Cleanliness Is Next to...Impossible

Now that we’re on the topic of freshly scrubbed things (like the half-load of laundry I just returned to my closet--triumph!), it bears mentioning that cleaning is a constant part of my life here in Bolivia. I am quickly coming to relish the sensation of emerging from a nice, cold shower, after passing the day in an intentional state of ignorance to sweat, dirty fingernails, dusty hair and appendages sticky from contact with food and clinging children. I revel in the soapy scent of my skin, the pure, white edges on my fingertips, and the chance to run my hands through my soft cabello, which I keep pinned and pony-tailed all day to evade the lice that occupy the heads of many girls. However, cleaning is not simply a pleasure; it is a necessity. To combat the penetrating, fine-grained dust that settles everywhere (on the floors, sink, toilet, shelves, etc.), I have had to sweep or wipe down my room every couple days. Dishes must be washed immediately and rinsed with boiled water to avoid attracting bugs and bacteria. Fruits and veggies should be not just be washed, but also boiled or peeled carefully before consumption, because our stomachs are no match for the microbes that would otherwise pass from the hands of others’ to the produce and then to our mouths. And, of course, every day, after showering, I scrape the puddles of water into the drain in the center of the floor, as I do when my room floods during heavy rains.

Although my room fortunately did not flood on that particular day, there was one day about two weeks ago during which the rain permeated almost every other barrier I put up against it.  It was a Wednesday. We were obliged to travel to Santa Cruz to continue the interminable visa process, and of course, as we prepared to set out, heavy, ominous clouds occluded the morning light and the wind began stirring with greater insistency. By the time we had donned our raincoats (ha ha), the downpour could quite adequately be termed torrential. Nevertheless, Monica, Viv, and I plunged into the thick of the tormenta, wading across streets-turned-streams and trying to protect our bags (all containing precious legal documents) from the water seeping in through our sleeves and hoods. Crossing through the market on our way to the trufis, we shouted jokes to each other to dispel the horrid thought of what might be floating in the murky channels covering our feet and ankles. (I think I described before that the sidewalks here are, as a rule, dotted with feces, spoiled meat, suspicious tissues, and rotting produce, among other types of trash.) When we finally arrived in the safe harbor of the trufi station, I had to apologize to the ticket agent as I offered her a completely sodden 10Bs note from the pocket of my raincoat. Thankfully, despite their often picky way with money (NO ONE likes to give change EVER), she seemed to understand my predicament and laid my bill out to dry on the desk. Soaked through to our inner layer of clothing, we spent the next hour squished together in a stuffy backseat en route to Santa Cruz, a journey made slightly more nerve-wracking than usual, as our driver had to occasionally employ his “manual” defrost system to permit visibility (a handcloth, that is). As things would happen in Bolivia, when we finally escaped the deluge and squeaked up the stairs to our destination on the second floor of Interpol, the office was closed, despite the fact that it should have opened an hour earlier. It appeared that the personnel had either been delayed or entirely dissuaded from coming to work by the rain, which continued dripping through openings in the building to form large puddles on the floor in the stairwell. So, there we waited, hopping around on bluish-white toes and flapping our raincoats to dry them off (which, conveniently, served the dual purpose of warming our muscles against the chill). I don’t remember whether we achieved anything noteworthy in our business with Interpol that day, but I vividly recall the relief we felt (and expressed audibly) upon entering the office, which, despite some rather sparse furnishings, had evidently invested in a heating system. When we returned to the Hogar, in desperate need of a good cup of hot tea, I felt that we had experienced something that brought us closer to the lives of the Bolivian people. I don’t believe I have ever felt more thoroughly wet than I did that morning, but with the rainy season approaching in February, I’m sure this memory will soon have plenty of competition.