Argentine Mysteries

Having lived here for over a year now, I feel at home and settled in BA. I am sure, however, that I could live here for another 10 years, and still be utterly baffled by certain things. I’ve spoken to other foreigners and they all agree, there are some aspects of Argentine life which simply don’t make sense.

One thing I have found unfathomable since I arrived, is why the locals dress for the season, and not the actual weather. It can be a sunny, hot day, but if it is the autumn or winter months, everyone is in their coats. The other day it was 18 degrees, the sun was shining and the air was warm, people were complaining of the cold and huddling under their coats and scarves, looking frantically for their thermoses.

When it’s the same temperature back home, everyone is joyfully celebrating this wondrous weather, dusting down their bbqs and sunglasses, rushing to the beach to catch some rays. I remember when I arrived home last year in December, to a 30 degree temperature drop which sent my body into shock. People were actually rejoicing because it was a whole degree above zero.

In fact, I think it quite possible that if the porteños had to go and live in England they simply would not survive. It only seems to be us Brits (and other unfortunate souls who live in miserable climates) who are able to withstand the icy winds and frost that are normal to us. Here, it very rarely snows, and winter temperatures average at 10 degrees. Porteños are expert complainers, and moan all season about the cold. They also look at you like you’re crazy if you consider going out in the rain. I have to explain that in England, if people didn’t go out in the rain, they would barely leave the house.

Another thing the Argies are particularly good at is collecting pointless bits of paper and moving them around. I have recently completed the process of getting a work visa, the whole palaver took so long that upon receiving my DNI (national identity card) there are 2 months left until I have to renew it. Actually getting the visa was an utterly confusing and ridiculous process which involved waiting in extremely long queues at immigration at 7 in the morning to be directed to more, longer queues which lead nowhere.

Often, when I finally got to the front the clerk would suddenly decide that there was some other (invented) requirement  that I hadn’t fulfilled and would therefore need to return the next day with yet another photocopy of every single page of my passport.

That was if I was lucky, sometimes it was something completely random like my bosses birth certificate or the date of birth of my mother’s mother. As far as I could tell all these bits of paper and queues were totally unnecessary and served the purpose of job creation. The system was so baffling, that they even had to employ several people just to mollify the crowds and tell you which queue you were supposed to be in.

About 9 months into the process, I was told that I had been granted residency in the country. The only problem was that I had absolutely nothing to prove it, until my DNI arrived at my address. The issue with this was, I had moved out of that address and was about to go to England for 2 months. No one in immigration seemed to be able to comprehend, let alone solve, this particular conundrum. One woman even told me that if I left the country I would have to start all over again. I eventually found out that I had to pay for a bit of paper to say that I was able to leave Argentina. This of course included waiting 2 weeks for an appointment and going back to immigration several times with countless copies of my passport for some more queuing.

Some of the people at immigration looked like they hadn’t moved from their paper-covered desk for several years. Either that or they spent all day moving, moving forms from one place to another. At the national registry of people, one woman’s job was to go to a table to pick up bits of paper to come back to her desk to shout out the names on the paper, wait for said person to wake from their slumber, make them sign something, and then pass them onto the next woman. I was mystified as to what this new woman was doing, and upon arriving discovered that she had the national registry of people, in other words, a notebook. In this, she copied names and identity numbers totally illegibly before making you sign again.

Overdressing and paperwork are not the only mysteries of Argentine life. Another, totally unrelated phenomena is particularly prevalent at subte stops. Often, when there is an escalator and a staircase, the escalator goes down, and the stairs goes up. Why, I wonder, would anyone need help going down? All last year, I cursed this as I climbed up a long flight of stairs after a long day at work. This year, I just enjoy the ride on the way down. Perhaps it’s some kind of movement by the government to keep the population fit. It seems to be working either way, as everyone looks at least 10 years younger than they actually are.

Other unsolved mysteries: the hairdressers are terrible yet no one has bad hair (apart from those with mullets and rat tails, an extremely popular look – that’s a whole other mindboggler). There are bakeries full of delicious fatty treats and people live on a diet of asados (bbqs) empanadas and pizza, but no one is fat (I forgot, it’s the escalators).

There’s a national change shortage, yet you can’t get on most buses without it. When you go to the doctor, whatever the problem is, they make you drop your trousers (I wonder if this is just my doctor?). No one considers going out before 11pm, which is still seen as early, and everyone stays out till 7am, without the need to get totally wasted. Everyone of course, looks and acts totally unfazed by this experience the next day.

