“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.

“Amiga, do you want Machu Picchu?”
“Would you like a tour?”
“Seniorita, what are you looking for?”

“El baño.”

I walked out of customs in Cusco and into a virtual shopping mall of tour agencies. Each of them with large color posters advertising Inca sites or “cultural” offerings. I didn’t pause long enough to inspect them, and only after getting in a taxi did it occur to me I should have taken a photo (the one below is from another travel blog). But it was striking, especially, because it provided such a contrast with what I had seen at the La Paz/El Alto airport just an hour earlier (and as a side note, it was one of those amazing flights that left at 9:15 am and arrived at 9:05 am).

In trying to edit an article (which I’m beginning to think I can’t ethically write anyway), I’ve tried to compare tourism in Bolivia and Perú. However, I was last in Perú in 2006, and then only in Lima. But after having been in Cusco a mere 10 hours, I am amazed by the way tourism has inundated this city. I have no doubt this is not a recent phenomenon, though I haven’t looked into the history. I’m sure Annelou Yepij would know. In any event, the phenomenon is understandable. Cusco is situated with excellent proximity to several amazing Incan and pre-Incan sites. The city itself is a relic of an Incan history (and now I’m unfortunately starting to sound like National Geographic). La Paz, in contrast, boasts "death road” and “cholita wrestling.” Its close to Tiwanaku, but that doesn’t have quite the draw of the Picchu. 

And possibly, this is why I feel like I’m on vacation. Flying felt like a luxury this morning, especially since it wasn’t technically necessary. I bought the flight two weeks ago when the border between Perú and Bolivia was full of blockades on the Peruvian side. Essentially a Canadian mining company wants to start work on a site near Lake Titicaca and the local people are protesting because the Peruvian government won’t put a stop to it. For the last 2 months, periodically, the people have been blockading the border, even threatening to throw dynamite on any boat that tries to cross the lake into Puno. And so, having people to meet in Cusco, and a somewhat tight timeframe, I didn’t want to take any chances, and coughed up the $160 (plus $25 airport tax) and bought a flight. Hopefully, when I try to get back to La Paz next week the border will be open to busses and I won’t have to buy a return ticket. 

But this is not anything terribly new for the Andes. Protest seems to pervade everyday life. As Antonio once said “This is La Paz. There is always protest.” It’s something the more elite classes declare matter-of-factly, and the working class people who more often participate in protest proclaim with pride. Even the official slogan of the 200 year anniversary of the revolution (not liberation) claimed “Somos un fuego que no se apaga.”

And thus, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I arrived at the La Paz airport this morning and found it covered in protest posters. Many contained slogans of the huelga. Others provided reasoning: comparisons of salaries of government workers in different sectors, and demonstrations of the exploitation of miners, health workers, and teachers. There was even a mannequin with a characture face that I think is Goni, but if anyone has another thought, please let me know.  

And that for me, in many ways demonstrates a difference between the two countries. I in no way want to claim that Bolivians take protest more seriously than Peruvians. Obviously, protest all over the Andes is very committed and aggressive. But I think on a governmental level, while Perú encourages tourism and gains a great amount of income from its “national treasures,” the GOB has imposed visa requirements—I believe in protest of US and European visa requirements for Bolivian citizens—that tend to limit tourism rather than encourage it. And to a large extent, I very much agree with Evo’s de-neoliberalization strategies, as well as understanding the need for visa equity. And I am certainly not one to argue that tourism is necessarily a good thing that should be encouraged.

Or maybe it’s really just that I like keeping Bolivia a little off the beaten (Gringo Trail) path.

Last night I met a man from Canada who has been living in Honduras for the last four years. More specifically he has been living on Utila, but I did not discover this until later in the conversation. Given the scarcity of North Americans in these parts (even among the backpacking crowds), I thought it a nice idea to make small talk. I asked what he thought would happen if Zelaya returns to Honduras. He then launched into a clear explanation of how it was really the international media that made a big deal out of the presidential change, and from the inside it wasn’t really a coup. Zelaya was about to end his term and constitutionally couldn’t run again, so he passed an amendment to the constitution so that he could. The people wouldn’t stand for this so they protested, and ousted him. He concluded by saying, (and this is when I found out…) “but I live on Utila, and we don’t really care about anything on the mainland as long as they don’t take away our tax exempt status.”

Interesting rendition of events.

For a slightly different take, I recommend Adrienne Pine’s blog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today was a city-wide holiday. This on the brink of the national bicentenial (sort of-its 200 years since a declaration of independence. which failed, at first). I saw a bit of a parade, and a strange protest i couldn't make sense of. masked young people holding hands in 4 or 5 rows, walking slowly through a plaza.

my only accomplishment was getting a slightly better sense of the city, and i made myself a nice google map. i also set up a time to meet with a friend on friday for beers. oh, and i figured out the hot water in the shower. that is certainly an important accomplishment.

but the lonliness has set in. its always hard to figure out a new place by yourself. especially when people like leap have high expectations of what you'll come back with. and its nothing new. it happened in austria, on the rez (yes, even with bii jih bah around), in lima, in carbondale, even in dc. but the ability to predict it does little to prevent it.

i'm convinced that a partner would change things drastically. i'm certainly more adventurous with a partner. its easier to walk into a bar and strike up a conversation. its easier to explore new areas. sit in a coffee shop without looking conspicuous (well, of course a couple of gringas look a little conspicuous). try new food. go to museums.

and certainly all these things are possible alone. they're just harder. especially for someone shy like me. especially for someone who's not so confident in their spanish like me. in essence, i need a field wife. someone who's up for a little adventure, but are willing to go along with my whims as related to my "research." the husbands of those like furnea, wolf, and turner don't know how good they had it. maybe this is just all whining and without merit, but i think there's something to be said for collaborative research, especially in the beginning. though i am most certainly not advocating people be arbitrarily stuck together based on common interests, and grant makers certainly wouldn't want to pay double for plane tickets and lodging, i think it might open doors more quickly.

in essence i'm jealous of those people like the jag, hgill, & rumagin that have an in. maybe i should stick with small town karaoke. i've certainly got the background for that. but oh now....i have to go out on a limb to a place where i don't speak well, and try to make something of it. sigh. i hope this gets better (i mean, i know it will, but it didn't get THAT much better in peru)