I don’t really know who taught me the game, but I imagine it was some upperclassperson my freshman year of high school. We all learned: the nice, jenz, jb, bs, and I. And we, in turn, taught our fair share of freshmen as we got older.

The game of Euchre is similar to Spaids and Hearts, but to me is better. It requires more thought and strategy. And knowing how your partner plays can make or break a trick if not the game. It is a distinctly Midwestern game; I’ve never met anyone who knows the game who didn’t spend a significant amount of time in the Midwest. At least as far as wikipedia can tell me, it was brought by German settlers to Michigan and spread from there. And maybe, just a little, I like it because its distinctly Midwestern. It is to be taken very seriously. It is not a game of luck but a game that tests your stamina, your sharpness, your insight. It is not a recreational game. In fact, it reminds me of the way Chuck Klosterman describes Midwest Power Drinking:

People in the Midwest drink differently than everywhere else I’ve ever been; its far less recreational. You have to stay focused, you have to work fast, and you have to swallow constantly.

I once dealt the perfect hand of Euchre. I was playing on a bus to some nerdy interscholastic event with jenz as my partner. Jb and massman were our opponents. I distributed the cards and flipped over a 10 of spaids. Massman, who was sitting to my left told me to pick it up. Before I could even discard he had said he was going it alone and displayed his full hand: right bower, left bower, ace, king, queen. All trump. Otherwise known as a Ray Charles.

And not long after I went to college and the ubiquity of Euchre disappeared from my life. Now, those of you who know a bit of my history (or have read my cv) may note that I attended university in the heart of the Midwest. And yet, apparently, the student body had enough geographic diversity that Euchre never became a mainstay. I do remember playing it once, while camping on a Chicago-suburban living room floor after shooting a student film all day. But even then, the two of us that knew the game had to teach everyone else (from places like New York, Atlanta, and LA). I continued to play occasionally, usually only with high school friends while home for a holiday, or after a wedding rehearsal dinner. But these times have become so few and far between that the game rarely crosses my mind.

And then, Tuesday night, it popped into my head. Some of the Death Road guide guys were going bowling and invited me along. As instructed I walked along the Prado until I was across from the Post Office. I found the hotdog cart and squeezed past it. I went down the narrow staircase and past the scantily occupied lunch tables and found the two hand-set lanes. I was late and had to bowl five frames in a row to catch up. First bowl a gutterball. Second bowl 8 pins. Second frame, a spare. Third frame, a strike. Fourth frame, a respectable 8. After that I don’t really recall. The remainder of the game involved plenty of complaining that the pin-setting guys were setting like they were on acid, and sarcastic claims of being a “gentleman” when taking the lane that was less warped. The guys also did a fair amount of farting, sometimes directly on one another, and even on Tasha, the only other woman in attendance, but never on me. However, when one of the guys I hadn’t met before suggested to Justin that he shouldn’t fart so close to me, his comment strikingly reminded me of Steve’s 7th grade comment, “Yeah, but Nell doesn’t count as a girl.” Justin replied “Its ok, Nell’s one of the guys.”  

But that’s not important. That’s not the point of the story.

After finishing the game (in 4th place of 7, with 109 points), the three guides that had Wednesday off decided to go to the brewery with Tasha and I. We arrived, ordered fancy drinks (white Russians and long island ice teas), and settled down at a table with a deck of cards. It was Pete that suggested we play a game, and suddenly it dawned on me. Pete is from Indiana. Indiana is in the Midwest. People in the Midwest who play cards play Euchre. I could barely get the question out of my mouth without squealing: “Do you play Euchre?”

And of course he said yes.

So we had to teach Tasha and Justin the game while Rick put his head down and slept. And in the end we didn’t even finish because everyone was tired. This also kept Justin and I from officially losing (the score was 8-6 when we quit). So it was not any spectacular game of Euchre. It had been several years since I last played and I think I’ve lost a bit of my intuition about the game. I did, however, manage to take 3 tricks with the Ace, King, and Queen of trump by leading with a 10 of trump out of the gate—a highly unorthodox move. But in the end, it was just a slow learner’s game.

What was incredible about it though, was the fact that I was in Bolivia, playing a game that is generally confined to the Midwestern United States with 2 Kiwis. And I started thinking about the processes that brought us to this point. First, German immigration to the Midwest, and specifically Michigan, began around 1820 but intensified due to unsuccessful European revolutions around 1848 (which coincidentally is right around when ol’ Bernhardt Stroh set up shop in Detroit...See, I knew Klosterman’s thoughts on Midwestern Power Drinking were somehow connected).

