14.12.07: I meet a real Bolivian

When considering places to live, my needs were clear: somewhere with a coast for surfing, mountains for snowboarding, great food and fabulous drinks. As such Bolivia was not an obvious choice. Completely landlocked, it could hardly be further from the sea; while at a lung-searing height, it only has one ski lift; the national dish is “cuy” or whole, roasted guinea pig; and its drink, “chicha” is fermented with spit. Perfect.

However, my girlfriend has an accompanied post there, so I’d better start learning Spanish. On a positive note, as a man who loves women in hats, I was delighted to hear that Bolivian ladies wear bowlers. The victim of falling sartorial standard among City gents, it’s great to hear that the noble Derby has found it’s home among indigenous women up in the Andes.

I had never knowingly met a Bolivian, so I was delighted to find the charming cleaning lady at the office was from Santa Cruz. Here was a short, dark-skinned, comfortably built godsend – a provider of first-hand details about my new home. I was expecting a rose-tinted perspective. What I was not expecting was a litany of complaints about La Paz. I was told, the residents are terrible, short, dark-skinned people, the city is cold, dirty, poor, expensive, they don’t have coffee machines, dish washers, washing machines, nice cars…

The list went on, ending with an offer: she wanted my number so she could ring me in 12 months just to tell me how great London was. What struck me, aside from her enthusiasm for schadenfreude, was her uncompromising racism about the people of La Paz. I’d read about the schism between the west (poorer and home to the indigenous people) and east (wealthy and more European) sides of the country; I hope her views are not indicative of a commonly shared hatred.