After much bureaucratic negotiating, I finally got my visa and was ready to be on my way. Rather than taking a 30 hour bus ride back to La Paz, I decided to take Amanda’s advice and fly from Lima to Juliaca (about 2 hours from the border) and then take a variety of busses back to La Paz.

The trip should go something like this:

9:15-11:00-flight from Lima to Juliaca

11:15-12:15-bus from Juliaca to Puno bus terminal

1:30-3:30-bus from Puno to Desaguadero

3:30-4:00-pass through the Perú/Bolivia border at Desaguadero

4:00-5:30-minibus from the border to El Alto

5:30-6:00-minibus from El Alto to the Prado

Yes, I would be back in time for Tuesday evening festivities I thought.

And then there were blockades. Surprisingly, the Peruvian side was worse. This was how it actually went:

I exited the plane at the Juliaca airport and stood in line for what seemed like hours to use the restroom. Once that was finally taken care of, I went outside and found a small coach-style bus bound for Puno. I took a seat behind a young Venezuelan guy who had grown up in the United States and studied “Security and Peace” in Tel Aviv. I rarely agreed with the assessments of the world he was making to the British couple in front of him. I was also lucky enough to be sitting beside a man traveling on business who kept insisting I have lunch with him. While showing me pictures of his wife. I told him I’d have to check on a bus to the border first.

The bus made it to Puno easily and drove around the small town on Lake Titicaca dropping people off at their hotels. The bus terminal was the last stop and 3 of us got off, only to be told there were road blocks and busses to the border were not running. The three of us: a young Peruvian man, a middle-aged Argentinean woman, and myself, kept giving each other frustrated looks. The woman asked a taxi driver if there was any other way to go to Desaguadero. For 100 soles a piece he said he would drive us “the long way.” We haggled down to 50 each, bought some snacks and hopped in the back of the car.

“The long way,” he told us, would take four hours. I ate some of my Ritz crackers and nodded off to sleep. But with the 3 of us stuffed in the back seat (one other man was in the front with the driver, apparently having contracted him earlier), the complete lack of heat in the car (like all Andean cars), and the curvy mountain roads, it was not an ideal sleeping environment.

About 2 hours in, we were all awake and chatting a little. And then we rounded a corner as it started snowing. As we drove along, not far below the mountain tops (the road was at 4800 meters at this point) the snow accumulated and was beautiful. The Peruvian guy took out his cell phone and started snapping photos. I grabbed for my camera and got one of the mountain in front of us. I leaned back so the Argentinean woman (who had been stuck in the middle seat) could snap one out the window on my side. And then suddenly we slid. We crashed through 4 barrier posts. We spun in a circle 3 times. I thought to myself “is this how I’m going to die?”

We fortunately (and I mean that with all the gravity the word can have) flew off the road right where we did, because there was no steep embankment. About 70% of the road in that section of the drive did have a steep descent off to the side. But we were lucky. The car hadn’t been equipped with seatbelts, but no one flew too far out of their seat. The driver’s-side window shattered, but no on was cut. 

The driver’s door was dented and wouldn’t open so the man in the front got out to let him climb across. The car was badly dented in several places. Two tires were completely flat. And the engine wouldn’t start. I had been sleeping on and off, but had stayed awake enough to know that it had been at least an hour driving since we passed by the last lonely home along the road. With the engine dead and the window busted, the snow and wind were coming into the car. “No, this is how people die in the Andes, I thought: Stranded, and they freeze to death.” I’ve seen the movies about plane crashes and cannibalism….

Fortunately, not long after a man in a pickup truck came driving by in the opposite direction. The Peruvian man flagged him down, and tried to negotiate some sort of transportation. The man was refusing, but even before he left, a station wagon occupied by a husband and wife drove up. With only minimal convincing they decided they would turn around and take us to Desaguadero. The taxi driver stayed with the car and we promised to send police or a tow truck his way. The four passengers piled into the back seat of the station wagon, with all of our luggage in the back. 

