Fictionalized Truth in Motion

Where the Andes roll down thick green valleys and entangle with fluorescent slopes climbing from the Amazon, Samaipata emerges. What privileged foreigners dubbed a “paradisiacal retreat,” some Bolivian families are bound by poverty to a town that gives just enough, leaving nothing to take away.

At its heart is a dusty square with stone benches, and enclosed trees. Eight paths branch off with only one reaching the main road connecting Santa Cruz and Sucre. Another path leads outside of town where dump trucks roam. All the others eventually lead to the market.

That’s where I saw Carlos, an eight-year old boy endearingly referred to as Carlito. I first met him where he resides, the Zoologico, an animal refuge run by a Swiss family. A small, frantic, yellow monkey climbed all over him as he fed fruit to the macaws. Today, his teacher skipped school so he was in the market doing chores.

Gently squeezing avocados, I return them. They aren’t ripe. I grab four red bananas. I hand them to the broad shouldered woman. I ask cuantas? I pay two Bolivianos. Carlito smiles laughingly. At a different stall identical to the last, he doesn’t touch anything. He hands her a coin, and asks for one Boliviano’s worth of red bananas. He’s given six. Again, he shows off the large gap in his front teeth.

I carry his heavier bag filled with chirimoyas, and maracuyas. It’s a two kilometre walk down the road dump trucks traverse. The sun sears leaving us without silhouettes. Carlito isn’t talkative as he kicks up a dust storm. He keeps his answers short: “Football, watching TV.”

Carlito isn’t homesick. His family lives in town, but he doesn’t see much of them. It’s fun to live with all the animals. He’s even better in school. Carlito has grown healthier. His family will soon want him back. After all, he’s strong enough to start working a job.

His big smile today doesn’t deceive his awareness of tomorrow. In life, Carlito’s hands-off approach brought greater value before.