The phone companies are also shit, meaning that I never have any credit, don’t listen to my voice-mails as it costs too much, and are charged to consult my non-balance. Inflation is raging so that one can’t predict the price of anything, one week a red pepper costs 4 pesos, the next it’s 10. The next week onions are a luxury and peppers become a bargain.

After living here a while, these mysteries really begin to affect the way you think. There are, for example, certain sounds that have the power to totally alter your mood. The jingle of change in my pocket makes me smile, meaning I can safely get the bus or buy things without playing the “change game” (for more on this see: kebab conscience). The fateful “no credit” beep puts me in a bad mood as I curse pay-as-you-go and the cost of a 30-second phone call.

The best sound of all is the satisfying clunk of a stamp on paper, meaning that I’ve completed the requirements for a tramite or bit of paperwork. There’s nothing with quite the same ability to make my day.

The Homeland

Photo: Jessie Akin

Returning to your homeland is a weird experience at any time of year. When it’s been the coldest winter in *insert latest number* of years, you’re back because your dad is going to give your mum his kidney, and you live in Trowbridge, it becomes even stranger.

One of the oddest things about being home is that things that used to be totally normal now seem completely alien. You have become a foreigner, and it takes you a while to remember which social nuance is appropriate in which situation.

Naturally, in order to remember you should engage in a ritual involving drinking so much that you forget, and go to The Pub.

On the way to said pub after you’ve looked in your wallet to find a useless collection of coins from different currencies you realise you need to get out some money. Living in a convenient kind of country the cash machine is right there when this thought crosses your mind.

There is a man in front of you using the cash machine as you arrive. You wait the sum of approximately two minutes for him to finish his transaction.

As you wait, you watch the man look more and more uncomfortable. He awkwardly adjusts his coat, nervously touches his hair. After he’s finished he turns round, steps back in a bumbling sort of way, and says “sorry about that, after you” gesturing to the machine. You are confused.

Firstly, “Sorry about that”-  how can he possibly be apologising for something that he began doing before you’d even turned up, you waited 2 minutes for (we are talking maximums here) and was something he quite clearly needed and had every right to do.

Secondly, “After you” – you are quite clearly using the machine after him, is he about to queue up after you to use it again because he’s too mortified to check his balance in your presence because it might take another minute?

One can only imagine that he assumes you have somewhere very important to be, but you are in Trowbridge town centre on a Thursday night the only place you could possibly be going would be The Pub. Ah. That must be it.

Photo: Jessie Akin

Later, heading away from The Bar in The Pub, and a man walks past  carrying two pints of beer. There is a large amount of room around you, you are both able to walk past each other perfectly comfortably; he doesn’t spill the beer, you make your way to the toilet, everybody wins. But no, being English, ample personal space around you is simply not enough. “Give me more ample space!” he cries, whilst he does that “after  you” kind of face and you think you’re probably expected to return with a similar “after you” kind of face and then you are both supposed to engage in a little “after you dance” while one of you steps forward and then the other moves at the same time and it all becomes terribly embarrassing and everybody goes a bit red before eventually one of you moves a millisecond before the other and wins the game to be able to move and extrapolate themselves from this mortifying social game. Of course, you’ve forgotten all these little rules/are refusing to engage in them and he does the “after you” face and you barge past him (politely walk ahead with an apologetic grin – you haven’t really forgotten) on your way to the loo.

The last peculiar thing about being in The Pub, is that you are surrounded by people that you recognise yet cannot place. You have no idea whether you actually know them or just think you know them because you have been coming to The Pub ever since you were old enough to sneak in and get someone else to get you a drink without being chucked out (fifteen). Still, everyone does an amazingly good job of avoiding eye contact, the quick glance, look away and become incredibly interested in the paint on the wall, have been perfected.

Most friends are to be hugged if you’ve not seen them in a year and a half but generally a nod of the head is quite enough thank you very much. Particularly evasive, is the girl who you went to school with, know everyone she knows, yet you never really speak. You might think that perhaps a small acknowledgement of the other’s presence might be socially required. Apparently not. It appears that it is totally normal to sit there for an entire evening opposite someone, whilst you have conversations around each other, yet never acknowledge that the other exists. It’s like you are exes who have fallen out and still share the same friendship group, except there is absolutely no emotion or feeling involved and you have never actually been friends.

