In July of 2008, after a long day of dancing to A Hawk and a Hacksaw, Icy Demons, and Animal Collective at the Pitchfork Music Festival, I found myself with some long lost friends at Belmont and Western. I hadn’t seen or talked to Ravi in years. We had dated briefly in college, but more importantly we were student government co-conspirators. He was the director of an umbrella organization for progressive student groups. I was the executive officer for Students Advocating Gender Equality. Together we led protests across campus and Chicago and tried to lobby both student government and the administration to pass resolutions condemning the occupation of Iraq. We never succeeded at that, but the “camp out” we held at the library plaza did eventually get the university to sign onto the Workers’ Rights Consortium Designated Suppliers Program.

So five years after our graduation we sat across a table at The Hungry Brain catching up (he was about to run for a state representative spot in his home district) and waxing nostalgic (with stories one should never share about a political candidate they support).

And the Hungry Brain is a lovely place. Nestled in Roscoe Village, its a cash only dive bar. The type of place I’d normally flock to. And on this particular night there was a jazz trio playing. I’m sure they were playing quite well, but at least in the back corner we occupied our laughter was the overwhelming sound. And the other patrons weren’t so keen on this. We got dirty looks often, and shhhhs a few times, so at the set break we walked around the corner to some 4 am bar that inexplicably had 3 motorcycles parked in the back room.

In the intervening years I’d eventually attend summer outdoor jazz in the park type events or find myself gulping wine at Columbia Station in DC. But last night, I finally stopped into the jazz bar I’ve been walking past for 3 years. I’ve always meant to check it out, but never had a reason. When Joaquin told me he knows Pablo, the owner and suggested we go, I jumped at the chance. Thelonious is promoted as the only jazz bar in Bolivia, though I have no idea how accurate that is. In La Paz it is certainly the most well publicized, but as far as I know there could be some hidden in the back lanes of El Alto, or a thriving jazz community in Santa Cruz. Thelonius, like Hungry Brain and pretty much all bars in La Paz, is cash only. But aside from music, cash, and alcohol, my experience there was very different from the Hungry Brain. 

We arrived around midnight and found Pablo, his girlfriend, and another friend at a table by the door. Having arrived with Joaquin, our Colombian friend Jhon, local electronico DJ Chuck Norris, and his date, we pushed several tables together and joined Pablo and company. The Jack Daniels flowed freely and we discussed race politics in La Paz (in as lighthearted a way as we could). The conversation was filled with that distinctive Paceño laugh-a velar nasal “yaaaaaahhhhhhhh.”

Only at the set break was the music mentioned. Joaquin told me that the bass player (of course) was one of the best in La Paz. He then introduced me to the manager—one of the best jazz drummers in South America. I got plenty of (undeserved) Jazz street credit for being from Chicago. 

And our table was not unique. The overall feeling of the place was lively. People were laughing, and at times cheered and whistled for solos. The occasional drink was spilled without much notice. People danced on their way to the baño and stopped at other tables to chat on their way back. 

In essence, it would have been the perfect place for Ravi and I that night after Pitchfork. And perhaps this is just an isolated example, but to me it felt significant. Here in La Paz music is about enjoyment, having fun, creating an atmosphere for smiling and laughing. In Chicago, home of Green Mill, and Old Town School of Folk Music, its about connoisseurship. And this is no moral judgment on either, but to my untrained ear, I’d rather joke with Colombian Jhonny about Paceños’ laughs than quietly get lost in the beat. 

And to an extent I think this reflects some of the tensions in lucha libre as well. The cholitas luchadoras are there for the laughter, the smiling, the shouts, and raucousness. And luchadores like Edgar understand the importance of the audience, but see their art as something to be appreciated on an elevated level. Again there is no moral judgment here, and I think most artists of whatever sort would prefer to be appreciated for their technical ability and crafting of style—but there are definitely two different approaches to performance at play here. 