Then there was the proliferation of the game throughout the Midwest. As the decades elapsed, farmers moved to cities. Children moved to university towns, and the Euchre players from Michigan radiated out across the Midwest due to no small number of economic and migratory processes. And by the 1990s (though probably long before), high school kids in places like Heyworth, Illinois and Carmel, Indiana were playing Euchre.

But that is only half the story. Bolivia is also important. Tourism in Bolivia is not a big business relative to many of its surrounding nations. Bolivia garners roughly 300,000 tourists per year, while neighboring Perú attracts more than 2 million tourists a year (Library of Congress 2006). This vast difference is attributed to Bolivia’s political instability and lack of first-class accommodations (Library of Congress 2006), but may also be a product of the fact that the government of Bolivia pays little attention to tourism, in contrast to Peru (Ypeij and Zorn 2007). So while Bolivia is a major stopping point between the Andes of Perú, Lake Titicaca, and destinations in Argentina or northern Chile (Ypeij and Zoomers 2006)., it retains a sense of being somewhat “undiscovered” for many of the travelers. Those travelers that do spend time in La Paz, tend to be those seeking outdoor trekking opportunities. Hyuana Potosi, “the world’s easiest 6000 meter mountain,” is nearby, as well as hiking opportunities on Chacaltaya Mountain, or treks to more jungle-like areas such as Coroico. And this market for outdoor, adventure, tourism is no doubt what created an opportunity for biking down Death Road. Ten years ago, a New Zealander who had been living in La Paz started the first company, the one Pete, Justin, and Rick work for. 

And all of these processes--different modes of Globalization since european Colonialism, Economic Migration, Revolution in europe, Urbanizatio in the midwest, "Instability" and Economic Sanctions related to the Drug Trade in bolivia, Neoliberalism in la paz, expat Flexible Citizenship, Cosmopolitanism of travelers and tourist companies, Flexible Accumulation of microbrewed beer, and the Friction of it all--come together in the most unexpected of ways.

I told you Euchre is a game that must be taken seriously.

Yesterday I went to El Alto to do an interview and got interviewed myself. Here is a snippet.

Translation:
Hi, my name is Nell Haynes. I am an anthropologist from the United States and I am in La Paz, Bolivia for my research on Bolivian lucha libre. 
[How long are you in La Paz?]
I arrived in April and I leave in August. But I am going to return in January 2012.
[Thanks, Nell]
You're welcome. Thanks.
[See you soon]
Yes

“Ok, every man in here is wearing a dress, but how many of them will sleep with me?” Nick sat down next to me at the Ekko bar and winked through his wire rimmed glasses.

“I only know of 2.”

“The Colombians?”

I nodded solemnly.

It was 10 pm on a Tuesday, ladies’ night at the Ekko bar, and all the “ladies” along with any man dressed as a “lady” were entitled to free jelly (Jell-O) shots. But like many college freshmen may say about Halloween, its just an excuse to wear scanty amounts of clothing. Considering the shots are worth about .50 U$, the motivation has little to do with the monetary value of free drinks.

And ladies’ night happens all over town. At the Irish Rose hostel around the corner, its on Wednesday.

This weekend, at the invitation-only grand opening party for La Paz’s newest nightclub (I begged a friend to take me as his date), I overheard Ekko’s manager say he would change his ladies’ night to Thursday to coordinate with the new club’s ladies’ night.

In some ways, I enjoy the creativity inspired by Ekko’s ladies’ night. Backpackers don’t have a closet full of clothes to choose from. Smaller-statured men borrow skirts from female friends. Others flit their t-shirts through the neck to create a bikini-like effect. Eyeliner and lipstick are passed around the bar like joints in a college dorm.

But at the same time, the cross dressing that occurs for ladies’ night exists in the context of an explicit heterosexual orientation of many hostel events.

This is not to say that queer-identified guests are ostracized or unwelcome. I have met several gay men backpacking in South America and have reported fruitful social or love lives in hostels. Though they strain to find gay spaces in cities like La Paz, they recognize the hidden nature of gay life in many places in Latin America, and seem content with the small pockets of “gay life” they’ve been able to access.

The lesbian travelers I have spoken with express more disappointment. I have met noticeably fewer of them, and even in places more recognized as “cosmopolitan” or “gay friendly,” like Buenos Aires, they have not found explicitly lesbian spaces. And while I have heard both gay men and lesbians complain that there are not more potential sexual partners available (both among local populations and fellow travelers), I have not heard any complain about feeling unwelcome. Indeed, the traveling crowd tends to be young, liberal, and open to new experiences (though, obviously, that is a generalization with plenty of exceptions).

