed except face wipes. I was in luck, I passed the face wipe woman and bought a packet.

These people must make a pittance but you do really have to give them credit for trying. Think of all those people on the dole in England, if you told them to go out on the street and sells pens all day I doubt they would do it. That`s the thing, there`s no dole here.

Before I came here, many people asked me why I wanted to come, some didn`t even know where Bolivia was. The truth is Bolivia has a lot to offer a “tourist” or “gringo” in terms of  “attractions”.  Some of the landscapes here are absolutely stunning.  I have been to the salt flats, seen volcanoes and visited the jungle all within one country.

Overall I think I will miss Bolivia for many things:  its cholitas and their bowler hats,  saltenas on the street (these are little pastrys with meat, veg and gravy inside), the markets, the brightness of La Paz (though not the coldness at night),  juice in a bag for 50 centavos, the Bolivian sweets I have an addiction to, and for the people I have met here. Viva mi patria Bolivia…though I still don`t have a handkerchief.

Peru

In case anyone´s interested, Evo won the election.

For the past two and a bit weeks I have been away from La Paz, Morales and Bolivia. I spent Christmas and New Years in Peru. I enjoyed being able to explore some more of the continent, giving me even more of a feel for the Latin life.

At first glance, Peru seems pretty much the same as Bolivia, and it a lot of ways it is very similar. However, it is much more touristy and Peruvians seem to be much more “onto it” when it comes to making money. In other words, there are many more tourist traps.

However, a country is not just its tourism, and the best bit of travelling I think, is the people you meet. You could see all the wonders of the world, but without meeting and chatting the locals, you will never really know or get a feel for the place. We met many Peruvians along the way, and there are a few incidents that for me, capture the essence of the place.

One day, upon having a few hours to spare in Arequipa before a bus trip (they are even “onto it” on the buses, people come on and try and sell you stuff, sweets, books, even medicine!) Gary and I decided to head to the main plaza to do some busking. As a busking virgin, I felt a little nervous, but we recieved such a nice reception (and a fair amount of money) that I feel it won´t be my last time.

An old man came to talk to us about where we were from and where we´d learned to play, a woman gave us a few soles (the Peruvian currency) and commented that she knew what it was like to be in a different country and not know anyone. A cute little boy came over with a sol and a smile. People seemed shocked to see gringos busking, as it normally something beggars do. I am not sure if they assumed we were poor (we were probably looking fairly tatty thanks to unwashed clothes and cold showers)  but we were definitely a bit of a novelty!

After moving spots, a group of schoolchildren gathered round and asked if I was going to sing. They wanted to see if they could understand the English I think. I don´t know if they did but they started dancing around and cheering and a small crowd gathered. One girl asked me if I could play something “from the heart”. This made me chuckle, Latinos are so romantic. I shall have to learn some soppy crowd pleasers for next time. Nevertheless, even without the romance, coins were dropped onto my grubby cardigan and 2 of the teenagers even bought us ice creams! I couldn´t actually eat the ice cream as it was nut flavoured, but was touched all the same.

After an hour or so we´d made enough for a good lunch, so off we went to feast on our earnings.

The next incident makes me giggle just to think about it, I don´t actually know if I will be able to do it justice on paper (well on screen) but I shall try. We were on a bus off to a little village called Chivay with many surrounding things to do and see. It was a big bus, a coach I suppose but there weren´t enough seats so a few people were sat in the aisles or standing up. About an hour in, the luggage guy lead 5 of these people to the back of the bus, into the toilet and locked the door.

This was strange for several reasons, firstly I´d asked the driver before we´d got on if there was a toilet and he´d said it didn´t work. Secondly, lets think about this, 5 grown people, in a bus toilet. How was this even possible?! I was imagining one on the toilet, another  hanging out the window and another crouched under the sink, but even so, what about the other two?! Were they all piled up on the toilet? Maybe one of them had fallen in, toilet seats did seem to be a rarity in Peru. I wasn´t the only one to find 5 people being herded into a toilet amusing, people all around me were laughing too.