_ Last week I went to Yapacaní in the Santa Cruz department to meet the godson of one of my oldest and best anthro friends. She was flying back to Denver, and I had a 20 hour bus back to La Paz, so she handed over the book she had just finished, The Glass Castle. It was far from my favorite book ever, but at the end the narrator describes a moment in which she felt as if she had arrived. I started thinking about what it might mean for an anthropologist to arrive.

_Yesterday, I read over some reviewer comments on an article I am trying to publish, and felt like I was getting close. Is publishing in a well regarded journal arriving? Is getting a post-doc? Any job? Is it getting a tenure track position? Or when you finally get tenure? In the academic world, what is the moment when you feel legitimate?

Those specific moments are probably further off for me than I’d like to think, but recently, I’ve had a few that felt like arrivals. In mid-June, I was told several times that my Spanish is “perfect.” Edwin told me for the third time last week that I don’t count as a gringa. But I think a moment that was particularly and personally an arrival for me was after getting back to La Paz last Thursday.

The Tito’s guys were having a party, and I came along with some other friends. For some unknown reason, half way through the night we all ended up wearing costumes, composed of random clothing items lying around. Jack ended up wearing a nightgown and a mouse mask. One woman dressed herself as a bride, another as a bumble bee. But the hostess found the real treasure for me: a pollera. I took off my ripped jeans wore it with my plain black t shirt and my converse shoes. As I started dividing my hair into a center part, Andres started telling me I needed trenzas. “Ya estoy intentando hacerlas.” I talked to Edwin about how one attempts to sit in a pollera. I told Gonz it wasn’t poofy enough and he told me that “real” cholas wear five at a time (I think that was a bit of an exaggeration). In the ultimate statement of poetic irony, Luis--who knows nothing about my research--suggested I start wrestling as a cholita luchadora. But my favorite response was Gonz looking up from his drink and shouting “Mira, es cholita punk!” Yes, I had arrived. 

_ Suddenly it all makes sense. Today was the ethnographer’s dream. I returned to the “site” that was the beginning. The rough sketch that will hopefully become some sort of masterpiece of a dissertation. The shaky first attempt and understanding something. Anything.

That is, Edgar asked if I wanted to go to the Multifuncional to see the show and try to work out a deal with Mr. Atlas. And with all the police mutiny going on around here I almost canceled on him and stayed home today. But when he called to tell me he’d be ten minutes late, I pulled on the thick down coat, and headed out the door.

_ I’ve made central to my thesis his suggestion that the luchadoras of Titanes del Ring are “payasas.” And I’ve been thinking about it as a gendered derogation. But tonight, as I sat on the cold concrete bench, surrounded by women in polleras and seven year olds screaming at the rudos that they are maricones, I understood what he he’s been talking about all this time.

Every match was far more show than lucha. He was right that I should pay attention to the way the luchadores interacted with the audiences. The cholitas arrived in the arena dancing (sometimes with the gringos in the front row), waving, smiling, being cute. The luchadores either greeted people with waves , walking all the way around the ring, or insulted the audience immediately. Throughout the matches they often stopped to interact with the audience. When Cobade jumped on the corner ropes in the middle of the match, the little girl next to me yelled “maricon” over and over. “Tu papá es un maricon. Yo soy hombre.” He responded. Yes, indeed, I need to beef up my interaction and acting.

But the wrestling itself, the claves, the cayes, the castigos, were less than impressive. I have yet to do any quantitative analysis on the subject, and perhaps my very central role biases me, but I would venture to say that my own matches have about twice as many actual wrestling moves per minute as the Titanes del Ring matches. And to me, this made them slow and boring. Certainly there was more humor involved. And the audience was given ample opportunity to shout, throw things, generally become “part” of the act. Perhaps in Super Catch matches they are more spectators than contributors.

_ But the word “clown” was the obvious descriptor for much of what I was seeing. It very much was clear in a match featuring Jenifer Dos Caras in which, before the actual wrestling began, she repeatedly fell on the floor laughing. This reminded me of Goffman’s analysis clowning, and “the use of entire body as a playful gesticulative device” as a way to indicate a lack of seriousness and childlike demeanor. Jean-Martin Charcot, a nineteenth century neurologist, pioneered work on hysteria, suggesting that the second phase of the condition was “clownism.” As Didi-Huberman (2003:147) explains, this reference to clowning was used to delegitimate so-called hysterical women.

