Advertisement
Published: October 12th 2008
And after all, we're only ordinary men My last morning in Potosí is a lazy one. I had intended on leaving for Sucre at around 8am, but I seem to have found an excuse to pack and repack my things a few times over. The reason is probably that my tiny one-bed room has a crummy little television parked on a small end table. The local cable service is loaded with an array of Spanish-speaking and Brazilian channels. But it also provides CNN International. Not my first choice of journalistic integrity, but I've been completely disconnected from the planet for a few weeks. I'll take anything.
One of the main topics of discussion is Bolivia. Protests in Santa Cruz and the northern region of Pando have ratcheted up a few notches. The U.S. State Department is gravely concerned about the situation and is giving full backing to the opposition. Travel advisories are being issued to Americans to avoid all non-essential entry into Bolivia.
A little late, Condie, but thanks anyway,
Still, I'm not worried. CNN is talking about the country as if it were in mass chaos. "Bolivia in crisis!" A glance out the window confirms that
it is, indeed, chaotic. But it is the normal every day chaos of Bolivia. Masses of people hurrying about to shops. Men hanging from the windows of microbuses shouting out their destinations and fares over and over. Small motorcycles and scooters buzzing through the narrow streets. Andean love ballads blaring from shop radios.
Oh, the horror.
The only real problem so far seems to be road blocks. From what I understand, Sucre is a bit sandwiched in between the highlands and lowlands and is more or less evenly divided between support and opposition of Evo Morales and his policies. This has left it vulnerable to road blocks in the past few weeks. There are none at the moment, but I may get stuck there for a few days.
Me and You
God only knows it's not what we would choose to do. No big deal, I planned on staying for several days, anyway.
Finally convinced that CNN is being sensationalist as always, I switch off the TV around 11am, pick up my gear, and go downstairs to checkout. I head down to the basement level to see if Joan and Marta have already left. They
are going to Sucre, as well, but were more intent on leaving in the morning. Samuel and Sonia will be sticking around to do some hiking outside Potosí.
I knock on the door and wait a minute. No answer. I guess they've left. I walk back upstairs and see Marta and Joan coming downstairs from my floor.
"I was just looking for you!"
"We were just looking for you!"
"Cool. Let's go to Sucre."
We grab a micro to the bus station where the next bus won't leave for Sucre for another hour. Joan jogs over to a group of taxis to ask about a colectivo service to Sucre. Sometimes, if you have enough people to split the cost, you can get a taxi between towns and cities for just a little more than the bus. Joan comes back and says we can get one for about 40 Bolivianos each. A little over $5 for a three-hour trip to Sucre in a private car. SOLD!
Along the way, the driver informs us that we'll be just in time for La Entrada de la Vigen Guadalupe - Sucre's big annual festival. Finally. I'm constantly missing festivals and
carnivals by two or three days. This time I will get to see one. It starts tomorrow (Friday) and lasts until Saturday night.
The driver drops us off in the main square of town and heads off - presumably to the bus station to find someone who will give him economic incentive to drive back home to Potosí. Joan and Marta are staying at a slightly more expensive inn here in the square, so we part ways and hope to see each other again.
Sucre is a beautiful colonial city - even more whitewashed than Salta was. I walk through the center looking for the hostel I picked out ahead of time. This is the beginning of low season, so I don't think I'll be bothering with reservations for a while. The rates actually end up cheaper if you just walk in rather than booking online.
I find the place on Calle Loa a few blocks from the plaza and ask for a room. No problem - less than $4 USD a night. The hostel is beautiful with a little central courtyard off the kitchen and is full of plants. I drop my stuff in the four-bed
dorm room and head into the courtyard to find the bathroom.
"Hey!"
I do a double-take of the girl reading a book at one of the small tables. It's Anna from Poland. I had no idea she would be here.
"Hi! When did you get here?"
"Yesterday. You?"
"Five minutes ago."
I sit at the table and we catch up on the past several days and play cards.
Later, the two others staying in my room show up. Allie from Los Angeles and a guy from Israel whose name I can pronounce perfectly, but will never be able to spell. However, no one else can pronounce it, and for some reason butcher it into Diego. Not exactly Hebrew, but we'll go with it.
