First of all, It's very important that you understand the floor system here

To understand the joke, I mean. So when you walk into a building in Latin America (like in many parts of the world), you're not on the first floor. You're on the ground floor. To get to the first floor, you have to go up some stairs. I can't remember what the ground floor is called, but it's two words that are abbreviated "PB." So in the elevator, you push the "PB" button to get to the ground floor. And when I go down, I count down the floors until the elevator displays "PB," at which point I throw up my hands and yell "peanut butter!" (which they don't even have here, and I miss. I did see that nasty PB/jam-together-in-a-jar stuff at the supermercado, but that's about it). Or, if there's someone else in the elevator with me, I mentally throw up my hands and shout inside my head. Yes, I'm a huge dork. But I do seriously think that this whole alternative floor system has important implications for the tradition of not including a 13th floor in American hotels - I mean, which floor is really the 13th? OK, that holds about as much water as a sieve. Slag off.

I now have three interviews lined up, all of which came today: tomorrow, I interview the hydrocarbons expert at CEDLA, an economic think-tank here in La Paz. Friday, I interview the head of the political science graduate program at Universidad Mayor de San Andres, one of the most important universities in Bolivia. And on Monday, I interview an engineer from Yacimientos Petroli­feros Fiscales Bolivianos, the Bolivian state hydrocarbon company. The latter I'm not super excited about, because I think this guys knowledge will be too technical for my uses (he specializes in the liquid components of natural gas, butane and propane. That sounds exciting, right?). But I figure it will be good interview practice, and you never know - maybe he'll have cool stuff to say.

I got the interview with the poli sci guy just by going to the university and explaining who I was (or rather, having Martijn explain who I was. I just stand there. In a way I feel like a dunce, but in a way all pressure is off, and I think Martijn is worth every Boliviano I'm paying him). Once that was done, we were shown to the dean of the school for undergraduate political sciences, who gave us a name of theliaisonn between the executive and the legislative branches of congress, and said to use his name. And if the guy still wouldn't interview, come back to the office and the dean would call himself! The dean was a funny guy, very jovial and outgoing, with a bouncy pomp of curly black hair perched upon his head. We came in and he stood up to shake our hands, and asked como estas?(an informal greeting). He had an animated way of speaking, and, obviously, was really helpful. He called the head of the graduate department for us, and we went to his office, where he immediately suggested an interview this Friday. How cool is that? In America, I would expect the counterparts of the people I'm talking to here to try and find out what kind of angle I'm working before they would want to talk to me. This guy wasn't even too concerned about getting questions beforehand.

So I know I said there weren't lights in the entryway outside my apartment, but I was wrong: they're there, but you have to fish around for a button next to your door to activate them, and then they turn on for maybe 30 seconds. I just didn't realize that there were two doorbells - one for the bell, and one for the lights. It's funny though, because that's the sort of money-saving (for the building owner) inconvenience that we just wouldn't put up with in America. Just leave the lights on all the time, for chrissakes! But you see those things other places, too, like with milk: milk comes in plastic bags, no mater how much you want to buy - and I can't think of why this might be other than that plastic bags are cheaper than jugs. People snip the corner and put the bag into a plastic pitcher; or, if it's a small bag, they just snip the corner and drink from the bag.

Hey, I had this great idea the other day: Weird Al Yankovich should do a spoof on "Where have all the flowers gone?" as "Where have all the toilet seats gone?" because there are seriously hardly any toilet seats in Bolivia or Peru (and sitting on porcelain is not so fun). So somebody who knows him (is he still making music/living?) should tell him my idea so he can buy it from me. That's a sufficiently stupid idea for Weird Al, right? And then we can pay Halliburton $5,000 a seat to supply them down here as part of a USAID program, in return for Bolivia doing every single thing we say concerning coca irradication.

One other thing that's scary about Bolivian driving: if you're on a two-lane, one-way street, and you're in the left lane, and you want to turn right - no problem! Just gun it across the other lane and expect the other person to stop. Maybe use your turn signal, although this is by no means necessary.

Mas de nada

Not much to report here. Martijn and I spent a couple hours today making phone calls and visiting various government offices. I think things will shake out, but they will take time. Andres Soliz, the former minister of hydrocarbons, says he would be happy to interview, but is traveling for the next month or so. Carlos Villegas, the current minister, is likewise out of town until Friday. We went to his office, and were told that he would probably interview, but is really busy. If the scheduling doesn't work out, he has two under-secretaries that are easier to schedule with. I called Jorge Quiroga, the head of PODEMOS (the main opposition party in Bolivia), who is - five points if you guessed it - out of town. But supposedly he will call us back on Tuesday. I'm trying to track down a woman named Leonilda Zurita Vargas, the senior senator from Cochabamba and the head of MAS in the Senate. I have three numbers for her now, but I haven't gotten ahold of her yet. I'm hoping she can be a policy maker I can interview, since I can't get Alvaro Garcia. I'm still waiting to hear back from CEDLA about the interview with the hydrocarbons expert (we'll try again tomorrow if we don't hear back). So that's kind of where I'm at. In the "hurry up and wait" seat again.

I started Spanish classes again yesterday. I'm not sure if I like them as much as at my old school, but we'll see I guess. So far though, I feel like the grammar instruction was organized much better at my old school. Plus, here I'm doing my grammar one-on-one with the teacher, and I can't understand her super well, which makes me really shy really fast, which makes me stupid.

Other than that, I made some yummy quinoa/black bean/blue cheese burritos last night (Roquefort is the only decent cheese to be had over here. And don't get me started on the sandwich meat. Meat should not have chunks of what looks like jello and olives in it). And I made some pico de gallo salsa to go in, too. They don't really have what we would call "salsa" here (salsa just means "sauce" - ketchup is a salsa, for example), so I had to make my own, which is better anyways. I actually did try a sample of some imported Tostidos salsa at the supermercado, which isn't the greatest to begin with and also cost like six dollars. So I'm definitely sticking with my home-made stuff.