And the very gendered history of all this added to my assumption that Edgar’s statements belied sexism, and a dismissal of the possible contribution of women to lucha libre. But tonight I understood where the sentiment was coming from and it seemed to have little to do with gender. After the first three matches he asked “Como te parece?” But didn’t quite give me a chance to answer. “Son malas, no?” And I agreed. They were funny. Lots of humorous yells at the audience, bodily comedy, and goofy antics. But the actual wrestling wasn’t convincing. The claves weren’t done with skill. “Falta mucha technica” says Edgar.

But Titanes del Ring garners an audience. Edgar and I guessed there were around 500 people there. With about 150 tourists paying 50 Bs. a person. And maybe that’s the key. Maybe the actual wrestling doesn’t matter. Maybe its all about the comedy. Last year, plenty of audience members told me the reason they attend shows is that it makes them laugh. Maybe its something like the “oasis” Veronica Palenque is striving for. But I can see how, even if this is what Bolivian audiences want, Edgar and his colleagues hope for something more. Something they can be proud of as technicos and luchadores trying to advance their sport.

In the end discussions with Mr. Atlas went nowhere and we rode the minibus back to el centro discussing what we liked and what we didn’t. There was a good jump from the top rope. Mr. Atlas had a few nice moves. And the skeleton character, Mortis, definitely has some dance moves. And I suppose the good part is, I’m feeling more confident about my own abilities. I didn’t see a single attempt at tijeras tonight. And the plan is to learn los tijeras dobles this week.

_ This morning several Super Catch stars went to Palenque TV (canal 48) to record some messages aimed at children. The channel is going to start airing lucha libre, under the name Tigres del Ring, and the promo spots recorded will come at the end of commercial breaks. 

_ Palenque TV is a project of Veronica Palenque, daughter of the late Carlos Palenque Avilés. Carlos was a presidential candidate in 1989 and 1993, running for the CONDEPA (Conciencia de Patria or National Conscience) party. In 1993, he received just over 14% of the vote, putting him in second place behind Goni (who garnered about 35.5%). Perhaps more interestingly, Carlos spent his time in the 1960s singing social-protest songs and cultivating long hair. He then became part of Los Caminantes, a pop-folk group that quickly became one of the most popular bands of time in La Paz. He eventually went solo, and the Bolivian National TV station (the only TV station in Bolivia at the time), asked him to do a weekly live music show aimed at indigenous and rural-origin peoples living in La Paz. He solicited Remedios Loza, or Comadre Remedios, to be his cohost on La Tribuna Libre del Pueblo [The Community’s Open Forum]. Remedios identified more closely with indigeneity than Carlos and dressed de pollera. She and Carlos remained close, and after his death, so ran for President in his place in 1997. However, it seems that Remedios had sharp tensions with Veronica, and left the program (for more information see Moore's piece here). 

Veronica herself then served in the Bolivian National Congress from 1997-2000. She first formed a radio station in 2000, with the objective to continue the line of social welfare, information, education, and training that Compadre Palenque (referring to her father) left behind as his principles, precents, and ideology.

“Red Palenque Comunicaciones, fue creada el años 2000, con el objetivo de continuar la línea de ayuda social, información, educación y entretenimiento que el Compadre Palenque dejara bajo sus principios, preceptos e ideología.”

In 2011 Veronica began the TV station, in response to the proliferation of pain, suffering, bad news, disasters, catastrophes, and negative news usually available on television. She decided to create a channel that emphasizes fun, entertainment, laughter, joy and positive aspects of life. Veronica explained, “El control remoto tiene que convertirse, a partir de hoy, en una ‘varita mágica’ que transporte al televidente a un oasis de entretenimiento y diversión, porque aquí sólo verá felicidad” [As of today, the remote control has to become a ‘magic wand’ to transport viewers to an oasis of entertainment and fun, because we only see happiness].