They are here learning Spanish in Sucre and doing some traveling around the region. Sucre is a bit of a Mecca for people wanting to study Spanish for a month or two. The cost of living is ridiculously low and there are always plenty of native speakers who offer private classes for around $3 per hour.
Allie has been here for about a week and will probably stay for another
month or so. She has found a few apartments that will run $50 a month, and assaults every newcomer as a potential roommate. She has been traveling for about a year and a half - mostly in the Middle East and parts of Africa. She tells stories of Egypt and Zimbabwe. Forget Bolivia. Zimbabwe is
really screwed up.
Later in the evening, Anna and I go to dinner with a young Italian couple (Serena and Jacabo) staying in her room. We pick a nice little pizza place and sit down.
Jacabo orders a personal pizza with no Mozzarella due to a serious allergy.
Tragedy: An Italian who can't eat Mozzarella.
The two are hyper-examples of Italian personality - boisterous, humorous, and passionate. They are loaded with warmth and friendliness - they don't just like your company; they
love it. Rarely does one get to enjoy such an evening. Unfortunately, they'll be leaving tomorrow, so we won't be able to repeat the experience.
Friday
I get up and start getting ready for the festival. It is set to start at 2pm with La Entrada de los Niños - a parade of dancing children in
costume.
However, I learn that there is a problem. Ten people were killed yesterday during protests in Santa Cruz. The rhetoric between La Paz and the opposition is reaching a fever pitch.
"Forward!" he cried from the rear
And the front rank died To make matters worse, the United States
ambassador has been expelled from the country - having been accused of fostering divisions and attempting to destabilize the nation.
Things are looking grim.
The general sat
And the lines on the map
Moved from side to side Mostly out of respect for the dead, Sucre has decided to cancel the festival for today, and combine some of the events with tomorrow's celebration. So no parade this afternoon.
So instead, I walk around central Sucre. It's a city full of beautiful colonial architecture and pleasant squares full of large palm trees and flowers. I'm not quite sure why, but I've been looking forward to being here for a while. Now that I am here, I am sure I'd like to stay for a week to relax and soak it up. In contrast to Potosí, the vibe here is much more relaxed and tranquil.
No one seems to be in much of a hurry. It is much less crowded and much quieter. Not bad for a city of 225,000. According to the Bolivian constitution, it is the official capital of the country. But the de facto capital is now La Paz, after it was moved in the late 19th century. Still, the judicial branch of the government remains here.
Black and Blue
And who knows which is which
And who is who? I am more convinced of the social and cultural divisions found here. Unlike Potosí, women with more liberal taste in fashion can be seen walking through the streets alongside the more traditionally dressed. Particularly younger women wear their hair down and loose with short sleeve tops and trousers. But plenty of the flowing, full dresses are seen as well.
Up and Down
And in the end
It's only round and round and round The white walls of the city also speak volumes. On every side street and alley I see graffiti in favor of both Evo Morales and his political enemies. Often, the slogan "¡¡Evo Sí!!" appears scrawled in large letters. But this image is also occasionally crossed
out with a cryptic slogan written beneath it in different handwriting. The image of a distinguished looking gentleman (not Evo Morales) is seen just as often with pro-opposition slogans. I imagine he is one of the lead opposition politicians.
"Haven't you heard? It's a battle of words!"
The poster bearer cried But that's it. The conflict seems to be confined to graffiti and women's fashion. I can't detect the slightest bit of tension in the air. What started out as a tour of the city center turns into a quasi-journalistic hunt for political strife. I search the town squares, crowded indigenous markets, and narrow streets. No protests. No indignant shouts of hatred. No bullhorns spouting divisional derision onto the masses. And no hostile glances or angry curses to the blue-eyed gringo wandering around. Everyone is friendly and courteous.
Completely chill.
I'd like to think this all proves a point. But I can't imagine what that point might be. I'm not sure what all this means.
In the late afternoon, I return to the hostel. Allie is there with her Spanish teacher, Hernando. They have finished their three hour lesson and are sharing a hash cigarette
with Diego in the courtyard. I pull up a chair and listen in on the conversation. Allie's gnnga annunciation is murder on the ears, but she really is getting the grammar down correctly - a lot faster than I did.