We were on our way again, much less comfortably, and much more slowly. What added to the lagging time were the several police checkpoints we had to go through. Each time, the man driving would be questioned as to why he had a license and registration for a private vehicle, but appeared to be carrying strangers. Cause let’s face it. Nobody was going to believe this gringa was in anyway related to these kind campesinos. After explaining the story, the police were always kind and let us pass. Four hours after the crash, we stopped at the final checkpoint in which another man convinced the vehicle owners to let him ride in the back end of the car for 60 km. My feet and hands were numb from the cold. My butt and thighs were numb from the position I had been sitting in, unable to move for four hours. And I was nauseous from the curvy roads and probably whiplash from the crash. The Argentinean woman had to ask twice to pull over so she could vomit.

Eventually, after 6 hours in that position (making a total of 8 hours in transit) we arrived in Desaguadero. But of course, it was 7:30 pm by this time, and the border had been shut since 6pm. Alas, the 3 of us found a hospedaje with 3 beds in a room for 10 soles each. We watched some futbol, ate some chifa, and went to sleep. 

At 7am we awoke and went straight to the border. We got our stamps, I used my shiny (not really) new fancy visa de objeto determinado, and we found some minibuses headed for La Paz. The Peruvian man was hesitating as to which bus to take, and ended up getting separated from Luz (I now knew her name) and I. The bus got filled to capacity with the 2 of us, several local Bolivians, and some Colombian university students traveling on holiday. 

Ninety minutes later we made it to the El Alto bus terminal, and I helped Luz get with her 2 large suitcases to the Ralfbus office to claim her waiting ticket for her home country. I wandered over to Avenida 16 de Julio and looked for a taxi. None were passing so I eventually just hopped on another minibus headed for the Prado. We took to the Autopista and I thought perhaps it would all be smooth from there. 

But alas, it was late April in La Paz, and in the build up to May Day, the COB was protesting by blockading the main thoroughfare from El Alto to La Paz. So halfway down, the bus had to back up, turn around, travel the wrong way on the highway, make an illegal U turn to go the other way (but still the “wrong” way for that side of the road), and turn off onto a side street. I eventually did make it to the Prado, and went directly to Paceña Salteña for lunch. I sat down to eat at 12:15, 27 hours after I boarded the flight bound for Juliaca. So I saved 3 hours by not taking the bus. And the cost really wasn’t that much more than the bus. But I think, with all I went through, a nice full cama tourist bus for 30 hours would have been preferable.

As part of the (long, long) process of getting residency in Bolivia, I had to leave the country to renounce my tourist visa and obtain a visa de objeto determinado [determinate purpose]. While there, I stayed at the Ekko’s sister hostel, conveniently located around the corner from my friend Amanda’s apartment.

After one splendid evening when Amanda’s friend Carlos taught us to make papas rellenas, and among the 5 people present we finished off 7 bottles of wine, I wandered back “home” to Ekko, and poked my head in the bar. I saw Sam, who had rightly pissed me off when I had volunteered to work in the bar in La Paz on St. Patrick’s Day. But alas, when one is traveling, even spurned acquaintances easily turn into friends and I walked over to say hello.

Sam says “Oh good, you're going to show us around Lima tonight." And granted, I did live there for two months about six years ago. But I didn’t really go out on the town. I generally went to my volunteer site in Zapallal, then returned home, ate dinner, and watched Sex in the City dvds with Maricarmen in the evenings. The one time I went out was the night before I left which resulted in being propositioned by a 17 year old and losing my jacket.

But Sam is a convincing man, and I ended up taking he and his friend (who was actually a new acquaintance for us both) to a bar I had never heard of. I don’t know anything about Lima, but I can talk to taxi drivers, which is more than the 2 of them could manage. We ended up at a fancy loungy place, with people dressed far better than we were. We got a seat on an outdoor patio and Ryan (the new acquaintance) started talking about how he wanted to buy a fake passport. 

Ryan was just weird in general. Then he started asking me lots of really personal sex questions, I was rather put off until I realized that he just wanted to talk about himself. He usually didn’t even give me a chance to answer, but just start giving a long story about something he had done. Then he and Sam started psycho-analyzing me. Apparently I don’t dress in clothing that shows off my body because I’m self-conscious. Nothing terribly insightful...

