O Jogo Bonito

Of all the great things to do in Sao Paulo (outside of going to the movies alone), the greatest is to see a professional soccer (football) match. Tickets are usually relatively cheap (prices will fluctuate a bit based on who is playing), and as such, it is absolutely worth going to see a few games, depending on how long you will be in the city.

Though I am not well-traveled enough to make such a statement, there is no country in the world that has a passion for soccer like Brazil. For some time now this passion (and natural ability) has been documented internationally, largely through the exportation of Brazilian talent to countries all over the world. The best players of the world are consistently Brazilian and are made more famous by their unique names and nicknames: Pele, Romario, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Robinho, Kaka. Most recently Nike released the series “Jogo Bonito” (The Beautiful Game) which captures the stories of several Brazilian players, both professional and amateur. The series seeks to show that soccer is truly a national passion in Brazil, not only reserved for the “craques” (great players) but for everyone to practice and love.

All of this creates a convincing argument for Brazil's claim to the sport, but for me, what was personally convincing is that this claim is not completely masculine. This is the big difference between Brazil and many other countries that follow soccer so religiously. Though you won't see many girls and women playing on the public courts and fields (though the women's world cup demonstrated that the Brazilian Women's National Team is a force to be reckoned with) they are far from detached from the sport. I recall my first time in Brazil getting into an argument with a friend of my host mother over who should be in the starting lineup for the men's national team. In all honesty, it was less of an argument than she telling me that I didn't know what I was talking about. Not only did she tell me that I was wrong, she proceeded to give me the histories of the players, to back up her argument. It was a funny exchange that we had, but it was also very interesting. And she was not the only one. I found myself getting into a number of these conversations with Brazilian women, whether we were talking about national or state club teams. For me, it was demonstrative of the fact that in Brazil, soccer is much less of a sport than a genuine and permanent part of the country's social and cultural fabric.

To the present day...

This time around, though only planning to spend two weeks in Sao Paulo, I wanted to make sure that I saw as many games as possible. In total, I was able to see three, though none of these featured my favorite team, Corinthians (who are currently in danger of falling to the second division). That said, below is a description of each game, which attempts to highlight a different aspect of the love that Brazilians have for o jogo bonito.

Game 1: Qualifier for 2010 World Cup: Brazil vs. Uruguay

It was truly good fortunate to score a ticket to this one. My friends Rafael and Pedro are the founders and head administrators of “Soccer Experience,” a tourism company that brings people (foreigners and Brazilians alike) to soccer games in Sao Paulo. It is an excellent service, if you are ever in Sao Paulo. They were nice enough to give me a discounted ticket for the game, which was sold out.
I found out when we arrived at the stadium that the game wasn't sold out; it was way oversold. Because we arrived only minutes before the game, I found myself standing at the very top of the stadium (think nosebleed seats...then keep going) which actually gave me a better view than most of the other parts of the stadium because I had a view of the entire field. What a great way to see some of the best players in the world playing in their home country in front of a national crowd.
However, there is an interesting aspect to this opportunity that I will touch on briefly. As Rafael (and a number of other friends who are soccer fans) explained to me, by many measures, this is the most disconnected national team that Brazil has had. Disconnected, largely because none of the players for the national team actually play in Brazil. For the most part they play for clubs in Europe, where (arguably) the quality of play is better and (without a doubt) the pay is better than in Brazil. For this reason, you don't have the same level of affinity between Brazil's players and fans as in years past. Additionally, and specific to this game, ticket prices were so high (club games cost anywhere from 15 to 50 reais, while tickets for this game were well above 100 reais) that it prevented the vast majority of supporters from even considering attending the game. But I digress...
Brazil showed a poor performance for their national audience, getting scored on within the first 8 minutes of play (great defense, Ronaldinho), but nevertheless squeaked out a victory on the strength of Luiz Fabiano's two goals and an overall strong before performance by goalkeeper Julio Cesar. On heart and effort, Uruguay had the game; unfortunately for them they did not get the necessary breaks for a victory, or even a tie.
The most interesting aspect of the game was not the game itself, but rather the fans with whom I was standing. In particular, there was a group of girls whose cheering was so animated and language so “colorful” that I couldn't help but burst out laughing on a number of ocassions. The chatter increased as Brazil's performance continued to worsen throughout the first half. Then, as the referee made a couple of questionable calls, the shouts found a new destination. They were shouting things in a packed stadium that would have made me blush if only my skin tone were a few shades lighter. I would repeat some of these, though I truly would not be doing proper justice to their comedy. And then I would get a threatening email from mom. No one wants that.

