25.04.08: 24 bizarre Bolivian hours

It may appear a peculiar notion for some Swedes to remake The Karate Kid, transferring the action to table football and Bolivia, and, indeed, it didn’t make any more sense as one of the actors. However, I found myself as the arch villain Senor Costas (the real name of a Santa Cruz politician), and my accent swinging wildly between received pronunciation, war-time German and dojo-master Japanese. Great fun to do but I fear it would be utterly excruciating to see again.

Leaving the Swedes, I went on to the ambassador’s residence. Rather than a jolly, this was a coming together of all the Brits in the city in advance of next week’s referendum. In preparation for evacuation being required, we had been split into geographical groups, each co-ordinated by a character from Dad’s Army. The pill was sweetened by the usual trays of alcoholic and foodie delights, and the mood was light, but there is real danger here. My Spanish teacher thinks that if the vote goes Evo Morales’ way, he will be assassinated. As a thrusting, ambitious journalist, I will be safely ensconced in Jamaica as the events are played out (this will turn out to be either very wise or very foolish).

And so on again, this time to “the most colonial road in La Paz” for a pena—a night’s traditional entertainment. We started with an Andean band, complete with five-foot long panpipes; next were dancers who performed racy and masked routines from the Gran Poder carnival, and a very odd simulated fight; the last act was a fabulous Bolivian/Las Vegas style act, a virtuoso on the charango (12-string ukulele) who effortlessly sang songs, told jokes and chatted with the audience.

In the morning I received a call from the Daily Telegraph correspondent in Los Angeles. The “Road of Death” had claimed more victims: eight Bolivians had died when their vehicle plunged off the side, after it had ploughed into three British cyclists, killing one. She wanted me to speak to the consul and, crucially, interview the survivors. The story was on the radio as I took a cab to the hospital, the list of the dead slowly read out (one was a six-day-old baby). At the door of the cyclists’ room I met Tom Austin’s (the dead man’s) girlfriend, she was understandably distraught but she and other two agreed to talk. While, the two survivors were remarkably composed, no one was ready to discuss their dead friend. It was difficult not to feel like a crass intruder.