_ And, then, enter the luchadores: bastians of fun, entertainment, laughter, joy, and positive aspects of life (?). We started out recording a clip where we (attempted to) say “Hola Amigitos! Somos Tigres del Ring. Pronto por Palenque TV!” in unison. We pretty much failed and ended up just saying “Hola Amigitos” together, with Luis announcing who we were and Edgar promoting the station.

After our group recording, we each each recorded a short PSA style message for kids. These messages were not our own of course, but were scripted and handed to us to memorize about half an hour before recording. I am unfortunately left to talk about the scripts in a passive sort of voice, because they arrived to us on little pieces of yellow notepad, handwritten by someone other than the camera guy who passed them off. We did have to wait around for Veronica to arrive, and my previous experiences with her have shown that she is quite involved in most aspects of the station. So I would venture to say she was the source of the scripts, but I can’t say for certain. I would also guess that the handwriting was a woman’s, but I’m no expert on gendering based on script.

My little script was written in Spanish as “Practicar deportes, alimentarse sanamente, y alejarse de vicios son las claves de una vida exitosa. Ustedes pueden ser heroes. Es un mensaje de Lady Blade, junta con los Tigres del Ring. Estaremos pronto por Palenque TV.” But of course Omar wanted me to do it in English (I didn’t mind), so I translated it as “Practice sports, eat healthy, and stay away from drugs are the keys to a successful life. You can be a hero! This is a message from Lady Blade and the Tigres del Ring on Palenque TV.”

So yes, my little bit was chock full of certain moralizing messages that seem to conflate bodily health with some sort of emotional or social decency. And I suppose this is not surprising given the social welfare, information, education, and training espoused in the radio station’s mission statement. But what was especially interesting were the references to “our country” most of the other luchadores had in their scripts.

Luis’s was the most explicit. His went something like: “To support our beautiful country, Bolivia, we need to work hard and stay healthy.” Carlos’s began with “Drugs and alcohol destroy your life! But we can be heroes for our country, Bolivia by staying fit and respecting each other.” Edgar’s concentrated on keeping Bolivia beautiful by recycling, caring for water, and not polluting. Finally SuperCuate’s was short and simple, “The values of respect, education, and consideration make us heroes for Bolivia.”

This reminded me quite a bit of the “lessons” of Hulk Hogan’s Rock n’ Wrestling show from the 1980s. Indeed, US wrestling is often fraught with nationalist storylines which help to delineate heels from faces (villains from good characters). And nationalism has certainly had its place in my experiences wrestling in Bolivia. Primarily, I’ve had to walk a fine line promoting the US, but maintaining my status as a technica (good character). I wave at the kids, and they seem to love me, which helps. But when E came to visit and made an appearance as my partner on the program “La Revista," he played the rudo well, telling the Bolivians they had a lot to learn from the US where “real” wrestling takes place.

_ But mostly its always struck me as strange that wrestlers, people who enter the ring and seemingly commit acts of violence, are poised as role models. As Nick Sammond writes, “Wrestling is brutal and it is carnal. It is awash in blood, sweat, and spit, and…depends on the match—the violent and sensual meeting of human flesh in the ring” (Sammond 2005:7). Is this really the way to teach values like respect, education, and consideration?”

But I suppose meeting “them” where they’re at is a viable approach. And if luchadores are icons that kids look up to, encouraging them to take care of themselves, each other, their country, and the earth isn’t all bad. Especially given the fair amount of inferiority complex some Paceños I've met have about their country, perhaps encouraging a little nationalism isn’t entirely bad (though still complicated).

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.

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.

