I am not a person that believes in fate. I do not believe that things happen for reasons. I do not believe there is some greater power orchestrating things. I suppose you could say, religiously, metaphysically, spiritually, cosmically, I believe we are all just some crazy fluke.…And yet, there are moments when I feel like my entire life has conspired to bring me to a certain place.

This time, the place happens to be Parque Laikakota in La Paz, Bolivia. La Paz is an intense city. The thin air shrouds everything in an aura of hyperreality. La Paz spills from its humble neighborhoods in El Alto, on the altiplano, into its Cordillera Real valley, trickling downward to nicer and nicer structures. In Zona Central, what might be called skyscrapers in other contexts, proudly jut up toward the top of the mountain. But they are contained. They are sheltered from passing clouds. And one is left wondering if they are not quite tall enough to pierce the sky, or if it is simply that the whole city is so high the sky has retreated. To the southwest, Zona Sur sinks into the soil with wider avenues and houses with sunny windows. And if you let your gaze wander far enough to that direction, there in all his majesty sits Illimani watching, breathing, proudly flowing.

And on Wednesday, I stood in this spot, on a patch of grass measuring approximately 20 feet by 5 feet, and had my first session training in lucha libre.

I will here forego an explanation of what lucha libre is, exactly, assuming that most readers have either followed for some period of time, or know me personally, so as not to require description, and proceed directly to my point. Though I hadn’t known the path would lead here, somehow it seemed that I’d taken the turn quite literally half a lifetime ago.

In the summer of 1997, at the age of 15, I started hanging with a different crowd. They were no less nerdy, no less marginal, no less campy than my usual crew. They did things like play Magic: the Gathering, and sip coffee in the smoking section of Denny’s until curfew, discussing what each of the talking Reservoir Dogs action figures should say. (“Why do I have to be Mr. Pink?” was the only one ever consensed upon). They did things like read Les Miserables twice a year, or and invent amusing contraptions for the use of illicit substances. They watched Noggin late into the night and could quote Shakespeare and George Lucas equally well. 

But mostly, on Monday nights, they watched wrestling. Now these were the days when WWE was still WWF and ECW and WCW still put up a fight. On Monday nights, there was not just RAW to be seen, but several channels through which to flip back and forth. And I generally was not all that excited about any of this. Sure, one can view televised professional wrestling in the US as a soap opera, but I never really liked soap opera’s to begin with. I was mostly just there for the Burritos as Big as your Head.

And then, in the summer of 1998, it all changed. I wasn’t there that day, but someone pulled some old mattresses into the back yard, Brett grabbed the video camera, and the FUW was born. Yes, what eventually became the Federation of United Wrestlers was a few guys, tossing each other around on discarded bedroom furniture. 

I wasn’t there that day, but I did make it to what some might consider the first “official” FUW show, Halloween Hellfire. The mattresses were pulled out again, but this time with ladders and steel chairs involved. And then, someone offered to pay. I was just a high school senior but I sat in the basement rec room of that state university dormitory anxiously awaiting my friends to enter through black curtains with fog spilling everywhere. Still using the mattresses, they had used the support poles in the room as ring posts, giving the whole set up a more legitimate look than it had on the farm. It wasn’t long after that Dre happened upon FUW and brought along with him his ring. Now it was a real operation. And from that point on, collecting money for the shows was customary. But this also turned into into work. Now, no one was quitting any jobs or anything, but the weekly meetings at Denny’s (after Monday night RAW, of course) were mandatory. 

The FUW was eventually shut down by the State of Illinois, but they lasted 5 years and along the way they produced over 30 shows, were the family to 65 wrestlers, including one who still wrestlers professionally, and not once did a speck of rust collect on the Steel Afro.

Now, granted, I am not to be counted among those 65, (though I did once, as Japan the Bear, get knocked down inside the ring), but in some ways I think the FUW was an important step in my process to eventually becoming a world famous luchadora (note sarcasm). From them I learned the greats, Mick Foley, Triple H, Vince McMahon, and Eddie Guerrero. I knew who Hulk Hogan was long before. I learned the process. The booking, the practicing, the trust involved. I learned the showmanship. And I learned about what it was like to see something begin small and grow. I learned about shooting and marks. I learned about spectacle. And I learned what a faceless jobber is. 

I am a 30 year old, semi-in-shape woman, who once could do a backflip, but can now barely pull off a cartwheel. I attended acting classes at a top US university, before frustratedly deciding I had absolutely no theatrical talent. I have background, but it would be far from the truth to say that lucha libre will be an easy fit. And yet, somehow, every time I hear a word like hurricanrana I'm transported back to that gravel driveway that housed a wrestling ring, right off the main thoroughfare of a nondescript midwestern town. And I know I can do this. I know, somehow, I'm the right person for this job. So bring it on, Super Catch. I'm ready.