I began to speculate that perhaps the toilet “not working” was in fact some sort of code that I just didn´t understand. Maybe, what appeared to be a toilet was actually a tardis, where they were all sat comfortably on a sofa eating popcorn and watching tv. Or maybe they were taking part in some kind of weird ritual I´d never heard of.  Five people and five flushes equal good luck? Perhaps, there was a genie in there granting them wishes. I almost wanted to go.

Ten minutes later, just as I was beginning to decorate the tardis in my head and decide on my wishes the man came back and let the people out. They emerged one by one, there were no traces of popcorn (maybe they didn´t want to make us jealous) and noone seemed as if they´d fallen down the toilet. In fact, quite the contrary, they all came out grinning from ear to ear. I think it must´ve been a genie, especially as when they came out there were enough seats!!

That´s one thing that I love about this continent, just as you get comfortable, something utterly ridiculous and illogical happens. Simple tasks that would take seconds in England last hours here where you have to complete a number of seemingly uselsess tasks to get to what you actually want to do. For example, in shops, there seem to be about twenty people doing just one person`s job. If you go to the pharmacy for example, it will be full of staff who, whatever you ask them for, they say they are busy and point you to someone else. Simply buying suncream consisted of asking 3 different people one of whom eventually got the suncream out, then to tell us that it would be cheaper if we bought two smaller tubes rather than one big one. They then went to put the other suncream away before getting out the one we actually wanted. Then, they give you a receipt of what you want to buy, you go somewhere else to pay, then back to the person who got it for you to pick it up. The entire process takes even longer by the fact that other people keep pushing in and talking over you whenever you ask for something.

Maybe this is something we´ve lost in England, perhaps we are too logical for our own good. I mean why buy suncream in 5 minutes if it can take you 15 and you get to talk to 6 people instead of one?! People here are much less impatient than those in England, probably beacause things are like this, and everyone and everything is always late. As an English person you´d probably think that it´s irritating but I actually kind of like it. People at home stress way too much. Maybe efficiency is overrated? Or maybe I´m slowly turning Latino, I´ll be singing romantic songs and performing weird rituals in toilets before I know it!

On being English

I know I´ve been here a while for several reasons. One, which hits me in the face like a lightning bolt both morning and night is that I´ve run out of toothpaste. It isn´t one of those little tubes either, it´s a bumper one, that claims to brighten, freshen and presumably stand on it´s head and do a little dance whilst it´s at it. Going through a whole tube of toothpaste is no mean feat, it takes several months of minty fresh breath and the murder of a lot of plaque to achieve. So now I´m down to the point where I´m rolling up the tube to get the last little squirts out. After that game´s over I suppose I´ll have to give in and buy a new one. It will probably still be Colgate, that´s not a problem, but it will tell me all about it´s wonderful properties in a language that is not my first.

I think I find my English products sort of comforting, like little reminders of that lovely green island. But these days I am no longer moisturised by a raspberry Body Shop explosion, nor do I have Lushious Long Aussie hair. As each product runs out, I almost feel further away from home. And it´s not just these products, or lack of products that make me think I´ve been here a while, there are other, less obvious signs.

I no longer have to wander aimlessly till I find where I am going. I know which are the good places to eat at and which give you food poisoning (though every now and then I am caught out with somewhere new and have to reaquaint myself with the toilet for a few days). I know and understand the local transport system, the routes and their costs. I exchange pleasantries with the cholita in my local shop and even know the name of her daughter.

I´ve even started shortening ¨buenos dias/tardes/noches¨ to simply ¨buenos¨, and ¨por favor¨ to ¨por fa¨. I´m clearly getting lazy.

