People on the Streets
When I was
home recently, I was asked if I am afraid living in a third world country. With some, like my Aunt Sara or my friend
Elaine, it was an honest desire to know what it is like living here. With others, I won’t mention any names, they
have a look of terror on their faces, as if the thought of living here would
mean a quick death by something worse than the horror films Hans used to make
me watch.
Here is
what I see walking the streets of Bolivia, whether in a big city like Santa
Cruz or a small town like Samaipata. I
see kids chasing pigeons or hiding from their friends behind a statue. I see boys in blue slacks and white shirts
acting like boys while on their way to school.
I see a lady in high heels scurrying across the Plaza. I see two old men playing chess, with a
teenager studying every move. I see an
old lady sitting outside her shop, concentrating on her crocheting. I see two teenagers in love, holding
hands. I see a young man turn and take a
second look at a pretty young lady. I
see someone paying more attention to his phone than the taxi coming by. And I see taxi drivers stressed out by
traffic.
These
people are too busy with their lives to worry about me. It is true that my retirement check, half of
what I earned as a teacher, is double the average income of a Bolivian. They aren’t concerned about me. When I walk down the street, I pass by people
minding their own business. Maybe one in
twenty gives me a second look. I know I
don’t look like the average Bolivian.
I’m too fat and my eyes are blue-green.
When I
first meet Bolivians, they are curious about me. The normal questions they ask are, “Why are
you here?” “How do you like
Bolivia?” “What do you think about
Trump? “How is America different from
Bolivia?”
The
conversations often turn into someone telling me where I need to go in
Bolivia. These are people proud of their
country. They want me to visit the city
of their birth, whether Potosi, Sucre, Cobija, or San Ignacio. It makes them proud that I, a complete
stranger, love their land.
Some people
are becoming regulars in my life, like the waiters at La Pascana, Café
Patrimonio, Teconté, or Starbucks; also, the lady who cuts my hair and the
young men who are doormen of my building.
They ask me about where I have visited recently, or ask me about my
writing. I can assure you, not one of
them is out to get me because I am a foreigner.
They smile at my bad Spanish and keep on talking!
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