Bolivia: The Chicken And the Egg
By J. Eva Zeppa

I'd been sent into the Bolivian jungle to re-open a bar. After a deep bout of food poisoning and a three-day unsuccessful runaround in search of the keys to Lucho's Mouldy Dump, I gave up on my mission.

It didn't take much to make me realise that I hated the jungle, truly and with all my Northern soul. It was way too hot and everything was dangerous. I have heard of witches that transformed themselves into jaguars just to give you the evil eye; and snakes that, once crossed, would follow you anywhere, all the way to Alaska if necessary, to reap their revenge; and of course there were the duendes that tried to steal everyone's newborns for no good reason whatsoever. Even the tiniest of jungle creatures can kill you, like the microbes in the river that swim into your urethra and eat your privates from the inside out. All right, that alone might not kill you, but you might wish that it had. There are moths that lay eggs in your belly button. Once hatched, their babies smear acid on your skin and feed off it. Food poisoning alone, from a chicken eaten in the cleanest place in town, almost killed me. I should have taken the hint and booked a ticket on the first bus out of Rurrenabaque. Instead, I booked an early morning bus ride deeper into the jungle.

It was just past dawn, and the bus was already forty-five minutes late in leaving. The bus was packed with a throbbing mass of humanity but sat motionless. I sat sweating and impatiently dreaming of my return to the more temperate highlands. I knew from experience that impatience had no place on the buses of developing countries.

People were standing in the aisles, while I had both seats to myself. The bus lurched forward and our journey finally began. Then, just as we were picking up speed, there was a pounding on the side of the bus. The driver stopped, opened the door and a little old lady stepped on. Behind her, a tiny dishevelled boy, no more than eight or nine. He must have been her grandson.

The old woman had on an oversized tattered dress and flip-flops with a broken strap. The boy didn't have shoes on. He was wearing shorts with a patched rear-end and a faded threadbare T-shirt that read “Kittens Friends Forever”. They carried no luggage; the woman had a small plastic bag lodged under her skinny arm. The boy clenched a used straw in his right hand, holding it out in front of him like a sword as they walked to the back of the bus. He seemed pleased with himself and ready for the adventure he was about to undertake.

I smiled thinking how poverty facilitated imagination in ways foreign to many westerners. But my smile faded when the duo came back and motioned to the seat next to mine. There were least twelve bumpy hours to go and I had been selfishly coveting the free seat, allowing my belongings to spill over. I took my bag from the seat and wedged it between my feet. The old woman sat down then turned to me and smiled. The boy sat on her knee and, like most Bolivian children unused to foreigners, stared intently at me, fascinated by the pale-faced gringa.

I was in a thoroughly bitchy mood. I had barely eaten since the chicken that caused everything in my digestive system, to flee my body without looking for the nearest exit. I was still weak and dehydrated and my hunger had just returned. With the last of my Bolivianos, I had bought a large bottle of water and a bag of Ritz Bits Sandwiches at a kiosk at the bus station. I began eating the crackers and processed cheese. It melted benignly onto my tongue with bland familiarity.

I could sense him; the little boy was staring more intently now. It was obvious—he wanted my crackers. He might have assumed that I would share my lunch with him. How wrong he was. I turned a full ninety degrees to completely face the window, but I could still feel the boy staring at my back.

It wasn't guilt that I felt. I had been living in Bolivia much too long for that. Much of the Earth's peoples live in abject poverty, and I would be deluded to think that I could do much to solve their problems.

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