I went to the Bolivia vs Argentina football match today. Billed as a one-sided affair, this was a chance for Bolivian football fans to watch some real world stars in action. It was certainly a one-sided affair.
Despite the double-normal international-ticket prices, the stadium was packed. The Bolivian bloke in front of me was wearing an “Autonomia” t’shirt calling for autonomy for the prefecture of Santa Cruz. It seemed a strange choice of clothing when supporting your national side.
Stranger was his mate, who was wearing an Argentina shirt and tall, felt hat. At Wembley, Neanderthal fans mean the teams have to be segregated, so it was good see understanding and support for an opposition side. It was peculiar to see that understanding and support shown by one man for both sides, as his allegiance to Bolivia developed as the game progressed.
Argentina coach Maradona stood still on the touchline showing more movement than his team. He had been a prominent supporter of Bolivia’s right to play in La Paz, where the altitude strongly favours the home side. He even played a game with Evo Morales for the benefit for the media to prove to Fifa that anyone can do it.
It would appear his team couldn’t. Leaden-footed and disinterested, the Argentinians succeeded in making the Bolivian team look very good indeed. They lost 6-1 in front of a joyous, incredulous crowd. I would have loved to hear the goalkeeper blame his hopelessness on the altitude, as he hardly exerted himself beyond repeatedly getting the ball out of the net. The only Argentinian goal was as a result of a bobble in the pitch rather than skill.
It was a real privilege to see a game that will go down in Bolivian football history. Afterwards, there was no lap of honour, dancing in the street or pubs to throng; just an excited crowd making its way home.
Meanwhile in London: riots.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Saturday, 28 March 2009
Dia del Mar: Cloaking failure in glory
Monday (23rd March) was the Dia del Mar (Day of the Sea) or the Dia del Bar as my Spanish teacher called it. Now an annual military procession drawing on all the pomp and circumstance that Bolivia can muster, it commemorates the start of the War of the Pacific in 1879.
A seemingly endless army of uniformed teens in unseemly short skirts twirled batons. Troops wore the glorious uniforms from the day, complete with pink or baby-blue motifs. Magnificent horses were decked out in sparkly wrestling-style masks to match their regiments.
Huge crowds lined the streets around the Plaza Avaroa to congratulate the troops and enjoy the bouncy tunes of the military brass bands. They were regaled over the tannoy by triumphalist announcements of the honour and bravery of the fighting men.
Except that these men’s military forefathers had been ignominiously defeated and the sea had been lost. The consequences for Bolivia as a trading nation were catastrophic, leaving it simultaneously centrally located and yet isolated.
It is difficult to see the reasoning behind this camp and embarrassing event, except to remind Bolivians that they once had access to a coastline. The blame is laid at the door of the Chileans for having the temerity to beat Bolivia and the British for backing them (foreign support is still more likely to go to Chile).
Such grandiose recognition of failure will not win Bolivians anything back but only engender a feeling they were somehow cheated. The largely impotent navy is retained, working Lake Titicaca’s border with Peru and longing for choppier waters.
The Chileans have been leading them up the garden path ever since and continue to do so with fanciful negotiations about possible routes to the sea.
It may be that Bolivia’s more militarized neighbour is intimidated by the thought of being invaded by an army of baton-waving teenagers but I doubt it.
Perhaps the British army should hold similar events to celebrate its loss of India, the US and northern France.
A seemingly endless army of uniformed teens in unseemly short skirts twirled batons. Troops wore the glorious uniforms from the day, complete with pink or baby-blue motifs. Magnificent horses were decked out in sparkly wrestling-style masks to match their regiments.
Huge crowds lined the streets around the Plaza Avaroa to congratulate the troops and enjoy the bouncy tunes of the military brass bands. They were regaled over the tannoy by triumphalist announcements of the honour and bravery of the fighting men.
Except that these men’s military forefathers had been ignominiously defeated and the sea had been lost. The consequences for Bolivia as a trading nation were catastrophic, leaving it simultaneously centrally located and yet isolated.
It is difficult to see the reasoning behind this camp and embarrassing event, except to remind Bolivians that they once had access to a coastline. The blame is laid at the door of the Chileans for having the temerity to beat Bolivia and the British for backing them (foreign support is still more likely to go to Chile).
Such grandiose recognition of failure will not win Bolivians anything back but only engender a feeling they were somehow cheated. The largely impotent navy is retained, working Lake Titicaca’s border with Peru and longing for choppier waters.
The Chileans have been leading them up the garden path ever since and continue to do so with fanciful negotiations about possible routes to the sea.
It may be that Bolivia’s more militarized neighbour is intimidated by the thought of being invaded by an army of baton-waving teenagers but I doubt it.
Perhaps the British army should hold similar events to celebrate its loss of India, the US and northern France.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
16,000 feet high and rising
Despite being at an oxygen-deficient altitude up the Andes, we don’t really get snow and even less skiing. The world’s highest ski run on Chacaltaya’s glacier has been successfully stuffed by global warming leaving a defunct Alpine-themed lodge with great 1980s photos of Bolivian skiers on the walls.