Eventually, I work my way in and get to talking with Hernando. It turns out he was born and raised in Perú to Bolivian parents. He came here ten years ago to teach Spanish and to open a restaurant with his wife. He's a very cool guy and doesn't mind all my annoying questions about Bolivian history, politics, and culture. Well, it's not my fault he knows all the answers in such detail. We also discuss Perú which, as always happens, leads to the subject of Peruvian food. We go back and forth describing our favorite dishes. Allie and Diego are oblivious. Soon, the two of us drive ourselves into violent fits of hunger and it becomes mandatory to go eat something.
Hernando tells us there is a place up the road where we can get some excellent food very cheap. He calls his wife to meet us there, and the four of us - along with a
Joyride
Anna, Ross, and a sunburned me.German girl named Frauke - head off in the direction of the cafe.
The cafe serves something a bit like an empanada. Yes, yes, again with the empanadas. But these are made with dried beef - meaning the beef was previously salted and dried like beef jerky, then used to cook something so that it softens again. It's very good.
We munch away at the empanadas and drink various fruit juices mixed with milk. The latest rumor is that, on Monday, protesters will put up road blocks again which will isolate Sucre for a few days. Diego and Frauke are already planning on leaving Sunday to avoid this - as are many in the hostel. This doesn't affect Allie as she'll be around for a while. And quite frankly, I can't be bothered to pack up and leave in a hurry when I just got here yesterday. I want to stick around for a while, relax, and catch up on some writing. By God that's what I'm going to do. I've been dodging Oklahoman tornados and Texan pickup trucks for thirty years. I'm not scared of a pile of logs thrown across a highway.
Make me leave.
Hernando agrees, "In the absolute worse-case scenario, the blocks will last an entire week. Then they come down and everything goes back to normal."
"Exactly."
"But that's just road blocks. This is civil disorder we're talking about, not a transportation strike. Things can change and escalate."
"Well, yeah. But that's like protests in Santa Cruz and Pando."
"Well...yeah..."
"...What?"
"Did you not read about Black November?"
"No...?" I am a news junkie. I keep tabs on as many global conflicts, political issues, and technological breakthroughs as possible. But this one is new to me.
"There were riots here last November," he explains.
That makes sense. I was backpacking somewhere either in Europe or Morocco at the time. Unplugged.
Hernando goes on, "The Morales Administration had set a date for a new constitution in December. Mostly they were changes for his own benefit. He learned well from his Uncle Chavez."
"Yeah, I remember that part."
"Anyway, opposition groups wanted to keep one part as it was - with Sucre as the capital and actually move it back here. There was a lot of arguing. The military came in. One thing led to another and riots broke out. A few people died; a few hundred were injured."
"Listen, son,"
Said the man with the gun
"There's room for you inside" I think back to all the combative graffiti and the seemingly tranquil and peaceful city. Maybe Black November is a fresh wound at the front of the collective Sucre mind. Despite the disagreement, they are determined to restrain an explosion.
"Was there looting?" asks Allie.
Hernando grins, "No, this isn't Los Angeles. No, they only trashed the police stations. No shops or homes were damaged. It wasn't like that. Just fighting in the streets."
"How do you trash a police station? The police just let them?" I ask.
"The police weren't here. As soon as it got out of control, they and the military left the city."
"Jesus."
"Yeah, mostly to avoid becoming targets themselves. But in a way it is better for them to leave. If they stay and become targets, they are forced to respond. Then more people die. Better to just let it burn out on its own."
I peer out the window of the cafe into the dark street. Couples and families stroll by chatting and laughing. Could that change?
Down and Out
It can't be helped
That there's a lot of it about Hernando breaks the silence with an exasperated wave of his hands and a shake of the head, "Look, don't even worry about this. Black November was based on a sensitive issue about Sucre itself. This time it's more focused on Santa Cruz and Pando where all the major opposition groups are based. You are safe here; no one is going to come beating down the doors of the hostel. It doesn't work like that. No one in Bolivia gives a damn that you are gringos. Some of them may not like Bush, but they don't hate Americans. This isn't Iraq; we aren't armed or anything. I'm just as likely to be in danger as you. And if I thought that it was a big risk, I'd take my family and get the hell out of here."