On October 12 I went to the Library of Congress to dig around in old Bolivian newspapers. I was hoping to find evidence of the beginnings of lucha libre in the country. While I waited for my requested microfilm to be pulled, I wrote this:

Here I am in a strange, bureaucratic, florescent-lit room looking up Bolivian newspapers from 1965. I feel like I should be in Café Berlin instead. Or maybe that place on Camacho V took me while we waited from micración to open for the afternoon. I want a salteña and a Paceña. I want to loose my breath, sweat, and shiver all at once while I walk home. I want to wake up at night  from the drafts or fall asleep on a mattress on the floor. But even as I write this, I look down and see my scar. And I smile. I hope it never fades, because some of the memories already have.

Though I intended to spend a good amount of time at the Library of Congress this fall, I’ve only made it twice. I was hoping that upon turning up there, the periodicals librarian would offer me some magic (digitized) solution to finding mentions of lucha libre or catchascán in Bolivian newspapers from the 1950s and 1960s. I did not have such luck, but fortunately, there was only one Bolivian newspaper that LoC has dating back that far, El Diario, thus, narrowing my scope, at least slightly.

I began with 1965, owing to former luchador and current trainer DT’s memory of starting to wrestling in that year. He mentioned that he began wrestling when Mexican wrestlers Huracán Ramírez and Blue Demon arrived in La Paz and taught Bolivians the craft. The Lucha Libre Bolivia blog has also featured newspaper clippings from such events in 1965, seemingly corroborating DT’s story.

Surprisingly, however, in June of 1965, the paper mentions a devolución [restoration] of the use of Coliseo Cerrado, the arena in which the matches of March and April, references by Lucha Libre Bolivia were to have taken place (leading me to wonder if, in fact, the wrong year was associated with the newspaper clippings). 

The most promising detail I found was that on March 15, 1965 in the Suplemento Deportivo, there was an announcement for an “important meeting” of the local boxing association, that referred to the group as the Asociación de Box y Lucha Libre, when usually (and subsequently) it is simply referred to as the Asociación de Box

Today, I decided I would try out Kid's side of the story, and check 1952, the year that he cited as that when Mexican luchadores arrived in La Paz. This time frame seemed less plausible to me, particularly because luchadores who claim to have begun wrestling at the age of 15 in 1952 would now be 74. And that seems a bit too old to still be wrestling. Kid certainly doesn’t look like a young lad, but I’d put him in his early 60s (which would then put his beginnings wrestling in the early to mid 1960s). Further, he mentioned Huracán Ramírez, a character that was not created until 1952. Seemingly, Ramírez would have needed a bit more time to develop a following in Mexico before heading out on the road to train others. But there was also something alluring about the possibility that lucha libre may have arrived in Bolivia in 1952. That was an important year for the country, during which the “April Revolution” took place, nationalism was institutionalized, and mestizaje promoted. Bigenho has written about the relationships between the revolution and theatrical performances, while Levi has demonstrated the ways that lucha libre in Mexico was connected to a modernizing project. Oh, wouldn’t it be lover-ly if this all just fit together perfectly, and lucha libre was actually some magnificent cultural expression of the modernizing nationalizing project of the MNR in Bolivia???

Right.

So, I sat myself down again, yesterday at a microfilm reader and got to work. On January 18, 1952, I found an announcement of a new open air theater, Teatro Lirico, which would include a ring “para box y catch” [for boxing and exhibition wrestling]. Again a sign that lucha libre was happening with enough frequency to warrant its mention in possible uses of a new facility, but nothing concrete or exciting.

And then, I got to March 12. And there, like a little gem, was an article titled Se Proyecta para Junio Gran Temporada de “Catchascán.” My heart skipped a beat. Not only was this a real reference to a real lucha libre event, but I thought maybe the quotation marks around catchascán might indicate the word is new, not well-known, or institutionalized yet (looking for confirmation or references on this currently…). The article describes the arrival of a number of luchadores who were touring South America and stopping by La Paz on their way to Lima after stints in Buenos Aires, Santiago de Chile and Rio de Janeiro. The wrestlers mentioned are a Spanish luchador, Vicente García (who seems to have mentored Chilean wrestlers at some point), Renato “El Hermoso” (who seems to be Argentinian), Barba Roja (a Mexican), Bobo Salvaje (another Argentianian), and Takanaka hailing from Japan. Alas, none of these men have been mentioned by the oldest luchadores I’ve spoken with, and only one is Mexican. And once again, more questions were posed than were answered.