I don't think I brought it up before, but Windows Vista was on a lot of the computers down here in October - months before it was even released.

Just a brief update

First, I should introduce you to Martijn: he's Dutch-born, but a permanent resident in Bolivia. He has a wife, and his second son was born just a few days ago. He does translation work in English-Spanish-Dutch for various European companies, and teaches Dutch at a language school near my apartment.

Martijn and I made some phone calls today. We hit a lot of dead-ends and wrong numbers. It looks like Alvaro Garcia, the vice president, is a no-go (he only gives interviews to reporters - so I'm contemplating calling back as a reporter from the Western Front), and Evo was always a non-starter. Damn. They would have been cool guys to talk to. Garcia started some Marxist Indian communities in NW Bolivia in the '80's and later joined the revolutionary group Tupac Katari . Probably a really interesting guy to talk to! And can you imagine someone like that being head of state in the USA? The number I had for Andres Soliz, the former minister of hydrocarbons, turned out to be a guy who used to work with Soliz but doesn't anymore. We dropped the name of the reporter who furnished the number, Luis Gomez, and the guy gave us Soliz' home number - "just don't tell him where you got it!" But we got the machine, as we did for Carlos Villegas, the current minister of hydrocarbons. We did get a hit with CEDLA, an economic think-tank here in La Paz. Claudia, the name I got from Luis, said to call back on Monday and we could set up an interview with the hydrocarbons expert. Cool.

So on Monday we're going to try some of those numbers again, and on Tuesday we're going to the congressional building to track down someone from PODEMOS (For Democracy and Society, or Poder Democratico Social; it also means "we can" in Spanish. Bolivian parties and their clever acronyms!) - hopefully Jorge Quiroga, the party head. We'll see.

So for now, it's Hurry Up and Wait. Lame! I want to get as much done as I can before I'm supposed to meet up with my friends in Peru - only three weeks from now!

Photos, photos, PHOTOS!

Smile, it's Carnival!


Meet Archangel Michael. He protects you from the following nasties, who haunt the mines you work in...
















































































































These groups were definitely one of my favorite types... notice the bells on their boots: they would have a group of girls up front, who would come twirling by. The guys would pause (just before where we were sitting), and we would all shout (in Spanish) "lets go guys! Lets dance guys!" And then at some hidden cue, they would all sprint off in a giant, jingling mass, down the line to the end of the parade route (which you can kind of see in the night picture). Super cool stuff.






























































































Sooo many fabulous groups of dancers, all with their own unique costumes, their own brass bands (having 8 tubas march by is my favorite) from different places in Bolivia.














































































































































And then there's the other half of Carnival... sitting quietly and respectfully, watching the dancers



BFF's

Me and my buddy Jason from AK










These are our friends, Christina and Ruskoff. Christina is an electrical engineer who disassembles old mining equipment for sale in Australia. The Ruskoff is a Brazilian vodka - who knew?













Coca leaves: when alcohol gets you down, call up the energy you never knew you had...
(for the record, chewing coca is kind of like sipping coffee, only the energy you get is more subtle and comes over a slower period of time than caffeine. It's not cocaine by any means)















Somehow Dave managed to snap the picture JUST RIGHT to make the boys look really wasted, and the girls look really sober. Because I can PROMISE there was little to no drinking going on.


P.S. Cuba Libre is a pre-mixed schwill of rum and something like Coca Cola, only without carbonation. De-lish!














WAAAAAGH! ESPUMA!















The espuma fights could get pretty vicious. This is probably about the point when those cops shower the air with mace and dump out everyone's beer, because "there's no drinking at Carnival."







Notice the espuma beard. This must have been during a lull in the barrage of water balloons, because everyone looks relatively calm.

Continuing observations from the city of Peace

I made it back to La Paz without any hassle at the boarder - although I hear they're starting to harass Americans about getting their stamps extended, because a new visa rule is supposed to go into effect "sometime in March" (read: whenever the Bolivian government gets its shit together). I talked to a girl who wanted her stamp extended, and the immigration office asked what she was doing here. She said she was just hanging out and taking Spanish classes, to which they replied: "oh, so you're student. That means you should have a student visa, and you're here illegally." Man, bureaucracies. She didn't get the stamp.

My ride back to La Paz was in a "genuine Toyosa," and was supposed to cost Bs. 12. I handed him Bs. 15 and said (yes, in Spanish), "it's 12, right?" He said yes, and then went to walk away. So I asked if he had change, and he said no. When we got to La Paz, I asked again about the change, and he said "the ride costs Bs. 15." Oh. My white mistake. I guess I'm still getting used to being the guy to take advantage of. Although I did learn a new phrase, "ya pues," which basically means "oh, please!" and is to be used when you know you're getting ripped off. It's worked wonders with the taxis so far.

I'm staying with a Finnish guy, Perttu, in his apartment in Sopocachi, which is pretty much the swankiest part of the central city (the REALLY nice places - and most of the expats - are in Zona del Sur - the South Zone). In other words, I'm totally spoiled. The apartment is in a secure building and has two bedrooms (so I get my own), 2.5 baths (so I get my own of those, too!), and is owned by a family who is living with their daughter in Santa Cruz (where she's in school), so it's totally furnished. It has kind of a pseudo-Victorian look, with that sort of dark curvy wood furniture (that looks nicer than it feels - anyone know what I'm talking about?), fake columns, and a white/pale pink color scheme. We have a full kitchen, so if I feel like dusting off my cooking hands (it has been four months) I can try and make some bastardized version of something I'm missing from home (the ingredients here will almost definately be a little bit off). The most noticeable things missing are good lighting (which I'm convinced is nonexistent here - the entryway outside of the apartment doesn't even have lights) and central heating/air (there's no form of heating). And the gas appliances run from a large tank in the kitchen, nothing central. Other than that, it's pretty on par with a nice apartment back home.