"Yeah I know. I'm really not worried. It's just an upsetting thought is all."
"And if something were to get out of control, just sit in the hostel and play cards. I'll sit at home with my kids. And we'll be fine."
He's right. 99%!o(MISSING)f the time, the only people who get hurt in street riots are people standing in the street participating in a street riot. And that is not on my site-seeing itinerary.
We sit in silence for a moment. I look around and realize that we are the only customers left in the cafe. Waitresses are piling chairs up on top of tables. In the wake of the conversation, it is a bit eerie.
With
Without
And who'll deny It's what the fighting's all about? "They sure do close early," I say as I reach for my wallet.
Saturday
Out of the way!
It's a busy day
I've got things on my mind I get up early, shower, have breakfast, and head out the door to find an internet cafe. The computer in the hostel has about the same computing power as some digital watches I've owned and is running the risk of being thrown across the room by yours truly. For God's sake, I just want to publish a blog entry and write some emails.
I find one a few blocks away and spend an hour or so there. Afterward, I stroll into the main square were preparations are being made for the festival. Armed military police are positioned all around and keep an eye on things. The children's parade will go ahead as it was meant to yesterday. Good. It wouldn't be fair for the kids to go to all that trouble of practicing just to have the whole thing cancelled. What a let down. It's not their fault the rest of us haven't figured out how to run the planet after thousands of years of practice.
But then again, they'll just grow up and screw it up, too.
I wander around for a while and watch all the happy chaos. Close to noon, I start heading back toward the hostel to grab a bite to eat and get my camera. Halfway there, I hear someone behind me call my name. I turn around.
It's Ross. He's walking up the sidewalk with his pack and slightly tussled hair. He must have caught the night bus from La Paz. It isn't a complete surprise as he had sent an email that he might come down to Sucre for a bit. But still, it's the second such coincidence in 24 hours.
"Hey man! You're just in time for the party."
"What? Drinking already?"
"Yeah. You, me, Anna, and about a hundred 10-year olds. Welcome to Sucre!"
We walk to the hostel and sign Ross in. He ends up in one of the available beds in Anna's room.
Anna herself is sitting in the courtyard with Allie and an Irish couple from Galway. Ailbhe (an Irish name pronounced ALL-va) had been doing volunteer work at a convent in Haiti until rum and pot were discovered in her room. Kicked out of a convent - that has to go on the resume. She's spent most of the past year traveling around Colombia, Ecuador, and Perú. She's quite a free spirit and is full of crazy stories - the kind of person you always like having around. Her boyfriend, Mike (an English name pronounced MIKE), has recently come over to join her in her last few months before returning to Ireland. He will then spend a year traveling himself throughout Asia.
We all sit around and chat for a while and listen to Ross tell stories about La Paz.
Eventually, the six of us head to the center to see the parade. We find a good spot on the side of the main route and watch the different age groups of kids come marching and dancing through in colorful costumes.
The groups are intermittently followed by men playing horns and giant drums. They appear to be amateur and quite a few play off key. But this only adds to the whimsical atmosphere.
We follow the procession up the street and into the main square. We find a few available benches in the heart of the enormous square, listen to the parade wind it's way around the plaza, and soak up some sun. The Irish and the Englishman are particularly determined to contract skin cancer on their pasty white skin.
They must really miss their respective tropical islands.
After an hour or so, we get up and wander out of the square in the general direction of the hostel. The celebration has hit a lull and will continue in full force this evening. One of the main streets leading out of the plaza is lined with vendors selling all sorts of food cooked on little gas-powered grills and stoves. I have an iron stomach and don't care much for the sanitary concerns. I love street food. It's cheap, it's delicious, and it's what the locals eat.
Mike, Ross, and I are starving and are sucked into the gravitational pull of a cart where a woman is grilling beef for some sort of a kebab sandwich piled with tomato, onion and a thick, greenish hot sauce. We devour them, sucking the blisteringly hot sauce from our fingers and ask for three more. Anna and Ailbhe walk back over with some roasted potato wedges coated in an orange hot sauce. They're good, too.
