Last week, I had the opportunity to take seven of the older boys of the Villa on a rare outing in Cochabamba. The occasion was a Bolivian-produced movie called ¿Quién mató la llamita blanca? (Who Killed the White Baby Llama?). As you might imagine, the industry of Bolivian filmmaking is almost nonexistent and is comprised of a handful of directors, producers, and actors who make movies for the love of the art and not for the monetary gains reaped from their labors. Although clearly low-budget, this film provided a comedic insight into the nuances of Bolivian culture, highlighting the adventures of an indigenous couple as they traveled east from the highlands of La Paz to the lowlands of Santa Cruz. Apart from its enjoyable commentary on the idiosyncracies of the many diverse subcultures living in Bolivia, this film also addressed the exploitation and corruption of a country that historically has been marginalized by the rest of the world. All of this is to say that the film taught me a great deal about the manner in which Bolivia arrived at its current state of poverty in the third world.
However, this trip to the cinema also revealed the consciousness and gratitude of the children who accompanied me. Aside from the fact that these seven boys were elated to get the opportunity to leave the Villa for several hours and enjoy themselves in Cochabamba, they also made an effort to be respectful of the situation at hand. After we had bought the tickets for the show, we went to the concession stand to buy refreshments. When I told them that we could spend thirty bolivians (slightly less than four dollars) on whatever they wanted, Santiago, the most mature youngster in the Villa, told me that we should not spend that much. I told him that it was okay, we were having a night out and the Villa would pay for it. But he told me that we should only get a few drinks and popcorn and share them. Sure enough, the other children followed suite and insisted that we only spend half of the alloted money. Amazed at their maturity, I agreed that we would share three small cokes and two small popcorns between us and save the rest of the money. As we walked into the theater, I realized that at Santiago´s age, 13, I never would have considered such an act of humility. When we sat down in our assigned seats (such is the etiquette in Bolivian movie theaters), the children readily provided me with my own Coke and napkin full of popcorn. I told them that I wanted to share the Coke with everyone else, but they would not hear of it. Not a single child was willing to share with me. Truly, I tell you, I was wholly amazed at their generosity.
After the movie, we congregated in the lobby, and each one of the children thanked me for the experience. As in America, Bolivian movie theater lobbies are littered with videogames, and like many American children, these boys test their skills in the arcade. When they asked me if they could play for a few minutes, I told them that I did not think we had enough money (assuming that videogame prices would be comparable to those in the States, fifty cents per game). However, when they requested only one boliviano a person, I could not say no. As I doled out the seven pesos (totaling less than one dollar), these boys jumped in delight, and you would have thought that I had given them a new XBox or Playstation. Surprisingly, they were quite talented at the games they played, and those seven pesos lasted close to half an hour.
On the ride home (eight people crammed into a ridiculously small taxi), the boys continued to thank me for taking them to the theater. I told them that it was my pleasure and that I hoped to do it again soon. Who would have thought that a simple trip to the movies could bring so much joy to several young boys´lives?