But hostels like Ekko also have implicitly and exclusively heterosexual activities like afternoon speed dating, in which the number of men and women were required to be even. Bar staff were required to participate or not in order to ensure equivalent numbers. I was most taken aback by one conversation prompt asking “If I used to be a different gender, would you mind?” Most people answered that they wouldn’t mind with very little thought or discussion, but much nervous laughter.

And so, as I said, I appreciate the creativity of ladies’ night, but cannot ignore the context in which it exists. The lack of attention to the politics of cross dressing, particularly in a place where gay pride parades attract 20,000 people in a metro area of over 2 million and few explicitly gay spaces exist, particularly by people who see their costumes as an opportunity to reveal their bodies in hopes of attracting the opposite sex, particularly in a space that organizes the event for the pure purpose of making more money on a Tuesday night, leaves me concluding it is a superficial use of gender inversion, devoid of political statement that serves to reinforce heterosexual assumptions about gender roles. And more specifically, reinforces a view of femininity as explicitly performative and sexualized. Though at least two young Israeli women dressed as dapper fedora-clad men last week.

“Oh, look! Here,” he said, as he pointed up at the door marked 658. And yes, across the top of the wooden door, in what appeared to be permanent marker, was scrawled “Fuegos Artificiales BOMBAS.” The old vendedora knew what she was talking about I guess.

It was 4 july and we had planned to watch Tour d France, but even Pete the biking expert didn’t expect it to finish before 1pm. So instead, like two good little expats, we set off on a mission to find fireworks. After several phone calls to people we thought might know, we decided to follow the tip to try Calle Rodriguez. Calle Rodriguez sits between the touristy Sagarnaga neighborhood, and my own neighborhood of San Pedro. Its one of those places that during the day is lined with vendors in makeshift stalls, using bright tarps as awnings, and giving the street a carnival feeling. Rounding the corner from Calle Linares, we walked uphill and saw only fruits and vegetables for sale. After a block we decided to ask a woman selling carrots and corn if she knew where to find fuegos artificiales. Pete, in his Spanish that makes mine seem almost fluent, asked the woman, and she told us to look just up the street for a Casa en Venta. The son of her friend sells fireworks there. We walked up a bit more, unsure that we had understood properly that we were looking for a house for sale, when I noticed the next tan building had painted on its second floor in crisp blue letters: “Casa en Venta.”

We walked up to the door and sure enough we saw the hand-written advertisement for fuegos artificiales. There were four buzzers scattered around the door, so Pete pushed the one closest to the writing, which was labeled Gustavo. There was no response. “We could try the phone number I guess,” I said, and he nodded. Under the word “BOMBAS” was an 8 digit Bolivian number which I put in my phone and called. I usually need to psych myself up for phone conversations with people I don’t know. Even in English. Even when they’re expecting me to call. But somehow the strangeness of all this made me forget to hesitate until I had already pushed send.

[translated]
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’d like to buy fireworks.”
“Oh. Ok. Well, what type would you like to buy?”
“Oh. Eh……[looks a Pete whispers “what kind do we want?” He shrugs.] Just little ones I guess.”
“Yes, but what kind?”
“Well what kind to you have?”
“I have all kinds. When can you meet?”
“Oh, I’m at the door now. I saw the number on 658.”
“Oh, on Calle Rodriguez? Can you wait 5 minutes? I will come there.”

And so we waited. For 35 minutes (because that’s approximately what “5 minutes” means here). We discussed what might be under the tarps we leaned against, which had obviously been left by some vendor who was taking the day off. I briefly considered checking, but thought the woman across the street selling api might start yelling, thinking I was trying to steal something. Two gringos standing around on this street just talking for 30 minutes looks suspicious enough. 

Perhaps I felt suspicious because the whole operation felt very illicit to me. I grew up in a state where fireworks are illegal. They’re easy enough to get, but you have to drive a few hours and cross the border to Indiana. Inevitably, practically straddling the state line, rises a giant red barn-like building. “FIREWORKS!!! This exit,” a billboard will announce. Presumably, one just pulls off the highway, stocks up on bottle rockets, some multi-break shells, and a roman candle or two, turns right around, and heads back to Illinois. I certainly had a fair share of family friends that would do this. I never went along, but I was privy to watching the displays put on off rooftops or out of farmhouse backyards at July 4th parties. I’m not sure what exactly could happen to someone caught possessing fireworks in Illinois. It never really seemed a pressing matter, yet, I think the illegality of it gave it a bit more of a sense of danger. A sense of excitement. 

