Pre-Game: Welcome to Bolivia
Urban leisure and nightlife serve the same general purposes almost anywhere within the United States: to unwind and socialize after the grueling daily doldrums of work. Across the country, settings, spirits, and ambiance vary depending upon city or establishment. It’s not until one ventures outside of our national boundaries that we see how culture, country, and environment can have such a huge impact on the overall significance of getting tanked.
La Paz: A glimpse into high-altitude urban debauchery in the socio-economically and politically polarized capitol of Boliva.
As a half-Bolivian, it just so happens that I have the insider’s track to this corner of the world’s particular drinking habits. I lived in the La Paz back in 2004-2005 and often return to visit my family. Throughout my tenure and during my multiple visits, I’ve actively participated in the mystical and unforgiving practice of balls-out drinking that would test the stamina of a Canadian lumberjack. The reasons that Paceños drink are really no different than why Bostonians drink: Sporting events, special occasions, after work social outings, or my personal favorite, abject boredom. It’s the manner, underlying idiosyncrasies and what actually transpires during these sessions that really separate La Paz from any other place in the world. Bolivia’s culture, natural beauty and exotic atmosphere are worth the airfare alone, but launching this discussion requires digressing from our hedonistic topic at hand.
Everything is dirt cheap compared to urban American standards. (A bottle of Bacardi will set you back a whopping $4). You can ball out like Robert Downey Jr. circa 1992 for peanuts, then graze like Nell Carter for even less. The people are friendly and are great dancers, even when sober, but especially when drunk. Like soccer, it seems that salsa, meringue and bachata is programmed into Bolivian DNA. American hip-hop moves get a day pass, but do yourself a favor and familiarize yourself with some basics before you go.
Elemental Obstacles
2 to 3 solid days of acclimation are necessary to even attempt to enjoy a night in La Paz. 12,000+ feet of altitude can really mess with a person’s ability to drink, dance, screw or anything else but lay around and breath. Try hot-boxing non-filter Pall Malls while doing wind sprints, then trying to squeeze in a pint in between huffs. Yeah, it’s physically possible, but damn hard to enjoy and borderline dangerous.
Social Etiquette
The average pasty Lonely Planet toting gringo who lacks a strong command of the Spanish language may find some doors initially closed to them. Don’t fret: Bolivians, like North Americans, are generally open and very friendly as long as you have a little moxie and can adapt to the situation. Many people speak acceptable to rudimentary English and will try and work with you. Simply return the favor in your best horrible Spanglish. (Note: beer makes your Spanish better)
Political Savoir-faire
Bolivia has been in a political impasse since its founding. Road blocks, riots and coup d'états have plagued the country for years. Blame largely falls on US policies in Latin America, so keep your political sensitivity in the back of your mind before you expound insightfully on your solution to the plight of South America. Actually, it’s best to avoid political discussions altogether unless someone asks you.
South American Fútbol Anarchy
Being the awful soaks that we are, Bolivians gather manically at college and professional fútbol fields with pints of whiskey stashed in baby strollers, reeling hysterically with beers in hand, all to take in the game of our favorite team. In short, we’re just like Americans, except we’re obsessed with only one sport. Moreover, there are really only two teams. What ensues on the days when these teams meet in Hernando Siles stadium is known locally as “el classico”, and is a frenzied, liver-soaking spectacle that should be experienced at least once in lifetime.
The Bolivar/Strongest rivalry is comparable to the Red Sox and Yankees, or Notre Dame and USC save for the fact that the characteristics and subsequent ramifications of Latin American fútbol run a bit deeper than the sports here in the good ol’ US. (Don’t believe it? Google “la guerra del fútbol” between El Salvador and Honduras in 1969.) As far as I know there hasn’t been a sporting event here that has warranted a negotiated cease-fire intervention by the OAS.
Officially, alcohol is banned in Bolivian stadiums (a sensible law, no doubt) so the fans get as trashed as humanly possible before hand, usually through the combination of beer and singani (a potent Bolivian liquor distilled from grapes).
Let the Games Begin
One of my friends at the game works for the American Embassy and operates under “diplomatic immunity,” which meant that he successfully marched in with multiple bottles of harsh Puerto Rican rum with no penalties. Unfortunately, I deduced our smuggled goods would mix just fine with the 5 glasses of scotch I pounded beforehand. The game was officially on.
The stadium was segregated by teams—a river of celestial blue flowing starkly against a tide of yellow and black, each gathering en masse at their respective north and south curves of the stadium. Roman candles rained on the field, usually burning out only 10 seconds after they hit the grass. This continued throughout the game every time a team scored as the players skillfully avoided the 2nd degree burns as they navigated the pitch.
We were seated in one of the few truly neutral places in the stadium as my group was of mixed allegiances. Any score would prompt outrageous displays of amateur pyrotechnics and raucous cheers. Every ten minutes or so a fight would break out between the players on the field, usually initiated by a fiery blonde pugilist from Bolivar. The capacity crowd of about 40,000 actually had the concrete stadium swaying and I thanked sweet Jesus for the acerbic rum we were swilling, as it rather took the edge off what would have been an otherwise nerve-jangling experience.
With about 15 minutes left of the game, it became obvious that it was going to be a win for Club Bolivar. The shouts of victory for Bolivar blue feverishly climaxed in tune with the setting of the sun. The air of the Stronguistas adopted a tone of dejection and anger and they began to pepper the field with bottles and cans. The collective mass drunkenly lurched about, and it seemed that “diplomatic immunity” was a fairly commonplace status throughout the stadium.
In the south curve seats of the stadium, The Stronguistas set a huge fire. Colossal flames sent caustic burnt plastic, rubber and paper smoke spewing into the sky. Fans were chanting, children were crying and as before, the game went on. To the final tick of the clock when they expended the remaining “Roman Death Candles” these gritty jugadores played on as the bedlam around them increased to comical levels.
As my sloppy compatriots and I unsteadily teetered out of Hernando Siles Stadium, I realized that it was only about 7:30pm.