More Bolis

Since last update, I have—believe it or not—met more Bolis, all thanks to the gravy train of goodwill left behind by Yuill Hebert when he was in Bolivia (he’s got an excellent essay in the book I’m still editing).

In El Alto lives Fabiola, who has a tiny, adorable baby, a friendly husband, and a job in a medical clinic. I went there to meet her and it was packed with people of all ages, including many adorable babies. The road to the centre from the Plaza 16 de Julio appeared to be a mean-spirited joke. Structurally, it was a boulevard, with a couple lanes on each side of a wide median, and sidewalks on each side too. There weren’t many people or cars about. The median’s surface was a sort of combo of packed dirt overtop something one level beneath proper paving. Right down the middle, at irregular intervals of ten to fifteen meters, small groups of indigenous people were clustered under a tarpaulin around a couple bags of potatoes or boxes of fruit. Running through the sidewalk were veins of stones you did your best to avoid walking on.

In the medical centre, one poster showed an indigenous woman in bowler hat and shawl holding her hand over her mouth and read, “If you cough for more than two weeks…you could have tuberculosis.” Grim. Another read, “Having a son when you’re an adolescent not only deprives of your freedom. It also deprives you of your dreams.”

Rocio had told me that when mothers here have tons of kids, it’s said that it’s a zampoña family. (Look at the picture (and visualize upside down); think of the kids in descending order of height; Margolis, this one's for you.)



Fabiola took me out to lunch for chicken, fries and plantain and we talked about her family and living in El Alto. It’s cold, but at even higher altitude than La Paz, the sun burns.

When I went back to the centre to meet her on Saturday for a night on the town, the joke was on me. Not only was I fabulously late, but the same dusty, abandoned boulevard couldn’t have been more lively. Now the median was almost overstuffed with vendors, sidewalk street food vendors crowded pedestrians onto the street where they dodged healthy traffic, and the chipper music form the plaza filtered the length of the two blocks down to the medical centre. It was a Saturday night and the people were out in force. Looking at my notebook, where I’d jotted down about El Alto, “vast, wind-swept, empty, no-frills” I felt like an idiot. Well, at least, an idiot redeemed.

After stopping in at a wedding and eating dinner (Fabiola’s husband is training to do layout in periodicals, which is hot), we went down to La Paz and ended up in a club-cum-bar that looked about like a rec hall filled with tables, plus colourful lights and a disco ball. Also, a man with a mic circulated, sometimes interviewing dancers, sometimes singing along. I was there with Fabiola, her husband Marcelo, her brother Franz, Franz’s best friend Rafael, and Rafael’s wife, whose name I’ve obviously forgotten, which is obviously very shameful.

We drank beer and danced. When dancing music came on, people would line up in two long rows and dance with the person en face. Luckily, Fabiola took me by the arm and implored a bunch of girls to dance with me (I’m sure my charm was enhanced by blushing and sweating), until one poor woman agreed. I think a three-legged dog would have done better than I did. But she graciously giggled and showed me the steps. Actually, she was clearly showing me things much more complicated than anyone else was doing. When the music changed and people sat down, she said she’d be right back and I never saw her again.

Meantime, I got to talking with Rafael. It turns out he’s a salesman who loves classic rock (more The Police than Zeppelin…) and used to be a DJ. Also, like the general crowd, he seemed to really like the outrageously sentimental, epic Latin pop that was playing for way too long. I tried to explain that in Canada, these sorts of songs are usually reserved for the end of the night, but this only won me curious, slightly angry looks. Next we discussed me being the first atheist he’d ever met, and his wife told me she also used to feel that way until, logically, she found Jesus Christ. But they were very respectful. I said I found adequate mystery and cause for faith in nature and art, but I’m not sure they were convinced. Then, just as a I was thinking Rafael was well-meaning but a bit of a philistine, he gave me a long, nuanced appraisal of Evo’s strengths and flaws, repeating something I’ve heard a lot recently to the effect that the president has arrived in office a bit unprepared, but everyone has to learn new things in life. And besides, the old system was so corrupt, MAS’s victory represented genuine and incredibly positive change.

I’m not quite sure what the transition was (something about the four elements) but we next moved on to Greek philosophy. Rafael’s favourite thinker is Heraclitus, and his favourite quote that you can’t step in the same river twice. This was a real bonding moment, since I feel the exact same way about Heraclitus and the river. But alas, the conversation couldn’t go on forever.

(You guessed it: Heraclitus)

Franz had come up to me and said, “Daniel, let’s dance. I’ve found two women.” This time was more successful, and I got to dance and talk with Patricia, a nurse from Oruro (in the south). I didn’t tell her she had the same name as my mum, because that was just too creepy, but I did find out she was a big Robbie Williams fan, which was frankly also a bit much. Yet again, I had to keep my feelings about sentimental pop mostly to myself. (I have to admit, I did have a Robbie Williams CD once, but it was stolen on 9-11…) Otherwise she was very friendly and seemed like she’d be a very good nurse.