Game 2: Portuguesa vs. Criciuma

From one end of the spectrum to the other. Rafael called me on the day of the game, asking if I wanted to come. In total there were four of us: Rafael, Pedro, Brandon (British friend of Pedro) and me. As opposed to the previous game, which was played at Morumbi (one of Brazil's largest and most famous stadiums) this game was played in a stadium just outside of the city's center and much smaller, by the name of Estadio Dr. Oswaldo Texeira Duarte. It was Portuguesa's last game of the season, and after two years in the second division, they were to move back up to the first division. The small stadium was nearly filled with Portuguesa supporters, showing up in numbers to cheer on their team. Portuguesa is one of Sao Paulo's smaller teams (especially compared to teams like Sao Paulo, Corinthians and Palmeiras) but has a very loyal following in the Portuguese and Portuguese descendants who live in the city. As such, the demographic of the game was a bit different compared to what you would see at the games of Sao Paulo's major teams. There was a much higher percentage of old men and families attending the game than I had seen at the matches of other teams. In fact, the only disturbance during the game that we saw was a brief scuffle between two old men during half-time. It was certainly more comedic than the brawls during or after games of the city's larger teams that require policial intervention.
Arriving during half-time, we saw Portuguesa score the final goal in their 3-1 victory, which alone made the 12.50 reais ticket worthwhile. Once the game ended, the celebration began as a small trophy was paraded around the stadium, illustrating Portuguesa's domination of Brazil's second division. The fans showed their support through a chorus of team chants, fully enjoying their moment as champions (even though it was of the second division).
The party grew as we exited the stadium to the parking lot right outside. A trioeletrico (large truck that it is designed specifically for a band to play on top of it) was parked next to the stadium and several tables were set up giving away team photos and beer. Yes, free beer; it was absolutely chaotic. In the center of the parking lot were a dozen men waving enormous Portuguesa flags to commemorate the moment. It was one of the few moments that I have enjoyed a public Brazilian party of any sort that didn't get wildly out of control.

Game 3: Sao Paulo vs. Botafogo

Like the Portuguesa game, I had gotten the ticket for this game at the last moment, which normally would have been a difficult feat, largely because this would be a heavyweight match if it weren't for the fact that Sao Paulo had already won the Brazilian league championship. As a result of these particular circumstances, I walked into a half-full Morumbi of the Sao Paulo faithful prepared to support their team, “o tricolor.” Because Rafael and Pedro were both working with a tour group, I found a seat in the general vicinity of what was indicated on my ticket and got comfortable. Begrudgingly, and because I was alone among loyal fans, I bought a 10 reais Sao Paulo t-shirt so that I could fit in a bit better.
The overall performance—that of both Sao Paulo and their fans—was a bit lackluster as Botafogo snagged a quick 2-0 lead before the half. It didn't really matter too much to the fans, except for a few fanatics who if you had watched them the entire game, would have led you to believe that their team was down 15-0 and had all but given up. Aside from these individuals, it did not make a great deal of difference; during half-time, the post-game trophy reception and parade was being prepared. A win against Botafogo would have just been the icing on the cake.
I was impressed by the heart that Sao Paulo brought to the second half as they mounted several legitimate threats against Botafogo's defense. They were able to bring the game to a 2-2 draw within the 45 minutes of the second half, and had the game continued, they most likely would have been the team to break the tie. The team's supporters showed their appreciation for the effort, coming to life towards the end of the second half as if the game was more than a formality.
After the final whistle, the celebration began, though it was not the party that Portuguesa had. This celebration was more low-key; parading the trophy and the players around the field before the Sao Paulo fans, and that was it. Rafael informed me that years ago, there used to be a parade (similar to what we know of celebrating sports championships in the U.S.) but not surprisingly, as a result of vandalism and violence, this type of celebration was no longer allowed in Sao Paulo.

Thanksgiving comes late in SP

For all the haters who doubted my culinary prowess (yes, I´m talking to you Samuel).

Bladao!

Sweet Potato Pudding (can of candied yams, compliments of Amber; Carlton secret recipe compliments of Momma Hamilton)



Mac ´N´ Cheese (box of EZ Mac, compliments of Amber)

Orgulho de ser Brasileiro

One of the defining characteristics of Brazil and Brazilians is national pride. It is a bit strange to observe and absorb, particulary because, outside of a war or national crisis, this patriotism is not paralleled in the U.S. While wearing a t-shirt with a big American flag on it either marks you as a tourist or just out-of-touch with the times, here the Brazilian flag and colors are donned with pride. Everywhere you go you will see it; from billboards to commercials to t-shirts. This pride oozes out of every corner of the country.

Of course, as with most things, I am speaking from my own life experience and I am sure there are some of you who are reading this thinking, `What is Chas talking about? I´m very patriotic.` Perhaps you are and perhaps you are just without a more global perspective. Who knows. With that said, it has been being here and witnessing Brazil´s brand of patriotism that I have realized some things about myself and how I relate to the U.S.

