Two years ago, I saw Bolivian lucha libre for the first time live. I took a tourist bus and was fascinated by the conversation that ensued. The riders grappled with “knowing” that it “must be traditional” yet calling it “far too WW[E].”  And while I recognized the tour company that leads the tours is probably the real culprit here (wasn’t it Ani Difranco that said “look at where the profits are/that's how you'll find the source/of the big lie that you and i/both know so well”?), I saw these young travelers as naïve, exploitative, and at times offensive.

And it was easy to write about that. To follow the age-old critique of colonialist/imperialist/orientalist travel. And I don’t mean I did so in a righteous way—in fact is was a matter of accidental convenience, but I ended up challenging those assumptions (and isn’t it Tom Robbins who said “You risked your life, but what else have you ever risked? Have you risked disapproval? Have you ever risked economic security? Have you ever risked a belief? I see nothing particularly courageous about risking one's life. So you lose it, you go to your hero's heaven and everything is milk and honey 'til the end of time. Right? You get your reward and suffer no earthly consequences. That's not courage. Real courage is risking something that might force you to rethink your thoughts and suffer change and stretch consciousness. Real courage is risking one's clichés”?). So I stayed in the Ekko* hostel for two weeks, to get a better ethnographic perspective on the tourism in La Paz (and also to give me time to find a permanent place).

And my fieldnotes are filled with an undertone of “OMG” and “What is wrong with these people?”, but I also met some really amazing people who I respect and at times admire.

And so, amidst emails to tour companies and the Fulbright office, phone calls to friends of friends in La Paz, and no small amount of viewing wrestling, I find myself editing this paper/(hopeful)journal article on tourism and the Cholitas Luchadoars, and just can’t find the voice I want to convey.

I guess that’s always the worry with ethnography. Maybe sometimes you get too close to be critical. Or you can’t find the balance between compassionate writing and dismissing wrongdoings. But I’ll end with a piece of fieldnotes that almost didn’t happen. I went to bed around midnight on Tuesday, and was sleeping peacefully, but around 4:30 some of my young Irish bunkmates wandered into the room, likely on some sort of substance, and talked loudly, turned the lights on and off several times, and giggled themselves to sleep. They giggled me out of my sleep, and when I was still staring at the ceiling at 7am, I decided I might as well go have some free breakfast in the bar instead of continuing to count the cracks.

I had some breakfast, but by 11am was falling asleep while trying to type, so I went back to the room (still containing the sleeping Irish men) for a nap. I woke up just before 1pm, and was starving. I decided to go back to the bar and order some lunch while using the internet there. I was looking for a menu when I noticed that Vijay (an off-duty bartender) had one. I sat down next to him and asked what he was ordering.

“Actually, nothing. We’re going to the factory for Amanda’s birthday.”

I had learned about the factory earlier that week, when Mike, a bartender, was traveling to Cuzco to tend bar there. The factory, according to legend, had the best chicken wings in the world and he was taking about 15 dozen for the staff of Ekko’s sibling hostel there. All week the Ekko staff had been talking about “The Factory” and I pictured some sort of distorted Bolivian Perdue factory where they would sell you wings right off the line or something.

Most of the bar staff at Ekko are travelers much like the patrons of the hostel (and thus of the bar). They simply agree to stay for a minimum of three weeks and tend the bar for four shifts a week in exchange for free housing in a room shared with the other staff, and one free meal per day. Many of them, like Mike start working in the Ekko hostel in one city and then transfer to another Ekko in Peru or Bolivia. Most other travelers stay in the hostel for only a few nights and spend their time at the city’s attractions like biking down the “most dangerous road in the world” (also known simply as “doing death road”) or climbing the Huayna Potosi mountain. I however, was simply trying to make contacts in La Paz, catch up with a few old friends, and start my “real fieldwork,” which meant I was in the hostel a lot more consistently and for a longer stay than most of the other guests. And so, people started recognizing me, talking to me, and I became friends with the bar staff.

