Yapado

Got a little more than I bargained for with this trip to Bolivia – in a good way. S hooked me up with a “rotation” at one of the tertiary hospitals in El Alto. She knows pretty much everyone in that hospital, and has been introducing me left and right. I’m spending half days there shadowing and getting pimped in Spanish.

But on Saturday, W, one of the interns, offered me one of her kiddos (and her phone number!) and let me examine and present him to the attending pediatrician. It wasn’t any worse than my English presentations (which isn’t saying much). The first day I was there, we saw a case of laryingitis (where are the adenoids on lateral xray?), organophosphate intoxication (what lab test can be used to confirm, what’s the difference between nicotinic and muscarinic receptors?), and what I thought might be Sturge-Weber syndrome (he had a port wine stain, seizures, visual disturbances – the neurologist has to work him up though).

In the latter half of the days, Maria Renee and I have been furiously trying to finish what I came here to do. These last few days in La Paz are gonna be busy…

The Sell

Just as I was about to enter our apartment building one afternoon, a little kid ambled across my path. Clutching a bunch of yellow flowers in his hands, he mumbled something in his little kid voice, the one where they sound like they have just barely gained control of the movements of their mouths.

All I understood was “pesito, pesito”. Usually I’m pretty cheap when it comes to hawkers trying to sell their goods. This kiddo looked like he had just learned to walk, much less talk, so I wanted to find out how he came into his line of work. I crouched down and asked him how old he was, what his name was. He rattled off more unintelligible words to me, interspersed with “pesito”. What must have been his older brother ran over, but he didn’t look that much older. “No habla español,” the brother said.

“Solamente habla aymara, entonces?”

“Si.”

I chuckled – I don’t think it would have helped me any if the kid had been speaking English. As it were, my command of the indigenous Aymara language was nothing to write home about. I asked, “Eres su hermano? Cuantos años tienes?”

He was 7, and his little brother was 4. I had so many more questions – why were they out here in the streets of La Paz alone, where were their parents, where did they get their flowers from, and did I look like the type of guy who wanted to buy some flowers – but I guessed they had to get on with their jobs so I refrained.

I told myself that living with three women gave me reasonable cause to buy flowers (because they like such things, right?), and so I shelled out the one pesito. If having a job at an early age builds character, those kids are gonna have more than I ever will.

Lost and Lonely

The other day, Maria Renée (my Bolivian collaborator) and I were coming back from visiting hospitals in El Alto. We were already running an hour late for our lunch date with the people at the lab. Before our kombi stopped, we had already identified the connecting trufi that we needed to take to get to Calacoto. The trufi is just like a taxi, except that it seats five passengers so you carpool with strangers.

There were two people already inside, a man riding shotgun, and his wife was in the back. Maria Renée went to get in, but the lady pulled HARD on the door and said loudly in an American accent, “No! Sorry. NO!”. She caused Maria Renée to almost fall over.

A little delirious from the day’s journey, Maria Renée and I were taken aback. We stood at the curb and looked at each other, unsure what to do. It was so unexpected. The man had his nose buried in a map. I thought about offering help, but the lady had given off such a rude, unapproachable vibe, so I stayed silent.

Less than a minute later, the taxi driver kicked the couple out, and we in turn got in the taxi. Cue the righteousness indignation. I turned and looked at the lost couple and almost felt bad. The lady must have read in Lonely Planet about the criminal schemes that happen in the trufis. Maybe it had happened before and still happens on occasion, but this is how many Bolivians get to work and school every day.

How intimidating it can be to be a stranger in a strange land, and how funny those strangers must seem to the natives of that land.