The real difference, if I were to try to put my finger on it, is that the patriotism and national pride here in Brazil seem a lot more genuine here, while in the U.S. these things are forced or at least superficial. As mentioned before, without some sort of national crisis to "unite" America, you won´t find large numbers of people, across regions and socioeconomic levels really proud of our country. Speaking of the present day, one cannot neglect the specific and unique relationship that the U.S. has with the rest of the world, particularly as a result of perceived (and real) abuses of power. However, you find similar imperfections in Brazilian politics. Particularly over the past several years, the Brazilian government (both the executive and legislative powers) has been synonymous with corruption. Charges and accusations have been brought as far as the country´s President, Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, better known as Lula. Brazilians are the first to admit these problems and condemn Brazil´s politics for this plague. But it does not take away their pride in expressing their love for their country.

As I think about it, especially for those who are privileged enough to attain a high level of education in the U.S., the lack of patriotism has at least a bit to do with the fact that we do not participate. For example, there is no draft which would require us to put our lives on the line for our country (particularly in these days of international tension and crisis) and even the political process, an arena that would seem ripe for the contribution of fresh, energetic minds, is something that only very few of us involve ourselves with. The best analogy I can think of at the moment is living in a bubble, in which these issues of international and domestic crisis are no more real to us than the next big movie that is about to open. And unfortunately the closest that many of us come to really getting involved is a heated classroom debate, which means something until the bell rings and it is time to go.

If I am pointing a finger, it is only at myself.

Seguing (sort of), never have I felt the longing for home as I did this past Thursday, Thanksgiving Thursday, which I spent alone in Sao Paulo. It was strange thinking about everyone back home who would be celebrating. I felt completely disconnected from it all. Perhaps because of this I went against my better judgment and saw "Lions for Lambs" (Leoes e Cordeiros). First of all: if you have never gone to a movie by yourself, I would absolutely recommend it. There are many reasons...but I digress. The movie, from a purely cinematographic perspective, was decent at best (and probably for most of you, a bit worse than that), however, there was, for me, an importance of seeing a movie (which feels a bit like a civics lesson) that put me back in touch with home. More than just a patriotic movie, it seemed to be a message for those of my generation, which at the core preached the importance of being involved. It is one thing to be involved and, from this involvement, take a stance on an issue. However, what good are you doing to take a stance when you won´t even allow yourself to be involved? This, of course, was my read on the film´s message.

It´s funny that you don´t realize how important a thing is until you don´t have it anymore (or at least aren´t in touch with it). For me, Thanksgiving away from home had a bit of a jarring impact on me, though I wouldn´t say in any detrimental way. In the same way, my time out of the country has allowed me to get in touch with my "American" identity, an identity that I have taken for granted and, at times, been ashamed of. Because I do not look like the stereotypical "American" (blonde hair and blue eyes...you can challenge this, but it is the stereotype) and can capably speak more than one language, there is a luxury sometimes in being able to mask this identity. Only in the quiet moments have I begun to re-examine that, asking myself of the need to project something that I am not.

As a Government/IR major, one of the most interesting theories that I heard posited was that as a result of globalization and the overall modernatization of societies around the world, identites are no longer national, but global. Now more and more you are defined not by your country, but other characteristics, which traverse cities, countries and continents.

I do believe that this is, to a degree, true.

But we are not completely beyond national identity yet, and will not be for sometime. For now, that is something I am thankful for.

Sao Paulo: For anyone who doesn't think they're Brazilian

My friends have given me shit, pretty much from the moment I returned from studying abroad in Brazil, saying that I need to stop pretending to Brazilian. It's fair, maybe I did bring a bit too much Brazil back to the states after the study abroad experience. To be racially ambiguous became hot in the U.S. only a few decades ago; in Brazil, since Gilberto Freyre's controversial theory of racial democracy in the 1930, racial ambiguity has been tres chic.

Any-who, the significance of the title is that I think it would be worthwhile to give a description of Sao Paulo for those who have never seen the city before. For the record, I am very proud to be American and would never want to be Brazilian. I would just like to have a house here.

Sao Paulo beats Bogota on the level of ugliness. In using the word "ugly" I do not mean that the city is actually ugly, but rather it is very poorly laid out. This is the thing for which Sao Paulo is notorious. As I understand it, the city developed with a plan, but quickly outgrew this plan and as a result it did not grow in any logical fashion, but rather spread like a spill on land. A view from a few of the tallest buildings in the city's downtown will give a view of concrete as far as the eye can see. In all 360 degrees. It is absolutely impressive, but it makes you wonder how long this has been going on and how long it will continue.

Sao Paulo's success, in spite of it's horrific plan, can be attributed largely to the fact that it is Brazil's financial engine. I can understand the hesitation anyone would have to moving the capital to Sao Paulo, especially because of the size (11 million in the city, closer to 20 including the outskirts), but there is no denying the force behind the financial success of Brazil's most populous city. Where it was once home to the domestic natural resource-based business (and it still is), Sao Paulo is largely identified as an international city. Nearly any foreign business that has an office in Latin America will have one in Sao Paulo. Especially in the financial districts, in certain moments you feel like you could be anywhere in the world; it does not feel like Brazil that you think of with Rio and Salvador.