Having satisfied our hunger and spiked the pH balance of our gastrointestinal systems, we walk back to the hostel to relax for a few hours.
In the evening, after the sun has gone down, we head back to the plaza where the festivities are in full swing. Larger and much more professional horn and drum ensembles are marching around the square. It would seem the entire city has turned out for the party. Droves of all sorts of people make walking around slow. But the good vibe and cheer make squeezing through the crowds a pleasant, if tedious, experience. We completely forget that this country is in the grips of a full-blown identity crisis. The city of Sucre seems to have forgotten it, as well.
Ailbhe and Mike spot two Irish girls they met a few days ago and introduce them to us. One of them leaps over and hugs me.
"Hiiii!!! Remember us?"
No.
I never recognize people - I never really see them to begin with. But after a moment, a faint trace of voice pattern recognition kicks in and I've got it. I met these girls way back in San Pedro, Chile. We had spoken for a bit in a little bar that the guide, Oscar, had recommended. When we met they had been a bit tired and rather reserved. But now they clearly have been drinking and are much more chatty and full of life.
We talk to them for a few minutes and they tell us they'll be going to a pub called Joyride just outside of the plaza at 9. Allie has mentioned the place and says it's good. We agree to meet the girls there for a few drinks and wander back off into the crowd.
At around a quarter to 9, we start to make our way to the corner of the plaza where Joyride can be found. The center of the square is now full of people slowly milling about. We dart across the street just ahead of one of the marching bands and leave the scene behind - a rotating and counter-rotating pulsating clockwork of humanity.
Allie leaves us to go find Diego and we head up to the top floor of Joyride. It is a dimly lit pub with small tables surrounded by big comfortable armchairs and small sofas. Ross, Anna, Mike, Ailbhe, the two now fairly intoxicated Irish girls, and I squeeze around one of the tables and look over the drink menu.
Someone in the group announces that they have caipirinhas. Another responds with approval. Others aren't quite sure what it is. A caipirinha is a volatile drink made from the aforementioned Brazilian Cachaça. (See entry:
World in My Eyes). Cachaça is not so much a liquor as an industrial solvent best used to clean the inside of Exxon oil tankers. It is to be handled with caution and respect.
I've spent the better part of a year training my liver to process the noxious shit, so I'll be fine. It's the others I'm worried about.
"Um, do you guys realize what you might be getting yourselves into?"
"Think about who you're talking to, yank!" grins Ross.
I look around the table. Four Irish, a Brit, and a Polish girl. Livers constructed of solid titanium.
"Right, sorry. Carry on."
The first round of caipirinhas comes out saturated in lime juice and sugar; but the bartender has not skimped on the cachaça.
Someone decides we should play a drinking game. I hate drinking games. Losing a round of a drinking game doesn't just mean drinking (something you're doing anyway), it means drinking a quantity on the spot you normally wouldn't. Oops you lost. Drink 3 fingers of your drink. Ugh.
I can drink. And if I go at my own pace, I can keep up with just about anyone all night. But for some reason, the English and Irish of the world have some fascination with getting as hammered as possible in a minimum of time. I don't get it. But as the token American, I of course have to go along in order to avoid trans-Atlantic ridicule.
Why am I
always the token American?
We don't have any cards with us, so we'll have to improvise. The game for tonight is for each person to toss Ailbhe's pack of cigarettes into the air and make it land on either of the four thin edges. For this to count, it must make a full 360° rotation before landing. If successful, two fingers of a drink are added to the "prize". The next person must then attempt to repeat the feat. If they can, the prize goes up to 4. This goes on until the pack lands on one of the two broad faces. That person then has to drink
x fingers of their drink. Suicide, right? Right.
I do alright and manage to get the pack on its side about half the time, and only get smacked with a 4 or 6 every now and again. For the most part, I get to drink at the pace I want and escape too much grief.
On the third round of drinks, someone orders a shot of whiskey to go with it. Mike places it in the center of the table.
"Ok guys, this is the buffalo. From now on, when you drink, you must drink with your left hand. If you are caught drinking with your right hand, you have to take the buffalo."