Perttu and I get along really well; he is 27 and a partner in his own IT company with two others. They take turns taking 5 months off to travel, and so he's in La Paz. He has a sort of quiet politeness that I (in my limited exposure) have found common to Scandinavians, but we both like to banter about travel and politics and stuff.

Project status: I had two prime suspects for translators, one who I got from Ismael, the other who I found on couchsurfing and does phone translation work for the CIA (but is is The Company, or something other CIA?). But I haven't been able to get ahold of the former, and the latter is in the hospital with some sort of stomach problem (he sounded really bummed he couldn't help me, and I felt bad for even calling). So that was a bunch of suck. I spent the rest of the day trying to do research which didn't get very far: I was going to compare Bolivia to a different country that had run a similar nationalization program, but although I learned a lot about hydrocarbon politics in Venezuela yesterday, I decided that to really explain an economic program you have to know the whole political story behind it. In other words, it would be a whole separate movie. So instead, I just want to contrast Bolivia's tax rates on hydrocarbons to other countries, even though this is a painfully blunt comparison since it just doesn't mean much without considering a bunch of other factors. So if anyone knows where to get that data, let me know, cause I haven't been able to find it (Venezuela charges 50% tax and 30% royalty, but Bolivia - for some strange reason - has opted simply for an 83% tax, so I don't know if they can really be compared. A tax is on profits, and is easily manipulated by the company being taxed (Standard Oil used to just sell its oil at cost to its subsidiaries, which means zero profit and zero tax); a royalty looks at what the world price of oil is, and takes a percentage of that price for each barrel pumped. It's simpler and easier to monitor. Someday I'll ask a policy maker why they opted for taxes instead of royalties).

BUT, I went with Perttu to his Spanish school today, and found a guy who said he will work with me as a translator. Score! But will any government offices be open tomorrow, which is Saturday? I'm anxious to get going! Oh yeah, and I looked into Spanish classes there. Having my friend Jason around (who took a year of Spanish before coming and then a couple months of classes in Costa Rica) has humbled me. So now I need someone to visit who speaks no Spanish. I'm supposed to get an email from the school about scheduling and stuff.

Walking through the street today, I saw a guy about my age with headphones on singing Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" very loudly and very seriously. It's a good kareoke jam, actually. If you're not familiar, allow me to enlighten:


Aaaaaare you gonna take me home tonight
Aaaaaaah down beside that red firelight
Aaaaaare you gonna let it all hang out
Fat bottomed girls
You make the ROCKIN world go round!


Did you know that, as far as I can tell, America is the only place you can say "drugs" and mean something from your doctor or pharmacy? I'm still sick, and people give me strange looks when I say "I'm going to go take some drugs and go to bed." Although some cocaine would probably clear my nose right up...

A BOX full of LOVE

My dearest sister: in response to your comment on my post of February the 16th, I would like to apologize profusely for my callous disregard of your feelings regarding your generous gift to me. Unfortunately, circumstances found me in a position unable to fully appreciate the HEART and SOUL that poured out of that box along with Reese's Cups and a Green Tote Bag. I had only the smallest sliver of time to find and activate my debit card, get money to pay my hotel bill, eat lunch, and pack before heading to Carnival. In addition, I felt that the story of how I RECEIVED the box would be of more interest to my readers than what was IN the box. This DOES NOT imply that I did not love your gift - just that for people sitting soundly in their luxurious homes in America, the idea of a box full of Reese's Candy (my FAVORITE and UNAVAILABLE this far south) and a miraculously thoughtful gift that returns you to your childhood just can't be as exciting as it is to me, your ever-loving brother. My sincerest hope is that you can feel my love across the electrons, and find it within yourself to forgive my oafish behavior and be able to call me your Brother.

And for the record, please see below for a picture that was snapped of me as I opened your box by someone who mistook me for a young Brad Pitt.

Sincerely yours,
Devin Dru Chico Mohammed sid Raffi Hafiz Malone

On the road to Peru, I met a man...

So I guess I need to finish talking about Cochabamba. Man, I'm behind. So I didn't get to have any interviews, although I did meet a reporter for Los Tiempos who might be able to help me out with stuff. Things got a little sidetracked, because a girl I met who was supposed to help me with interviews stood me up, so I couldn't schedule anything that day, and then my friend Jason from Alaska showed up and I spent a couple days with him in Cocha. The girl I was supposed to meet up with (I emailed her on Couchsurfing; she claimed "expert" levels of English and Spanish) said she was all about it, but she was kind of strange: she brought me chocolates, and our first meeting was at night and we just hung out and had beers. It kind of felt like a blind date. Maybe she didn't realize how blindingly good looking, funny, smart, and humble I am. Anyways, she didn't show the next day or email or anything, and I couldn't get a hold of her. That night I went bowling with Korina and Dave and their friends (I think I came in 3rd out of 8 people. I bowled over 100 one game, which I consider a good game. I'm the kind of bowler who picks his ball based on color and thinks the bumpers are a fun addition). Afterwards we went to kareoke and had lots of tequila, which didn't sit well with me. I got sicker than I had in a long time (I thought I'd figured out moderation a long time ago, but I guess I still haven't figured out tequila shots...). Anyways, Jason showed up around 7am the next day, and I was still pretty sick. So we did the only thing to do, which was go eat greasy food. We spent the day with Korina and her friend Claudia, and that night went out to La Pimienta, one of the hippest clubs in town. There was a big line, but since we were with a model we got to cut to the front. It was funny though, because everyone was tapping Jason on the shoulder super hard, as if to say "OK gringo, this isn't how a line works, and stop pretending you're with the model." It was funny. We got inside and all got our picture taken by someone from the entertainment section of the local paper. So now somewhere there's some picture of a model and her cute friend with two grubby gringos.

