Most wrestlers learn to wrestle in a gym. They may start on mats on the ground, and eventually work their way into the ring. I learned on a mountainside overlooking the Sopocachi neighborhood of La Paz. At just under 4000 meters below sea level, even breathing is sometimes a feat.

To add to my corporeal distress, the day I began training I arrived with a large dog bite on my right leg, and a left bicep that was puffy and red from rabies vaccines.

We started with sprints back and forth. I had been in La Paz 3 weeks, but my lungs were still not ready. My legs were fine, but I felt a burning in my chest. I rested what seemed like a good amount. The burning persisted. I did more sprints, and the burning remained. I was a little dizzy. And then we moved on to summersaults.

After the vueltas (summersaults) I moved on to the mariposa (butterfly). I watched Daniel do it a few times, and then it was my turn. It looked complicated. I worried I’d fall on my head. I worried Oscar would drop me. I worried I’d look like an idiot. But there’s only one way to learn and that’s to run up, put your hand on his leg and throw your body over. So I did.

“Bien!”

And I tried it again

“Eso!”

Hm. This isn’t as hard as I thought.

tijeras

That first training session, I learned how to fall, I learned the mariposa, tijeras, and the casadora. And I learned the most important secret of lucha libre: not whether it is real or fake, not whether it is choreographed or improvised, not  whether winners are real or pre-determined, not even whether the pain is real or exaggerated. But I learned that despite the pain, it is fun. And people do it because its fun. And people enjoy watching it because its fun. And people build their lives around it, and are passionate about it, and love it because its fun. 

The first time I put on my traje. Or really saw it all for the first time…was for a photo shoot. I met the Super Catch chicos at plaza San Francisco. We then walked over to the Prado to find a foto studio. They’re actually quite common, so we had our choice and found one that charged 40 Bs. for 50 digital fotos.

We went to the back room, where the studio was and everyone began undressing. Oscar asked if there was a space for me to change, and I was given an alcove with a curtain. It was so shallow I was sure a few times I would fall over and land in the foto area.

I was about to ask if the pants when over or under the leotard when Oscar preemptively instructed me to put the pants on top. When I emerged into the room, the mirror was right in front of me.

I felt like a superhero. Oh my god. And then, as if my 1980s sparkling US Olympic team gymnastics costume and silver spandex leggings were not enough, Oscar handed me a cape. A bright blue cape with silver lightening bolts. And then my manilas were laced up. And then I put on my mask. I looked in the mirror. Yes, I was definitely some sort of superhero.

When it was my turn to pose, Oscar instructed me to put my fists up. I tried to scowl through my antifraz (half-mask). And then he suggested we do one in "estilo modelo." So I put my hands on my hips and gave a sassy knee bend. I looked sideways at the camera. Though just as distant from my usual demeanor, somehow that felt more natural.

My turn was over and I walked back over to the waiting area. Tony, a mid-40s luchador from El Alto, told me “Eres muy bonita.” I responded “Me siento como WonderWoman.” Everyone laughed. But it was true. The costume does something. It makes you feel like someone else.