In recent days, you will have received an email or a letter from the Australian Bureau of Statistics with instructions on how to complete the 2026 census. Most of us will fill in the online form on August 11. It should be 20 minutes of inconvenience to be counted and avoid a fine.
But until I spent a census day locked inside a hostel in La Paz, Bolivia, I’d never considered how convenient our census actually is. How do you count a population without a functioning postal service, or universal access to the internet?
La Paz is dirty, hilly and vibrant. It’s hard to breathe between the 3650-metre altitude and 1990s engine emissions on the city’s chaotic streets. But I loved it.
Here is a country that’s rejected a lot of Western norms. You won’t find a McDonald’s here – the multinational tried and failed. Bolivians would much rather support a local street food vendor or “casera” trying to support their family. (It is possible, Northcote!)
Like many tourists, and even the ones who call themselves “travellers”, I was largely unaware of the daily happenings in a country where I’d only spent a week, taking each day as it came.
Book a hostel a week out? Nah, that’s too rigid. But staff at the Wild Rover Hostel were imploring us to extend our bookings for March 23, 2004. I heeded.
From midnight, the doors were locked. Nobody, not even workers, could leave. Bolivia was taking stock of its population for the first time in 12 years, or 23 years, depending on who you asked. Myself, my hostel companions and the entirety of the 11,365,333 people in Bolivia were required to stay in the one place from midnight to midnight so they could be counted. The only exception: a medical emergency.
Anyone spotted on the streets on this day would be rounded up and counted among the prison population.
Reply-paid envelopes are out of the question in a country without a functioning postal service, as is the idea that everyone can go online. Instead, 860,000 volunteer census collectors spent the day going door-to-door, counting the number of people in each of Bolivia’s 4 million households.
The census came about after years of protests demanding one, and people I spoke to were passionate about complying. Local governments urged Bolivians to stay home because the more people counted in an area, the greater the share of resources and political representation. Staying home was the thing to do for your region.
The hostel shut its doors to the outside world for a day, with employees sleeping on the floor in the reception area. Meanwhile, guests and staff had a fiesta on a beautiful but eerily quiet March afternoon. We had a barbecue and played beer pong with plenty of local lagers. And then, at midnight, the doors were unlocked. Everyone had been counted. Life could resume.
In the days that followed I heard stories of travellers getting stranded in all sorts of bizarre places, many without proper preparation or anything to eat. A full day locked in whatever room or broom cupboard or hovel they’d managed to find the night before. By sheer luck, I had been given the opportunity to stay longer in my dorm bed.
And if comparatively privileged travellers were hard done by, think about the locals what they sacrificed for census day. It evoked memories of pandemic lockdowns and the terrible situations many found themselves in: unable to travel to provide care, or stuck inside in cramped home or a dangerous domestic situation. A day of lost income is also a lot less easily absorbed in Bolivia. However, I was inspired by the dedication of the census volunteers who wanted the best for their local communities.
I’ll think about this on our own census night and the effort we take to ensure nobody is missed. There’ll be plenty of ABS staff who travel to remote locations and who head out to count those without a roof over their heads.
Grumble you may, that you’re forced to log in or fill out a form for everyone in your dwelling on the night of Tuesday, August 11. But unlike Bolivia, most Australians have it pretty easy when it comes to counting population. Compared to a full day of lockdown, 20 minutes on the couch is more than manageable.
Nick Dalziel is a communications manager and writer from Melbourne.
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Nick Dalziel is a communications manager and freelance writer based in Melbourne.From our partners
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