Dispatches; El Classico

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Homesickness is an awful thing. It's as debilitating as a broken leg sometimes, and almost as painfull. Although you are clearly aware that you are missing nothing important, that your friends and family will be there when you return, and that you have the opportunity to experience things you'll never have the chance to again, the homesickiness creeps in.
It's like a grey mist that starts in your gut and expands to your chest. You constantly think of family and friends and wish you were with them. It creates a desire to isolate yourself, put up barriers where none are needed, and gives you the old 'marbles in the mouth' complex that makes you mumble and become unsure of your words when you do manage to strike up conversations.
It's waves and troughs. Some days you're on the crest and doing fine, some days you're in the valley. Yesterday was a bit like that.

The local derby was taking place in the stadium between Bolivar and The Strongest and for two days there were people queueing and camping out for tickets outside the ground. On the night before the game, rival fans spent the night chasing each other with sticks, chanting their songs, and generally being just being fucking eejits and an annoyance to everyone else. I did not get a good nights sleep.
To make matters worse the match was complete shite. Neither side managed to score and there were three red cards. The most entertaning aspect of the whole thing was the action outside the ground of fans unlucky enough not to get a ticket. Groups of shouting supporters of both sides would crush round a door kicking and banging on it until a policeman would squirt a jet of pepper sparay at them. They'd all scarper to the next door and do the same.
At one point a drunk man dressed as Elmo from Sesame St was observed staggering down the road supported by a much smaller lady. Any excited child who ran up to their red furry hero was told politely, "Now is not the time."

It was around this time that the blue devils payed a visit. I knew I'd to do the evening shift and was quietly apprehensive about that, couple that with a sleepless night and a morning spent talking to heads from home and I suddenly felt like crap. I was in the trough.
I couldn't get a taxi to work because of the mayhem surrounding the stadium, so I walked. It's not far, but it's uphill and by the time I reached the hostel I was like an old steam engine pulling into a station.
The evening shift is usually the busiest. However the night before there was a fullmoon party, or some such nonsense, so it wasnt expected to be too mad. The shift goes from 7.00 till 1.30 and the kitchen closes at ten so you're getting drinks and hauling food for a good three hours. After that it's just drinks. I thought it was busy but apparently it was a more quiet evening than most. It should get easier with experience no doubt, but the best part was was that I was completely immersed in it and had no time to let my brain idle, which can obviously be my own worst enemy.
There's been a lot of cases of the till not balancing in the bar lately and the head guys made it clear to all staff that this is no longer acceptable. On my shift last night the till was over by 12 Bolivianos, which is about a Euro, so that was good. I made it my business to keep a close eye on transactions between guests paying cash and guests running up a tab. It's not difficult, but you needto have fellow barstaff on the same page at all times. Several staff have been fired this week for not playing ball, so maybe that's a bit of a carrot for the rest.

Today is grey and cold and there's a constant drizzle falling in La Paz. I don't have much to do till this evening when I'm back on the evening shift, so I might just head back to the apartment and have a snooze. I'm a bit tired from the shift last night, but eager to get going again. I'm on with the same two I was working with last night so that's good. Hopefully last night was a model of things to come. We'll see.

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