So when Vijay suggested I come along, I decided it might be good to get out of the building for a while and spend some time with him and Amanda. So the three of us hopped in a cab headed for Zona Sur, and eventually arrived at The Factory Bar and Grill, which I imagine is somewhat of a Bolivian Buffalo Wild Wings (though I’ve never been to a BWW, so I really can’t make that claim).

But the important part of the story is what happened in the taxi. As we got further into Zona Sur, the upperclass part of La Paz, Vijay said “Being in posh places makes me uncomfortable.” Amanda, who grew up in the UK, concurred and told a story of meeting her family for Christmas in Ecuador (where her extended family lives). She had been backpacking for several months before that. “Its just such a different way to travel.” We stayed in these 5 star hotels where everything was taken care of and took private tours. It felt like being on a safari. Just seeing the world through rose-colored glasses….Then again, we are all staying at Ekko.”

So, I suppose my (initial) conclusion is something like this: The relations between travelers from the “first world” (North America, Western and Central Europe, Australia, New Zealand, urban South Africa) to the people and places they visit in the global south (and yes, I realize the terminology here is highly lacking) are at the very least problematic. However, I don’t think that young people who travel are entirely to blame. Yes, perhaps they are in a way taking advantage of structures that maintain their ability to consume of other “cultures” “people” and possibly most importantly food and alcohol thanks to beneficial exchange rates. But they are also doing so to learn something about the world. They take language classes and volunteer at orphanages. And again, I don’t want to minimize problems of the NGO and volunteer vacation industrial complexes, but they have good intentions. For the most part they are making decisions to experience other places rather than stay in their home country and only read about far off places and people like a new generation of armchair anthropologists. And given that the options for travel tend to be very polarized between five star hotels with private tours, and the more adventure tourism of hostel hopping and death road riding, I find that I have a lot in common with the hostel guests and staff. Even anthropology (gasp!) is not without its colonial and imperial history and undertones. So in a way, we’re all just trying to find a balance of broadening our knowledge, making the world a better place, and working within the structures that are so hard to subvert. Both Amanda and Vijay have moved on to other South American countries now, and I do find myself missing them a bit.

But don’t get me started on the gap years…

This year at AAAs, I spent some brief time with a lesbian-identified anthropology professor. She is a friend of a friend, and we’ve met briefly a few times, but I’m fairly certain she doesn’t actually know who I am. Alas, this is all unimportant. What is important is that during our brief time together, she mentioned that she had been using Justin Bieber as an inspiration for her hair style. Being someone who is not really “in the loop” I didn’t really know what Justin Bieber’s hairstyle was like. And so, when picturing Justin Bieber, I now just picture this anthropologist.

So, last night I attended what one might call an “office party” for a real estate company my friend works for. It started out as a small but average office party (in terms of my US office-working past), featuring interesting conversations about how last february’s landslides have all but ruined impetuses for home buying (aside: interesting in contrast to the processes that have affected the US housing market, but not at all unrelated. I’d argue the same liberal market processes that created a housing bubble ready to burst in the US also created the structural inequalities in Latin America that lead to “natural disasters” such as landslides which are entirely preventable, and thus not “natural” at all. reading recommendation: Ellen Moodie or Paul Farmer). But eventually the beer cups kept being refilled, and political rants were being espoused, and music was happily pumping from the Toshiba laptop. And I’m not sure how it came up but someone said something about Justin Bieber, and then Cesar chimed in “Oh, all the lesbians want to look like him, right?”

Who knew Justin Bieber had such global reach.

Sometimes I pretend to be a visual artist, but generally, I think my writing is better. Or at least I hope since that’s the mode of expression I’ve chosen to be the primary means through which to make a career. But sometimes the visual just overtakes me.

I happened upon the Organic Quinua Grower’s Organization feria in La Paz this weekend. I’ve rather enjoyed the taste of quinoa for a while, but I never realized how beautiful it looks while still on the stalk (I think stalk would be the right word…). There’s an autumny dried flower look to it. And as I stood at the back of the crowd during the welcoming speech, it seemed like everyone in front of me was dressed in beautiful traditional clothes with a pack of quinua bundled on their back. I really wanted to take a picture, but felt a little conspicuous. But eventually I noticed a man near the front taking some pictures so I pulled the camera out quickly and snapped 2.