The next day was my frantically trying to get my mail and pack and get to Oruro, which you already know about. So that was the end of my Cochabamba experience. But I'll probably be back through at some point: I need to go to Santa Cruz, which will take me through Cocha.

So now I'm in a little town in Peru called Desaguadero, almost literally a one-road town which my book describes as "an unscrupulous place, with poor restaurants and dubious accommodation. There is no need to stop in Desaguadero..." I don't know if I can add much in a positive way, except that bicycles are the main form of transport here, and there are really cool bicycle taxis with the seats up front of the driver, all brightly decorated with fluorescent vinyl and old CD's. But yes, the accommodation is dubious (although I've found I just assume that my room will be a small, windowless cave with dirty sheets and a lumpy pillow), and the choices of food seem to be fried chicken or fried pork (your choice! I'm having oranges and crackers for dinner), which especially sound good when you have a nasty cold like I do (somehow my nose is totally stuffed AND running like a river, which I didn't think was possible - but I guess this is the natural result of sharing beer with 100 other people in Carnival). Carnival is still raging here, with old couples dancing in May Day circles to outdoor bands and vicious foam fights the likes of which I never saw in Oruro or La Paz. Fortunately I haven't been hit, because I'm sick and partied out and I think it would just piss me off to get stinging foam in my eyes. So far the only people I've talked to are the people who run my hostel, some older teenagers who I saw make a "reeling in" motion with their hands and then they tried to yell at me in English, and a drunk guy who said "amigo, rahl blackdavoch spungingio." OK, all I understood was "amigo," but I think it's his diet of beer more than my Spanish. Usually I can at least pick out the root words and stuff, it just takes me a long time to process and understand what exactly is being said. Pretty much all I understood here was that it was something derogatory.

It was kind of hard to get here: first I couldn't find the bus stop because there are no buses: just micros and share taxis lined up on the street. At first I went to the main terminal, where there was only one company selling tickets to Peru (my old favorite Ormeno), and I had to go all the way to Puno. Not only had I never heard a positive thing about Puno, but it was a $28 ticket (my book said buses to Desaguadero would be $1.25, which ended up being pretty close), and it would mean like 4 extra hours on the bus. So I wandered around the cemetery district (probably the best place in town to wander) until I found what I was looking for.

But when I got to Desaguadero, I was still in Bolivia. I told my driver I was trying to go to Peru, and a bunch of people were like "where? Puno? I can get you to Puno," And I'm saying "no, I thought was trying to go to Desaguadero." Turns out the town straddles both sides of the border. So I got a bike taxi to migracion, and when we got through he explained where the buses to Puno were. I think maybe I'm the first gringo to actually stay in this town, that isn't just trying to get to smelly Puno. I'm definitely the only one here.

So at any rate, I'm heading back to La Paz tomorrow, where I'm going to try and meet some of the people who have expressed interest in helping me out on my project and score some sweet interviews. Salud!

Carnival and Alcohol

That rhymes, if you pronounce Carnival how you would down here (Car-nee-vol). I just wanted to make sure everyone knew how friggin clever I was.

So the first part of the story begins with trying to GET to Carnval. First, I need to mention that my friend Jason from Alaska met up with me in Cocha to head to Carnival with me. But I'll fill that part in on my next post. Anyways, we'd bought tickets the day before, but I guess the company we chose was charging more than the maximum tariff, or wasn't keeping receipts or something, so their office in Cochabamba got shut down. The low-down our friends got (who actually made their bus, because they left 4 hours earlier. I needed that extra time to frantically try and get my mail) was that our bus would still run, but it would run from Quillocollo, a little town about 10 miles away from Cocha. So Jason and I hailed a taxi to the "station" (street with all the bus offices, which makes due for a station in small towns), only to find an angry mob of Bolivians on arrival. Now, Bolivians are normally pretty chill, since they put up with all the annoying stuff that I complain about on a daily basis. So to find them about to riot was strange. I guess there were people still waiting for the 12pm bus (it's now 2:30), and the bus company was stonewalling as to what was going on ("a problem with the road" that didn't seem to be affecting any of the other bus companies). There were so many people complaining that Jason and I just sat and waited for about 45 minutes, after which we noticed most of the people waiting with our company had left. So we asked, and they said all buses were cancelled. We got a refund, which didn't help much since every bus ticket had been sold out since 4am that morning. So we found 3 other people and crammed into a cab, which cost 3 times as much as the inflated Carnival bus prices, but it would be quick. We thought. Our cabbie never went over 40mph the whole time, and we got passed by everything on the road. A 4 1/2 hour journey turned into a 6 hour one (wth 4 people in the back of a cab. Super duper fun). When we finally got to Oruro, we had to argue with the cab driver about how close the center is to the plaza (the answer is about 10 blocks, which is a really long way to go through crowds with all your stuff). He just didn't want to go into all the traffic, but eventually we got him to drive us into town.

