Bolivia part two... mean Frenchies and feeling like an oldie!

I last left you in Cochabamba which was a mixture of highs and lows for me and really emphasised how bittersweet travelling can be. My main reason for heading there was in search of volunteer work as I'd got chatting to a Bolivian guy called Marcelo on my flight up to the jungle and he'd given me his sister in laws email address as a contact there. So despite the incident with the pubic hairs and electrocution I entered the city with high hopes. Unfortunately after a week of searching Mariana didn't manage to find me anything. She did however prove to be excellent company for a few days and helped me get to know a side of Bolivia I'd have never have seen if I hadn't have met her. She introduced me to all her family who were just as warm and welcoming as she was and took me out to eat empanadas, humintas and masaco, all local foods involving cheese in some way or another which made me happy!

Mariana and her family lived in a beautiful house in the countryside just outside of town which her father had built soon after she was born. One afternoon I sat with Mariana in her perfectly groomed garden in the low afternoon sun, the sort of sun that blinds you if you sit the wrong way but warms you perfectly if you position yourself with your back to it. The focus of the afternoon was a baby chick which was living out its last few hours of its short life in Marianas palm after falling from its nest. While Mariana tried to revive the poor creature by feeding it drops of water, her younger brother of 9 and two friends gallivanted around the garden in search of worms, clearly thrilled by the concept of saving something from the perils of death, a valiant, but rather hopeless cause. It reminded me of a time when my brother and I were very young and we created a snail hospital, whereby we'd find snails with slightly damaged shells and proceed to peel them off entirely so that a new one could grow in its place in a genuine effort to save them! Amidst the commotion that surrounded the baby bird, Mariana's grandmother sat adjacent to us. The majority of her face was covered by a large sun hat protecting her delicate skin from the sun’s powerful rays. Occasionally she'd enquire who the child was in the red t-shirt, only to find it was her grand son! Next to her sat her nurse, busy preparing guavas for jam that would be made later that day, while inside the mother of the family was busy preparing coffee and freshly baked bread. As wonderful as it was to be invited into this hub of family life with such open arms I'm afraid I felt quite green with envy. It made me so acutely aware of the absence of my own family, and if I'm honest, it crossed my mind that perhaps I've had enough of watching other people live their lives and its about time I started living my own once more.

This feeling was only enhanced over the following few days when I met up with a couple of couch surfers and didn't strike it quite as lucky as I had done with Mariana. The first evening I met Rudy, another Bolivian, we had a really great time together. He took me to a little bar which was celebrating the indigenous New Year. We drank chicha and gave a bit to Pachamama (mother earth) which you will often see people doing throughout Peru and Bolivia, and we listened to the only all female live indigenous band in the country. I liked Rudy, he was easy company and at this stage I foresaw myself volunteering in the city for a few weeks with at least two Bolivian friends to keep me company, unfortunately it wasn't to be. The following evening I took a trip to Rudy's lakeside holiday house, which I naively assumed was for a quiet afternoon BBQ with a few of his friends, as it turns out it was a house party and I found myself completely out of my depth.

How often do we really take ourselves out of our comfort zones socially I wonder? I love meeting people, it was one of the reasons I came on this trip, but on this occasion I found it hard, really hard. It wasn't so much the language barrier that made getting to know Rudy's friends difficult, although I could hardly blame them for not having the patience to speak broken Spanish with me all night in their highly inebriated states. Nor could I blame them for not caring to take time to exercise their English, it was after all, a party not an inter-cambio session. However, regardless of these facts I believe the real barrier was cultural. I was the only non Bolivian at the party which I foolishly thought would make me exotic and therefore my company would be in demand, it was not. This group of friends were particularly insular and although they didn't all know each other, I had to work hard for them to care to know me. I have always held the belief that experiencing being a minority or being a peripheral person in a group setting, although uncomfortable, is a very important experience to go through, but good lessons are not always pleasant ones.

Ironically that evening I spent the night listening to a variety of British artists, including many a Beatles song, of which the other guests knew every word, eating Pringles and drinking various spirits mixed with 7 Up. Perhaps my portrayal of the isolation I felt is an exageration, as a couple of people did take the time out to talk to me, but when you start to feel insecure your emotions easily become magnified. Actually in truth one of the things I found hardest was that despite the fact that the majority of people were between 20 and 23 for some reason I felt incredibly old, and dare I say it, a little past it! I fear that my love for all-nighter university style partying may be a thing of the past, and waking up on a sheet less bed next to someone who's first words to you are 'I'm sorry I'm just too high right now' at 8am is far from appealing. I quickly found refuge in the bathroom, splashed my face with some cold water only to be met by my reflection staring back at me in the mirror, at which point it confronted me with the following 'I'm 25, give me pyjamas, freshly clean sheets, and a morning cup of tea, I'm done with being a teenage dirt bag!'. I'd have loved to have obeyed but thats kind of difficult when you are half way around the world!

