An Argentine Christmas

It’s December 22nd and I have felt nothing remotely close to “christmassy”. Feeling christmassy surely involves drinking mulled wine, eating mince pies whilst at a carol service, or huddling indoors by a fireplace, drying out snow sodden socks and wishing you hadn’t given your scarf to the snowman.

Or maybe it involves being bombarded with tacky christmas hits right from November, rushing around the shops madly with the “stress of christmas” looming, desperately rooting through piles of overly packaged goods in the hunt for the perfect gift for someone you barely know but feel obliged to buy for.

For some it means a time for giving, for sharing, for being with your family, not to mention the religious motive we’re all supposed to be celebrating.

For me, in no particular order it involves the following:  drinking mulled wine, enjoying crappy cracker jokes, eating homemade sausage rolls at my friend’s house, watching the Muppet’s Christmas Carol, being with family, having a discussion about whether or not granddad is going to get out of bed this year, mum stressing out about the food, and vehemently assuring us that this year she isn’t going to buy everyone hoards of presents, and then doing so, so she finishes opening her own present pile first (everyone else believed her). Crappy tv and a BBC version of a classic, multiple exclamations of thanks (some more well-meant than others), a chocolate orange and a satsuma in my stocking, and copious amounts of wrapping paper. In more recent years, since being a “grown-up” it also involves seeing everyone I know but haven’t seen since the year before down the pub on Christmas eve.

I can most definitely say I have experienced absolutely none of the above. The closest I got was watching the end of Home Alone. But I was in my bikini eating ice cream so I don’t think it counts.

I did also, do some Christmas shopping. The whole process of this is very different here. Absolutely no one has asked me if I’ve done my Christmas shopping yet, and I’m grateful. It’s refreshing not to have to rush around in the run up to the big day.

 Friends from home remark that there’s only two weeks to Christmas and they haven’t done ANY shopping yet and ARGGGHH it’s all so stressful. I meanwhile, did my minimal shopping in two rounds, round one for the family back home, packaged and sent two weeks ago. Round two involved shopping for a friend and my boyfriend on the last possible day I could. The combination of these processes probably took about 3 hours.

 There is something inherently wrong about Christmas shopping in a 30 degree heat, I found the huge plastic Christmas scene in the middle of a shopping centre, which contains a large snow dusted Christmas tree and various smiling children wrapped up in scarves and hats, unnerving. It’s particularly odd when everyone ignores this scene, even the kids, and all those milling around the rest of the mall are in shorts.

 One can’t help but wonder if plastic Santa might want to do the same, and ditch that suit for something cooler. He must get mighty hot, never mind the fact he has to travel round the whole world in one single night.

Signs of the big day coming across the rest of the city are minimal, there are a few lights along the main avenues. There was a large Christmas tree in the main square, but some protesters decided to burn it down the other day, in commemoration of 10 years since the bloodiest days in Argentine history. In 2001, post-economic crash, the people took to the streets, the president had to flee, and 39 people were killed in clashes with the police. I don’t really understand how burning a Christmas tree is any sort of commemoration of these events. A friend told me he was glad they’d burned it. When I asked him why he said it was because the police that killed those people 10 years now were the same police of today, and that the tree was put there by Macri (the mayor of Buenos Aires). I don’t know if he’s right about the police, and I don’t know how these two facts lead to a burnt tree.

It appears to me, that none of this is in the Christmas spirit.

It also occurs to me, that the entire idea of Christmas spirit is an invention, and the idea of feeling Christmassy too. I actually find this thought quite comforting, and with this in mind off I go to pack my bikini and dream about the big bbq I will be eating on the 24^th.  Is it possible I will ever reminisce about an Argentine Christmas? Quien sabe.

Felices fiestas.

Train platform.

There were five of them altogether, a woman and her four kids. They sat on the train platform, with the days work in front of them. Trolleys, filled with junk. Bags, filled with rubbish.

Two young girls sat together and sorted out paper from the rest, they chatted as they did it, oblivious to the cold conditions. It looked like they had done the same task before. The older girl walked off to talk to her brother, and the younger yelled not to be left. She hurriedly stuffed some paper into a plastic bag, and sat there for a second on her own, disgruntled at having been left. Who knows what else she was thinking. She got up and our eyes met very briefly, then she looked away and ran after her sister.

Another boy, of about seven, wearing an odd assortment of clothes, in various degrees of filth, was at the other end of the platform. I couldn’t make out what he was doing, maybe it involved rooting through bins, looking for treasures.

Five minutes later the two girls were now back to their sorting, they exclaimed over certain things they found, and one of them ran to the mother to show her something. She smiled weakly. She looked cold, sitting on a bench, rubbing her hands together. Her children had gloves but she did not. She appeared well-fed, although she probably wasn’t. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I felt I could sense a resigned sadness about her.