When we got to where we would be staying (we were staying in someone's private house, which had been arranged by Korina), we got a very long explanation of the house, which basically consisted of demonstrating what we weren't supposed to touch, and the lady asking us what our astrological sign was (which threw both of us: probably the first time we'd heard that question in Spanish). Then we found out our land-lady had decided we weren't coming and rented one of our rooms. She wanted to rent the last one, but our friends talked her out of it. But it meant we only got one bed (with the sickest Full House sheets - does anyone remember those sheets?), so we were going to have to get cozy. This was especially working out great because my Bolivian friends had decided I was gay at some point, but told Jason that he probably didn't have to worry because "we'd been friends a long time." What sucked was that we were paying $30 a night for this room (we were supposed to pay $15 per person, for two rooms. But everything is per person for Carnival - they charge per head, not per bed). We tried to argue the price down, but it wasn't going to happen. They said we could go someplace else if we wanted, which of course would have been impossible. I tried to ask the patriarch of the house if he would want to sleep in a little bed with his friend, thinking this would be good leverage on an old man from a Catholic country, but he just shrugged and said "It's OK here, because there are no homosexuals in Bolivia" (is he trying to insinuate something? We weren't sure). Unlike in the decadent, amoral United States, where fags grow on trees because we've lost touch with our Christian roots, I guess. Leave it to ignorance to trump logic. Anyways, the first night was spent on dumb jokes between Jason and I about our sleeping arrangements and radical sheets.

So if Carnival had lasted longer, this is the kind of routine I would have developed (it was only three days, so thankfully I didn't feel obliged to put my body through this for any longer): wake up, have beer for breakfast. Go out on the street to drink and watch the parade. Have massive water balloon wars. Drink more to sooth the adreneline from being under constant fire. Have lunch from whatever is open (which is nothing, but the street food is not to be trusted, for taste or health). Get more drunk and go home to shower the foam (everyone packs spray cans of foam that have about a six foot range) out of your eyes, ears and mouth. Make sure and pick up a beer from one of the gajillion people walking around selling them for the shower (cerveza fria, which is "cold beer" usually comes body temperature). Hurry back out to see the parade and throw more balloons and drink. Once the sun goes down, the water fights and foaming dies down a bit, which leaves more time for drinking (by now we're onto puro vodka from the bottle, chased with warm beer or Coke) and dancing with the parade members. Stand around and watch the parade and get even more drunk, while sharing your beer with the hot, sweaty dancers and musicians who go by. Try not to cough too hard when the police decide to mace your general vicinity just to make sure everyone knows who's boss. Go have dinner to cushion some of that alcohol; return to drink and dance more. Chew coca leaves to call up your body's energy reserves for more dancing. Head to the discotech, because it's Carnival and everyone wants to hook up. Return to the street to drink and dance and chew more coca. When it's close to sunrise, dance behind the last of the parade up to the plaza by the church, and drink beer while watching the sick dance-off between the Devil and Archangel Michael. Toast to the triumph of good over evil, and then drink another beer. Dance until the sun comes up. Head home to crash (seriously crash). Wake up 3 hours later. Repeat.

So yeah, drinking is an integral part of Carnival. You see people partied out about midday, and I learned a couple important terms besides the standard salud (literally "health," but it's more like "cheers"): te invito means "I invite you," which means if I drink half my beer, you have to drink half of yours. Refusal is not an option. The other important one is seco, which means "dry," and if I call seco we both have to drain our cups. But besides the drinking, the parade is really, really awesome (It was declared one of Mankind's Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity by the UNESCO in 2001). 20 hours long each day, something like 30,000 dancers and 10,000 musicians from all over Bolivia come to strut their stuff - it's a serious competition for best costumes, dancing, etc. People save up all year and practice for three months prior to Carnival. This is something that could never exist in America, because we're just too damned lazy. The whole thing is a huge hodgepodge of indigenous Andean myths fused with Christian mythology (the Spanish wouldn't let things be Andean, so the locals had to improvise). But the most important themes are the triumph of good over evil; the reverence of Pachamama, which is the Earth Goddess or the Virgin Mary, depending on whether there's any conquistadors around; and the appeasement of Tio Supay, who is the violent mountain god/Christian Devil (who you need to keep happy if you want to stay safe in the mines for the coming year). The dancers, in their various amazing costumes, represent all of the above (someday if I'm not on stupid Internet Explorer I'll add pictures. Or you can Google Image seach carnival oruro).

The last lesson of Carnival is to watch your step: we saw a gringo and his girlfriend taking pictures of his cargo pocket and wallet, both of which had been surgicaly slashed and their contents removed. And then there's my own story: I was with two girls walking to a disco around 2am, and we just happened to go down a street with no lights to speak of (the lights were off just on this one block for some reason, it's not like we went down an alley or anything), and there just happened to be light foot traffic at the time. These three young guys were walking the opposite direction as us, and when the got up to us one of them rapidly pulled me towards him and said "give us your money!" and pressed something against my ribs. I think it was supposed to be a gun, but it was really small, was a strange, plastic color, and had strange curly-cue designs on it. If it was a gun, it was some sort of single-shot, 19th century replica. At first I just kind of played dumb/figuring out what the Hell was happening to me, smiling amiably and saying "what is this? What is this?" Then he moved the "gun" up to my neck - and once I got it against my skin I knew it was fake. I said "what is this?" again, which I think the guy was now taking to mean I knew he was robbing me with a toy, and he just let me go and starting walking off with his friend (I think other people were coming down the street by now, too). But when I turned around, the third, tallest guy (maybe 6'2") had my short lady friend (maybe 5'2") by the back of the neck and was walking off with her. So I thwacked him upside his head with my water bottle, and he let go of her and kind of open-palm smacked me on the side of the head, and ran off to catch up with her friends. I shouted after them quieres mas? (do you want more?), and they fled into the darkness. OK, stupid drunken bravery on my part, but the first two guys were already bugging out, and I guess I figured a show of strength was needed. And I got to be the Tough Guy, which I don't really get to do much - I'm not that tough. It all happened within like 30 seconds - I didn't really have time to think much. Also, in my defense, even though I never really felt scared or threatened (although probably that's due to slowed reactions from alcohol), I was definately preparing to pull out the $6 or whatever I had on me and drop it and run - it's just that I was moving and thinking a little slow, and they ran first. But It's not like three Bolivian guys on a dark street really need a gun to rob me. All they have to do is ask real nice and be persistent. In hindsight, I think it was just three drunk assholes with a little brother who likes to play Pirate who decided they could pay for their drinks that night if they tried to act tough. Anyways, I got lucky and came out on top. And it makes a good story.