I’ve never been afraid of dogs. And after 4 months of being a surrogate parent to to a little rascal with a big bark (and jump) but no bite, I tend to just roll my eyes at dogs who seem unfriendly. Of course maybe I should have felt differently about Bolivian dogs. They tend to roam in large packs. Gravity Pete said he once counted 18 in a pack somewhere in El Alto.

I went to Alé’s today to try to get some writing done in a quiet place. Unfortunately some pack of dogs outside kept barking and the quiet I was looking for wasn’t to be found. Alé was heading out to meet his parents in El Alto, but told me to stay as long as I wanted. Around 4 I decided to head back to El Centro and gathered up my stuff. Alé had been adamant about making sure I closed the outside gate (after apparently some night last week when no one closed it), so I double checked and then headed down the alley to Calle 14. And then I saw the pack of 7 dogs that had been making all the racket. They ran at me so I yelled at them. A few nipped at me so I kicked them. And then I felt one pierce my skin. I just kept walking and yelling and they backed off, but once I rounded the corner I pulled up my pant leg and found a big bloody gash. 

Ah the sting of freshly sliced flesh. 

I cleaned it with alcohol and a swab and am going to a doctor tomorrow. But in the end, I'm excited at the possibility of it scarring. There's something about the ways that experiences make marks upon the body that I love. As if they remind you that this body is really yours. That you have lived together and been through shit and though maybe you don't always get along perfectly, you love and appreciate each other. And I can't wait to someday tell some relative of a younger generation how I got that semi-circular mark, the size of half a dime, just below my knee on the outside of my right leg, that fateful day while doing fieldwork in Bolivia. 

I feel like one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned as an anthropologist is to apologize. And to do it succinctly and clearly. To state exactly what I did wrong, and not make excuses. To simply say, I did this. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, and I hope you will forgive me.

I say this mostly because I had a celebratory welcome back Saturday night and perhaps had too many free chupitos. And then I accused a friend of being too cold with me. I layed in bed this morning surprisingly less hung over than I expected concocting my apology in my head. “I was dumb last night. I’m sorry.” And when I finally got a chance to say it, it was met with “Esta bien. Shit happens.” Perhaps the best answer one could get.

But my apologizing skills have been developing. I suppose I’ve never done anything too terribly awful to R, but I’m constantly apologizing for being late or having to change plans. “Discúlpeme!” I used to say. Its too formal he would tell me. Eventually I worked my way down to “disculpas” of which he approves.

So this morning, that’s the form I used.

But perhaps its good I didn’t learn this lesson until recently, because using the more formal version may have saved a relationship last September. I posted some pictures of luchadoras in polleras taken at a Titanes del Ring event on facebook.

In the comments section Daniel wrote, “Por que muestras estas payasadas de El Alto si tu hablaste con los mejores luchadores de Bolivia y los mas antiguos? Hasta criticabas ha estos bueyes por que los promocionas [aqui]? Hay grandes profecionales que puedes mostrar como LFX, Halcones del Ring, Super Catch…Que mal!” [Why do you show these slapstick artists from El Alto if you have talked with the best Bolivian wrestlers and the oldest? Until you criticize these oxen, why promote them here? There are great professionals you can show like LFX, Halcones del Ring, Super Catch…How awful!”

Jonathan, a luchador from Santa Cruz in the Southeast part of the country agreed, “Bien dicho.... Sabemos que hay mejores luchadores que estas cosas.” [Well said…We know there are better wrestlers than these things].

And I responded “No tengo fotos de lfx, super catch, etc. En enero voy a arreglar el problema!” [I don’t have photos of lfx, super catch, etc. In January I’m going to fix the problem]

But this answer did not satisfy them. I removed the pictures and wrote a private message saying “Discúlpeme!” to both, and they didn’t keep hating me for long. And to be sure, the conversation that resulted from the photos was eye opening for my research project. So I suppose even the mistakes turn out well some times.

And then again today, when I took Alé up on his offer to transfer me and my possessions to my new (sort of) apartment, I ended up having to apologize. Along the way, Edwin, his boss called and said he needed to meet him at the shop. We sidetracked ourselves there, and even beat Edwin there. Alé parked on the side of the street, and leaned his head back. “Do you mind if we just sit here for a minute. I don’t want to work yet.” “No me importa” I responded. And then he looked at me strangely. At first he was slightly offended and then explained that “it doesn’t matter to me” isn’t exactly a correct translation. It seems to be something more along the lines of “I could care less.” In a rather dismissive sort of way. And so, though I probably didn’t need to say it, I answered with “disculpas.” At least we’re making good on our promises to each other to help with language.