I watched her from across the platform, glad we’d missed our stop and were at the next one along, glad even of the wait for the train. I felt I was observing a snapshot of the “Real Argentina”. This was it: sorting out rubbish that other people don’t, earning very little, struggling to survive. They weren’t simply begging, they were a collective unit mucking in. I wondered if they did the same every evening and I suspect that they did.

I felt sad watching them, yet I admired the way they went about their tasks. I wondered if things had always been that way for them.

The younger girl abandoned her work to balance between the railings, one foot on either. She shouted for her mum and sister to watch her as she took one hand off. She was still a child, yet I felt sure that her life was not full of childlike pleasures. Her sister was not impressed with this trick, she had short hair and a long, hard face.

After a while, the others began to arrive, a man with a bike, another with a trolley, someone cried “papa” and the children ran to a man. I couldn’t see his face, they surrounded him, clearly pleased to see him, yapping about things I couldn’t hear.

Along the platform, a couple shared a pizza. They had stuff with them and it was difficult to know if that stuff was everything they owned, were they in “situacion de calle” (a street situation, a phrase newspapers use) or were they simply eating a pizza on a platform before heading home?

The train came and three people with trolleys full of rubbish to sort arrived with it. We got on and ten minutes later we were home in our own apartment, the spacious one, with the unused spare room.

Thirty minutes later I was tucked up in bed after tea and toast. I wondered if anyone else would think about that family that evening, did anyone care about them? Or were they simply together, though totally alone.

Dear England

This week my heart yearns for you. There are just some things that Argentina cannot deliver. I have run out of tea, marmite and chocolate. A desperate state of affairs. I will soon find myself sipping second-rate Green Hills tea, which tastes so ugly with milk, whilst eating toast and too-sweet jam and gazing lustfully at delicious bakery treats, none of which I dare touch for fear of nuts.

English brands here are deceiving. An imposter is pretending to be dairy milk. Skittles are the wrong colour. Twinings does not taste like Twinings.

I miss British papers and British TV. Perhaps it’s the ease of communication I want, I wish I could communicate totally freely, with no occasional hesitations, or gaps when I realise I’ve reached a word or phrase I cannot express, and find myself umming and ahhing, except in Spanish tones eeeee or esteee. I miss my life being conducted in a single language, so that I don’t find myself only able to think of the Spanish word for things, or expressing myself in a mixture of the two, whichever language “fits” what I’m saying better. Spanish words have begun to creep into my English, for fed up, I say “harto”, for a lot of something I say “un montón”, they must stick out in my speech like sore thumbs, yet I often don’t even notice.

I wonder how people who speak several languages possibly have room in their heads, do they find they have to sort through a list of words in different languages before arriving at the right one? My problems are smaller, but I find myself staring at my phone, wondering why t9 recognition can’t spell a word, and then realise I need to change it from English-Spanish or visa-versa.

I miss having a network of people that I can call, and who will have an ear to listen. I miss having free minutes, or any minutes at all, so that I can call without all too soon being cut off by the familiar “no credit” beep.

I miss June meaning the beginning of summer and not winter’s onset. Autumn in April felt wrong, and I am not adjusted to the shift, as winter approaches I find myself anticipating Christmas, and feel cheated when carols and fairy lights do not appear.

I miss English countryside, green hills and forest walks. How I long for a National Trust site to visit, followed by a trip to the local pub. What I wouldn’t do for a Sunday roast with Yorkshire Pudding, for other unheard of things here….crumpets, tasty brown bread and humus from the supermarket.

I miss going dancing, to a place where I don’t have to know the steps. I went to a tango place at the weekend and felt embarrassed by my lack of skill. Tango is such a sad dance, and so divided by gender, I dislike the way the man leads and the woman must follow his every move, like a vacant doll who cannot think for herself. I feel uncomfortable by the way she clings to him like she must not let go. Is this my need for independence? Or simply an English fear of dancing so close to someone? Either way I yearn for a dark, dingy indie club where I can dance like a fool with my friends and no one cares.

So what to do with all these “misses”? What do I do when these pangs swallow me up? Making me either mopey or irritable, annoyed at things simply because they are not English, overly nostalgic and attached to the things that are. I have no long-term solution,and  there are plenty of things I am equally happy to have left behind. But I’ll tell you my short-term fix, and you will laugh, and quite rightly so. I find myself in Starbucks, hoping to grab a slice of a more Western coffee culture. The menu, though of course in Spanish,  is familiar. The pictures on the walls I feel I have seen a hundred times, even though in England, I rarely step foot in Starbucks, and probably go out of my way to avoid it.