Oh well, at least you don’t have to bother with the “what’ve you been up to?” conversation. That’s a whole other social minefield.

Kebab Conscience

I’ve just eaten a kebab. I’m sorry vegetarians but it was delicious, tasty meat juices oozed out the bottom of it whilst I devoured the whole thing like a predator which had recently re-grown its claws.

I know what you’re thinking, Rosie really is running out of ideas for this blog. But I tell you. This was no ordinary kebab. It summed up the most annoying parts of Argentine life in one folded meaty swoop.

I bought it in the Arabian place round the corner, which I’ve passed  everyday for three months and never noted. Upon entering, I delayed my kebab decision whilst I dabbled in the thought of hummus or an Arabian empanada (now there’s a weird idea). Eventually I uttered those fateful words “un kebab de carne por favor, para llevar” (a meat kebab to takeaway) and watched as a rather sexy looking man sliced me off some hunks from the rotating skewer. He added some salad and expertly folded everything together in a tortilla.

Then it began. It was like the part in “Love Actually” where the cheating husband wants to buy a present for his lover and Rowan Atkinson piles on ten layers of crap to the gift whilst the man watches in anguish. I was in a similar position, minus the wife or lover of course. The only guilt I felt was towards my new healthy food diet and clearly that particular emotion had been overridden a good five minutes earlier.

My wrap was first covered in some paper; two pieces which wrapped it up like a parcel. Bewilderingly, for an Arabian place, the paper had pictures of hamburgers all over it. The whole thing was then put into a small plastic bag, one of those sandwich bags for lunch boxes. Later, whilst eating it I understood the plastic bag, all the grease had leaked into the bottom. The paper remained a mystery, it soaked up all the moisture and stuck to said kebab like (hamburger adorned) chewing gum to a shoe.

Next, the entire thing was put into a red cardboard package with the name of the place and “kebab” helpfully written across it. Clearly this was so you could remember which establishment and exact dish had given you food poisoning. Annoying, I thought, but vaguely justifiable. Plus it must give them a bit of advertising, especially if you don’t end up on the toilet the day after. This ingenious package was then put in a brown paper bag, rendering the advertising idea useless.

I’d also bought some hummus in a little plastic pot, telling myself I could dip healthy treats in it for the rest of the week. Of course, this was given similar, though not quite so extortionate treatment, and was given its own brown paper bag. I supposed that two things couldn’t possibly go in one bag? No, they’re right, there was a risk involved, perhaps the humus might somehow leak out of its container and the kebab might jump out of its paper, plastic and cardboard and the two would contaminate one another, which would of course be disastrous.

The two brown bags were about to be put in a bigger plastic one when I halted the process. Now this was ridiculous, I was carrying a backpack! I declined the plastic, to a weird look.

I subsequently made my next mistake; I tried to pay with a 100 peso note (the biggest bill here and worth roughly £15). Although the banks churn out 100s, paying with one is a risky move almost everywhere. Aware of this, I had been clutching my note during the entire process and hoped that this social faux-pas would be seen and noted. I was wrong, I asked if he had change and sexy crazy-package man grinned a sexy packaged smile and told me that no, he didn’t.

We then proceeded to play a common little game enjoyed by shopkeepers all over the city. They say they don’t have change and ask you for some random amount (in this case two pesos). Whilst you root around in your bag, empty the contents of your pockets and pat around your body in a generally moronic way, they remember that they are a business, and if your full body search achieves nothing, change miraculously appears out of whatever hole it had previously disappeared to.

Today, however, this didn’t happen. I played my part (rather well if I do say so myself) but sexy crazy-package man failed to deliver, we both remained changeless and the kebab remained on the counter. Sexy crazy-package man and I grinned at each other in a “this is mildly annoying but I’m still gonna take/sell you the kebab” kind of way (well, that was my interpretation). He gave me 80 pesos back and told me not to worry about the two. I told him I lived close and that I’d come back another day with the two pesos, he laughed and told me not to worry. He then offered me the plastic bag again.

