La Vida De Los Ninos by Eoghan Macguire

The creaking old bus choked for life as it valiantly staggered through the congested alleys. Stuttering, it clambered through the hordes of indigenous farmers whose enthusiastic cries reverberated against the salient white walls of the Colonial Spanish structures that enveloped the narrow passageways.

The bus's hesitancy to fulfil its journey was personified by its only passenger as I forebodingly considered what awaited on disembarkation, roguishly my mind wandered through scenarios of what to expect on my first day at the Betania orphanage.

I was eager to offer my help in a land that I quickly become enamoured with. I was in awe of its breathtaking natural beauty and the friendliness of its inhabitants, who despite   enduring a tragic history that has rendered Bolivia one of the world's poorest nations remain hospitable, welcoming and warm-hearted.

My apprehensions stemmed from concern not only about the poverty and harsh realities I would encounter, but that I would be viewed as a class tourist, someone who could idealise poverty from the relatively wealthy Scotland, or a sightseer, passing through without truly understanding the struggles of the people who bear them. In short, I was worried I would be viewed as, what the locals call, a Gringo.

Despite my fears for the buses health, I was eventually confronted by my own anxieties as I alighted at my destination. It was immediately apparent I was now in a complete juxtaposition of the bustling centre only a few miles below. The dusty unpaved streets were virtually devoid of life and colour, corrugated iron shacks and small disjointed stone constructions pockmarked the arid yellow hills that rose above relative prosperity and architectural splendour of the city in the canyon below.

The neglect and decay, so apparent in the surroundings, manifested itself physically in the form of an old man slumped at the side of the road, his bony hands clutching a handful of drooping flowers, which replicated his weary and defeated demeanour. As I passed he raised his head to offer the flowers in exchange for money. I looked at his dark, heavily wrinkled face and saw a lifetime of rejection and suffering deeply etched within each age line, like a Giant Redwood confiding the secrets of its long life through the concentric rings on its trunk. Each wrinkle seemed to recall an individual tale of rejection, despair, neglect or misery that had amassed over a lifetime and produced the defeated individual in front of me with sunken and pleading eyes. Silently he bowed his head in gratitude as I parted with a coin and continued my journey.

As I tentatively approached the orphanage the obvious distinction to be made was that of the buildings exterior décor. A bright coat of green paint covered the somewhat battered walls, however despite the wear and tear its distinguishing colour was radiant in the midst of the ubiquitous yellow stone houses and dirt track roads. Like a little green oasis amongst the all encompassing yellow desert I thought to myself as I entered. I hesitantly introduced myself to the orphanage Director who, despite her stern and intimidating appearance, could not have been more enthusiastic and welcoming, soothing my somewhat frayed nerves. With haste she led me to meet my eager new students.

On entering the class I was swarmed by animated and inquisitive young children scrapping and pushing for position as they vied for my attention. ‘Are you from Japan?', ‘Where is Scotland?' and ‘Will you play football with us Professor?' being amongst the queries I could decipher from the high pitched, fast paced chatter of the earnest and curious din of young voices. The eagerness, happiness and playfulness was something I had not prepared for as my minds anxious exaggerations and the surrounding areas led me to conclude I would be teaching a product of the ruthless environs, tough, angry and rebellious, yet I was pleasantly surprised to be confronted by such a keen, studious and endearingly mischievous bunch.

As the initial excitement subsided the students returned their concentration to their various studies. I surveyed the scene which at first glance seemed typical of any primary school, with educational posters and children's paintings adorning the walls. However as I passed from student to student it became painfully obvious that in the initial furore and clamour of my introduction something had been overlooked. The poverty, so prevalent in the streets outside, was also subtly evident inside, stultifying the optimism, innocence and enthusiasm. Torn and ragged clothes masked scarred and skinny frames while missing teeth exacerbated the effects of malnourishment and insufficient diets. The paucity of educational resources was just as visible with children using a collection of stones and pebbles as makeshift calculators and as many as four students sharing one textbook.

Yet despite these obstacles the students displayed a voracious appetite to learn and progress that belied the dearth of materials. I mentioned this as a compliment to the Director in a moment of seclusion, yet she paused, appearing somewhat confused, before replying ‘It's just children learning, it's not like that in your country?' Rather ashamed I gave a polite smile as the recent memories of my school experiences revisited me, where teachers were heckled and the relationship between teacher and student was a battle of wills. Regretfully I thought how cruel life is bestowing opportunity on those who readily reject and keeping it out of reach of those who crave it. Yet, I optimistically ventured, such bright individuals will inherently have a bright future, to which the Director despondently retorted ‘opportunities are simply not there, University is too expensive and there is virtually no skilled labour.' The futility of it all invoked feelings of incredible frustration as I recalled the old man I had encountered on the street. Had he once been full of life and potential like the children in the orphanage before the enervating forces of rejection, frustration and despair began to accumulate?

I contemplated this as the bus lurched back through the now tranquil and vacant alleys that evening, pondering if the old man I had encountered was a glimpse at the future of the children I had been so impressed and inspired by.  With such a dearth of options it seems only a matter of time before the punishing environment grinds away the optimism and credulity of youth and, like the giant redwood, the story begins to scar the innocent faces. As the bus suddenly jolted to a halt, I realised, with a mournful clarity, that was a process that had already well and truly begun.

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