Chapters 30-35

Ok, peeps, this is it. We've had a request, from Bo Nesto, no less, to finish this up, so here goes. Sorry about the delay. No excuses. Been fun.



Chapter 30
A Twitchy Business

Shut tight, this could be a security-van delivering cash to the bank. Open to the elements, as now, the jeep’s an armoured beach-buggy, six Israelis and a Dutch girl strapped like parachutists to the sides. I get to sit up front.
The snarling vehicle climbs the mountain steadily and I’m shivering in my summer clothing. “Knew you’d forget,” laughs Yod, his American accent thickening in the thin air. “Cold first and then heat.” He takes a hand off the wheel to pass a fleecy jacket. Not an encouraging sign when mere acquaintances anticipate your errors.
Yod points to the rocks piled by the roadside awaiting the next breakdown in negotiations between government and peasant union. For reasons of his own, he carefully indicates each checkpoint. Chukiagillo on the edge of the city, a confusion of cops and vendors, Unduavi, roadblock at the heights, bristling with narcs and soldiers, Yolosa (pronounced ‘yellow sir,’) a truck-stop that is evidently being watched. And Yod is so fascinating throughout this drill, that I almost forget to fret over the dangerous parts of the deadly Yungas road.
Caranavi at noon, Yod sends the tour-party in search of lunch. Meanwhile he and I fill the tank with gas, then drive beyond town. I comment on him waiting so long for a first blow of grass.
“Am I suffering?” he grimaces, skinning up. “You should be in my place. Remember the older guy in the jeep trying to listen to our conversation.” Yeah, I exhale, the smoothie leaning over my shoulder. “Army major, rounding up deserters. Can’t smoke in front of him. Word might get back.” To whom?
Well, one joint leads to another. Caranavi, a genuine imitation of a town with a mayor, a square, high street and stores, will keep the gang occupied. Concealed in tropical growth, we settle to watching the truckfuls of mahogany charge uproad towards the sawmills of La Paz.
Yod rises, walks a few yards, summons me over. “Look at this ‘don’t-you-touch-me’ plant.” Right, amazing, the slightest contact and a ferny leaf curls up in fright. Didn’t know plants could react like that. Nor that Yod, who’s no shrinking violet, would have such major problems.
“The guys he's looking for are near Rurre, out of the heads on magic mushrooms.” He explains about the Zebu cows brought over from India and their dung from which the fabulous cubensis mushrooms spring. This is a novel take on Yod - botanist, ecologist, philanthropist even. “I’ve helped them, ‘cos I understand why they’re doing it. My country is small and here you can space out.”
Dark, lithe, authoritative, assured, Yod stretches, exposing a mat of hair from belly-button to chest. For all his sympathy, I wonder if he’s the one who’s revealed the location of the merry trippers. “Better get back,” he yawns, reading my suspicion. “Our passengers’ll be waiting.”
While the others are already travelsore and distracted, the major scrutinises us calmly, exhibiting the poise I always associate with Tzipi and Yod, product of the same training camp. He registers we’re stoned and trying to hide it, then climbs into the back of the jeep.
The road flattens into dusty, red earth. I retain the front seat while Yod, driving relentlessly through the glutenous afternoon heat, continues to educate me. He names individual trees on the green hillside, identifies the illicit coca plantations, laments the mudslides and the logging, boasts how the Israelis founded the eco-business of Rurrenabaque.
“A friend got lost in the jungle beyond the Tuichi and was rescued by a hunter. In return, he taught the local how to organize river-tours. He told him what gringos wanted to see and now twenty years later.....”
“The place is full of Israelis.”
“That bother you?”