So the “history” of lucha libre in Bolivia is about as clear as the “realness” of professional wrestling itself. Which is to say—not clear at all. But, as Heather Levi told me, perhaps it’s the mythologies that are more important than the histories. How are people remembering it and why?  What identities are being constructed? What memories are being instantiated? Through these “histories,” what stories are people like Kid and DT telling about themselves?

For me, these questions are still unanswered.

Near the end, I was also excited to find some references to Luna Park, which is the park where Kid suggested that the Mexican luchador matches took place. When I was later transcribing the interview with Kid, I wasn’t sure I had heard “luna” correctly, and asked R if he knew where it was. R had been with me at the interview and Kid had specifically asked him if he knew the park. In the recording you can hear R respond by saying “Oh yes, I know it.” Though, of course, when I asked him about it during my transcribing, he said he had never heard of the place and had been lying. To which I could only giggle. So, I was quite pleased to find that on February 7, 1952 an anniversary celebration of the park featured “en el ring, figures del Boxeo nacional e internacional” [in the ring, figures of national and international boxing]. It would of course make perfect sense for lucha libre to have begun in a place known for boxing events. “Fantastic!” I thought. “This place does exist!” And then the article mentioned that President Perón and his wife attended. "Strange," I thought. And then I realized the article was referring to a park in Buenos Aires. Well, so much for that making anything clearer either…

Titanes del Ring events are some of the most popular tourist attractions in La Paz, but tourism in Bolivia is not a big business compared to many surrounding nations. Bolivia garners roughly 300,000 tourists per year, while neighboring Perú attracts more than two million. So Bolivia tends to retain a sense of being somewhat “undiscovered” for many travelers. In fact, one day when I asked some Ekko hostel bar workers [some of whom I have discussed previously] how much of the “Gringo Trail” they had been through, Dr. Joe declared “Bolivia’s the best. No one even knows where Bolivia is!” [Indeed, the wikipedia entry I linked here doesn't even include La Paz on its list of Gringo Trail "highlights."]

The Andean Secrets advertisements and the Cholitas Luchadoras themselves appeal to travelers’ sense of adventure, inviting them to experience something “crazy” and unpredictable; something unknown at home. Many backpackers related that other young tourists had told them that there would be fireworks, “midget tossing,” and “women on women action” as part of the show. These comments, along with those suggesting the show might be “brutal,” “disturbingly real,” or “crazy” suggest that some travelers hope for something understandable, yet beyond the bounds of what can be found in travel locations closer to home. 

This desire for adventure became strikingly apparent to me on a bus ride in 2009, when I heard a group of Dutch young men recommend a specific tour guide to some women who were leaving La Paz for the Peruvian Amazon the next day. The men, who had just come from the Amazon, suggested that the women ask for their previous tour guide because “He’s the best. He’s crazy.” They then recounted stories of him throwing a piranha at his wards and picking up pythons. I also heard tourists boarding a bus to a wrestling match joke about combining Peruvian and Bolivian “cultural” experiences; they envisioned holding a rave at Machu Picchu that featured midget wrestling and strobe lights. 

Not surprisingly, by far the most popular tourist attraction in La Paz was riding a bike down “death road” [which I have written on briefly, before]. Officially known as Yungas [Jungle] Road, this 38-mile road leads from La Paz to the city of Coroico. It was built as a single lane width gravel road in the nineteen-thirties, and includes some overhangs of 1800 feet with no guardrails. It is estimated that between two hundred and three hundred vehicles have plummeted off the road, leading the Inter American Development Bank to bestow on it the title of World’s Most Dangerous Road. Particularly hazardous portions of the road were closed in 2006, leaving it open to biking tours. Despite the fact that about 20 cyclists have died on the road since 1998, it remains popular because of the amazing scenery it provides, and the simple sentiment that “you can’t find this anywhere else.” 