Despite this, I can´t escape the fact that I´m English, and still stand out like a sore thumb. I get stared at a lot here, especially if I wear a skirt above the knee. The culture here is quite reserved, more so than in the rest of Bolivia and most girls wear trousers, while cholitas wear long skirts. I´m pretty sure knees are a novelty here and perhaps that´s why I attract wolf whistles, wows and just plain stares. It´s not just the men either, it´s women, children and their grandparents.

One thing I´ve noticed about here is that people are very jealous. They don`t seem to like it when you have things they don`t and in terms of relationships, men and women seem to get very jealous.

I´m not sure if the women stare at me out of jealousy. It´s true that a lot of Latina women want a gringo man, so perhaps that´s the case when I´m with Gary or another potential-boyfriend gringo.

Another thing I´ve noticed about the women here is that they don´t have any hips. I can´t fit into most trousers here because of this, the women just seem to go straight up and down like ironing boards. I have reason to believe they may be jealous of this, a few people have commented on it, and a girl I know once asked me where I got my hips from and said she was jealous.  Also, the reason the cholitas wear so many petticoats here is to give the illusion of hips. So it´s possible that explains the stares.

I also have another feature that is rare here, and therefore perhaps stare-worthy, blue eyes. I´ve realised since travelling how different British people look to each other. An English person can be blonde, dark or light brown, red and various shades inbetween. All Bolivians have dark almost black hair and dark almost black eyes. It´s hard (or perhaps easy depending on which way you look at it)  to describe a Bolivian…she´s short, with brown eyes and hair. It could be anyone. As I have none of these features, I guess that could explain the stares.

I think being English here is perhaps a little bit what it´s like to be a celebrity in England, without the paparazzi, twittering, and the adoption of African children. It´s more unusual than being American and the Americans are in general not liked here. For example they have to pay for a VISA to enter the country whereas other nationalities do not. The word gringo which was originally an offensive term, in fact refers to the Yanks. This is because they used to wear green coats, also I´m told the ¨go¨part means¨go away¨.

Aside from the stares and my new found celebrity status, it´s still true that I´ve been here a while. I mean as I said, I´ve run out of toothpaste, what more evidence does one need?! I can also think of another way I know I´ve been here a while, if someone tells me they´ll meet me at 1pm, I know that means 1pm Bolivian time, and I turn up at 1.30, often to find they´re not there.

Basically, even though I´m settled here I cannot escape the fact that I´m English, clearly, I don´t look Bolivian and also English habits appear to run deep. I still drink Earl Grey every day thanks to some generous suppliers back home, I drink said tea with milk, something which is unheard of here, and I have marmite sandwiches with my tea. I print off crosswords from the Guardian website and do them whilst savouring my English treats. I am still sarcastic as ever, another thing they don´t get here. Perhaps one thing that defines me most of all as English is my feelings, as much as I like it, I still find it a little odd that I am expected to kiss strangers on the cheek when I meet them. Sometimes it’s just not pleasant.

The Market

 

My dad says that in England (and when he says England he means Trowbridge) the dump is where you can find all walks of human life. In Bolivia,  the market is the equivalent. There are a few minor differences, people sell their stuff instead of dumping it, and you can buy anything you want there. Night or day, rain or shine, the market is a bustling hubub of activity.

To the untrained eye it may seem a disorganised mess, but once you look carefully you can see that it is cleverly organised. Unlike back home, where clothes shops are next to phone shops beside pubs, the market is divided into neat, though sprawling sections.

The fruit and veg section is a rainbow of brightly coloured items, all stacked up beautifully so you often wonder how the cholitas escape from their stalls at night. I imagine they live there, curled up between the onions and the carrots. Everything in this section is weighed by old fashioned scales that hang from the tarpaulin roof.

 

There are also juice stalls where you can buy the freshly made juice of anything you like, mixed with either water or milk. Don’t forget to ask for the yappa, the extra bit. Say the word and you don´t just get one glass of juice, you get one and a half, or maybe even two. The yappa is one of my favourite things about Bolivia, at the fruit and veg stall it could be an extra tomato or two, even an orange on a good day.

