My First Revolution
by Scott Kloos'What do you want?' is the only question eternity can ask of time, and it is our divine gift to answer by asking our own question. Desire, passion, curiosity, longing, novelty, daring, creativity, productivity, lust for life, ecstasy, joy, adventure, all these are the highest thrusts of life, the most divine of attributes, the most sacred of possessions. And all these have been the attributes most mistrusted and condemned by that dark priesthood probing for control, domination, and battering on the brother's blood. Without these seeds from time, however, without these vital gametes from the larger body of man, the womb of eternity is barren.
-Joseph Chilton Pearce, The Crack in the Cosmic Egg
Bolivia currently has the second lowest per capita GNP (US$900 annually, after Guyana) in South America, and the third lowest in the Western Hemisphere (Haiti is the poorest).
-The Lonely Planet guidebook
-Joseph Chilton Pearce, The Crack in the Cosmic Egg
Bolivia currently has the second lowest per capita GNP (US$900 annually, after Guyana) in South America, and the third lowest in the Western Hemisphere (Haiti is the poorest).
-The Lonely Planet guidebook
7 Feb. 2003, Into the Andes
The road to Charazani in the Cordillera Apolobamba goes north from La Paz along the shores of Lago Titicaca near the Peruvian border. There is much crop damage along the way; whole fields washed away by floods. Farmers dig ankle deep in mud trying to salvage what they can. The bus hesitates at washed out parts of road then rushes forward grinding and sliding over rock through the water. My planned five day trek is impossible-the river crossings are too treacherous.
8 Feb. 2003, A Song of the Andean Road
This land is defined by mountain, cloud, and river, raw despite millennia of human habitation. For the Kallawaya, sickness results from an imbalance of the ajallu (life force) with the land. I walk trails that these medicine men have used since before the time of the Inca. I pass a graveyard of adobe tombs, a church high upon a hill. In every direction terraces perfectly flowing as if they were shaped by the hand of God. And all around are medicinal plants. The Kallawaya healer, who is selected for his mission by being struck by lightning, travels the continent in search of the six-hundred to one thousand herbs that make up his repertoire. I look, smell, touch, attempt to classify, but their secrets remain hidden. I appreciate their beauty and move on. If I meet one of these Kallawaya I will not ask him what is this plant good for or that one, but how his people discovered the properties of the plants. How do they make relationships with the herbs? How do they communicate? What are the myths?
I am in the Andes. I am here. There is magic, magic equal to that which can lift people into space to die. But here the magic is sustaining. Of course the forces of entropy rule; conservatism reigns. It must for life to exist in such fragile balance. But here, I, me alone, can see a way to live life creatively unhindered by robotic tendencies, unswayed and unattached to the lure of that other, that supposedly one true reality that threatens to engulf all.
I walk until the sight of condor becomes commonplace, glad to be in a place where gringos are still looked upon with suspicion. I understand the ramifications of my being here but the tide will inevitably rush forward. I come not to dig graves or plunder gold. I'd rather rob a bank or dig up the bones of the university president's ancestors. Eagles soar past. A big green hummingbird with black wings sucks nectar from a yellow eucalypt flower. An old lady demands money after I take a picture of her sheep. Sitting in a fallow mountainside field, I explain the rotation of the earth and the sun and why we have seasons to a young boy. I pass through Chari. There is a newly dug grave in the cemetery surrounded by old, odd, beautifully shaped tombs. The people will stone me if I take a photo. Kids throw water balloons at me anyway. Two little girls playing in the stream throw rocks. I thrust my arms into the air and laugh as I climb higher towards the ruins of a pre-Inca civilization. Clouds roll in as I approach the top. They obscure my view. Agave sentinels beckon in the foggy almost darkness of dusk. I am not alone. How can I be? I am everywhere, am all that I see. God walks beside me. Only when I project fear out into the universe do I feel alone. But now I cloud swirl. I bird chirp. I rustle in the wind, photosynthesize, draw sustenance from the earth. I ant-crawl, stand and lie about rock steady. I breathe. I forget. I leave this skin behind.