There was a seeming refusal on the travelers’ parts to believe that the death road was truly dangerous, despite the fact that several people per month were sent to the hospital after minor falls, and one woman even died while biking during my time in La Paz. Cater argues that “the prime motivation for the practice of adventure is thrill and excitement.” Beck further suggests that even though adventure experiences are understood within a discourse of risk, tourists that engage in them have no desire to actually be harmed. Instead, it is the unpredictability of the experience that attracts them. As one German woman proclaimed on facebook, “Today I survived the World’s Most Dangerous Road. Just like 50 other people every day.” Much like exotic animals, crazy tour guides, and death-defying bike rides, “cholitas” wrestling fulfills the need for an epic and hazardous journey into the unknown exotic continent of South America and legendary stories to tell other backpackers and friends at home, upon return.

Cholita wrestling is quite obviously a scripted spectacle and further, clearly resembles the exhibition wrestling of the United States most travelers have seen numerous times on television. No matter what travelers expect on the bus ride, once the show starts they discover “its far too WWF” to be unknown. So while tourists are often motivated by a desire for unknown experiences, something more nuanced motivates travelers to see the Cholitas Luchadoras events. The Andean Secrets flyer in fact clearly depicts an audience made up of gringos and gringas, with piercings, brightly colored hair and sunglasses. 

In this case, “the unknown” creates a focus primarily on difference as something to be accumulated. Whether situated in natural landscape formations or in the local people, difference is there to be collected in the form of stories and pictures, primarily shared with friends at home through facebook posts and compared with other travelers when flipping through previous pictures on their digital cameras in the hostel bar. 

I concur with Adler’s assertion that travel is a “performed art” which includes the anticipation and daydreaming that precede the journey as well as reflection during and after the journey. Molz points out that these performances include the consumption of symbolic items that allow travelers to perform and recognize each other as legitimate. Indeed, while tourism may expose travelers to “traditional” cultural practices, their consumption behaviors are motivated by the desire to possess a symbol of those cultural practices. And while an ugly llama sweater may be requisite attire in the Ekko bar, consumption also includes the accumulation of non-commodified symbols, such as photographs or the identification bracelets from hostels that many travelers collect on their wrists. The photographs, including those of the Cholitas Luchadoras, function as a friendly competition of evidencing the strange, unusual, exotic, and “risky” things travelers have seen on their trips. 

Adler, Judith
1989 Travel as Performed Art. American Journal of Sociology, 94:1366-1391.

Beck, Ulrich
1992  Risk Society: Towards a New Modernity. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Cater, Carl I.
2006  Playing with risk? participant perceptions of risk and management implications in adventure tourism. Tourism Management 27(2):317-325.

Molz, Jennie Germann
2006  Cosmopolitan Bodies: Fit to Travel and Traveling to Fit. Body Society 12:1-21.

14 May 2011

The first time I took a minibus to Villa Victoria, a working-class neighborhood of La Paz, Bolivia, I left my camera at home. Though I was attending something of a spectacle there, I had been warned by several people not to take anything of value. A little nervous about going to a place more commonly known as “Villa Balazos” [Gunshot Neighborhood], I begged R to come along with me. We were headed for the Coliseo, but neither of us knew exactly where it was to be found. After consulting with almost every other bus rider, we hopped off at a corner and walked up the hill two blocks. Still not really knowing where to go, we stopped in a tienda and R asked the way again. We made a right turn, and then followed the sound of “Eye of the Tiger” down the street, where we found a long line of Bolivians waiting in the cold outside a gate. It was early winter, and at almost 4000 meters above sea level very little was worth waiting outside in the cold.

I was still trying to get over a bit of a head cold (the kind that never really seems to go away in the Andes), so I was relieved when we were eventually let into the Coliseo, a large barren sports arena. However, as one quickly learns in highland Bolivia, going inside never really does much to warm you up. There’s no indoor heating, and in such a large, concrete space, there is little difference in temperature. At least inside, the walls block the wind. The arena—about the side of a high school basketball court in the US—had massive concrete bleachers on one side. We entered from this direction and went down two levels to sit down. Now the cold was permeating my body both from the air and up from the concrete bleachers through my but.