Three or four rounds go by and my turn lands the pack on its face. I take a drink with my right hand.
"BUFFALO!!!!!"
Oh for God's sake.
I take the shot. It's horrible whiskey and my stomach - already busy trying to find places to send the cachaça - sends a message to my frontal lobe: "What are you, kidding?"
Another buffalo is ordered, placed in the center, and I sit on my right hand. Won't happen again.
By the fifth round of caipirinhas, the two Irish girls are heavily trashed. One has already had to take two buffalos. A new one comes out. She picks it up.
"Am I supposed to drink this?" Down it goes.
She needs to stop. I start to say something, but her central nervous system does all the work for me by shutting down. She slumps back in the chair and closes her eyes. She's not unconscious, but she won't be drinking anymore. Good.
On the sixth round, Anna gets up. "I have to go." She walks out of the room without another word. Awesome. I out-drank the Polish! But the poor thing is definitely in the restroom right now...clearing her stomach.
The Irish girl is now sleeping with her head on the big arm of the giant chair. The third floor of the pub is full of people now and many are dancing. I have dropped out of the drinking games and am just sipping at my drink and laughing at the buffoons into which my companions have devolved. At least they're having fun.
Round seven. Half of them are up dancing now. The Irish girl and her throne of drunkenness have been moved over to the corner to my left for safe keeping. A very attractive English girl who knows Mike and Ailbhe is sitting to my right with her drink.
It turns out she is from Bristol.
"Cool, really?"
"Yeah, have you been there?"
"Not yet, but I really want to go next time I'm in the UK. That's where all the good driving music comes from."
"What? Really?" she laughs.
"Yeah," I smile, "So what do you do in Bristol?"
While she talks about life in Bristol, the other Irish girl comes over to her friend and is trying to talk to her. The unconscious one responds slightly with a wave of the hand. Her friend then begins to help her out of the chair.
The English girl is telling me I should come to Bristol so she can show me around. I tell her I definitely will the next time I'm in the neighborhood while keeping an eye on the two Irish girls now hovering on their feet near the table.
Bristol is glancing at the center of the room and says something about dancing. But my full attention is now on the barely conscious girl whose friend is laughing and trying to get her to dance.
When she finally topples backwards, I can't stop her from hitting the table, but I catch her before her entire weight sends her and the table to the floor breaking it and possibly a bone or two. I lift her upright and get my arms under hers to hold her up.
Another guy from Switzerland or somewhere (no time to nail down the accent) comes over and starts lecturing me.
"This girl needs to go home! What kind of friends are you? What kind of people are you?"
"Dude, piss off. I barely know her."
Ross comes over to help.
"We should probably get out of here and get these two to their hostel.", I say as Ross takes one side of the girl's weight.
"Yeah, good idea."
Mike pays the tab while Ailbhe grabs everyone's stuff. Eventually, we get downstairs and out onto the street where the festival is still going strong.
Yet another English guy that the two Irish girls, Mike, and Ailbhe know helps us down the street to where we can get a taxi. He is staying in the same hostel and will go with them to help get her inside and into bed.
With the drama over, the four of us get our jackets on and get ready to walk home.
"Wait, where's Anna?" I ask.
"She already went back to the hostel. Remember when she said she had to go?" answers Ross.
"Was she going to the hostel? I thought she went to throw up."
"I was quite sure she went home. Besides that was well over an hour ago. She must be there."
"Ok, let's go."
We get back to the hostel. Anna is not in her bed.
"Shit. Not good," Now I'm worried. You can't have a girl wandering around alone, especially if she's drunker than we thought.
See why I hate drinking games?
Ross is annoyed and is ranting about how people who can't drink shouldn't drink in the first place. He and Anna have been developing a good rapport. He's worried, too.
"Let's go find her," I say, throwing my jacket back on.
The four of us go back out into the street. Mike and Ailbhe go in one direction to see if they can find her. Ross and I head back up toward the pub to see if maybe she is still there. It's only four or five blocks away, and we walk quickly up the street, peering down side streets as we pass on the off chance that she's there.