That said, Sao Paulo is far from devoid of a unique identity. This is part of what comes with being the 4th most populous city in the world. While in one sense Sao Paulo is international and in another it is characterized as the financial engine of Brazil, the city also has a rhythm and vibrancy all its own. One of the best ways for me to understand the city is as a conglomeration of neighborhoods. Each neighborhood has its own identity. Each neighborhood has it's own entertainment. Depending on what you are trying to in a given evening, you will find yourself in a different neighborhood. Some of the city's best clubs are in Villa Madalena. Avenida Paulista (which covers a number of neighborhoods) is one of the major commercial centers of Sao Paulo. Centro is the city's downtown. The neighborhoods of Pacaembu and Morumbi are homes to the city's most storied soccer stadiums. In the neighborhood of Jardins you will find some of the luxurious homes in Sao Paulo. The list goes on and on and on.

In this way Sao Paulo is a city of many identities, fitting for a city of its size. It cannot be characterized or easily summarized in a word or sentence. In the previous paragraphs, I have only scratched the tip of the iceberg. There is much to be explored in this city, and as I am here now for the third time, I would definitely give a visit my highest recommendation.

On being MIA

As I mentioned in my previous post, I am in Sao Paulo, Brazil, safe and sound.

It's great to be back and if the country and city aren't familiar enough, I am currently staying two blocks away from SP host mom's apartment. As I've explained to my (real) mom, the juxta-position is pretty interesting. I've gone from two weeks spent on my own in a country that I did not know, to around the corner from where I lived for five weeks, staying with a good friend who I look up to like an older brother. The difference of the two positions truly throws your mind for a loop.

Expanding on this idea, the past week has allowed me to realize that I have been (and I think most people are) socialized to surround myself with people. I touched on this "socialization" in a previous post and I think that this latest transition has reinforced this notion.

As human beings, we are social creatures that really do not take very well to loneliness. I think about myself and the times I felt most lonely, whether at home or at school. Usually these points of loneliness have lasted no more than a day before I "reconnected," which meant reuniting with friends or family. In this way, I've always viewed loneliness as detrimental. When we think of loneliness, the first thing that normally comes to mind is "depression" or "isolation," as opposed to "introspection" and "self-discovery."

I will leave the thread there before you start thinking "Oh shit, Chas has gone off the deep end." No, I'm not there yet.

The time that I have been away thus far has allowed me to see the good, or rather, the necessity, of time spent alone. Yes, there is a necessity for loneliness. It would be negligent of me not to thank my cousin, Taylor, who has also traveled alone, for helping me to understand loneliness (though I could not really understand its importance until I was experiencing it for myself). It was he who told me what this loneliness would be like and it is he who continues to help me to understand it.

The way I have grown up and spent the last 22 years of my life, I might as well have been on a conveyer belt. And I say that objectively, without wanting to do anything over again, because thus far, I think I have learned a great deal and have been allowed to experience tremendous opportunities. That said, the stretches of loneliness that I've experienced thus far help me to realize that I can, and must, step off this conveyer belt. Many who study human behavior will talk about my conveyer belt using terms like "herd mentality" and "group-think" and it's not until you are able to stand outside of the "group" or the "herd" that you see what's really going on. Loneliness doesn't fit well with the "group" or the "herd."

The writing that I have done has been extraordinary and if there is no one who reads this outside of my mom, dad and brother, that would be completely fine with me because the recording of my inner-dialogue is what is most meaningful for me. To have a forum, whether it is on the computer, in a notebook or on a napkin (I have a few of those) in which I can articulate the things that I am seeing and the things that I am feeling is so important and I wonder now how I went through life without doing it. Well no, i don't wonder, because I know exactly how. The past few days have allowed me to see just how easily one (I) can switch from an existence of complete introspection to one of complete socializing. I am not condemning either, but if there is anything my 23 days out of the country has shown me is that in order to be complete, one must find a way to balance the two.

View from the Top

The disposable camera doesn't show the sweat stains...

To Cochabamba We Go

This post is a bit belated (as I arrived safely in Sao Paulo yesterday evening), but I wanted to make sure, really for the sake of posterity, that I recorded my experience in Cochabamba, a city approximately an 8 hour busride southeast of La Paz.

I was excited for the trip largely because it would allow me to both see another city in Bolivia as well as get a feel for the countryside, something that wouldn't have been possible by plane. The bus terminal was about a 15 minute walk uphill (shit...) from my hotel, so the "convenience" helped me convince myself that getting out of La Paz, at least for a couple of days, was necessary. I certainly would not regret this decision.