Yod prods each time I fall asleep during the night; the price of privilege is endless vigilance. At last, misty dawn discloses Rurrenabaque stretched along the riverbank, Zebu cows grazing on the foreshore and motor canoes riding the swell. I’m dropped at the Hotel Santa Esmeralda with instructions to take a double room. The party have other arrangements in which I am not included.
“Walk, enjoy yourself,” Yod says.
“And the boat trip.”
“You will trip, don’t worry. See you later:”
Very much later. Well, despite the malarial toilets and ditches of cholera, Rurre is a friendly, teeming place, a market town, point of departure for the river traffic. I have no difficulty in passing the hours contemplating the heat flow, until a totally inappropriate lunch of fried banana, rice and fish extends my siesta into coma.
Late afternoon you’ll find me on the river-bank, crouched, examining cow-dung, thinking about all kinds of bullshit. A short, pyrotechnic sunset, and I retire again to the hotel. An overhead fan operates after nightfall, creakily stroking the bloated air. The patio is a poor alternative, plant-infested, crawling with insects and book-wielding travellers. Rain closes that option, anyway.
So, I’m fairly bored by the time Yod reappears close to midnight, soaked and alert, claiming business, hard business, lots of work to get through. He sets to rolling a number, which he presumes will dissolve my ennui and, of course, it does.
“Hey,” he announces, “There’s a place I want you to see, very special. Feeding alligators and stroking snakes is for the tourists. Come work with me tomorrow and I’ll show you something real.” Oh, well, I sort of liked the idea of the standard jungle tour, but I’ll smother my disappointment.
When the hotel fans turn off, we bake to the sounds of the night, drunks ejected from a discoteque, then rain hurtling against the tin roof, invading my dreams like a battalion of mad drummer boys.


Yod lays a rain poncho across my bed without further comment on my lack of preparation. Too early for a served breakfast, we nibble on biscuits and, once in the open, drink the downpour.
To board our canoe we must walk the plank over rising waters. Yod hauls me up the slippery, plunging gangway, deposits me under a sheet of plastic in the bows. The pilot is checking the motor.
“Your job is to watch out for logs,” Yod yells into wind. In this fog, I wouldn’t notice an aircraft carrier, but turning a blind eye to the task, I manage to look upriver until the rain eases, whereupon enormous trees, towering out of the mist, command my attention. Vegetation rampages along the shores, strange cries of agony haunt the cool air.
“Howler monkeys,” mouths Yod, nearly upsetting the canoe with a dancing imitation. The pilot, a stringy birdlike fellow in shorts, laughs dutifully and fingers the rifle by his side, the one he must use to ward off the alligators, or perhaps the flying pirañas Yod joked about. Then he shouts and urgently alters course
“There’s a fucking log! Lucky we didn’t depend on you,” scoffs Yod, causing me to doubt my currently unexplained, most-favoured-companion status. He shakes his head in disbelief. Finally, the pilot turns right into a tranquil side-river. Were it not for the deisel fumes and rasping engine, this could be idyllic. Massed foliage hints at infinite powers, dripping vines splinter the sun, impossibly bright birds squabble and flit.
Rounding a bend, we are confronted by a flotilla of launches and canoes moored to what appears to be a paddleless Mississipi steamer, various decks high, embellished with shiny-white railings, elegant columns and Uzi-toting guards. Our pilot cuts the engine.
“What is this?”
“Motel, a love-hotel, where you go to have sex, like Tzipi was trying to show you.” Below the belt, though I’ve been expecting the blow. “Can’t you read? Tuichi Motel, wanna stay? You can buy yourself a woman for a few hours and I’ll join you later.” No thanks, Mark Twain meets the Godfather, weird vibes.
We land beside the flotel, exchanging thumbs-up with a couple of the gorillas (Yod appears to know the passwords), before marching through thick jungle on a track that ends at an enormous clearing.
For all the logging paraphenalia and smell of fresh resin, this place is no timber yard. Closer inspection reveals strange pits and sulphurous vats. Workers in shorts, their bare feet wrinkled, carry buckets of foaming green liquid which they empty into shallow tanks. Seems to be my day for asking, “What is this place?” And Yod, open, informative as ever, tells me it’s a farm, though I see no cows unless they’re sheltering behind that airstrip.
“Stay here out of the way and wait,” says my dear friend, leading me to an edge of the clearing that borders on dense overgrowth. The shade harbours biting black flies, midges and mosquitoes, all ferociously aggressive, the smallest biting hardest. I know better than to scratch, but swatting also encourages them.
In any authentic ethno-botanic adventures, this is when a friendly indigenous appears, leading one through the tangle to a specifically insect-repellent leaf and teaches how to prepare a soothing lotion. Instead, I get smirks from the busy workers when I waste my matches attempting to ignite the soggy vegetation. As for Astoria smoke, well, these bugs are vampires and nicotine addicts too.
Eventually, a farm foreman arrives and casts surly glances my way. I am escorted from base camp to the start of a winding trail that emerges at a wide sandy stretch of the river. Given that I have as much sense of direction as a compass in a magnet factory, I do hope that Yod finds me. Interestingly, I never doubt that he will.
James and the giant beach. Neither food nor drink. A heat so sticky and gross that I think of bathing, but am afraid of being swept away, even in this slight current.
As well that I don’t, for when, centuries later, Yod and birdman chug along, the first thing that they shout as I race relieved towards them is,
“Stop. Don’t tread in the water. Stingrays under the sand!”