Pete on the other hand, grew up in Indiana. He says its legal to sell fireworks there, but not to set them off. I contemplated how this slightly different history, one separated by only about one hundred miles and a few sports team rivalries, might affect our attitudes about standing here, on a random street in La Paz, waiting for some random man to come meet us and sell us things that could potentially seriously injure ourselves or others. And I have no idea what laws in Bolivia are about fireworks. I’m guessing there are none, but that may be a silly assumption on my part. Am I the only one that feels like this is one of the sketchiest things I’ve ever actively participated in?

Eventually a man walked up and asked “did you call me?” What ensued was a very complex conversation about fireworks consisting mainly of hand motions replicating explosions and noises like a high pitched “pewwww, pewwww” and a lower “booooooooom.” It was clear this man was hoping to sell us some sort of fireworks display with multiple colors and three different explosions that all happened at the same time. This for the low low price of 1300 Bs. (about $185). I asked if there was anything for about 50 Bs. He said no, but for 350 Bs. he had something that also included many colors but the noises used to describe it were less spectacular. We discussed in English whether to do it and realized we only had 300 Bs. between the two of us, so I tried to negotiate. The man took us inside 658 to the courtyard and took a padlock off the first door on the left. However, the deadbolt was still locked and he yelled several times for someone to come down and bring the key. No one arrived, or answered his yells. He told us to leave and come back in 5 minutes, and just hit the bell for Gustavo when we returned. 

We walked out and I found I had a text message from my earlier tipster saying Hipermaxi probably has fireworks as well. We decided maybe we should just walk over to the Sopocachi supermarket and leave our friend Gustavo without a purchase. So we did just that, enjoying the warm early afternoon sun on the mostly downhill walk. We arrived at Hipermaxi and wandered around the aisles, with no luck. We asked a stock person who informed us they had none, so we decided to buy ingredients for mac n’ cheese instead of fireworks (that’s an all-american patriotic dish, right?). No easy mac today. They didn’t have any elbow macaroni, so we settled on bowties. In all we spent around 100 Bs. Far more than we would have on 2 nice meals at a touristy restaurant. But the cheese itself was about 50 Bs. 

We went back to the swanky biker flat in upper Sopocachi, and set to work. Trying to convert the recipe into the nonstandard types of measuring devices we had at our disposal was a chore. Once that was settled we continued mixing spices, adding milk, grating cheese, boiling (which takes forever at high altitudes) mixtures, pouring into pans, adding noodles, and baking. Of course the baking time was about double what the recipe said, but in the end, we had a not so pretty (feo to be exact), but cheesy, tasty, saucy mess that somewhat resembled bowties and cheese. 

Later in the evening, after being told that one of the local backpacker hostels was having an “Anti-American July 4th Party” I made my way over to the area near the bus terminal. I climbed the four flights of stairs, and went directly to the bar for my free shot (you know, because I’m American). It was a nasty rum, but I filled up on locally brewed Saya beer afterwards, which washed the taste down far more pleasantly than Paceña, Bock, Huari, or Authentica ever could. I was just wearing a gray hooded shirt and my black fleece, but was rather jealous that Pete showed up later wearing a long sleeve bright red t shirt, with an Indianapolis Colts tee over the top. Alas, my patriotism failed.

Fortunately, we were both fulfilled when Chad, the bartender told us he had successfully found fireworks for sale in the touristy witches market. Sure, on one hand our adventures with Gustavo lacked an appropriate culmination, but at least we’d get to see some explosions. So once all those from the US had consumed their free shots, Chad called everyone to the roof deck for some fun with fire. First up, 2 bottle rockets. Despite their precarious leaning against the larger circular firework framework, they were lit and flew up into the air without a hitch. Once they were aloft however, they made about as much light as those lifesavers candies do when you bite them in the dark, and didn’t even pop loudly. Fortunately (or unfortunately?) the other firework set was more exciting. There were four explosive packages, wrapped in different colored papers (which I assumed meant they would explode in different colors) attached to a circular scaffold that somewhat resembled a double tiered tomato plant support. It took a bit of discussion to decide where and how to light the thing, but once several know-it-all guys from the US had their input, Chad announced “I’m probably about to injure you all” and held the lighter to wherever it was the consensus had agreed upon. Almost immediately fire started shooting out of the thing horizontally. The tomato stand framework bounced from the picnic table to the floor and then over to the corner. Everyone dashed to get behind the clear glass panel next to the door back to the bar. Most of us spilled our giant mugs of beer on ourselves or at least on the floor. And then the fire ball stopped shooting. We all breathed relief. The 3 people that had been trapped in the far corner moved out and toward the door, and we all started to go inside. And then it started again. Another flaming projectile toward those remaining outside, and then it finally died for good. Oh, Bolivia. You did not disappoint me today.