“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.
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 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.
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.
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