The countryside was of a beauty that you would find in some classic novel of South America (think Conrad's "Nostromo"). It's funny doing all of this alone (well, not really alone, but without anyone you know) because in the downtime, your mind starts to wander a little bit. Looking at so much countryside I found myself thinking how someone more articulate than me (like an author) would describe the scene. What kind of words would they use? I thought about words like "sprawling" "scorched" "abandoned" "neglected" "soft" and "dry." My mind wandered further and I would pick out a place, miles away, and imagine what is was like living there. We would go miles without seeing a structure, then you'd glimpse a man or woman or a couple of sheep, literally in the middle of nowhere, and I would wonder what their life was like. Where were they going?

Topographically, the countryside varied from fertile to parched, where you couldn't imagine there ever having been a drop of moisture in the earth--though the deep crevasses representing dried river/creek beds told another story. After miles of pure hills you would rise over the top of one and there would be a single house, or two houses or even a small community. Nothing larger than that. And it was mostly the same; small makeshift homes with a clay/mud surrounding wall or, occasionally, a cement wall. Whenever you happened upon a community, which from a passing bus looked more like a ghost town, there were three things that you could count on: stray dogs, soccer fields (two structures resembling goals on a flat surface) and a church (always the most developed edifice).

Though the 8 hours didn't pass quickly, the time was not on my mind. Privileged with a window seat, while not asleep, I understood the author's use of the verb "drink" when describing how a pair of eyes will take in a scene; at times I would pull my gaze away from the countryside, eyes ringing with a dull pain because I had not blinked in minutes. There was so much to see and wonder about. In the middle of nowhere you would see foot high walls surrounding a piece of land; why are they even there? Property? Maybe, but it's the middle of nowhere. Farmland? Maybe, but the earth had long since been sucked dry of any sort of moisture.

While not focused on what was outside the bus, I found my attention taken by what was going inside the bus. Interestingly enough, I think we saw a pair of the best D-level movies I've ever seen. The first was a Jet Li movie entitled "Contract Killer" which chronicled the protagonist's (Li) rise to become the King of Assassins. Very nice. The second was a real classic whose title I never saw but featured a girl who continues to inject herself with a fluid that prevents her from transforming into a werewolf until finally she allows herself to transform in an effort to stop another werewolf that keeps on killing. Three thumbs up!
The last movie is one that actually shook the passengers out their collective comatose as it was the movie based on Evo Morales' life story. It was interesting to watch the change in reaction. Passengers who had been lazily viewing the previous two films (as there was nothing else to do on the bus) immediately appeared more focused; parents who had been allowing their children to sleep on the busride called the youths to attention. During funny parts the entire bus would chuckle; in the tense moments, you could feel the silence. It was a shared experience, the type of moment that you will have in a movie theatre (with the right movie of course), which helped me gain a bit of insight into what Morales and his story means to Bolivians.

Arriving in Cochabamba felt like arriving in another country. The weather was warmer. The population (at a glance) was more diverse. Even the layout of the city was different from anything I had seen in La Paz. There was a fraternity/sorority parade in the leadup to a festival held two days later and from the music and the dancing, Cochabamba had a rhythm so different from La Paz that you would think that you were somewhere completely different. Having been confused by La Paz for my first few days, Cochabamba made sense. I gained my internal security in Cochabamba in a matter of hours, while La Paz tooks days. While only planning on staying in Cochabamba for two days, I felt like I could spend months. And, interestingly enough, it made me genuinely appreciate La Paz. Funny how that happens.

Cochabamba was a blitz, and I would have liked to stay longer, but the narrowness of the window of time forced me to explore the city. Over the course of a single day I visited specific destinations and I wandered. I got empanadas from a lady on the street (not the best...) and some of the best fresh-squeezed orange juice I've ever tasted for about 15 cents. I watched the parades down the street, occasionally asking the bystander next to me which fraternities/sororities/universities were represented.

The picture accompanying this post captures one of the most exciting moments of my short trip. Informed by a friend (Sonia Torrico, '06) who is herself from Cochabamba that there is a Christ Statue in Cochabamba (to be precise, the highest standing Christ Statue in the world) I decided this was a site worth seeing. However, when I arrived at the bottom of the hill, I saw that the lift was under repair. My spirits sank a bit until, squinting my eyes against the sun, I saw that there was a narrow (and almost imperceptible from where I was standing) staircase that ran up to the top of the hill with the statue. Without thinking twice I began up the hill to the staircase. Understanding that I'm in pretty good shape, I figured that this shouldn't be too difficult a task, and surely, the view from the top would be worth breaking a few drops of sweat.

1500 vertical steps later, I staggered/crawled up the top step, almost keeling over before I reached a bench on which to sit down. The heat, in combination with the altitude in combination with the steepening of the staircase approximately 2/3 of the way up in combination with me not being in as good of shape as I had previously thought had made the trip a wee bit more difficult. In fact, had it not been for the small Cochabamba resident who start right after me, I perhaps may not have made it (ok, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic). What started out as a touristic walk up a set of stairs (and would have turned into, perhaps, a dejected, exhausted Chas) became a marathon of sorts. Out of breath, glancing over my shoulder, I stopped only when he stopped. When he started doing the steps two at a time, I did them two at a time. My brain and my lungs would be telling me to take a break; my competitive drive would tell them to shut up.