I also met in El Alto, in between the two Fabiola excursions, the cynical, very well-informed Khantuta. I believe, based on something I stumbled on in ‘Open Veins’, but haven’t yet confirmed, that she’s named after the imperial Inca flower. Granted, this additional insight doesn’t shed any light on her personality or ideas. (It seems like Yuill has a disproportionate number of attractive female friends—some I haven’t yet met. Fabiola agreed with me that a good book could be called ‘Las amigas de Yuill’.)

Khantuta took me on a revealing tour of El Alto, from Ciudad Satelite (sp?), the middle-class enclave of El Alto where she grew up, into much more destitute parts of the city. Apparently, the real money is around Plaza 16 de Julio, where the indigenous bourgeoisie lives in outward modesty (except for some really big parties). Some of the streets of El Alto were a bit like country roads, long strips of cobble-stone with walls on either side broken up by the occasional front-door. The commercial downtown, in contrast, was completely frenzied and chaotic. I’ve read descriptions of El Alto as a shanty-city but I think the term gives you a pretty poor idea of what El Alto is like. Taking the train from Paris to the airport you see buildings in far worse shape than much of El Alto. Some of El Alto’s houses are built on wildly dangerous slopes and will collapse after a fixed number of storms, or when their structural flaws cause them to simply give out. (The inhabitants of houses build many of these homes, not anyone you would liken to a building professional.) Yet many, many parts of El Alto, if extremely poor, are not cardboard boxes covered in corrugated metal, but solid-ish brick structures. You couldn’t bulldoze El Alto out of existence. Though El Alto has certainly bulldozed its share of political leaders. (Lazy, groaner transition.)

Alongside the unions, Khantuta told me the most powerful group in El Alto was FEJUVE, a sort of city-wide neighbourhood collective that elected members from every small community into a leadership that has had an incredible ability to mobilize El Alto citizens. When a Suez subsidiary was charging over USD$100 for the installation of running water in a house, the city went up in arms. Khantuta also told me that no one gets out of the FEJUVE leadership without being corrupted. And the current water minister, as I wrote above, the former head of FEJUVE, seems to be no exception. I haven’t found anyone in Bolivia yet who thinks he’s doing a good job.

I think I’d better stop here, before you start using this blog as a cure for insomnia . I’m now in Cochabamba, where I’ve so far witnessed Semana Santa and eaten BBQ’ed beef heart.

BBC interview, medica

A solid BBC interview with Morales written up by the news guy, Paul Mason, on his blog.

Today a Cuban medico-administrator took me on a tour of a couple very rural medical centres where Cuban doctors are providing free care in communities that have never seen doctors. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to interview any patients. (It turns out they don't spend a lot of time in the centres, as they aren't used to having doctors around; the doctors are generally going to them...) So I still need to do some more on-the-ground research before hopefully talking with the ambassador, health minister, etc. I'm banking on finding more around Cocha--and some patients.

90% of the doctors are working in medical centres or medical posts, which are extremely small (a few rooms, a nurse, maybe some nursing students) and provide only primary care; this is also where they sleep. The medecine they bring is paid for by Cuba, which also pays them a food stipend. And of course, these doctors coordinate with the broader Mision Milagros (Miracle Mission) program, where Cuban doctors surgically remove cataracts, so that if someone with this problem is discovered in the middle of nowhere, s/he gets access to the free eye treatment in El Alto.

Outside a few public programs (universal care for pregnant mothers and young children), you have to pay to see the doctor in Bolivia. Unless, since early February, the doctor is Cuban. I'm told people really like that.

One tragic downside is that these poor Cubans are suffering in the cold. Though they put on a brave face.

Strikes and gutters

• Bankers (needlessly?) insist on being able to plunder Latin America according to their rules
• Puts a dent in my plan to bus through Peru to Ecuador
• School of the Americas wonders what to do with emptying lockers

Bits and pieces

Meeting a peer

I went into the store to buy a guidebook to Bolivia, and ended up with a human being who was much more interesting (though let's be honest, the book will be the more useful as soon as I leave La Paz). As is my usual m.o., I take any opportunity I have to distinguish myself from an American tourist. So when I was paying for the book, I quickly established my credentials as a Canadian and a journalist. (I tried to explain freelance, but ended up conceding that I had neither a real job nor a real employer.) One of the saleswomen requested an interview, so I asked her if she thought Bolivia's closer ties with Cuba and Venezuela were dangerous. She said they were dangerous for the American embassy. A friendship was born.

Roci­o is 23, Aymara, and is studying tourism. She's also, without knowing it, a daughter of the Enlightenment. She says she's been politically conscious since she developed the faculty of reason, says she has no religion because religions only cause wars, has a Japanese boyfriend, considers the Leninist and Maoist groups at her university irrational, and justifies being half an hour late for a rendez-vous by claiming that in Bolivia, it's only logical that 9:00 in fact mean 9:30. (I was persuaded, but wished I'd been apprised of this in advance.)