Learning the art of apologizing (which by no means is a complete project) has been important for me. As an anthropologist, I am at the mercy of those around me. And as an outsider, I’m often doing things that aren’t quite right. I’ve been called stubborn and unwilling to admit I’m wrong, and for the most part I don’t disagree with those assessments. Most of the time I will argue until I’m hoarse, trying to find a loophole, even if it was clear in the first five minutes of the fight that I’m wrong. But I think in my academic life, I’m more willing to accept being wrong, whether that means refining theoretical standpoints or simply telling those who surround me during fieldwork that I screwed up. Anthropology requires learning about other people, but I think it requires just as much learning about yourself. And learning how to make yourself better able to work, live, and enjoy life with those around you during fieldwork.

This town is too small.

I have been here four days and already I feel that small town sense that you are never anonymous. The greater La Paz/El Alto area is home to 1.65 million people, but sometimes it feels like 1.65 thousand.

I had breakfast with Mateo today, who has started working as a guide for one of the Death Road companies. When I was in the US he had been asking me about getting a bike sent from LA to Miami, where his dad’s business could ship it to Bolivia for free. But despite my Postal Service ancestry, I had no leads on how to do it for under $1000. But it seems, he finally got a bike, and a nice one. When we left Alexander Café a spiffy looking man with hipster glasses and a baby told him what a nice bike it was and that he had one similar when he was in LA. 

He asked if I had done Death Road, and I said I hadn’t. I had thought about it when I was friends with Pete, Justin, and Rick, but never did. He told me all those guys have gone back to the US and New Zealand now, but Chad is still around. I said something about him being a strange guy, and Mateo responded “yeah, he’s so serious!” I had actually kind of meant the opposite. But then again my experiences with him were off the road, in his apartment. Him complaining about the maid throwing away his drugs or having to bribe a Bolivian police officer when he was caught riding his motorcycle without a license. Or maybe it was the afternoon I was having lunch at the apartment and he wandered into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs sized for a 10 year old boy. He’s no large man, but as he bent over to get the bag of milk from the fridge, Pete told him “crack kills.” Apparently that’s not a common saying in New Zealand.

Directly after, I met R for lunch. And of course, I wasn’t hungry one bit. So we went to the pizza place on Plaza San Pedro and split a small. Even then I couldn’t hold up my half of the bargain. But as we chatted, he told me he knows a woman who is moving out of the Namas Té building on Saturday. When I had asked earlier in the week the owners of the building, Cesar and Hector, they told me a room would be open Monday. So it seems that’s the room I’m taking. Some times it feels like R knows every foreigner in this town. 

Later in the evening I called Alé to see when and where to meet him for our usual English/Spanish practice, and he needed an extra hour and a half. I figured, I knew one place it would be pretty simple to waste that kind of time. So I headed back to Ekko. I rang the bell and Franklin answered the door. There seemed to be the spark of recognition this time, even though two days before he didn’t seem to remember me at all. I entered reception and talked to Elena and Oscar, and we decided we should all go dancing some time. I stuck my head in the office and said hello to Alec, who I hadn’t been able to track down before. He welcomed me with a giant hug and said that I must come meet him in the bar on Saturday. I agreed. Simon was there too, and though we’ve been introduced a number of times, and I know secrets about his family that few are privy to, he introduced himself as if we’d never met. He and I walked upstairs together to the bar, where I discovered it was happy hour all night so I ordered a toasty and a rum and coke. 

I talked to Dan, the new bar manager, while I waited for my food. I noticed someone with a tattooed arm in my peripheral vision, just as Dan said, “Oh, those are the guys from Tito’s Tattoos. Do you know about them?”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with Tito’s” I said.

Dan and I then discussed how neither of us would ever be decisive enough to get a tattoo. In the meantime I sent Alé a text telling them Edwin (the owner) and some other guys were there. Later he asked me who had been there, and sounded disappointed they hadn’t let him know they were going.

Dan eventually wandered off, and I waved at Edwin down the way. He and Gonz both waved back. Edwin came over and said hello, asked when I arrived, etc. He told me they had all been in Iquique for a convention, and then wandered back saying that some of the guys from Iquique came back with them and he should go talk to them. Instead he wandered over to Simon and talked to him a bit. I suppose making his rounds and performing the part of man about town for his out of town guests. 