So yeah, Carnival and alcohol. Good stuff.

Warning: Picking up mail in Bolivia can take several days and involve a lot of running

So my sister sent me a box, which was supposed to take a week to get here. Paramount for me was my new debit card, because my old one had expired and I had no access to my bank account (I had a credit card as backup, which I had to cancel because I started getting all these weird charges on it, like to an airline in Barcelona. I think it's because I almost bought a video camera from the mob (seriously), which is a whole other story, because I hadn't used it here at all). After going to the post office every day for 10 days, my box arrived after 18 days. But I couldn't just pick it up: first I went upstairs to the pick-up desk, where I searched through a stack of cards for my name. Then I went out of the building, and back in by another entrance to the international mail desk, where they told me I had to pay some sort of tax to get my box. But I can't pay the tax at the post office, I have to go to the bank, several blocks away. And the bank is closed.

So the next day, my last day in town, I go to the bank using the directions I was given to find out it's the wrong bank, and that there are a string of banks in the area they told me ("two blocks south of the main plaza"). So I had to go back to the post office and wait in line to find out the right bank, only what I wasn't told the day before was that before I could even go to the bank I had to fill out three different forms (which I had to buy) and wait in two different lines to receive various pieces of paper which I would need at the bank - and also find out I'll have to pay about $10 to get my box, plus come back with two photocopies of two different pages in my passport. By the time this is done it's 12:10. The international mail desk shuts at 12:30 and doesn't reopen until 2:30, and my bus for carnival leaves at 3pm and I haven't packed or eaten lunch. So I'm stressed.

I literally run to the bank, through crowded streets in flip-flops, where there thankfully is no line. Then I go in and out of a couple buildings looking for photocopies, run back to the bank, making it inside at 12:28. Then I wait in line again, fill out two different forms in triplicate, and sign all of them; go back to the first line and wait again, hand in my paperwork, and finally get my box. It's the most convoluted, unnecessarily complex process I think I have ever been through - just to pick up mail. Supposedly India is famous for this sort of bureaucratic mess, but I never witnessed anything approaching this when I was there.

On the steps of an internet place (I had to get online to activate my card), I was frantically tearing thorough newspaper packing, magazines, and candy, trying to find my debit card. It turns out my sister had removed it from it's envelope (which is what I was on the lookout for) and tucked it inside a tote bag, the last place I looked. Anyways, I made it back in time for a rushed lunch and to make the bus to Oruro for Carnival. Or so I thought...

An interview next week?

I met again with Ismael - the man with the Oriental house - and got a couple more names from him. One was Jose de la Fuente, a lawyer in Cochabamba who has been studying the effects of state control and environmental impacts of gas exploitation in Bolivia. That sounded interesting, since it was an aspect I hadn't really considered before (frankly, I expected the state-owned company of Petrobras (Brazil) and the state-owned company YPFB (Bolivia) to behave pretty much the same in terms of environmental stewardship. At the least, Bolivia's state-run mining companies have pretty dismal records I know). But I decided he would be worth talking to. Ismael wasn't sure if he spoke English, which he doesn't. And I *hate* having to call someone on the phone and ask them for something, especially when I want to sound professional, and having to do it in my broken Spanish (which is slowly improving, but I can say a lot more than I understand - especially on the phone). So I muddled through a couple of conversations with him, and I think I'm going to interview him on Wednesday. That will give me time to find a translator. I went onto a site called couchsurfing.com (which is a cool place to meet people to stay with when you travel, by the way), and found all the profiles in Cochabamba that claimed "expert" levels of knowledge in both Enlish and Spanish. We'll see how that goes. I might try posting at the university, too, and I met a girl whose job is to translate documents (for a company that makes oxygen for hospitals - random), although she mostly translates Spanish-German. But she might know someone, at least. I'm going to her house for a Carnival party tonight, so I can ask.

Carnival continues to build, with everything being shut after 12pm for an extra-long siesta, and the level of water-ballooning on the increase. In fact, when you walk down the street, you'll see spots with heavy concentrations of balloon scraps - a sure sign to watch the windows of the building accross the street!

I spoke with Luis Gomez, a journalist in La Paz (who does speak English). He sounded tired, and I was hoping he wasn't sounding tired of Ismael sending students to him. But he said to email him, and he would start coming up with contacts to get me closer to the government. I also asked him about archival footage of stuff like Evo's speech announcing the nationaliztion. Which reminds me, in his speech, Evo proclaimed "It's Bolivia's gas now," which I think would be a perfect title for my film.

That's all my news for now. Not much, I know. Other than that, just erratica: I saw electric utility workers doing something with wires on the streetcorners, and their ladders were just plopped down on the edge of the lane, with no cones or anything, and hordes of cars streaming by. Not exactly what we would find in litigious America! And once I started looking, I noticed that the wiring system seems to be one wire for every building, hung outside at about one story up. That is, a whole lot of random wires just running all over, criss-crossing the streets, heading in and out of buildings.

My favorite internet place (I always have one, the one with the fast computers, the good headsets for Skype, etc) is right past a street of funerarias - funeral homes - and displayed prominently in the front windows of each are caskets for infants. As if funeral homes weren't morbid enough already.

