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.