At about step 1300 he passed me (I'm sure he was satisfied), though even then I keep pushing. Now he was my rabbit. I pushed myself harder, trying to make up lost ground. I measured the distance in vertical steps. He had about 20 on me, all I had to do was cut that to 15....then 10. I came as close as 7, but he was not going to be overtaken. He had me and we both knew it.

Recovering my breath (sorta) after a few minutes I walked over to where he was and congratulated him; he looked at me puzzled (my Spanish was, for a rare moment, perfect, so I think he was just trying to play it cool, having pulled off a stunning, come-from-behind victory). We chatted. He grabbed some water. I tried to catch my breath and stop pouring sweat into my already soaked shirt. Then he took my picture.

Evo Mas

A discussion of the food in La Paz (and Bolivia in general) truly highlights the current state of Bolivia’s economy. As a foreigner, it is nice to take advantage of great deals (which are not exclusive to the food alone) but it is difficult to enjoy the exchange rate and purchasing power of the dollar without seeing the other side of the coin, so to speak.

Economically, Bolivia is suffering and this suffering has increased, to some degree since the popular President Evo Morales took power some 22 months ago. In an effort to pursue the nationalization of many of Bolivia's resources, life has become a lot more difficult for many in Bolivia.

Some of the most insightful conversations I've had about the state of affairs in Bolivia have been with cab drivers. The conversations usually start the same, with me asking about the weather and the best soccer in the country, but after a few minutes, he will begin talking about issues a bit more personal to him (I have yet to have or see any female cab drivers).

One cabdriver told me that as opposed to the 4 days a week he normally drove, he was now driving everyday of the week, taking a break where he could, largely as a result of the worsening of affairs in the La Paz economy. Several cabdrivers have expressed their frustration with Morales, talking about how his preaching of a better Bolivia but inability to deliver in almost two years has left them hamstrung in several ways.

The greatest wisdom I have heard in my two weeks here, however, came from a cabdriver who simply said, "I'm proud of him." He spoke of the political corruption that existed before Morales and how the country was being ravaged by corporations. "These things take time," he replied to my question of how he could be proud if the conditions have worsened for so many. "So many have expected for positive change to happen overnight. Change for the better always takes time." I completely understood and agreed with him, but I was struck by how someone could take such a position when they were being squeezed. Sure it is easy to make such statements in an academic setting; afterall in school we are encouraged to elevate above a societal issue so that we can see it all at once, instead of seeing it from the perspective of the individual who has to live in it. It was a powerful thing to hear.

Some of the greatest support that you will see for President Morales is in the countryside, where virtually every wall that you see is spraypainted with the slogan, ¨Evo Mas.¨ The fact that Morales himself is of rural origin has a lot to do with this support, but it wasn't until I asked someone about the slogan that they explained to me that it was a double-entendre. Not only does it literally mean "Evo More" as in Evo Morales will bring more to the struggling country, but additionally, MAS is an acronym which stands for Movimiento A Socialismo (Movement to Socialism).

This was interesting and I would have asked for a deeper explanation (because, though I know that Morales has been a proponent, in many ways, of a socialist Bolivia, I didn't follow his campaign for the Presidency) but I was on a bus and we had only stopped briefly for people to grab food and use the bathroom.

Since finding out about the slogan and seeing how widespread it is, I have viewed La Paz and the rest of Bolivia through a different lens. In a world where there are few (if any) examples of successful socialism in action, I wonder if Morales has the ability and the vision to make it a success for Bolivia. The American press has, for a long time, mentioned him in the same breath as Venezuela's Chavez and the truth of the matter is that to most people, Morales´ message has been overshadowed by Chavez' eccentricities. As expected, everyday you will see a different headline on the major Bolivian papers, either expressing confidence or doubt in a Morales initiative.

To an extent, my time in Bolivia has shown me that there is a great deal of value in seeing a place before drawing conclusions about it. Everyday people are thinking and writing about places they have never seen, believing that the sole fact that the information is in a book or on the internet makes their analysis legitimate. There is a tremendous value in seeing a place with your eyes and feeling it with your hands; to have the opportunity to interact with people who have lived in a place their entire lives and hear their perspective.

In this way, I’m blessed and extremely privileged.

Life in the Bowl Vol. II: A Little Something for the Global Epicure

If my time in La Paz has been marked by any single thing, it has been great food. And I'm not talking mostly good food; I'm talking about everyday having at least one fantastic meal.

In terms of food, Bolivia's staples are not so different from the rest of Latin America: fish, beef and chicken are your primary meats, normally accompanied by potatoes or some sort or rice, and an assortment of vegetables, either raw, steamed or grilled. I am not any sort of prodigy in the kitchen, so I couldn't tell you where the magic is, but whatever is done to these basic aforementioned foods is incredible.