Club Andino Boliviano can still sort out winter sports here but only just. We packed into a minibus (there’s ALWAYS room for one more) and headed up into El Alto, where we stopped. Those with faith in coca’s ability to halt altitude sickness stocked up at a little shop and we waited. And waited. After a while it became apparent they had forgotten some of the kit.
The boots eventually arrived and we were off again, this time into the mountains. Our minibus headed where tanks would fear to tread: over rocks, and through streams and herds of llama, we crunched, splashed and occasionally got out and walked. It was a magnificent trip until the driver let slip that we were going the wrong way and turned round.
After some time, we arrived at our destination. Not the bottom of a virgin piste but an hour and half’s walk from one. As the guides set off into the distance, we panted behind lugging our gear.
By now we were more than 5,000 metres up and the pace was being set by a petite, coca-less, French girl. She had just arrived in the country and was tactfully not smoking so as not to shame we Paceñas any further.
At the end of the walk, we were eager to get stuck in but came unstuck when it was clear that the equipment was older and in worse condition than many of our party.
When I finally skied again, for the first time in 12 years, it was all worth it. The snow was crisp and for those precious moments I was the highest skier in the world. Later, I snowboarded down and all the nonsense and incompetence was forgotten. A gentle slope, there was no danger, which was just as well because when even if I did have insurance to pay for it, helicopters can’t fly at this altitude. It would have a very painful journey back to the minibus and then the bouncy track to La Paz’s dubious hospitals.
A day of firsts: skiing and boarding in the same day, acquiring reverse sunburn panda marks, and then an evening of karaoke. Also a day of very mixed successes. Karaoke!
Club Andino Boliviano can still sort out winter sports here but only just. We packed into a minibus (there’s ALWAYS room for one more) and headed up into El Alto, where we stopped. Those with faith in coca’s ability to halt altitude sickness stocked up at a little shop and we waited. And waited. After a while it became apparent they had forgotten some of the kit.
The boots eventually arrived and we were off again, this time into the mountains. Our minibus headed where tanks would fear to tread: over rocks, and through streams and herds of llama, we crunched, splashed and occasionally got out and walked. It was a magnificent trip until the driver let slip that we were going the wrong way and turned round.
After some time, we arrived at our destination. Not the bottom of a virgin piste but an hour and half’s walk from one. As the guides set off into the distance, we panted behind lugging our gear.
By now we were more than 5,000 metres up and the pace was being set by a petite, coca-less, French girl. She had just arrived in the country and was tactfully not smoking so as not to shame we Paceñas any further.
At the end of the walk, we were eager to get stuck in but came unstuck when it was clear that the equipment was older and in worse condition than many of our party.
When I finally skied again, for the first time in 12 years, it was all worth it. The snow was crisp and for those precious moments I was the highest skier in the world. Later, I snowboarded down and all the nonsense and incompetence was forgotten. A gentle slope, there was no danger, which was just as well because when even if I did have insurance to pay for it, helicopters can’t fly at this altitude. It would have a very painful journey back to the minibus and then the bouncy track to La Paz’s dubious hospitals.
A day of firsts: skiing and boarding in the same day, acquiring reverse sunburn panda marks, and then an evening of karaoke. Also a day of very mixed successes. Karaoke!
Monday, 2 March 2009
Carnival fever hits La Paz. All my friends leave.
Bolivia has just finished celebrating carnival. In so many, many ways, La Paz is not Rio. Rather than thousands of scantily clad beauties prancing about in the sun, we had been warned to expect drunken youth gangs armed with water balloons on every corner and looming out of every window. This was trailed as The Worst Time To Be In Bolivia.
In fact, it was quite fun, at least as a spectator. There were excited small children (and the odd pet) in fancy dress: fairies, spidermen, devils even a belly dancer. It seemed to be a great time for the Bolivian equivalent of the dull bloke from accounts: in the supermarkets, sensibly moustachioed men stocked on packets of crisps the size of pillows, foam and firecackers.
In the market, stalls offered everything needed for a good festival: dried flowers, confetti, bangers, streamers, face paint, wigs and Ceibo—the 96% proof drinking alcohol.
Once it had kicked off, the Prado—La Paz’s Oxford Street—was filled with happy schoolboys soaking schoolgirls with water pistols the size of bazookers. Bands bounced along, with dancers dressed as “pepino”, a little devilish chap, who shares his name with the word for cucumber (to my mind, the devil’s genitalia). Men wearing dresses ran about spraying foam and others played along clad in plastic macs.
As the water was thrown around, it looked like a lot of fun. From the safety of the five-star hotel Plaza’s bar overlooking the Prado, it looked great. Clearly, I didn’t want to be any nearer.