I finished my sandwich and rum & coke in almost perfect timing to leave at 8 as I had planned. I put on my jacket and grabbed my bag. I walked over to the group of Tito’s guys to say goodbye to Edwin, hoping for more introductions or at least a short chat with Gonz. Instead I just told Edwin I’d see hopefully see him soon. He asked if I was coming back tonight, and I told him I probably wouldn’t be back at the bar. I said goodbye to Simon and he said he’d see me tomorrow. I said goodbye to Elena and Oscar on the way out, too and headed down to the Prado. 

The Prado is the main street through Zona Central and is divided by a large walkway in the middle. There are statues, and planted trees, and occasional patches of fenced off grass. As I approached the corner where I was supposed to meet Alé I noticed Franklin was standing nearby waiting for a bus. I in my one-drink-altitude-induced drunken state didn’t want to have to make awkward conversation so I walked further down. As I did, some dude walking past me said “Weed to smoke.” Ah, yes, it finally happened in La Paz. I had heard it so many times in Cuzco, but never here. I suddenly felt like such a foreigner. 

A few paces down, I found a clearing where I thought I’d be able to spot Alé and set out looking around. Shortly after I heard a loud whistle coming from the center walkway. I looked up, and there was Mateo on his bike. I rushed across the street before the next wave of cars hit, and gave him a hug. And again, I stopped feeling like a foreigner, and again felt at home. This place is too small. But in a good way at the moment. Running into acquaintances in the bar you both frequent is one thing, but seeing a best friend randomly on the street is another. We just chatted briefly, then he rode off and I ran back across the street, where I eventually met Alé. Sure, I was in a half drunken haze, but I thought to myself, no matter what, it’s a good night when you feel at home. 

This is the third time I’ve arrived in La Paz, and each time has been an entirely different experience. In 2009, I arrived in the afternoon and was met at the airport by Cristina in her pollera and manta, with her child in tow. She held a sign with my name, and briskly grabbed my suitcase from me. Cristina, in her traditional clothing, seemed more suited to be herding llamas than ferrying me down the mountain in an aging Toyota. She placed her baby, still wrapped in the manta on the passenger seat next to her, and occasionally cooed or touched it lovingly. To me she was more coarse. “How is the altitude?” she asked me. I responded I felt fine, but she insisted on stopping to buy me a pill and bottle of water. “Have you changed your money yet?” I hadn’t so she offered me a good rate and took my dollars in exchange for Bolivianos. When we arrived at the Virgin de los Deseos, she grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and ushered me inside. She handed me a flyer in case I should require her services again, and held out her hand with a gruff “Setenta,” telling me what I owed her for the ride. After I paid her the standard rate, she wandered over to a group of women and began joking and laughing as I lugged my suitcase up the stairs. Julieta gave me a key and showed me my room and the bathroom, but gave me little other instruction. My room was cold. I was unsure who to pay and when. I was unsure if there was a curfew, or even how to get in after business hours. I was left feeling rather lonely and confused.

Last time, I arrived at 5 am and waited at the airport for R until 7:30. He arrived just in time for us to avoid the road block. He taxied with me to Ekko and we had coffee before he went off to work. I went back to Ekko to take a nap. Unfortunately I was surrounded by what I deemed to be annoying, coke-fed Irish men just returning from their night out on the town, and the sounds of dynamite on the street kept me awake. But as I wrote in my fieldnotes, it didn’t feel like it had been two years. I recognized this place. I remembered where things where. “Maybe things won’t fall into place the way I want, but I’m feeling good.” 

And last night, as the captain announced we would soon be landing, I looked outside at the lights. I tried to recognize the layout of El Alto, but couldn’t really really make out anything. We touched down. “Ya vuelvo” I said, barely audible. Despite my anxiety, visas and customs were fine. I collected by bag and walked out to the Alé playing a golf game on his phone while he waited for me. We walked out to his car and made the slow foggy drive down the autopista to Zona Sur. I took my stuff up to his room and it was quite warm. He woke me up when he was leaving for work, and the sunlight was streaming in on me. At 4am I had marveled at how familiar the empty streets looked, but this did not feel like La Paz. It is too comfortable and warm and sunny. And like the best of late September days.

Every time I’m here things seem easier, happier, more comfortable, warmer, less lonely. And things usually make more sense. And somehow that make it feel like I’m doing it wrong. Like I should be living in a shack in El Alto with no water and eating beans and rice. But instead I have Mr. Pizza, ice cream sandwiches, and Zona Sur.