I returned home, ate my kebab and pondered several things, why are people here so oblivious to the huge amounts of packaging they use? Will Argentines ever really recycle, in a way that doesn’t involve people sorting through the rubbish? Will the government ever recognise the problem? Why is there never any change? Ever? How is it possible that there’s change at the bank and not in the shops? If I went back with the two pesos would the sexy man still be there? Would my boyfriend allow me a hummus date with the kebab man? Was he really the whole package?

Wanting More

Why is it that the happiest people I’ve ever met lived in huts in Africa, without running water and at risk of dying of terrible diseases. Why is it that those in the rich country I hail from are constantly complaining, no money, need new jeans, want a bigger car, a better house. When they get the bigger house they need stuff to fill it, when they get the new jeans they need some new shoes to match, then they need a new bag, some fancy make up. It never stops.

Having experienced living in both worlds and deciding that I would prefer the less over the more I have experienced this clash of belief systems first hand. Now, I live in a halfway house, Buenos Aires, which has most of the luxuries of the first world if you can afford them, whilst thousands still live in stark poverty. Seeing poverty is such a part of normal life here that most people (myself included) have become completely desensitised, thinking nothing of stepping over a person sleeping on their doorway. This means that poor people are left to fend for themselves, made worse by a government that does not do enough to help. While those in power keep their money and riches to themselves, what motivates an ordinary Argentine to give away what they earn?

Five days a week I walk five blocks from my apartment to the subway on the way to work. I walk out of my door and step out onto the uneven neglected pavement. Walking along it I pass several people sleeping in doorways, and others selling stuff on the street to survive, socks, umbrellas, earrings and a man with no legs who sits in his wheelchair and sells mobile phone cases.

Yesterday evening I was walking to the bus stop when I saw a little girl of about four drawing with a felt tip pen, she was utterly engrossed in what she was doing and was drawing a happy little scene, flowers and a sun. At that age I too spent my days drawing, in my own sketch pad. She was drawing in a fat marker on a shop window. It appears that the tabloids are right, graffiti artists really are getting younger these days.

On my way to work I get on the subway and watch other people who have already arrived at work. Some busk, some sell stickers or chewing gum, some simply beg. There’s a blind man I often see who calls out his same plea over and over “señores pasajeros, una ayuda” navigating his way through the carriage holding onto the bar above and rattling his cup, slipping any money he does get into the pocket of his worn jacket.

Often, the workers are children and the youngest I’ve seen must’ve only been about five. A hard-faced ten year old passes out stickers like she’s been doing it her whole life, a five year old boy sings loudly and out of tune before asking for change. These kids break my heart. I often buy from them, but not always. And why is that? Why is it that I don’t give each child as much as I can? Why don’t I give them half my wages? All my wages? Sometimes I want to save my change for the bus, but instead of giving a note I give nothing. It’s not just me either; millions of people ignore. Thousands are ignored.

Because I am well aware of the fact that one of these days I will need to pack up my belongings and fit them in a rucksack, I don’t own that much here in Argentina. I do however live near a main shopping street and I often get compulsions to treat myself to something new, a new pair of shoes, a top, something totally unnecessary like strawberry smelling moisturiser.

I try not to give in to consumer culture too much. I’ve not bought anything recently, and the other day felt upset as I was talking to a friend. I said that Argentine women always look immaculate (which is true) and I wished I could be like that (sort of true) she said she thought I didn’t care about clothes. The idea that I look like I don’t care kind of horrified me. Part of me would like to have lots of clothes, to look lovely all the time. But on the other hand she’s right. I know that there are more important things in life, I know the disposable nature of consumer goods, I’ve seen and read “Confessions Of A Shopaholic”, I know the dangers of credit cards and getting a store card for 10% off. I’d also rather have 10 minutes extra in bed than get up and do my hair.

In England, I usually ignore these anti-consumer feelings and crumble under peer pressure, it’s just too strong. All my friends have new pretty dresses for our night out (where we waste our money on alcohol that makes us act like idiots and feel like shit the next day). I want a dress too so I get one, and I buy another drink because if I don’t they all ask me what’s wrong and force me to do a shot.

It’s a sad world we live in, where the need-want balance is so completely distorted. I don’t like that society turns our wants into needs and forces us to conform to an ugly culture of consumerism. I also don’t like that in countries where many people don’t have even their basic needs met, this culture still exists and creates an even bigger gap between the rich and the poor. As I said, the happiest people I’ve ever met were the poorest. If their needs were met, would they still be happy? Or would they just want more?