9 Feb. 2003
In response to demands by the IMF that the national debt be decreased, Harvard-trained President, Gonzalo ('Goni') Sanchez de Lozada, proposes a 12.5% tax on wages for all workers.
10 Feb. 2003
I wake to the sound of rushing water. A crop destroying rain pours down from the sky. I see visions of roads washing away, rivers flooding their banks, and little potato plants being crushed. I am glad to be inside this simple little room of rough wood plank floor and not out camping.
The curtain here is just a piece of fabric strung across a wire stretched between two nails. The coat rack, barely able to hold my few shirts, sadly waits to fall. I can see the morning light shining through the gaps of the poorly hung door. Each time I walk through the doorway my head grazes the top. The lock couldn't bear the weight of an average size man. On the wall hangs last year's calendar and an ad for a construction company-Somos Expertos...Construimos tus Sueños. A dangling light bulb covered with specks of bugblood fades in and out in the middle of the ceiling. On the walls and ceiling are the hundreds of flies I have allowed to live. Last night in a frenzy I started to smash them with a newspaper, but I stopped. They were so languid, having grown fat and lazy on the haunches of mules. What harm could they do me?
I go out into the courtyard to tell Don Claudio that I plan to leave today. No water flows from the tap. An indigenous woman runs in crying and babbling in Aymara; dried blood sticks her hair to the side of her head. It covers the left side of her face, her hands too. The bus honks in the square. It is time for me to go.
In La Paz, business leaders, who say the new tax will harm the people's buying power and lead to more black market activity, and workers' groups, who think their burden should be lowered, join forces. A national strike is called for Thursday.
11 Feb. 2003, La Paz
Shoeshiners squat in ski masks and camo gear waging guerrilla warfare on dirty shoes. Adolescents in bright vests offer cheap calls from cell phones chained around their wrists. It is noisy with the rush of cars, taxis, and micros from which people hang out shouting 'Ceja! Ceja! un boliviano!' The air is clean.
The Policia Nacional declare a mutiny to protest the tax plan (they were promised wage increases by the current administration). The firemen vow to unite.
A study comes out showing that the poor and middle class, those making less than 4000 Bolivianos a month (approx. US$500) will bear most of the burden. The Impuestazo will only lower the debt by 1%.
12 Feb. 2003, Black Wednesday
I wait for the waiter to get his keys to unlock the metal gate so I can get out of the cafe. Tear gas fills the street. It is hard to breathe; my eyes burn. The hotel too is filled with gas. I close the window of my room. On the TV in the lobby we can see canisters of gas being fired. We hear the sound with our own ears. The Hotel Torino is a half block from the Plaza Murillo where the main government buildings are located and the fighting is taking place.
The military is trying to disperse university students who are protesting the Impuestazo. Rocks are hurled, breaking windows. A few of us go to the balcony of Room 26, overlooking Calle Socabaya, from where we can see a corner of the Plaza. The military is blocking access to the plaza here and opposite them, up the block where their barracks are, the police are facing them down.
I go out into the street and around to the other side of the plaza standing with the crowd behind the line of policemen. The air is thick with tear gas. People rush to a nearby fountain to wash out their eyes. I tie a bandana over my face. People shout at the heavily armed policemen standing on the rooftops: Abajo! Abajo!, urging them to join the struggle. It is chaotic. The crowd disperses each time the soldiers advance. I pass a worker's protest in front of the mayor's office. Chants denouncing the USA fill the air.
I go back to my room to eat and free up space on my camera. A tear gas canister lands on the roof outside my window. Choking on the gas I quickly reposition my bandana and close the wooden shutters. Shots are fired. The violence has started. Apparently someone has rushed up with a gun and begun firing towards the soldiers. All hell has broken loose, shots are exchanged. The balcony of Room 26 is full so I go to the room next door and lean out over the railing to take pictures. One of the hotel porters motions for me to get back. Whizzing bullets fly by in the street below.