So after all this, Ryan requests that we psycho-analyze him. At that point my only thoughts on him were that he was annoying, and clearly directed conversation just to talk about himself. Like there was something he really wanted to say and couldn't say. And that last sentence is essentially what I said (thinking it was nicer than just saying I thought he was annoying). To this, he replied that yes, there's something he wants to tell us but he can't. Then after talking in some circles he tells us he's a fugitive. Sam and I didn't really react that much, s he continued “No, I’m just kidding. I just want to buy a fake passport because its always been a fantasy of mine." And I went back to listening to Sam try to convince him that a Peruvian black-market passport was a bad idea. Sam (who has spent time in the Iranian army among other things) was saying "Look if you really want one, don't go to them. They'll give you shit. I know people who make good ones for 3000 Euro." So they discussed details of when and how and whether this could all happen before Sam leaves town the next day. This is all in English and I keep thinking to myself—I hope no one around us speaks good English—but it was a posh-y kinda lounge place, so i'm sure someone did. Eventually "Ryan" says he really is a fugitive because he was about to be convicted and go to jail for 5 years in Texas for having sexually explicit conversations with an underage girl online. He mentioned that he said he wanted to fuck her eyesockets. And "Ryan" is not his real name (though he didn't reveal what it was). And then I started having Chris Hansen flashbacks.

“Ryan’s” grand plan was to hide in Perú for at least five years, and there was much argument with Sam on the soundness of this plan. “Ryan” kept responding "Ok, fine maybe its not perfect, but its my plan. Its what I want to do. Its what I'm going to do. Its my plan!" Much in the vein of a 5 year old.

I’m not so sure I believe his story, but I also know that anyone who would make that up is creepy and weird. I was rather frightened that Sam at some point might leave us alone together. I made it clear he better not, and he didn’t.

The three of us eventually went to a dance club where some other Lima friends were. In the end Sam and I kind of avoided "Ryan" who was hitting on lots of Peruvian ladies with boyfriends. We kept expecting him to get beat up by one of the boyfriends, but never saw any physical violence. At one point a Peruvian woman asked if he was my friend, and I stumbled for words “Oh, I just met him today.” “He's crazy" she responded. I just nodded. 

During the last dissertation seminar I attended before leaving for La Paz in 2011, Dr. Vine implored us all “never lie.” I, being precocious, raised my hand and asked if its ok to lie and say you are married or in a relationship in order to ward off unwanted advances. Even before I had finished the question, he was nodding in agreement. “That’s the one time I would say its ok to lie.”

But I’ve found myself in a bit of a pickle. On my first day of training, I was explicitly instructed “don’t tell your Bolivian friends you’re training.” Your identity should be a secret. And this has been reinforced over and over. Even when Jason, from Chicago, came to visit on his South American backpacking journey, I was told he couldn’t stay in the arena while we marked moves before the match. “It takes away from the show,” Mercedes told me.

But my problem is that my Bolivian friends in La Paz, bleed into my gringo friends. And they bleed into my academic friends. So I’ve had a strict privacy policy. Jason knows, obviously. But almost immediately upon meeting him at the airport, I asked him not to mention my involvement in lucha libre to anyone. And Ramiro knows. But he’s also been good at keeping his mouth shut. I once drunkenly slipped the secret to Gonz. But I also said it was sort of a secret, and I have a feeling he either didn’t care or didn’t believe me, anyway.

So, in essence, this has led to a rather superhero-like secret identity. Some of the people closest to me here have no idea that I wrestle. Which pains me at times (more than the sore thighs and bruised elbows). I make up stories about the “community group” I’m working with in El Alto. And in my head I tell myself that SuperCatch is a group of people from the Community of La Paz who train in a ring in El Alto. But who am I trying to convince? Last Friday, after my match, a friend asked me how I got the floor burns on my elbows. He raised his eyebrows a few times to suggest it might be something scandalous. Fortunately he was interrupted by another friend with a question about something totally unrelated. Because I had no idea how to answer.