Our second night is spent in what Yod calls a wildlife sanctuary. The pilot tends his boat, Yod’s visiting a girlfriend and I’m confined to a tent in surroundings not open to to description after our two-hour hike through the darkness.
Yod, coming to say goodnight, only confirms the menace I already sense. He informs me of a jaguar that roams the camp by night. “But I brought you a good supply of firecrackers. Just light one and throw it if you hear anything.”
“Sure, at the first roar.”
“Hey man, jaguars whistle.” He must know that’s stretching belief. “True, I swear. And wow, have I got something else for you.”
He produces some coke from his satchel. I dunno, pal, don’t use that nose-fuck, fuck knows. I enjoy being part of the universe, not its sole proprietor.
“Suit yourself, but I’m gonna ask you a big favour. There’s something I need you to do for me. Like taking an important encomienda back to La Paz tomorrow.” He uses the Spanish word for ‘commission’, but no prizes for guessing what it might contain.
“I’m not going to be your mule, Yod.” Though I have a feeling I’m gonna be his ass.
“My friend, we do a deal. Message from Tzipi. She wants to know if you’ve learned to defend yourself yet. Good, all yours, she’s waiting. I’m going to be down here a month.” And he hands over the packet, gift-wrapped in crinkly metallic paper. Even by torchlight, the purple birthday logo, the yellow balloons and insanely happy clowns dazzle. Feels like a kilo, spot on.
Sleep escapes me for a variety of reasons. The package. Those occasional snuffling noises around the thin membrane of the tent. I prefer not to think what’s out there in the huge breathing darkness, but let’s hope it’s one of those cows (in a wildlife sanctuary?). And, of course, Tzipi notions provide an all-night erection, though I do desist from spilling my seed. On this hyperfertile ground, you never know what sort of monstrosity might spring up.
Awake till morning, when I receive my instructions. What supreme beauty in this spot, the immense rainforest majestically backdropping the gardens and chalets (how come I got a tent?). I’d love to hang out, but the noon bus it is. I know, don’t get caught and don’t talk if you do. Carlo will meet you.
For a few quiet moments over wholewheat pancakes and fresh coffee, I converse with the American woman, a curly-haired blonde whose name I never ask. “Squatting,” she replies, “Until my title deed comes through. Did you sleep well last night?”
“No, a damned bird was singing all night.”
“Oh, you mean the tree-frogs,” jeers Yod and I wonder again at his urges to humiliate and control. And yet I would probably take this encomienda, without the perks on offer, just to please him.
He presses into my palm a crumpled envelope containing dried human ears. “Mushrooms,” he confides. “When you’re in a real cool, nice, relaxed situation, take them,” which is to say, not now.


