Poor? Who's Poor?

"There are no poor people in Bolivia - only lazy people."

This is from Diana, our guide, who is chatting to us throughout the day, as we spend more time being awed by the salt flats, have a deliciously giggly lunch over wine in the middle of the salt flats, before finally ending this, most inspiring of journeys, at our hotel in Uyuni.

It is, to say the least, a controversial statement, and I am loath to venture an opinion of my own, being so under informed about Bolivian economics, though I suspect this is an opinion evinced by somebody who is not struck by poverty themselves. And as such, is also more under informed than they would realise.

But what does strike me, is that the definition of what poverty is, is controversial in itself. We have endless discussions with politicians in the UK, arguing over how possible it might be to live on minimum wage, or whether people on benefits are Britain's poor - or simply  'thieving cheating scum who are probably foreign' (paraphrased from regular headlines appearing in the Daily Mail and/or emerging from the venerable mouth of Nigel Farage). 

There has always been controversy over what the monetary threshold if poverty should be. And there have always been arguments put forward by groups of people to the effect that they are 'poor' - and by other groups of people to the effect that those groups are not. The word 'poor' seems to confer a higher moral status than, for example, the word 'unemployed'. Being poor is a state of being you were born into and deserve to be rescued from. Being unemployed, unacademic or similarly stuck outside the more well oiled cogs of society might well lead to the same economic definition of poverty, but those labels are a little less well respected, opening themselves to, probably unfair, accusations of laziness or undesirability.

These are age old discussions. But what about the other kind of controversy, in which a person might rail against a definition of being 'poor' which is forced upon them by a well meaning but maybe a little patronising member of a more traditionally well heeled group or culture? Bolivia presents a particular challenge in this latter category, as further conversations with Diana, anecdotes from others and my own subsequent experience will reveal.

Bolivia is a rich country in respect of its natural resources, not only in terms of arable farming, raising of alpacas and llamas for meat and wool, quinoa production, salt, oil, and natural minerals and gemstones - but in terms of beauty, tourist interest and historic and geological specimens such as Inca ruins, dinosaur footprints, mountains, volcano's and fossils.

That it does not export much in the way of goods owes much to high taxes, which Diana tells me the country is trying to change. But it also owes something to the fact that production of goods is almost never mechanised. This means that countries such as Chile, who use factories and machines for large scale farming, can produce a greater quantity, cheaper.  But Bolivia, at least according to Diana, is proud of its lack of mechanisation, something I can support, not being a huge fan of large scale mechanised farming myself. In my experience the results of upscaling the volume of production, is that the animals, where it involves those, are treated badly in the pursuit of speed and the cutting of costs, the quality suffers in support of the quality, because in order to keep up with the mechanised speeds, certain corners are cut, jobs are fewer and the environmental impact is deeper. The huge caveat on this, of course, is that I don't actually understand farming, and the effects I describe may not in fact be directly in consequence of greater volume or mechanisation, but if market forces or the personal choices of individual farmers. But it's a perception.

It's a perception that Diana, and, apparently, Bolivian people in general, shares. 

"We do not use machines," she says, "and so our products are very pure. There is not much pollution and the products are good quality. They are made carefully, not fast."

Diana is proud of this heritage. She sees a work ethic and a sense of quality in the hand made, hand reared, hand harvested nature of the goods which firm the key economic components of her country. Bolivia does not produce things by hand simply because it is poor, though as things are never simple, it might have an effect, bit because it is the way people choose to do it.

We visit a little village on the edge of the salt flats where the majority of its inhabitants earn their living by extracting, processing, bagging and selling the salt. They generally run it as a family business from their home. We go in to see, and there are the piles of salt, which the men drive out to dig for and bring back. There are piles laid out to dry, and then shaken to break it up into granules, whereupon it is funnelled into a bag which is sealed over a candle.

In the distance there is a deserted building.

"That was the old factory for processing the salt " says Diana, "but it's empty now."

I ask why. She shrugs as though really the answer is obvious.

"No one wanted to go to a factory," she says, "to work for someone else and do what they could do perfectly well at home."

What an attitude. What freedom. What work life balance. Why travel, albeit only a short distance to work in less comfort, with less ability to simultaneously look after your children, your hens and your pigs, and little say in the final division of profit? Even more challengingly, how many of us in the west go to an office to do something we could 'perfectly well do at home'? To be fair, before now I would have assumed the processing of salt was not a thing you could easily do at home, but South America, and indeed South East Asia, have rather expanded my understanding of what is possible.

Diana talks further about things the country is rich in, which she feels would be lost, sacrificed on the alter of progress, if the country were to become more 'developed' with all the changes that go along with that. People here are rich in their understanding of the properties of plants. They don't go to a chemist to buy a capsule for a minor ailment, they know that nettle tea is good for pain, mint for digestion, they know how to create poultices, infusions and foods to cure every possible minor ailment. They even know that a certain plant can be used to ward off malevolent spirits, dead family members hoping to bring another family member along with them, because they are reluctant to depart this world. What's more, the herbs and leaves required for all these cures are free. They can be found simply growing on the hillside. And every child in Bolivia knows how to identify them.

It certainly is a skill we've lost in the UK. Now we have to look it up on the internet. But before we too, were rich in our knowledge of plants and their properties, superstition aside. We knew how to cure a cold with a handful of herbs. My own knowledge of this, today, is very basic. Ginger for a cold, dock leaves for nettle stings, lavender to sleep. It's pretty limited. 

This principal extends. 

"People here do not just buy a table when they need one," Diana explains, "they are used to making use of what there is. They can make a table."

Her point is that simply buying things, as you might in a more developer country means after a generation or so, you are no longer empowered to create something for yourself. You are the poorer for the loss of that skill.

Later, we talk to some friends we made in San Pedro, who had been to visit the Potasi mines.

"We are happy," the miners told them, "we are glad you have seen because we are free. We do not have to go down into the mines every day. We share a section of the mine as our family business. If we do not want to work one day, we do not. We have a choice. We like to chat with our friends in the mines, its a nice atmosphere. We train our children how to mine not because we are poor, but because they want to learn, it is our pride. It is our business."

The Potasi miners are usually spoken of by visitors in sad voices, focusing on the shortened life span as a result of the dust. We assume the best thing would be for the mines to be closed for the sake of the miners, or for them to be employed by a company. We do not think of what they might lose. 

How patronising is it to assume somebody is poor or that their life would be better if it were more like ours? How much, unbeknown to us in the west, might others pity us for the aspects of our lifestyle in which we are the poorer?

Poor? Who's poor?