The electrical goods sections is a sea of very probably stolen goods (wholesale if you´re feeling polite). It is of course organised into sub sections. You can buy anything you like here, there’s only one problem. It´s all very well getting a receipt with a ¨guarantee¨ but you can bet your bottom dollar that if you have a problem with your goods (a fairly likely scenario) you will not be covered by said guarantee. You are also often hard pressed to find the person you bought it from in the maze, they are often conveniently ¨travelling¨ or have mysteriously vanished when you want to complain.

It´s also possible to buy hundreds of knockoff dvds and cds, though it’s advisable to try before you buy. I made the mistake of not doing this, imagine my horror to discover Saw 3 when I was sold Narnia.

The furniture in said section is piled up in stalls and usually beautifully handmade. You just have to wait until the market is closed so you can actually get the item out. There are also shops that sell nothing but doors, or windows. I´m told there´s a man that sells doorhandles, but he appears to be the most elusive man in El Alto. He too is probably constantly engaged in a wild goose chase with the guy who sold him the wrong type of screw.

There´s also a plumbing section where you can buy yourself various parts, mirrors, or even a new toilet if you so desire. Most people here are handymen, and I doubt would even consider paying someone else to install anything for them. And why bother, when you can buy any part you need for 10Bs. It´s the same with car parts or even cars, there´s  a section for buying tyres, car seats, taxi signs and fiddly engine parts that I don´t understand.

The market is vast, yet squashed together and it´s easy to get lost. Once you enter one section it can be hard to navigate your way out as it all starts to look the same. You might just find yourself wandering the children’s section for several hours when you are childless and can safely say you know no one who would appreciate a knock-off-Barbie.

The clothes section has piles and piles of clothes sent over from the States, sold for 5Bs each. If you fancy it, you can try your hand at a lucky dip and buy a whole packet. Rumour has it that an American once found a t-shirt from his college in the States in the 2B pile.

The sewing section, always saved till last, is my favourite section of all. Different coloured and shaped ribbons hang from the ceiling. If you happen to be taller than the average Bolivian, which incidentally I am, your head is brushed by them as you enter and you can look up in wonder at the crafty heaven dangling above your head.

There are walls full of buttons, threads and wool, all glittering and shimmering softly, whispering to be bought and grinning slyly with their endless possibilities. I´ve so far made myself a duvet cover, once I´d finished I showed my Bolivian housemate who could not comprehend why I would want such a thing. I´ve also sewed pink ribbons to my ballet shoes, a patch onto my housemate’s jeans, made a friendship bracelet or two and am currently knitting a scarf. It is not unusual to spot a cholita behind her stall knitting a blanket, or crocheting something.

The first time I went to the market I was warned as we went through a large crowd to watch my things. The warner then subsequently got robbed himself, well almost, a guy tried to distract him and then grab the stuff in his pocket, but all he got was a plastic bag.

Warning in El Alto

In El Alto, where the biggest market is twice a week if you rob, they hang you- the people are so disillusioned with the easily bribed police that they´ve taken the law into their own hands. But if you´re a gringo who gets robbed, I’m pretty sure everyone will be conveniently looking the other way.

It´s interesting how local rules apply when it suits. You must speak Spanish, eat and live as Bolivians do, and follow their rules, or non rules. You are not covered under their guarantees, although they charged you to have one when for Bolivians it is free. They can change their mind on prices if they like, but if you change yours you are insulted. In general, if you get robbed, they don´t care. In fact, it´s possible that they´ll be the ones buying/selling the camera they stole from you in the electrical section the following week. Oh well, at least you´ve got a chance of beating them to it and buying it back yourself, and you can pick up some ribbon and a glass of freshly-squeezed juice on the way home.

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.