But it is not so much the feeling inconspicuous that keeps me from taking pictures at times like these. It’s the feeling that I might be exoticizing an Other. Or exploiting an other (simple other person in this case). In some ways, I’m lucky (or have strategically positioned myself) that my main subject matter is performers, and thus, I feel that it is not only accepted but at times expected that I take pictures of them (and as an aside I am totally, totally in love with my new camera). But when it comes to other cultural events, I don’t want to overstep my bounds. I guess one unwritten rule I have is to try not to take pictures of people’s faces. At least when they are close to the camera and recognizable. But at the same time, perhaps this further denies them sentience. Sure it’s a (fairly universally?) socially-constructed idea that the face is the person’s essence. But at the same time I think its worth considering. Is taking a picture of someone’s back objectifying them in way that is worse than exploiting their face. Am I denying them subjectivity, or protecting them from exposure? Is the answer just not to take pictures? Or to ask every person every time?

I suppose the real issue here stems not from one human’s objectifying of another, but the grand scale of global inequality produced by centuries of colonialism and imperialism in which there is an imagined bucolic other awaiting the North Atlantic explorer in far off lands. And to capture such a person on film (or digitally) amounts to a form of conquering. Perhaps that’s just me trying to displace responsibility for my own actions. But at the same time, it calls into question whether, even in episodes of performance, it is possible to capture pictures that do not reify, objectify, and in a way erase the inequalities between my life and a luchadoras.

In the end, I was given a flyer about women quinua growers and how women have always been fighting (yes, “luchando”) for their families and financial stability.

I’m feeling less in love with La Paz today.

M asked me if La Paz is more like Abidjan or Buenos Aires. Having never been to either, here was my response:

I’d guess Abidjan. Though maybe the part I was in today was more like Buenos Aires. I went to a party on the rich suburban side of town where people have houses and yards and it was really really nice to be somewhere that didn't feel entirely urban. Rodolfo says wealth in La Paz is directly the inverse of altitude. The rich people live in the lowest part of the city. The higher you get, the poorer people are. I remember riding back from Valle de la Luna in 2009 and coming back into town through that part. It seemed really nice and warmer and I especially remember seeing a big sign for Universidad Loyola, which obviously reminded me of home. So the taxi took me down down down. First past el Prado, and past the park with the ferris wheel, through Miraflores, around and around and down down down. I realized where we were going and got a little excited. We continued past the Loyola sign and headed back uphill. All the way to calle 29.

When I got out of the taxi, I called Andres and he waved to me from the door. We passed through the big iron gate and there was a beautiful manicured garden. We passed one very nice house and entered a back house I suppose you could call it. It seemed to be a space reserved just for parties and entertaining. There was an indoor porch type area. A large dining room with several tables, a stage and a kitchen. There were also stairs to what appeared to be a small room above the kitchen, but the rest of the building had an atrium type ceiling. This was definitely not even something you’d find in SoHocachi!

But the majority of the city has a lot of informal markets. A lot of street vendors. Lots of noisy busses with people hanging out of them and yelling. Lots of sketchy looking taxis. You occasionally get a good whiff of urine.

The streets are paved with cobblestone. And there are a decent amount of plazas with grass and trees. Its easy enough to find some small green space if you’re craving some.

His response: hm. Sounds like a fusion of the two.

The day before I arrived in La Paz, R gchatted me to let me know the road between El Alto and the center of the city was being blockaded. It’s a common form of Bolivian protest, and one I’m incredibly interested in, but never really though I’d have to deal with. Fortunately, he said, my flight arrives at 5am (one good thing about that!) and the road blocks usually don’t’ start until 8 am. Fortunately he was right, and we made it through in a taxi with no problem. Though I heard horror stories of people having to walk. At least its all downhill I suppose.

