It´s easy to be fooled by the Cholita´s welcoming smile, forgetting that she works an eight to fourteen-hour day, trapped behind a tiny stall. The saddest thing is when her children are with her. She has to look after them constantly, they can't afford to go to school and there is no question of hiring a babysitter. So the children sit and stare vacantly beside her, indifferent to the passers-by.
You wonder why it is always women, sitting behind those stalls. The only male street vendors are burger sellers or leering old men on the side of El Prado, offering to sharpen your knife.
Having interviewed a group of radical feminists this week, I´ve been particularly aware of machismo and how hard life is for some Bolivian women. Domestic abuse is a big problem and even in the middle classes, supposedly educated men frequently mistreat their partners because they know their wives will be too ashamed to denounce them.
Thankfully, I haven´t experienced much machismo first-hand. People don´t mind my gender, but race is a problem and no matter how much my Spanish improves, I will always stand out as a gringa girl. This week, my so-called ´friend´, Aldair, came to my flat and robbed me and two of my friends. Rodge (my flatmate) reckons he´d been planning it for a while because everyone knows that gringos have money. Looking at the picture of us happily eating ceviche together, unaware of what would happen next, makes me feel utterly betrayed.
So by Friday night, I was fed up and needed to get out of La Paz. So me, Michael, Ivan and Naomi set off to Cochabamba, on the sunnier side of Bolivia.
The most exciting thing about Cochabamba, apart from the beautiful setting and climate, is the food. Cocha cuisine is nationally renowned and the red-wine duck with yucca I ordered did not disappoint.
The squares were charming and you would expect them to be peaceful. However, we saw several fights that weekend. Ivan´s cousin stepped in to break up this fight: between a Mother and another adult, who called her child a thieving liar.
We didn´t want to partake in the violence and were warned against the cheaper hostels, which frequently got robbed. Since Michael had a Bolvian friend working in hospitality here, we treated ourselves to a comfy hotel room, although knowing we were going out, we weren´t sure how much time we´d get to actually enjoy it! Luckily, the first night was just a pre-party so we collapsed into bed at a reasonable hour and slept until midday.
The next night was a little more hardcore. Ivan got us VIP tickets to Winterfest, an annual festival for the elite of Cochabamba and La Paz. I am not going to publish details of that night, but cease to say it was eventful.
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The next day, I woke up in Ivan´s flat, because I couldn´t afford another night at the hotel. Every other hostel I applied to turned me down since I had forgotten my passport. I guess they thought I was an illegal immigrant or something. He was so tired that he slept on the floor and kindly left me his double bed; something he'd begrudge me for in the morning.
His Aunt was a grandmotherly figure who made a delicious chicken satay for lunch the following day. She is just about to open a restaurant in Torotoro and I have no doubt she´ll be successful there.
My last memory of Cochabamba is the impressive Jesus statue. It´s even bigger than the one in Rio. Apparently, the person who commissioned it was a corrupt business tycoon who fled to America because the government was on his case. His sudden conversion to Christianity is suspect. But whatever his faults, his legacy is impressive.
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