So after coming to the realisation that I am no longer as down with the kids as I'd like to be, I met up with a French 35 year old couch surfer who I'd arranged to visit a rural farm with. Unfortunately Geronimo and his friend Chris were living, breathing national stereotypes, and by this I don't mean they were donning berets, onions and stripy t-shirts. I have a couple of French friends who are wonderful, so in no way am I suggesting this is true of all French people, but these particular two were rude, arrogant and incredibly opinionated, and quite frankly I didn't like them one bit. Unfortunately I ended up being stuck on a rural farm with them for several days with the idea that we would be doing a bit of work around the place including making fruit flavoured alcohol from guavas. Independencia itself had amazing potential and was a fascinating place to visit as after a 7 hour bus ride through the countryside with nothing but the occasional llama munching on some strawberry blonde grass we then had to walk for an hour to get to the farm itself. The neighbours could only speak Qetchua, and in other circumstances I probably would have loved the experience, but instead I spent most of my time muttering insults under my breath, not confrontational enough to say them aloud. Whilst we waited for the bus on the way home I watched a loose chicken roam the street in front of me, which I suppose had escaped from some body’s back yard. It appeared twitchy and unnerved by its new found freedom, as if now it had independence it wasn't quite sure what to do with it, as if it was no longer sure of its purpose, the parallel between us was alarming! I realised that one of the only reasons I was spending time with these two buffoons was because I was reluctant to be alone, which was ridiculous because I'd have had more fun with a bunch of finger puppets!

I realise that throughout the last few paragraphs I have been painting a picture which may portray me as home sick and lonely, which I can assure you, for the large part is not the case, I'm just learning as I go. There are so many positives that I'm experiencing, juxtapositional to all the challenging ones, its just that often the positives are so much more subtle. For example simply walking down the street can be a total pleasure, it is not unusual to come across a gym filled with men flexing their guns while listening to salsa, or an old fashioned barbers which looks like something out of Sweeny Todd. Street vendors are guaranteed to be at every corner with a strict unwritten rule of only selling things that will lead to an early death, and there is a never ending supply of chicken and popcorn in every city I've visited. The distinction between rich and poor can not go unnoticed in Bolivia, and although these people inhabit the same space they are worlds apart in the lives they lead. One thing that can be said for all though, from the smallest wrinkliest old lady you can imagine, to the fashion conscious teenage girls who are only ever seen in gaggles, they all make time to socialise. While Latin American culture is still clearly traditionally catholic in many of its ideologies, there is a certain attitude towards public behaviour that differs drastically from ours. For example, a day doesn't go by where I don't pass a couple passionately embracing on the street, and it is a regular occurrence to be sat next to a girl or guy singing away to themselves in an internet cafe as if they were auditioning to be the next Ricky Martin. Also if shop assistants have nothing to do, they do nothing. There is no pretence about size ordering clothes in an attempt to appear busy, and often you will enter a shop to find the assistant chatting to a friend or texting on their phone, which those of use who have worked in retail well know, is a cardinal sin in British stores.

Another aspect of Latin American culture I will never tire of is 'park life'. Now I know I've commented many a time on the central squares that virtually all colonial towns are set around, indeed they are the bread and butter to pretty much every place I've visited, but to fully appreciate their charm I need to dedicate a little more ink to them. I wrote this when it was 2pm on a Sunday afternoon...

It must be around 25 degrees and there isn't a cloud in the sky. To my right sits lady of around 80 years dozing peacefully by herself. To my left a woman is busy selling freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice from a small cart full to the brim with fruit. Next to her is another woman with a similar cart selling ice creams and a man busy shining shoes. In front of me is a fountain, around which children play, quite transfixed by their imaginary worlds. The square is filled with people of all different generations, enjoying each others company; paying homage to the simple things in life, and for that reason time seems to have slowed a little here. It has to be said that occasionally when I visit these places I'm not as fortunate and I find myself on a bench that smells of pigeon poo, or perhaps a homeless person comes and urinates against the tree next to me, but largely these parks are my little piece of heaven and something I will miss dearly.

So there you have it, despite all the hours stuck on buses, despite the occasional crazy or damn right unpleasant person I encounter, for the countless rooms I stayed in that at home would class as a healthy and safety officer’s wet dream, I wouldn't give this experience up for the world and the thought that soon it will all be over is something I can't bare to consider.