Nansana Kids to Bolivia

But today, that same tenderness makes me uncomfortable. With their bright smiles and irresistible charisma, the Nansana Kids not only became a global viral sensation but also the emotional centerpiece of Bolivia’s latest tourism promotion campaign. They were invited to the country to perform at its most important cultural event: the Oruro Carnival, declared by UNESCO as a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. From the vibrant streets of Oruro to the surreal landscapes of the Uyuni Salt Flats, they became the perfect symbol of cultural exchange—an impeccable blend of talent, vulnerability, and profitable innocence.

A $30,000 investment—insignificant in the context of global tourism campaigns but significant for Bolivia—made it possible to bring them here. And with that investment, Bolivia obtained something that money alone cannot buy: viral visibility built on an irresistible combination of talent, poverty, and tenderness.

But that’s not the point. The point is that child who walked for hours through the streets of Oruro, smiling at strangers who applauded him, took photos with him, gave him gifts, and showered him with affection. The point is that tomorrow, they will be taken to another city, where they will repeat the same performance for a new audience. The point is that, during this week, they were treated like rock stars—but without contracts, without rights, and, most importantly, without a guaranteed future like real stars deserve.

Because unfortunately, they are not stars. They are vulnerable children, mostly orphans, turned into the centerpiece of a heartwarming viral story—a story that will end when they return to the same poverty they came from. No applause, no headlines, and not even the most well-intentioned social media posts will guarantee them education, healthcare, or new opportunities when they go back home. Perhaps their TikTok virality will allow them to monetize their account in some way, but that could also bring other problems and conflicting interests.

I don’t blame the children; they are innocent. I blame the system that turned their poverty into a profitable spectacle and the tourism industry that continues to use children as emotional triggers to sell destinations. I blame the social media machine, which has perfected the monetization of viral tenderness—where children, the poor, and the vulnerable only matter as long as they generate clicks, and the moment they stop, they become invisible.

Bringing the Nansana Kids to Bolivia was, without a doubt, a commercially effective decision—but it was also an ethically fragile one. Bolivia, like any other destination, has every right to promote its culture and showcase its beauty to the world. But the moment child vulnerability becomes the emotional hook of that promotion, the line between cultural exchange and exploitation becomes dangerously blurred. A true cultural exchange is built on respect, balance, and mutual enrichment, where all parties gain something valuable: knowledge, growth, understanding—not just fleeting applause. What happened in Bolivia was not that. Instead, a carefully designed spectacle was staged, where these children’s poverty and vulnerability became a consumable product, adding the perfect emotional weight to Bolivia’s narrative of openness and inclusion. By turning real children into marketing assets, Bolivia compromised the very values that sustainable tourism claims to uphold.

But when the show is over, who really cares about what happens next? Who worries about the psychological and social impact these children will face when they return to Uganda and once again confront their true reality—one without applause, colors, hugs, or spotlights?
The distance between being the center of attention at a carnival and being invisible in their own communities is a brutal gap that no tourism campaign will ever show. In the end, when the cameras stop rolling, the real question is: who takes responsibility for the human cost of these viral moments?

True responsible tourism is based on protecting the dignity of every person involved—whether it’s an artisan, a guide, a community leader, or, in this case, vulnerable children brought from thousands of miles away.
Yes, it is possible to celebrate cultural connection and promote true exchange without objectifying lives or reducing human beings to mere decorative elements in a campaign. But that was not the case here. I do not condemn our authorities’ desire to showcase our wonders to the world, but I deeply question the decision to use foreign child poverty as a marketing tool.

A destination that truly wants to position itself as responsible and ethical must have the courage to draw clear boundaries between promotion and exploitation, always choosing dignity over virality.

Author’s Note
This article was written based on personal experience, professional observation, and the ethical concerns of Janet Simbrón. I firmly believe that true sustainability begins with honest—even uncomfortable—conversations.