Dreams

I spent my last week in Bolivia staying with a Bolivian family in Sucre. I was ill with various infections (damn you unwashed food) and so saw pretty much nothing of the beautiful city apart from my bed and the toilet. This did mean, however, that I got a lot of chances to chat with the people in the house, of which there were many. There was a mum, dad a nephew and 4 sons who lived their permanently. Plus they had a live-in housekeeper. Uncles, aunts and various other relatives were constantly appearing, not to mention friends popping over. So although I had a rough week health-wise, there were plenty of people to chat to in-between vomits.

Whilst in Bolivia, I often found myself having the same conversation. People asking me where I`m from and then always “¿como es inglaterra?” – “what`s England like?” I usually just said rainy and tried to move the conversation on, how was I supposed to answer such a broad question?!

However, with time on my hands and a very captive audience  I told people about the weather, the health and education systems, taxes, and English customs. My descriptions left many a person “boca abierto” (mouth open but I much prefer the Spanish). They had clearly never heard of such a crazy place!

I told the mum about the snow in England and she was amazed, I had to explain that it was winter in England and about the hemispheres. Then I showed her some pictures of the snow family we made last year and she couldn`t believe it.

As I said I`ve been ill recently and have been familiarising myself with the  local health facilities. That´s another story, but let´s just say the service is not good, and you have to pay for the pleasure. I told an aunty that the system in England is free, that someone could be in hospital for months and not pay a penny and she literally didn`t believe me. I wish I had a photo of her face when I told her.

Then I told her about English taxes, and VAT on everything. Taxes in England are higher than they are in Bolivia (there it is 15.5%) but even so  there must be thousands of Bolivians that work without paying un boliviano. I also wouldn`t be surprised if a lot of the taxes people pay go straight into their bosses pockets.

In Bolivia, everything you buy has tax on it (a bit like VAT I guess), except you can claim it back. With an identity card when you pay they write your name and number on every receipt and then you collect them all and claim back the money. So when I said that in England you just have to pay the tax and that`s it, that caused quite a stir.

I`d like to think that most people in England are at least aware that life is different in other countries. For me, I am not shocked to find that life in abroad is different to back home, I am just interested.Talking to this family though, it`s like they literally could not imagine that other places are different. Everytime I mentioned a difference or talked about how the English do things, I got looked at like a bit of an alien. Perhaps it´s a lack of eduaction.

Discussing travel was also interesting, I showed them some pictures of Uganda which they were amazed at (this also prompted some very un-PC comments -“look at the little negritos!”). Most Bolivians I´ve met dreamed of travel, yet with the Boliviano worth what it is, a trip further than to the neighbours is but a distant dream. Not that there is anything wrong with the neighbours of course, I am currently in Argentina and loving it.

It`s interesting how going away from home makes you realise things about your own country. I`ve realised what a civilised place England is. Sure, there is crime and it is far from perfect, but at least you can do simple things like drink from the tap and eat the food without having to worry about getting sick all the time. and then when you are sick, you don`t have to pay for it.

I wish I could take some of the people I`ve met here and take them to England. I don`t think they would quite know what to do first when they got there. I`d love to take them to see different things, eat different foods and meet different people. I can imagine them marvelling at modern commodities like ticket machines and self service checkouts. Even at the size of the supermarkets.

It`s not just that I wish I could take Bolivians to England, I wish I could take English people to Bolivia. I think we have a lot to learn from each other.

In my ideal dream world, we could help them develop and create more opportunities for themselves, and they could help us bring back things we`ve lost; strong family ties, a sense of community and also the lack of complaining.

People in Bolivia often know that they can`t travel and that they will probably do one job for their entire lives,  but they don`t complain. They get on with it, and they laugh and smile a lot. I spent six months in Bolivia, and I cannot say that I met one grumpy Bolivian.

Elections

Before I arrived in Bolivia, I knew little about the country, and even less about it´s politics. I´d heard that the president, Evo Morales had refused to sell the lithium under the salt flats to a multinational in America, saying that if Bolivia was going to sell it, they would do it in a way that would benefit Bolivian people. I thought he sounded like a pretty decent bloke from this small nugget of information, plus he has a chubby likeable face and looks a little bit like a teddy bear. However, after spending almost 4 months here, and with the elections coming up at the end of this week I´ve begun to understand there´s a lot more to Evo than his cuddly exterior. And it´s not pretty.