We walk into Joyride and head up to the second floor restrooms. Ross walks up to the third floor while I ask a few Bolivian girls if they can check in the ladies' room for me. One of them goes in and comes back out shaking her head.
"Gracias," I say and run up to the third floor to see if Ross has had any luck. I find him standing there outside the women's restroom from which Anna has just emerged.
"Where the hell were you?"
"Um, in there," she grins sheepishly pointing to the restroom.
"For an hour? We were worried about you! Are you ok?"
"Yeah, just had too much to drink. Sat down for a while to rest."
"Well at least you're ok. What happened to that Polish drinking spirit?"
"Yeah, I can't drink. A few beers and I'm gone."
"Now you tell us. Come on, let's go home."
We manage to find Mike and Ailbhe in the street and head home. I look at my watch. Midnight. Pathetic. In Madrid I'd just now be leaving home to go out.
Still, the night is definitely over. I'm done. I walk into my room. Allie and Diego still aren't back. But there is a brunette girl there getting ready for bed. New roommate.
"Oh, hi. How are you?"
She smiles and looks at me blankly. I switch to Spanish.
She's from Córdoba in central Argentina. She's on her way home after traveling through Perú and Bolivia.
She asks if I know anything about the road blocks. I had completely forgotten about the entire thing. The past few hours of mild chaos had replaced the looming problem of Bolivia.
I switch off the light and we crawl into our beds. We lay in the dark and talk to each other quietly up at the ceiling like when two kids spend the night at each other's house telling ghost stories.
The festival is still going on outside, and fireworks are exploding somewhere overhead. Every other minute or so, a deafening explosion can be heard in the sky. It startles the girl and she gasps. They are incredibly loud. When I was a kid, we would go to see the Independence Day fireworks. One of my favorites was a single split-second ball of light that resulted in a bone-shaking crash of sound. A real crowd pleaser. The ones here in Sucre sound just like that - but it honestly sounds like they are going off right over the hostel. They sound like mortar rounds detonating directly above us.
We share travel plans over the next week or so, and the conversation slowly drifts back to Bolivia. She believes Evo Morales will be able to make a positive change in the country. I tell her that I think he's a disaster for Bolivia - just another Chavez who prays on the hopes and desires of poor, desperate people for personal gain.
I don't believe in Revolution in the leftist sense. The Soviet era already demonstrated to us that stripping away a human being's right to succeed - to maximize potential - only leads to a state where no one succeeds. The current situation in France is another good example of going too far. All incentive to make an effort has been removed. Businesses pack up and leave. One in four are without a job. It doesn't work.
But I understand Revolution. We are meant to live in a civilized society, not the Wild West. Some extremists want the Wild West version where it is all dog-eat-dog and survival of the fittest - and if that leads somehow to vast imbalances, so be it. The irony is that Revolution is always the end-product of what they wanted. They wanted the dog-eat-dog Wild West - no rules. So if there are no rules, you can't complain when the starving dogs join up and come marching down the dusty street - growling. You're the Top Dog. And you're out-numbered.
Someone pushes too far to the right. Sooner or later, it forces someone else to push left.
Someone pushes too far to the left. Sooner or later, it forces someone else to push right.
How to stop the pushing? I don't know.
So this girl from Córdoba and I disagree about Evo. Normally, a disagreement of this scale results in a very uncomfortable moment of hostility. The pulse quickens at the conflict of ideology.
But there is no hostility between us or in our conversation. Because to disagree about Evo is not to disagree on the basis of ideology. It is to disagree about the nature of Evo as a solution to the problem which lies far down at the heart of the matter where the true question of ideology dwells. And that is that the lives of these people have to change. Something has to give. In the face of a wired and globalized century, things cannot go on the way they are - not for these decent and kind people.
On that, she and I agree entirely.
We chat softly for another five or ten minutes. Eventually, the conversation slows and trails off into silence.
We drift off to sleep listening to the tremendous explosions of celebration over our heads - hoping them not to be omens of turmoil.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.087s; Tpl: 0.016s; cc: 9; qc: 23; dbt: 0.0282s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
hazel
non-member comment
thanks for narrating your adventure.
LOVE IT! I think I am your #1 fan. You need to publish these memoirs as a book.