But the worst is the academic questions. As I’ve written before, La Paz is a small town, and my social circles are small and interconnected. Anthropologist friends and NGO friends know Boliviano friends, and random gringo friends know the Reuters journalists who show up to interview Lady Blade. So my secrecy has extended even to the few social scientists I know around here. So I’m always suggesting that the exact topic of my dissertation is constantly in flux. It is something about: empowerment, globalization, gender ideology, sport, development, the feminization of poverty, and performativity of race and gender in Bolivia. And all those things are true of course. But don’t quite give the whole story. And I wonder if I come off as a total flake because I can’t give a concise 1 sentence explanation of my project. But I can’t really risk it. At least, if one abides by the idea that my loyalty lies with the people I work with, and not the academic community. Which I do.

It was 2 days after my second match as a luchadora, and I was feeling on top of my game. Not only had I had hit a guy over the back with a florescent light rod, but research in general was going well. It was Sunday evening, and with nothing better to do I was sitting around Ekko with Alec and Antonio and reading some poetry to myself and drinking wine. Alec got pretty drunk and decided to go home, and Antonio was supposed to be working, so I too decided maybe I should head back to my apartment. But before I left Antonio forced a shot on me.

I gathered up my things, realizing more and more that the shot had actually produced quite an effect in me. I wasn’t exactly stumbling drunk, but I wasn’t sober either. I threw my backpack on and walked downstairs.

Now, I usually share a cab home with Jack, but it was his night off, so I was on my own. Then again, I was usually the one negotiating in Spanish to get it down to 10 Bs. instead of 15. Which is probably and unfair (in our favor) deal for 2 different stops. But Jack always reminds the chofer that he’s the bar manager, so they are happy to give him a discount. Tonight, negotiation should be easier. I’m happy to pay 10 and I only live 6 blocks away. It’s a straight shot, but the wrong way down a one-way street. Still, at 10:30pm on a Sunday there’s little traffic and it shouldn’t take more than 10 minutes.

So I walked from the Ekko door down the hill to the corner. As usual there were several taxis lined up, and since it wasn’t “taxi rush hour” (1:30 pm when the bar closes and everyone is looking for a cab to take them to the latest after-hours club), most of the choferes were standing around outside talking to one another.

“Buenas noches! Voy a Calle Zoilo Flores” I said.

“Ven, ven.” One man told me.

“Cuanta cuesta?”

“Veinte y cinco.”

I looked around at the other drivers expecting someone to laugh. No one did.

“En serio? Es diez.”

“No, veinte y cinco.”

“Nevermind.”

I walked up the hill and around the corner to the Irish Rose hostel, where I knew another line of taxis would be. As I walked up to the first in the line, I asked again and was told 20. I tried to negotiate down, but he was holding firm to 20. It just didn’t make any sense. I walked away again, thinking I’d go back to Ekko and wait it out until those taxis had taken charges and a new crop had popped up. And as I rounded the corner this time, two Bolivian men moved toward me. One slapped my ass. I elbowed him and gave him a scowl. He laughed and walked away with his friend.

I have been in worse situations. I have felt more assaulted before. I have had things taken from me that can never be replaced. And ass slapping is something that can be fun and/or funny among friends. But this made me feel especially exposed. Because this was my space. This block is probably the place I feel the safest in La Paz. Ekko is directly across from a police station, and has a security man at the door at all times. Nothing is supposed to happen to me on this block. But something has. And I suddenly felt very vulnerable.

But what happened next made it worse. I rang the bell to Ekko and explained to Moises, the security guard on duty, what had happened. He let me inside and then stuck his head out the door. He apparently didn’t see anything and then just closed the door. Frustrated with him, I walked upstairs. I couldn’t find Antonio, who I really wanted to talk to, but Avi, one of the Israeli bartenders could see I was shaken. I told him the story.

His response: “Oh don’t worry. Its not a big deal. Just go home and you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

And then my fear and vulnerability turned to rage. This is what is wrong with the world. People who stand by and dismiss gender-based violation as “not a big deal” are only contributing to the problem. They create an atmosphere that is accepting of sexual assault. They contribute to the impunity of those that believe they can violate women because its “not a big deal.” I don’t need to rehash the arguments here. They’ve been made more thoroughly, more eloquently, and more frequently by plenty of writers. But the point is, Avi’s response infuriated me.