As well as the water and dancing, there was also the ch’alla. This is a blessing of homes, cars and offices. I watched a smart office worker spraying lager all over her car at lunchtime. Door-to-door shaman went between offices offering their services like salesmen flogging brushes or insurance. The blessing process is a boozy business and stretched well into the next week.
In fact, it was quite fun, at least as a spectator. There were excited small children (and the odd pet) in fancy dress: fairies, spidermen, devils even a belly dancer. It seemed to be a great time for the Bolivian equivalent of the dull bloke from accounts: in the supermarkets, sensibly moustachioed men stocked on packets of crisps the size of pillows, foam and firecackers.
In the market, stalls offered everything needed for a good festival: dried flowers, confetti, bangers, streamers, face paint, wigs and Ceibo—the 96% proof drinking alcohol.
Once it had kicked off, the Prado—La Paz’s Oxford Street—was filled with happy schoolboys soaking schoolgirls with water pistols the size of bazookers. Bands bounced along, with dancers dressed as “pepino”, a little devilish chap, who shares his name with the word for cucumber (to my mind, the devil’s genitalia). Men wearing dresses ran about spraying foam and others played along clad in plastic macs.
As the water was thrown around, it looked like a lot of fun. From the safety of the five-star hotel Plaza’s bar overlooking the Prado, it looked great. Clearly, I didn’t want to be any nearer.
As well as the water and dancing, there was also the ch’alla. This is a blessing of homes, cars and offices. I watched a smart office worker spraying lager all over her car at lunchtime. Door-to-door shaman went between offices offering their services like salesmen flogging brushes or insurance. The blessing process is a boozy business and stretched well into the next week.
Friday, 27 February 2009
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Hats and Hershey's kisses, briefcases and black men
The sun is so strong here and the air so thin that cancer is a serious concern. Wisely, the indigenous farmers all wear broad-brimmed hats as protection. The mass of sophisticated urban Bolivians would rather jab their eyes out than be associated with them. Instead, they wear baseball caps or use another means of protect themselves. Newspapers, hands, folders, semi-furled umbrellas, bags: it seems Paceñas (La Paz residents) will put anything over their heads to avoid anything so foolish as a hat. Today, I saw an otherwise elegant lady dashing her sophisticated aura into the dirt by carrying a lipstick-pink child’s briefcase on her head.
In the supermarket checkout next to the other mass-market chocolate is a brand called Beso de Negro. I don’t think a Black Man’s Kiss would be really considered acceptable in the UK. However, these are no dark-chocolate, local version of Hershey’s kisses. Instead, they are knobbly, phallic-shaped and filled with cream. Added to this, “beso de negro” is another name for what greasy-palmed tabloid journalists like to call an “unnatural sex act”. Have I let political correctness get the better of me or is this simply wrong?
In the supermarket checkout next to the other mass-market chocolate is a brand called Beso de Negro. I don’t think a Black Man’s Kiss would be really considered acceptable in the UK. However, these are no dark-chocolate, local version of Hershey’s kisses. Instead, they are knobbly, phallic-shaped and filled with cream. Added to this, “beso de negro” is another name for what greasy-palmed tabloid journalists like to call an “unnatural sex act”. Have I let political correctness get the better of me or is this simply wrong?
Monday, 9 February 2009
Exercise, altitude and a virus: not a great cocktail
About a ten days ago I developed a cold. Nothing too serious about that and after a few days, I thought I felt well enough to swim and have my first rugby training since I left school. It was hard work and my lungs burnt savagely. The next morning, I was coughing up blood. Clearly, all was not well.
On Saturday, a thirsty chap, I finished the 20 litres of water, which had been delivered on Monday. For one bloke on his own, without tea and coffee, I was sloshing back 3.5 litres a day. And I was still parched.
Still, I had my second rugby training. My lungs seemed stronger and I hung on until cramp claimed me a few minutes from the end of the session. I took this as a painful moral victory.
On Sunday, I played tennis (Evo was playing football on the pitch below us, the bands were rather distracting) and then I really started to feel dreadful. After a very early night, I passed out, woke up, passed out again, until after 3pm the next afternoon. More than seventeen hours after crashing, I dragged myself out of bed. For an insomnia sufferer, this is a lot of sleep. I’ve started taking it a little easier.
On Saturday, a thirsty chap, I finished the 20 litres of water, which had been delivered on Monday. For one bloke on his own, without tea and coffee, I was sloshing back 3.5 litres a day. And I was still parched.
Still, I had my second rugby training. My lungs seemed stronger and I hung on until cramp claimed me a few minutes from the end of the session. I took this as a painful moral victory.
On Sunday, I played tennis (Evo was playing football on the pitch below us, the bands were rather distracting) and then I really started to feel dreadful. After a very early night, I passed out, woke up, passed out again, until after 3pm the next afternoon. More than seventeen hours after crashing, I dragged myself out of bed. For an insomnia sufferer, this is a lot of sleep. I’ve started taking it a little easier.
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