Thanks to a bizarre rental agreement I've never heard of outside Bolivia--I forget the name--she pays her landlady USD$1200, gets to live in the apartmentt for a year, and then moves out and gets the money back. Apparently this is a way for people who need to raise capital quickly to do so... And though it seems strange, I guess a tenant is better than a loan shark.

Roci­o brought me to the biggest market ever, located in El Alto, a satellitete of La Paz spread across mountains to the north of the capital. You can buy everything there, from filthy, decapitated barbies to llama fetuses. (Actually, every description of Bolivian markets I've ever found in English lists llama fetuses, so this is more of a shout-out than anything else; really though, you can buy everything. As another woman told me, it defies the imaginationin. So I challenge you, imagine ten things you couldn't buy at this market, though they can't be too enormous, obviously.)

El Alto is also the scene of fabulous discontent, and has destroyed a number of presidents recently over water privatisationon and natural gas exports. The most recent head of La Paz's confederation of neighbourhoods, a key actor in the super-powerful social movement scene, is now Bolivia's Minister of Water. His replacement is already denouncing him for selling out. Tough crowd. (El Alto only became an official municipality 20 years ago, and has since grown to being bigger than La Paz, each around 850 000, though I've read higher numbers too, on the strength of rural Aymara migrants and miners unemployed by government privatizations and mine closures in the 1980s.)

Though she's a university student who, as she puts it, depends on the gringo dollar and gets nothing from the government, Rocio's a committed Morales supporter. She has little money, lots of class consciousness, and is a big fan of Eduardo Galeano. She pointed out that if you let yourself get depressed by all the horrible things you see in Bolivia, you would die. Also, she knows where to get good street food.

As I meet more people here, I expect to write shorter portraits. (Even so, I feel like I'm already giving away key parts of as-yet unwritten freelance masterpiecesces.)


Strange and unfortunate images

In my hotel room is a charming poster with an illustration of colonial looking buildings with a nice church, in a village setting. The buildings aren't actually colonial, though, they're original. It's a tourist poster for Andalusialucia, in the south of Spain.

In a restaurant where I recently sampled delicious-esque food very cheap, with only other Bolis in sight, there was a poster of the New York City skyline. Yes, you already know where I'm going with this. The only words on the poster were, 'Twin Towers, World Trade Centre, New York City'. I'm sure it wasn't meant as a provocation.

Of course, on the trufi from El Alto back down to La Paz, there was a big sticker on one of the windows that was a stylized image of Bin Laden's face. Same zeitgeist, different message.

Bourgeois lefty intellectual wet dream

This section, given the title, is bound to be disappointing, and I reserve the right to use the title again, should more appropriate circumstances warrant it.

Anyway, the other day I walked into 'Libreria Tercer Milenio', expecting to find the same new wave books as in most La Paz bookstores. (In a book store in Santa Cruz, there was a prominently displayedated copy of 'The Protocols of the Elders of Zion', a less prominent but impressive stack of 'The Diary of Ann Frank' and about forty books about devilish church conspiracies. Also, lots of self-help guides and sex manual.)

I told the bookseller I was looking for a simple book about the recent history of Bolivian politics. He slapped a couple of books on the counter, a couple more, and then a couple more. I didn't know what to do. Two of them were histories of five hundred years of indigenous struggle and resistance. The man smiled shyly as I rifled through the books, trying to chose. Should I get 'Indigenous Geopolitics' or 'The Uprising of El Alto'? (Both featured similar photos on the cover.) In the end, I went with IG, which was perhaps a mistake as the book has more jargon than a fourth-year anthro course pack, and cites Foucault before the end of the first chapter. Well, it was in support of a good cause. I also picked up another academic book, and then, the biggest mistake, an illustrated Peruvian dictionary for kids, since hubris forbade me owning a Spanish-English dictionary anymore. (It's the worst dictionary ever. All definitions are circles of 2-3 words.)

When I came back a few days later to pick up a more general survey of the protest movements, and pointed to the book I wanted through the glass, he pulled it out, dropped it on the counter, gave me the same timid, goofy smile, and said, "Just that one?"

"Yes," I said, nodding sadly. He looked at me again. "Just the one?" "Yes, yes."

Two minutes later there was the exact same piles of books as the last time on the counter. I rifled through them again, but this time I determinedly insisted on just getting one. So he cleared off everything except the survey I'd already chosen and a modest, 250-page essay called "Rethinking Bolivia" that was pricier than the dictionary. I asked him if it was good, and he smiled guiltily and said yes. I got them both.

When I asked him if he read a lot, he just smiled sheepishly, so I added, "when you have a moment of spare time?" and he said yes.

I think it's the first time I've ever been in a banal revolutionary bookshop. By this I mean it wasn't run by a student co-operative, or filled with photocopied anarchist pamphlets, or otherwise self-consciously alternative. It didn't even occur to the guy to give me a right-wing book or boast that the ones he gave me were left. Pretty great.

Promises, promises

Soon, as I become informed, I will start blogging more specifically about the political situation here, and will add some Boli news and blog links, for the two of you who might be interested.

(Oh, and this is too rich. 'Blogging' and 'blog' aren't in the Blogger spellcheck.)