All the car alarms here make this sound that is just like the "alarm" sound from a sinking ship in the "electronic talking battleship" game I used to have when I was a kid (and yes, the game is just as cool as it sounds). So that's my new muebles joke for Cochabamba - whenever I hear a car alarm go off, I add "blub blub blub. That ship is a goner!" to myself.

All the minis and taxis here have aftermarket alarm-horns, like a cop might have. But the drivers have perfected the operation of the switch to time the sound to make it sound like it was whistling at a girl. Which seems to be the main strategy of Bolivian flirting for men: whistle and make kissing noises at any cute girl, as long as she's far enough away that you won't have to actually maybe talk to her.

They say a Bush in the hand is worth... world-wide hatred of America? Domestic Spying? Cuts across the board for domestic programs?

Does anyone remember how after September 11th, Mr. Bush spouted all that rhetoric about increasing civil service, cultivating national pride, and spreading American good-will abroad? Like in the 2002 state of the Union address when Bush asked us all to donate 2 years of our lives to "the service of [our] neighbors and [our] nation"? Huge surprise, the policy didn't get far past the speech. According to Amanda McBride, research director at the Center for Social Development at Washington University in St. Louis, "Throughout the last 100 years, national service has waxed and waned depending on the administration that is in office. Bush has embraced service, but not with the requisite funding to even run the programs." In other words, he doesn't care. Peace Corps enrollment levels remain stagnant at a little over 7,000 - far short from the hope to double the Corps to 14,000 in number. Efforts to increase enrollment in the Clinton-era Americorps program have likewise faltered - membership is in the 50,000 to 75,000 range, not the 250,000 called for. And on top of the lackluster numbers, for the first time in its history, the Americorp program will be staffed mostly by part-time volunteers. And apparently the president now wants some sort of "Civilian Reserve Corps" to go to places like Iraq and the Sudan to help the military. Wait, so they're like Peace Corps, only with guns, and they perform duties that are now being performed by the armed services. In other words, nothing like Peace Corps. But spreading the good-will of American imperialism.

And now we have our jackass president asking for $245 billion more dollars, on top of the $70 billion already approved for this year ($315 billion total for 2 years of war), to run his jackass war. But in the same breath, Bush says that we just HAVE to "balance the budget" by cutting non-military programs: "Cutting the deficit during a time of war requires us to restrain spending in other areas," said the President, while throwing his bloody hands up in his typical "what do you want me to do?" reproach. Does this type of rhetoric and policy make anyone else cringe? After 7 years of reckless spending on programs like Total Information Awareness and "missile defense" from the supposed party of fiscal discipline, now is the time to start tightening our belts? Sure you want to increase American civil service in programs like Peace Corps. Sure you do.

Sorry, I'm done ranting. But let me connect the two a bit more (OK, I'm not done ranting): Bush wants $315 billion for war. He also claims to want increased civilian service, but won't fund it. In the meantime, the stupid goddamn democrats are creating "non-binding" resolutions that criticize the President's war strategy (why they feel this resolution is needed is still totally unclear to me), but the resolution explicitly states that there will be total support for whatever funding levels the president wants, because there's no way Dems would "endanger the troops." And I'm so sick and tired of this rhetorical bait-and-switch! Criticizing $315 billion in war spending over two years isn't pulling the trigger on Private Smith, or "siding with the enemy," or spitting on the army, or any of those things. Does the government really expect people to believe that in a $315 billion "supplemental" budget (this is in addition to his request of $481 billion for "normal" Pentagon operations - which doesn't include VA funding, or CIA, or lots other business related to war...), there isn't a bunch of crap like $500 toilet seats from no-bid Halliburton contracts, F-22 fighter jets, 12-year scotch and porn for the brass, etc.? That if someone in the congress or media would get off their asses and actually read the supplemental request, that there wouldn't be all sorts of wasteful excess that are going to be financed by domestic budget cuts? Oh, wait, people really do believe that every cent of that money is for "supporting the troops," which is why Congress is so terrified of being critical of war funding. Well, a gullible, stupid, paranoid American public gets what it deserves, I guess. A military-industrial complex, and cuts in domestic spending. Money to fuel the flames of a civil war that we started, and millions of Americans without affordable access to health care. One day, when we wake up and the Grand Canyon has a Six Flags roller coaster in it because the NPS couldn't run the park any other way, and every inch of American soil is surveiled by unmanned drones, and the schools are in shambles and no one can afford treatment for their coal-tarred lungs, I'm going to say "I told you so!" And then I'll probably be sent to Guantanamo.

People are gearing up for Carnival here: young vandals wielding water balloons and squirt guns are out in the streets in full force, taking people by surprise from cars or hidden street corners. It's actually nice with all the heat. A few nights ago everyone was burning little barbecues to make smoke; I'm sure it's for some sort of Carnival ritual, and I'm sure it baffles me as to what it's all about. It's not exactly sweet incense - the smoke had more of a choking effect, and a lot of people were fanning the flames inside their little stores and homes.

One other reason we're real damn lucky in America (despite our lackluster elected officials): the electricity that comes out of the wall isn't so poorly produced that we have to spend a bunch of money of "power regulators" for everything we want to plug in: computers, televisions, stereos. The hertz of electricity in most every developing country are so wild that they'll blow out any sensitive electronics that try and utilize the juice. One more way it's expensive to be poor.

Oh, one of the places I got some of my information from is this Boston Herald arcticle. If anyone is interested.

New York has the Empire State Building. Agra has the Taj Mahal. Cochabamba has a really huge, modern movie theater.

Seriously, it's the most modern, expensive-looking thing I've seen in Bolivia. It seems like it belongs in Orange County, not the second-poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.