A simple hello

One thing I like about being here is the way I am addressed. Gone are the days of the averted gaze and the ipod-concentration-generation. I no longer have to avoid all the girls I went to school with and their prams, and my name is no longer shouted across the street by the undesirable teenagers I used to work with.

Now, I am greeted in a number of different ways, all equally pleasing to the ear. Some greetings depend on the time of day; buenos dias (good morning), buenos tardes (good afternoon) and buenos noches (good evening). Or their “buen” equivalent – “buen dia” for example. I prefer the “buenos” versions, with these not only am I being wished a good day/afternoon/evening but the implication is that all my days/afternoons/evenings will be good. What could be nicer? I appreciate this gesture at any time, however late or early. As the old man next to me moves up to make room for 3 of us in the front seat of the car, I smile as we exchange greetings, not caring that my knees are up to my chest and one of my elbows has no place to go but out of the window.

I think what I like about these greetings is the acknowledgment they represent, the surprising fact is (and I wish it wasn’t so surprising): people here don’t go around ignoring each other. “What?” I hear you say “How could this be? Aren’t people too wrapped up in themselves to possibly stop to say hello? Aren’t they thinking about what they need to buy, where they need to go and what their next facebook status will be? In fact, aren’t they updating their facebook status as we speak?- sorry, as we don’t speak?!”

The answer is no, they are not wrapped up in themselves, they are not on facebook and they are not in a rush. The altitude here makes it counterproductive to rush anywhere and the truth is I don’t know if people here know, or even care about facebook. (However,  I must add that when it comes to ignoring each other and rushing the road is one place where such rules do not apply. In fact I think the rule is that there are no rules. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone was on facebook whilst driving the amount of attention they pay to other vehicles and pedestrians. Perhaps an appropriate status update would be: “Jose is about to kill several people whilst overtaking on a blind corner of a cliff edge with 6 people, 3 children and a llama in his car”)

Anyway, enough of facebook and being ignored, and back to greetings. I am also greeted as “señorita”. This sometimes surprises me as I wonder who is being addressed. I often cannot resist a grin, it’s pleasing to know they are referring to me: the young and single female. How charming it is to be reminded of this 20 times a day.

The women here are “señora”, the men “señor”, both are very respectable terms, though I am not looking forward to the day I am called “señora” (note to self: I must leave before then). My 31 year old friend also delights in being called “joven” (young person), I imagine he too likes to be reminded of his youth, or at least his youthful appearance.

I also get called “mamita”, an affectionate term which means “little mum”. I wasn`t sure that I liked this one at first but it`s definitely grown on me.

The final way in which I am addressed is by my students, to them I am not “Miss Hilder”, nor am I “Miss” or even “Rosie”. They call me “teacher”. How annoying, one might imagine, to be called by such a generic term. Indeed, I do not reciprocate and call my students “student” and feel I may not be so popular if I did.

There’s something about being called “teacher” that I find inherently pleasing, in fact I imagine it has a capital letter: “Teacher”.  It says, yes, I am the Teacher, and therefore know something that you don’t. It says, if you’d only sit down and listen I can tell you these things that you don’t know, so that you may know them, and use them too. And miraculously they do sit down and listen, and miraculously, they do learn.

Perhaps that is what I love so much about all these greetings, it is not only the acknowledgment of each other that I enjoy, it is the reminder of where I am, and who I am. I, Rosie Hilder, am here, in La Paz, Bolivia. I am a young, single female, the day, afternoon and evening is a good one, as will be all days, afternoons and evenings spent here. I am a teacher, who is trained in her profession and I am a Native speaker of English. If you ask me (payment also helps) I can teach you English, for whatever reason it is you wish to learn. I can help you communicate better with others, gain a promotion in your job, or simply understand the words to pop songs or sitcoms.

Overall, one might argue that these are all pretty desirable characteristics. It is no wonder I revel in being reminded of them, several times a day, with a simple hello.