Recently, due to food prices almost doubling, the government offered some of its workers a 10% wage increase. Police, military, and some healthcare workers were included, but though the percentage was too small and began asking for 15%. Other government workers like miners, healthcare workers that hadn’t been included and teachers (and probably others I don’t know about) demanded to be included as well. Last week, leaders of the Central Obrero Boliviano (click here for English) met with Evo, but apparently nothing got worked out, so on Monday they started protesting. Tuesday the protests spread around the country. Apparently some have been violent (especially in Tarija and Pando), but things seem peaceful here. I’ve heard the police have been using tear gas (also hearing from an Ecuadorian man that he was in a café and a teargassed miner came in for help. However, I’ve only seen marching and shouting.

I started hearing the dynamite around 10 am yesterday. For some people outside of Bolivia that might sound disconcerning, but in my experience (albeit limited) dynamite’s a pretty common thing in protests here. As I heard a young British man describe it “the guy has a long cardboard tube. And he lights it in the middle and holds it up in the air.” After that it shoots up like a firework until it pops and sparks, leaving a little cloud of smoke behind.

Apparently, some of the protests have been getting a little violent, and police have used tear gas, but everything I’ve seen has been simply marching and shouting. Though I haven’t ventured to Plaza Murillo (near the federal buildings) where it seems the run in with police happens.

Around 2 pm yesterday, it sounded like the protestors were going directly by my door. The dynamite resumed after a 20 minute long pause. I could hear them yelling something along the lines of “Evo, Pasar.”  However, I was groggy and feeling a little sick, so I didn’t venture over to a window to try to see.

As I suspected, R doesn’t think it will turn into the Gas War again (food shortages, no flights, etc) but it will continue. R also said people thought the Gasolina problems in February would be the end of Evo, and now they’re talking the same talk again. I read in the paper today statistics about people’s confidence in him from different areas of the country. It certainly seems this could turn into bad politics. But if things eventually work out and people are happy, it could all just be political theater to reinforce his position as the people’s president (is it inappropriate for me to compare Evo to The Rock?). Ah political theater.

Today I left around 11am, without a real destination, but there were already protestors blocking off all the major intersections. And it was clear the road blockades were working because there were really only taxis and public transportation busses on the streets.

i took a picture of some miners standing around with signs. i walked further down the street toward sopocachi where i was staying last time and found a little park i didn't know existed. It was across the street from this kind of annoying restaurant that kept playing music really loudly into the street and after every song would list today’s specials and say “Ven, Passan, Visitamos!”

I was sitting in the grass, and there was a woman watering the plants and grass down at the other end. She was moving closer as this guy who had been napping sat up abruptly and smiled at me. I smiled back but then looked away, kinda weirded out. He then saw someone he knew on the street up above the park (which runs parallel to the mt. slope, so one street is kind of “below” and then there are stairs up to the next street). He shouted to her and she stopped and waited. I was intrigued because he seemed kinda early 20s, disheveled, working class-ish. And the woman looked like she was maybe 40. Dressed in business clothes and carrying an umbrella (for the sun). she stopped and waited looking over the railing, while the guy got up and went over to the woman watering the plants and stuck his hands in the water. He sort of wiped off his face and then stuck his whole head under the spraying water. And then he stepped away, took out a comb, and kinda made this big show of combing his hair. Then he walked up and met the woman…

After this happened, I figured I should probably get going soon, so I stood up and walked to a trash can to throw away some stuff I had in my bag. As I was about to start walking back toward where I was going to meet R, I heard some protestors coming up the street so I sat back down (but a little further from the street below). It seemed like they filled the street for about 3 blocks. And I could see the guys lighting dynamite. It was indeed what appeared to be a cardboard tube that they would light in the middle and then it would take a few seconds to shoot up and spark and pop. I watched them all go by, shouting “Evo, Minero [I think minero, could have been something else], Donde esta el cambio?” Near the end a few of the women and one man ran up to the garden hose (which was no longer held by the woman but was just stuck in the ground on a little leaning thing), and washed their hands, put water in their hats, etc.

As they marched away, the restaurant resumed its announcements but made sure to mention there was no tear gas inside.

la razon is keeping pretty good track of things, for further reading in spanish.