My personal favorite thus far has been a Bolivian specialty (whose name currently escapes me) which consists of seasoned beef and sausage diced and mixed with a medley of grilled vegetables over rice, garnhished with a couple of diced, hardboiled eggs. Spicy but delicious. A close second is a grilled trout and vegetables on a bed of fried potatoes, garnished with two lime quarters, to help bring out the flavor. Stupendous!

What makes such delicious meals even more appealing to the tourist is that they are available in most good restaurants at a really good price, largely as a result of the weakness of Bolivia's currency, the boliviano, in comparison to many other major currencies. A full dinner (appetizer, entree, and two beverages) that in the U.S. would cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $75 can be enjoyed for about 80 bolivianos, or about $10, and that's on the expensive side. That said, for those of you who might have been worried about how I'm eating, you know see that you have nothing to worry about.

Not yet at least.

La Paz: On My Own

So I've got a confession. About 24 hours into La Paz, I was ready to leave. It's not as if I had any bad experiences (aside from that little customs incident), but more like I couldn't see myself becoming all that comfortable with the city, or the country for that matter. It was a combination of being in a city different from any that I have known or visited, and being alone.

You're probably laughing and thinking, "Duh Chas, you should have thought about that before you made your plans."
Fair enough.

No, I'm not looking for sympathy points, just telling it like it is. As nice as it was spending my first days out of the country staying with Brittney in Bogota, it prevented me from understanding that I would be spending most of the next 9 months alone. It's a bit of a strange thing to get used to, especially since when you think about it, most of the time we surround ourselves with family and friends.

With that said, I believe it fortuitous that I am not able leave Bolivia (I have already purchased my plane tickets and as a result, my country itinerary is fixed) because it has forced me to get beyond my discomfort and moments of loneliness and get to know La Paz. Sure I don't fit in, but it has made me realize that sometimes you aren't going to fit and you're going to have to make the most of it. And sometimes, it pays not to fit in. It is the fact that you are different that makes you interesting to others.

Life in the Bowl Vol. I

The ride down from the La Paz airport by night was one of the most breathtaking experiences of my life. As we rode the twists and turns of the road leading down, stretched out before me was all of La Paz. At 1 am in the morning, the uninhibited view of all of the twinkling lights coming from the makeshift homes clinging to the sides of the steep hills down below gave me the feeling that I was laid out in an open field looking up at the stars in the sky.

For those who are unfamiliar with the layout of La Paz (as I was before arriving) the best image that I could give you would be that of a bowl. Literally. Others have described La Paz as ´the city built within a geologic gash´ in Bolivia’s topography. The reality is that the city sits in the valley of the Choqueyapu River (thanks wikipedia), and for this reason it resembles the aforementioned bowl.

What is most interesting about the city’s geography is how it relates to the socioeconomic order of the city. As a result of the high altitude and thin air (at its highest point it’s about 13500 ft), the lowest points of the city are where you will find the most affluent areas. There is more oxygen here and as a result, living is a lot easier (if you think this an exaggeration, next time you’re in La Paz, try walking uphill for long periods of time, then you’ll get the picture). From these low points the city has grown and developed, to the point where you have some of the city’s poorest in favela type communities that cling to the sides of the La Paz bowl. In La Paz lies a challenge to the popular adage ´shit rolls downhill.´ My cabdriver described the situation as a perpetual struggle of those in the hills to find a way to get further downhill, where the conditions are significantly better.

The second most noticeable aspect of Bolivia’s administrative capital (technically, Sucre is the city’s constitutional capital) are the people. According to the national census, approximately 40% of Bolivia’s population is of indigena descent, though in La Paz it feels like more. This is so noticeable especially as a North American, in which a very small percentage of the U.S. population is of direct Native American descent (all of you who ´claim´ some Cherokee blood do not count). The result of this is that I get a lot of stares and strange looks from people on the street. I imagine the thoughts going through their heads resemble something like:

¨Well, he looks like he could be from Brazil but his Spanish is terrible, he has a thick American accent and he kind of carries himself like a gringo. But...he’s not white.¨

It is also strange being, on the average, taller than most of the men and women out here. I am, strictly speaking, of average height (yes, that goes out to all of you who have tried to deny me my full 6 ft over the years) and so I’m not really used to feeling like I’m towering over others. I guess there´s a first time for everything.

The icing on the cake, referring once again to the general populace of La Paz, is that the culture is very traditional. While you will see people who could fit in, clothing wise, anywhere in the globalized world, you will also see a great number of people (women in particular) in what looks to be traditional Bolivian clothing (patterned knit shawls, for example). This is something, at least in my travels, that I have never seen so widespread, particularly in a country’s capital city. The effect of this difference (as well as several others) is that the city takes on an identity different from any other city I’ve ever known. Large cities are large cities, and with the exception of a few details, there is not a great deal that separates them. However, La Paz´s identity is one that, while in a traditional and economic sense quite modest (to put it gently), is also quite rich in its uniqueness and nonconformity to the major cities of the world.