So then, it being clear that this did not make me feel better, Avi called over Noah, who had a similar response to the story. Has the world gone mad? Or is it just that Israeli men have a particular world-view that does not allow them to understand why they are so freaking screwed up to say such things????

I got them to leave me alone, and I lied down on the couch. Now remember its only 11pm by this time and the bar is full. I’m just the crazy girl crying and screaming in the corner of the bar. I tried to calm myself down, but I was on the verge of hyperventilating through my tears. All I had really wanted was someone to go outside and yell at this guy or otherwise scare him off. I didn’t want violence or anyone to pity me. It wasn’t about that. It was just that I wanted this dude to realize that when he does such a thing, other people don’t consent to it. Don’t grant him leave. Don’t think its ok, and are going to be vocal about it. But apparently he was right and I was wrong. He can get away with it because its “no big deal.” And apparently my in-ring skills don’t necessarily translate well to the street.

As I lied there on the couch, trying to take deep breaths and stabilize my breathing, my mind, myself, Thomas came over and put his hand on my back. “You ok?” And then the story came rushing out again. “Do you think he’s still out there?” “Probably not.” “Ok, well what do you want to do? Do you want to go home? Do you want me to make sure you get home.”

I didn’t want to go home. My roommates had recently moved out, and returning to a dark empty apartment wasn’t necessarily scary. I didn’t feel like anyone was after me. But it sounded lonely. It sounded like too much quiet and space and time to let my brain keep churning. Because the scary part was not that some random dude touched my ass. It was that the space I felt safe in suddenly felt menacing. Like I could have easily been abducted, or truly sexually assaulted, or robbed, or any number of things. Suddenly my happy little La Paz life could come crashing down. I was shocked into recognizing my vulnerability again.

I talked to Thomas for a good while, and eventually the bar was starting to close. I told Antonio the story and he put on his jacket and black stocking cap (though he was still wearing flip flops). He took a machete from the bar office (there are a variety of weapons stored there including a billy club, 3 machetes, and several cans of mace). “What did he look like?” “Oh, lord, he’s not still out there. And even if he was, he was a short Bolivian man wearing a white shirt. You could probably find 20 of those in the neighborhood on any given night.” But Antonio went anyway, returning 10 minutes later, shockingly not having encountered the assailant. But he offered up his bed and I stayed there that night.

I found out 2 days later the guy had done the same thing to at least 2 other girls in the preceding week. And neither of them had said anything because they “didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.” But apparently when they heard it happened to me, they both told their very similar stories. To which I could only respond again—what is wrong with the world, where no one wants to make a “big deal” out of gender-based violation? How have we come to (or stayed in) a place where this is something that is pushed under the rug and forgotten. This is not ok.

I am not the first anthropologist to have some person assault them while don’t field work (See diLeonardo 1997, Leap 2008, and Frederik Meer 2007)—and those are only anthropologists I personally know). And my experience is far from the worst it could be. Many anthropologists have had people enact far worse violence on them. But I think its important to make a big deal out of this no matter how seemingly inconsequential. No matter how often it happens. (and thanks to what I’ve learned from an amazing colleague working on language and sexual assault, I just changed the wording of this sentence to an active verb with an agent rather than a passive construction). Yes, we bring our first world sensibilities about what constitutes rape and the safety one should reasonably expect while walking alone. But this is one of those instances in which “cultural relativism” is not a suitable defense for us not to speak out. This is important. This transcends culture. This is about the human right to autonomy over one’s own person and ability to exist in the world without fear of being alone or leaving the confines of a safe space.

di Leonardo, Micaela
   1997  White Lies, Black Myths: Rape, Race, and the. Black 'Underclass.' In The    
      Gender/Sexuality Reader. Roger Lancaster and Micaela di Leonardo, eds. Pp 53-70. 
      New York: Routledge.

Frederik Meer, Laurie
   2007  Playback Theater in Cuba: The Politics of Improvisation and Free Expression. 
      The Drama Review 51(4): 106-120.

Leap, William
   2008  Whose [reading of] Gender Matters? Female Masculinity as Political Praxis. 
       Paper presented at University of Osnabrück, 25 November.