Note to Bolivia

There are some really bad smells in Cochabamba.  I mean hope-you-don’t-die-from-fear-of-taking-another-breath bad.  I didn’t like the film Perfume that much but the first scene really does epitomise ‘putrid’ and too-often comes to mind in the areas around town that have these lingering aromas.

You can never be quite sure what you’re smelling. Around the lake it is usually what I imagine cooked sewage would smell like and near the big market I assume it is rotting meat and veg.

The other day I was coming home from work and started to feel somewhat claustrophobic about the severity of the smell and my inability to get out of it or away from it.    I was comforted by the fact that I’m going to be home in three months, back to the safety of New Zealand sea breezes.   And so again – I am reminded of my privilege.

There’s no getting away from privilege in any developing country.  Us gringos are born into it – literally given we’re born in a hospital.  I wasn’t a really sick child, but I was in an incubator for a few days…here I wouldn’t have lasted those few days.  And hey, if I had lasted by some miracle, I wonder how short I would have been!  I mean I’m short now but just think how short I would have been growing up constantly a little malnourished, not necessarily hungry but lacking clean water and key nutrients.  Being short would probably be the least of my worries.

I’m here to learn; to wake up and smell the bad smells, the putrid smells –  not just the roses.

It’s funny how you can meet someone and question everything you are doing.

Recently I’ve been thinking, who am I to think I can come into someone else’s country and ‘help’.  I come with my way of life, my opinions, my way of doing things.  These aren’t the best way.  Organising something more efficiently doesn’t mean its better.  It just means it is organised the way I like it. The way my culture tells me is best.

The concept volunteering and its worth continues to baffle me.  Especially being Bolivia where ‘us gringos’ aren’t that highly thought of. Discussion after discussion, in the nice bars and restaurants that ‘us gringos’ have the privilege of dining in, doesn’t get me anywhere closer to comprehension.

But the other day I met a man who is living in a single room (3mx4m), no kitchen or running water, situated in the bad part of town and, right next to a toxic dump.  He has chosen to retire there to help the people in the area.  So far the people don’t like him, it has been a year. He’s still hopeful.  If he can’t help, who can?

Some days I think I should just leave the rest of my money on someone’s doorstep and get home to earn some more for another doorstep.   But the truth is, I don’t want to leave yet, I’m having too much fun.

I hope the man I met is too.