Today I got to meet with Ismael, who was not what I expected. Not in a bad way at all, just kind of funny. First, let me remind you that before being a film maker, Ismael was in the Air Force and then a law professor. OK, form a mental image of what that person might like and what kind of house they might live in. Got it? Alright, I'll continue. I took a taxi to his house, which I couldn't find at first because I was looking for the address 69. Neither I nor the taxi driver saw it, although there was a 169, so I rang the bell. A nice old man answered and chatted with me and the taxi driver, confirming that this was the only block of the street I was looking for. Across the street was a large compound built in pseudo Chinese garden style, with dragons over the gate and Chinese Buddha statues inside. Beyond was a large white house with a conspicous glass-tower staircase attached. When I first saw it, I thought it looked interesting, if a bit out of place. It turns out that this was address 69, but neither I nor my cab driver could tell because the 69 was sideways and engraved in a gray stone plate in the wall, instead of being on the normal, standard address plate. Going into the house was a Bolivian woman dressed in a sari, with ankle bracelets and an ornamental third eye painted on her forehead. This was Ismael's wife, who was getting ready to host a vegetarian cooking class in her home. She ussered me inside the gate and into the house, whose entire bottom floor was devoted to an octagonal meditation space with a floor dominated by a giant yin-yang. Upstairs was the kitchen and living room, which were decorated by a Hindu shrine, various Indian statues and portraits of the Dalai Lama, and a coffee table almost completely covered with polished stone spheres of various colors and sizes. The house was well designed, with skylights, lots of glass, natural wood rafters, and white walls. It managed to allow a lot of natural light without feeling "modern" or museum-like. The bedroom wall that faced the living area was entirely of frosted white glass with a sliding door, which I imagined allowed for the light from the main room to filter into the sleeping area. The only thing that seemed out-of-place were the kitchen cabinets: light, unstained wood in a sort of Shaker style, which looked more like they belonged in an episode of "This Old House" than the sleek, white surroundings of the building I was in.

While I waited for Ismael, I got to listen to the ladies chat about vegetarianism and how much they watched TV (most of them didn't have cable, and only watched the news. One of them had cable, but only because her kids wanted music and movie channels); they talked a little about Evo Morales although I got the impression that it was farely superficial conversation. I felt like I was around the modern equivalent of 19th century English female aristocracy: that is, a group of wealthy women who didn't have to work and had been groomed to not form serious opinions about anything, instead dabbling in fads such as vegetarianism and Eastern religion ("I am so fascinated by India!" proclaimed one woman, without adding how or why), and making sure they live in a way that they can appear proper when discussing television (as the woman who has cable has not). In fairness, I may have formed this impression partly because I'm reading a novel about 19th century English aristocracy that deals with sexism in that era. Really, I didn't know these women hardly at all, but I guess coming from the streets of Cochabamba into a world where people can afford to indulge in such deliberate ways of living, I couldn't help myself.

I was looking around for pictures of what might be Ismael, wondering what he might end up being like. I had a couple photos singled out, and my guesses turned out to be correct when Ismael showed up, 30 minutes late: wild, shoulder-length curly hair pulled back into a short pony tail, spectacles, portly, in a gray sweater and clutching a leather satchel. He seemed more absent-minded-professor than ex-military. He ussured me up through the glass tower of stairs into the "music room," a smaller octagonal room at the top of the house with several cased instruments, a massage table, and a floor covered with singing bowls.

My host was friendly and accomadating, and seemed genuinely interested in what I was doing. We talked a little bit about the gas nationalization, and he sympathized that I haven't been able to learn much from the English-language press: "it's complicated in the Spanish press, which reports on it all the time!" he explained. But he did give me a number of places to start: a Mexican journalist who covered the 2005 Gas Wars in El Alto and might be able to get me an interview with the vice president and with the Minister of Hydrocarbons; a woman in La Paz who can act as a translator and might have some governmental connections for me; and his son, who is currently writing his masters thesis on Bolivian and Brazilian relationships regarding natural gas and would know people I can talk to. He also told me that for interviews with people like the Hydrocarbon Chamber (the industry lobbying group in La Paz), oil companies like Petrobras, and the opposition parties in the government, interviews should be easy to get because all those groups like to have voices from outside of Bolivia that let them play the role of victim. So that's encouraging. He said that Evo Morales used to be a speaker every semester at his school before he became president, but since the elections he's so busy that he's almost impossible to talk to. If I wanted a chance, I'd have to follow him around the country and the world, and hope to catch him playing football and then try and talk to him for a few minutes. And really, I probably don't have the tenacity or resources for that. Kind of a shame, because that would be a really cool interview! We came back into town together, where Ismael had to go meet his new group of students from the US, and said we should get together for coffee and we can talk about how my ideas are coming. Nice guy. And a valuable resource, I think.

So all over Bolivia I've been seeing these people at random little tables selling "SOAT." What is SOAT? It's not in any dictionary. I finally did a Google search for Spanish-language "SOAT" articles, and learned that SOAT is some sort of acronym for car insurance, which the government recently mandated everyone have. So now, in every roundabout and public plaza, many sidewalks and even inside little family restaurants, you see someone, often times like a 19 year old kid, with a plastic table, a clip board, and a money box. Taped to the table will be a computer-printout sign that says "SOAT: $49" or some such price. Now, I'm going to go out on a limb here, and predict that this is an industry that could use more government regulation. I mean, these people don't seem to even have brochures or contracts, let alone be actual companies. As far as I can tell, you give them your money, they write your name in a notebook, and if something happens, you give them a call and hope they give you some money or help. And I'm just going to take a crazy random guess and say that the Bolivian court system isn't prepared to handle thousands of new small-claims cases based on fraud and breach of contract (or non-existence of contract, I guess). Anyways, it smells like disaster, if you ask me.