A Note to the International Traveler

November 1st was a travel day for me as I was leaving Bogota to head to La Paz, Boliva (via a stopover in Lima, Peru). It was a bit tiresome in that I left Bogota at 4 PM and did not arrive in La Paz, until after midnight. Though inconvenient, this was not abnormal. What was, however, was what happened when I arrived in La Paz.

Upon deplaning, all of the passengers prepared to go through customs and as my turn arrived (I somehow found myself the last person in line) to pass through, I greeted the officer cordially. Inspecting my passport and documents, he began talking to another officer. This didn´t worry me too much as I knew that my passport and customs papers were in order, but after a period of time he began looking from my face, to my passport picture and back again. He handed my passport over to another officer.

"I don´t think that looks like him," he said in Spanish. "What do you think?"

The other officer shrugged his shoulders, looking more doubtful than anything. The first officer asked me to take off my hat and lean in closer to the window. He looked down at the passport with a doubtful glance, clearly not convinced.

"Give me your passport number." My entire body froze. What kind of procedure was this, asking someone for their passport number from memory? I hesitated, and then regrouping, gave him all 9 digits in slow, clear spanish. He looked down after each number and upon hearing the 9th, and looking satisfied, stamped my passport and let me through. I don´t really want to imagine what the outcome would have been had I not known the number, especially a 12:30 at night.

I´d say I was lucky. Not that I am the most experienced travler, but I have had enough bad luck in my travels to have had reason to memorize my passport number.

The obvious moral of the story: It is worthwhile to take the time to memorize your passport number, or at least have it saved somewhere (i.e. your phone) so it is easily accessible in the event that your actual passport is not.

The even more obvious moral of the story: Make sure you look like your damn passport photo. In this case, I don´t know if the officer was having some fun with me or if he actually thought it didn´t look like me. It´s not been a problem for anyone other customs agents and its not like I´ve grown out a full beard (its only been 9 days!), but who knows.

Race in Bogota Pt. II

So that you all may understand what I´m talking about...

Race in Bogota

When I envisioned this post, I figured that the appropriate title would be "Halloween in Bogota," as I had heard how big an event the holiday is in Colombia's capital city. However, after experiencing my first Halloween outside of the U.S. (not that Halloween has ever been that big of a deal to me) it was clear that a more appropriate title was calling. You will soon see why.

The day was like any of the others I had spent in Bogota, the sunning periodically breaking through the clouds and smog hovering above the city's center. Having been convinced the night before that I would have to find a costume, I spent the day walking around, collecting accessories for my slapped together part 'Drug Lord' part 'Don Juan' outfit...photos will be posted soon, I promise. It actually didnt turn out half badly after a sleazy painted on goatee, my linen shirt and newly acquired pants, a pair of 8000 peso {about $5) Armani shades and a cigar.

Britt, who was dressed as part belly dancer part gypsy, and I headed over to her friend Lamonte's place for dinner and a pregame and arrived at the Halloween party about 11. The spot is called In Vitro, and for anyone who is looking for somewhere poppin during the week in Bogota, this would be a good bet for you. As Britt explained, the Colombians went all out on the costumes. Among the costumes we saw were a Tour de France biker, fairies, generally ghoulish characters and a pair of white girls in blackface. WTF?

I myself had to do a doubletake, but sure enough, the girls were indeed in blackface. And Im not just talking about facepaint. I mean black shoe-shine polish covering their faces and bare arms, huge afro wigs and enormous, clownish white smiles painted around their mouths. The only thing missing were the huge red lips around those smiles. I suppose they may have forgotten that when googling 'minstrel shows' in the preparation of their costumes.

As I had described in a previous post, while officially 30% of Colombia's population is of African descent, you will rarely see more than a handfull in Bogota. Interestingly enough, there were a number of black Colombians at this party. I mention this because, these were the individuals showing these blackfaced girls so much love and attention during the party. I'm talking about high fives, dancing and picture posing.

The analytical part of my brain tried to make sense of it all, but I kept coming up short. Perhaps, for these black Colombians, the blackface was a true recognition of a black existence in Colombia or maybe its because of the development of a different type of racial history in Colombia, so there is not such a sensitivity to racial parodying. Afterall, it is a product of U.S. slavery that has resulted in such a racial awareness among so many of us in the United States.

As much as I tried, however, it wouln't do.

How could an appropriate costume be the parody of an oppressed racial group? Granted, things along these lines are not foreign to U.S. culture, I just found it difficult to understand how such a parody could go unchallenged.

I wondered for a moment how it would be perceived if someone had come in a parodied 'white face' a la Dave Chappelle in episodes of Chappelle's Show. Would those people who identified as white find as much humor as was generally found in the blackface? Quien sabe. I'll make sure to post the blackfaced pics when I get a hold of them. I report, you decide. Would love to hear your thoughts.