I haven’t found England here, but I do have a chai latte, an armchair and for now, I fit in, another coffee drinker, pondering life. Except there don’t seem to be so many doing that, there are more groups of chattering teenagers or couples sharing dulce de leche frappes. If I put in my headphones and blocked out all the noise I could maybe, just maybe, be at home. But I don’t do this, and for a moment it’s nice to have a bubble of noise around me which I cannot understand unless I really tune in. Though somehow this thought makes me feel more alien, if I was at home, I would probably be eavesdropping without meaning or wanting to.

Looking at the groups that surround me, I feel a little lonely, this city can feel so daunting at times, hard to penetrate and feel a part of. Perhaps that’s just city life. I remind myself I didn’t come to chatter. I have my English book and my chai, and feel content in these small pleasures. After all, I could not have obtained such luxuries in Bolivia. England will be still be there when I get home, and I am already planning the English feast which awaits me on my return.

Mugging

Three weeks ago, I got mugged. Don’t be horrified and imagine a rough gang emerging from a bush to beat me up at gun point in a desperate bid for everything I own. The entire experience was a disconcerting one for a number of reasons but as muggings go, fairly tame.

I was walking, in a customary Sunday afternoon hung over and sleep deprived state, through the suburb of San Telmo. We were on our way to the nature reserve to lie in the sun. I had just broken my 10 peso note for a carton of juice and was strolling along, dozily sipping. Opposite, there was a football match going on, and someone had parked a car on the side of the road which was blaring out loud salsa music. I had just about taken in my surroundings, for this was a part of town I’d not been to before (nor do I feel inclined to return), when all of a sudden I looked up to find two boys in my path.

They looked rough as hell, one of them looked like he had recently been in a fight and they both had the hard, unkind faces of people you most definitely wouldn’t want to invite round for tea. Before I knew it, the uglier, rougher of the two (though it was a close call) had advanced upon me, like a particularly nasty animal closing in on its prey, so that I was against the wall of a building. When his face was so close I could smell his breath, he said: “dame tu cartera”

This was a confusing request. Cartera means purse or bag, what exactly was it he wanted? All that flashed through my head was: “Am I being mugged?!” but not being entirely sure if that was what was happening, I asked for clarification: “que?”. He asked again, more insistent this time and playing with his trousers, opening and closing his jogging bottoms in a way which I can only assume was supposed to make me think he was hiding something sinister.

He wasn’t actually showing me anything though, so I felt it disinclined to give him my stuff without a fight. This boy was only about 17, it was embarrassing! I said “no”, clutching my bag.

This clearly wasn’t quite the reaction he’d hoped for. I’m pretty sure he thought I’d be an easy target. In fact, he seemed unsure what to do, his friend didn’t offer him any advice or backup and so he resorted to swearing at me, (I didn’t fully understand his particularly grotesque insults, but I gather they were some reference  to my mother and her female parts). I remained undeterred, and for a moment it looked like they were just going to go away.

I looked to my boyfriend for help. Yes, he was there, though it looked like it was just an exchange between mugger one and I whilst Gary and mugger two were simply passing the time on the street together. They could’ve been doing anything; waiting for the bus, having a chat, talking about the weather. It felt like we were in some kind of weird slow motion film that was pausing for an ad break. We’d already established I wasn’t going to give mugger one the bag, and no-one seemed about to stab me, so what next?

My plea for help got me the advice of “give them the bag Rosie”. I was thinking of my epipen, wondering whether to give them my purse and phone, knowing that my anti-nut injection was more valuable than anything else. Whilst I pondered this dilemma, and two muggers and a boyfriend awaited my decision, mugger two got bored and demanded that mugger one get on with it. Eventually my bag was grabbed, its strap broke and both muggers ran away, taking what they wanted and chucking my bag with my keys in it on the corner.

They definitely weren’t professionals, clearly thinking that all my money would be in my purse, they didn’t bother to look in the pocket of my discarded bag, where 5 lonely pesos was sitting, probably pleased with itself for staying in cleaner hands.

This incident was a weird one, particularly because it took place in the middle of the day, and brought up a number of questions for me. What should I do in that kind of situation? Is it better to give muggers what they want? I mean, I didn’t know that they weren’t about to pull a knife out of their bag or punch me in the eye for not cooperating (I had a job interview the next day so that really would’ve been a slap in the face). Should my boyfriend have done the “manly” thing and saved me? Should I have run away? Chucked my purse on the floor and bolted in the opposite direction? Was it my fault for not spotting them earlier? Was I stupid to be carrying a bag in the first place?

For a while after this incident, I was scared to walk around alone, and felt my heart beat faster anytime a stranger came near me. But these things wear off, and life continues much the same. The only change is that I bought a new, even crappier phone. I also go out without my bag, my valuables are now stored on various parts of my body. Money and key without its key rings, live in my deepest pockets. A new (very expensive) adrenaline injection lurks in my boot, knocking my leg as a constant reminder of both its life saving ability and very irritating shape. Just in case.

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.

The hairdressers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hospitals

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. I will always buy travel insurance.

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