First of all, lets assess his credentials, he did not graduate from high schoool. Now I don´t want to be one to judge too quickly, perhaps what he lacks in education he makes up for in life experience. I have heard various things about what he has done since becoming president. A couple of them have been good.

Evo is big on indigenous rights, and there are a lot of indigenous people here. I hear that Evo has greatly improved literacy rates in Bolivia, mostly for this indigenous population.  I can´t knock that. He also wants everyone to speak their languages, Quechua and Aymara. In fact, he has made it law that all companies have to teach their employees Quechua and Aymara, and if not they may be shut down. Incidentally, Evo himself does not speak either.

Not only is he tough on getting people to learn languages, he´s tough on getting votes. Quite literally. He does things like moving groups of his supporters to places with temperatures of 80 degrees C in the middle of nowhere so he can receive votes in that area. Apparantly it´s not quite so important that the children then die of dehydration or  diarrhoea and contract diseases from the unfamiliar territory. In fact he is so keen on getting people to vote that he does not stop there. He once sent a group of his fans from the mountains to an indigenous community to spread the Evo love. Unfortunately what happened was not so much love but war, the two communities did not get on and one day there was a push, which turned into a shove, which turned into a scuffle, which turned into  Evo´s men taking out guns and shooting dead 20 people. He doesn´t write that on his election leaflets. Now I understand why a lot of the graffiti says ¨Evo asesino¨.  Asesino meaning assasin. ´

It´s not just this graffiti that I´ve noticed in the past few weeks, every weekend thousands of people take to the streets to campaign for the election. There are marches, banners and plenty of shouting. All the public transport is adorned by support for whichever political party (mostly Evo) and is all completely full as there are so many people around.

I originally thought that this must mean that people are really into politics here, on remarking on this to my housemate, she told me that if those who work in the public sector don´t go to the streets and support Evo, they lose a weeks salary. I couldn´t believe it, and her story got worse, her son is a lawyer who used to work for a private firm. His boss supported the head of the court, a man called Fernando who Evo didn´t like, therefore he closed the whole firm and everyone lost their jobs. Hence her son´s now obligitory  Saturday street shouting.

As you can probably imagine, all this does not help Evo´s popularity, at least unofficially and nor has he made himself popular with other countries. He nationalised the energy companies here when he promised Spain he wouldn´t. Spain had promised him that they would wipe Bolivia´s debt. Needless to say I´m pretty sure the debt was back pretty quickly once they realised what he´d done. He also refused to sell gas to Brazil and Chile, who now buy and sell successfully elsewhere, this seems like a massive missed opportunity for Bolivia´s economy.

Evo´s biggest hate however, is the US, he  does not want them in his country, and has tripled the cost of Americans getting work visas here. But his hatred towards the States stretches further than to just the Americans, if a Bolivian chooses to work for the US, they can never again work for the pubic sector here (I´m sure they´ll be devastated to miss out on all that shouting). He also shut down USAid who do a lot of work here because he believed that they were funding the opposition, when they were doing nothing but encouraging political involvement.  Enemies, he has plenty, and to his friends he owes money. So much in fact that if Venezuela goes to war then Bolivia will probably go too, as they owe Chaves so much money.

However, all signs predict that he will win this week. By all signs I mean that he has fixed the voting machines that way.

This appears to be common knowledge, several people have told me this. Yet they do nothing, and feel like there is little they can do. When all the evidence is gathered it does seem like me and the people here are living in some sort of dictatorship. I wonder how much further he can take it, and how much longer the people will put up with it.

Saying that I don´t  think that everyone hates him, a friend said he was necessary for the current time in Bolivia but that he didn´t like him. Plus, I´ve done few interviews with the indigenous population, I don´t tend to talk politics whilst buying my juice in a bag from a cholita. Most of the people I´ve spoken to are fairly well educated people. Perhaps there is another side to the story, one I am unaware of. Fingers crossed it´s a good one.

One more thing I forgot to mention, Evo put the oppositions vice president in prison for slander. And there I was thinking I was living in the 21st century.

At least there is one ray of hope for Bolivia, the law is that after 2 terms of presidency, you´re out. At least at the moment this is the law, I´ve heard that if elected again Evo has plans to change this, and who knows what else he is hatching.

I´ll keep you posted.

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 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.

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.