The soldiers huddle against the walls or lie flat on the ground as they fire up towards the police. A few limp off injured. Powder flies from walls where bullets strike. The soldiers flee. They have lost control of the corner. The people move in. Al palacio becomes the rallying cry. Insults fill the air. A man yells at the soldiers: "You are killing your uncles and brothers and fathers. You are spilling the blood of your own country, you sons of bitches. Muera, Goni! Viva la revolucion!"
From around the corner people come running with army rucksacks. Blankets are pulled out and burned. Aluminum pots are discarded, jackets turned inside out. There is jubilance in the air then cries for "Ambulancia!" The wounded are pulled out from the square. Blood flows in the street. One man is hauled out face down with a gaping wound in his buttock. He seems to be dead. It is too much for me. I step away from the balcony and cry. Things calm down a bit. The soldiers seem content to hold their position in the palace. Occasionally shots are fired as people run down the street.
The atmosphere in the lobby of the hotel is grave. The president appears on the television to make a pronouncement. He is almost an hour late. He looks frightened as he nervously calls for calm and peace. He says he will recall the tax plan and meet with the opposition to discuss the alternatives.
The opposition follows and calls for the president's resignation. "He has used the military against the people and therefore has no legitimate claim to power. He is obviously confused, he thinks this is Europe or the USA. The people here have no money to pay taxes. Goni must resign immediately."
Things have calmed down a bit, so, while most of the other tourists watch the scene on the TV, a guy from Iowa named Dervo and I venture out into the streets to find food. Everything is closed. A group of Policemen comes running down the street. Their leader puts a finger to his lips urging us to be silent (usually the people cheer the police as they pass.) A moment later a squad of militares comes running up the street perpendicular to where the police have just passed. They shoot tear gas to get us out of the way. They are setting up a perimeter around the Plaza. We are now cut off from our hotel. A Bolivian man about my age advises me to put my camera away. "The soldiers will take it away from you if they see you taking pictures. Is this your first revolution?" he asks smiling wryly. "This is my fourth. In '88 they gave us guns. We shot from here." He points toward the square. "We have hung presidents in that square. Not me, but my father. The Bolivians are a brave people."
Bolivia has had 192 different governments; over 100 revolutions. In the center of Plaza Murillo a statue of President Gualberto Villaroel stands who in 1946 was dragged from the palace by vigilantes and hung from a lamppost in the square. We continue down the street away from the plaza. There is a kid ahead selling bread. As we begin to speak to him, the soldiers shoot more tear gas. Eventually we catch up with the kid and are able to eat some bread.
As night falls the looting begins. There are fires everywhere: the Ministerio de Trabajo (Work), the Ministerio de Desarollo Sostenible (Sustainable Development; a euphemism I think), and the Vice-president's house all burn. Things are thrown out from the windows into the street to be burned. Store owners band together to defend their stores from looters. "No hay paso," they yell banging sticks on the ground. The street is torn up to make blockades. Bands of police and militares roam the streets. We come around a corner face to face with some militares who point their machine guns in our faces. We turn and not too quickly walk the other way.
We hear the same story from everybody: the people have no work; they are hungry. The USA and Europe send money to help, but none of it gets to the people. Gifts of used clothes never make it out of customs. The money from the IMF debt never got to the people so why should the burden of repayment be placed upon their shoulders. This is a rich country but the leaders are corrupt and mismanage the resources. When manufacturing increases it is no good; no one has money to buy the products. There are huge reserves of gas, but the government practically gives it away.
We find a stand serving hamburgers lower down the Prado, the main drag. Boom boxes, microwaves, toys, etc. pass by in the street in waves as each new store is sacked. Huge desks, which seem to be the most sought after items, make the ascent to the poorer neighborhoods of La Paz.
We wind our way through deserted streets heading back to our hotel. The plaza is empty. It makes no sense. There are tear gas canisters everywhere, blood in the street, dead pigeons. A fire burns in the broken windowed Palacio de Gobierno. We walk down the street to the hotel. The soldiers yell "No hay paso." We tell them that we are just going to our hotel. They let us pass. I am home.
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