In the center of the floor was a six-sided amateur-looking wrestling ring. Used to a simple four-sided ring I wondered if there was an advantage to having two extra sides, or if there was some more practical reason LIDER (Luchadores Independientes de Enorme Riesgo) had decided on six. Perhaps that just happened to be the ring they had a chance to buy. In the midst of my contemplation, Carlos approached us and we shook hands. He and R discussed a bloggers’ conference they had both attended recently. Having been convinced for several months that Carlos was angry with me, I was tentative about what to say. Of course, I am often annoyed by him, but have tried to maintain some semblance of a friendship for research purposes. Carlos and I exchanged quick updates, since we hadn’t seen each other in two years, and then he was on his way, back down to the floor to presumably do something important backstage.

The show, billed as a “family event,” was set to start at 7pm, but at 8:15 we were still patiently waiting in the stands. Around 8:30, Ali Farak, a bearded Bolivian man with a slight frame dressed in a white track suit emerged from behind the curtain leading to backstage. He jumped into the ring as the official referee of the event, and the evening’s matches began.

The first fight was between two men; one in a shiny gold spandex outfit with red embellishments, and the other in a Native North American appearing costume. R referred to him as “el Apache” several times, but he also seemed to often use “Apache” often when asking about Native North Americans in general.

After Apache achieved a decisive win, and another 15 minute break in the action, two more characters emerged from behind the curtain. Hombre Lobo [Wolfman] and the Momia [Mummy] came out to do their usual head-butting style of wrestling. The highlight of this was their frequent forays into the bleachers where kids would jump up and run away with high pitched screams echoing. What impressed me most was the parents. Working class Aymara men in Starter jackets that had originally been owned by US high school students in the early 1990s, and women wearing cotton polleras and thick sweaters, would grab the child’s hand and run away from Hombre Lobo along with them.

The other match that seemed directly created for the children in the audience was between Batman and Bob Esponga [Sponge Bob Square Pants]. Batman, in this pair, played the rudo, cheating several times, and pushing kids away who tried to get his autograph. Bob Esponga, dressed in a giant yellow spongy square that looked like an expensive Halloween costume, waved at the kids and gave a few hugs on his way to the ring. Batman eventually won the match, thanks to his unjust moves, but the kids’ hearts were won by Bob instead.

This highlight of the evening for me, however, was a match between luchadoras. Benita and Carmen Rojas entered the ring and hugged, obviously showing signs of friendship. However, the Farak started pulling their braids so that it seemed as if the other luchadora had done it. They eventually started wrestling. The matched turned into a 6 person brawl with 3 luchadoras on one side and Juanita with some other men on the other side. As Carlos reported in his blog,

Carmen Rojas enfrento a Benita, no hubo ganador pues en la contienda se involucraron el Hijo de Alí Farak, Sub Zero, y después de las exageradas trifulcas ingreso Juanita al Ring de 6 postes con el objetivo de colocar orden pero las cosas cambiaron pues al final se hizo un desafio de “tres contra tres” entre varones y mujeres que será develado el sábado 21 de mayo en el Coliseo de Villa Victoria.

Carmen Rojas faced Benita, but there was no winner in the contest because it involved the son of Ali Farak, Sub Zero, and after exaggerated scuffles Juanita entered the 6 posted ring with the aim of restoring order. But things changed and in the end it became a challenge of "three against three" between men and women to be unveiled on Saturday May 21 at the Coliseo de Villa Victoria.

It eventually ended with Juanita saying how much better she was than the others, and she’d show them next week. One of the other luchadoras eventually took the microphone and appealed to the audience: “Somos con el publico! Somos mujeres de polleras y somos con ustedes!” [We are with the audience! We are women of the pollera and we are with you!]