Rifle still within his reach, the pilot makes it plain that I'm on my own, ordering me to the prow, for the balance he says, though I'm sure I’ve seen canoes with plenty of passengers in the rear.
After picking up my belongings from the Santa Esmeralda, I eat a last meal and sit by the ticket office, watching the tourists compare brochures and buy rolls of film for their jungle trips. My ticket shows that Yod made the bus reservation on the very day of our arrival. And he’s taken care never to be seen with me in town, despite devising the ultimate in package tours for my benefit..
The springless bus leaves an hour late, thoroughly pre-heated to a temperature which no breeze can alleviate. Anyway, a broad woman with babe and toddler, occupying a seat and a half, blocks the open window. The sensation from the aisle is like being locked in a dusty sarcophagus, then strapped to a rollercoaster. The driver begins the cumbia torture.
This bus company has invested in a new stereo system. The more I strive not to listen, the clearer the songs sound. Here I would like to state my tolerance for almost all the music in the world, Samoan yodels, Sumerian sambas, Siberian throat wrestling - the lot. And then draw a line around the inadmissable, heading the list, cumbias.
What bugs me most is that such corrossive lyrics should come gift-wrapped in merry tunes. Mind you, the same could be said of the purple and yellow packet I’m clutching. Having no brilliant concealment ploys, I’m chancing the purloined-letter strategy, which, for those who haven’t read Poe, requires placing the hidden object in the most conspicuous place (my lap). This is hard on the toddler, whose mum has constantly to smack his hand.
Adrift on time/space continuum, twenty-four hours from La Paz, maybe longer since a tyre has just popped. Passengers off, baggage down from the roof-rack - the familiar routine. The driver and his young assistant wedge flat stones, the hydraulic jack wheezes, the interruption lengthens into stoppage-time.
I’ll write a letter to Geordie and Sarah, but they’ll have to share this single sheet of paper. Imagine the negotations - you read it first, no you, let’s both ignore it - until Leo, bounding down the stairs, snatches the damned thing. And what should I tell them? My part in the coming revolution, next week’s Copcap evaluation, how Yod tricked and then enlisted me as his courier for the sake of a pointless entanglement with Tzipi? They'd love that bit. Typical, so typical, they’ll mutter.
Hard to explain the intricacies of my Bolivian life in a letter. I’ll stick to describing here and now. Leafcutter ants bearing the day’s last trophies, a gangly white spider by its trapdoor, sunset as viewed through the dusty panes of the bus. The message to London is no pasa nada - nothing happening - wish it were true.
Throughout another sleepless night, I have time to review my capacity for foolish moves, not least concerning this package, growing weightier by the hour. There’s bound to be a search at one of those checkpoints, if only to catch a small-timer and prove how efficiently the security forces are battling the drug scourge.
Meanwhile a hundred tonnes a year must be leaving these landlocked shores, and not a squeak from the US embassy, no posters of wanted drug barons, the newspapers do not speculate on routes or amounts, unless consignments are accidentally intercepted. The business is all wrapped up.
Over dawn coffee in Caranavi, I buy yesterday’s newspaper, so as to have something to accompany the glossy birthday parcel. “U.S. promises further aid to combat drug-trafficking,” screams the headline. Not till tomorrow, please. Here in Caranavi the forces of order are still abed.
At Yolosa, I am feeling yellow sir, but the revision is cursory. Unduavi, not far from the high pass, precipice one end, tunnel at the other, vegetation already succumbing to the mountain chill, that’s where the crunch is going to be. Those soldiers in camouflage fatigues have a professional air. Will such a obvious trick fool them?
I admit to panicking when the troops clamber aboard the bus. Luckily, the baby’s bawling distracts her mother, so I have a brief chance to push the parcel under the arm of the sleeping toddler, who’s too young to face charges. He’s wanted that packet since we left Rurre, though I doubt he’d appreciate the contents.
The square-jawed sergeant actually pokes it before moving on, and that’s the end of the adventure, apart from a final rocky mountain breakdown on the summit. As Yod did not offer his spare jacket for the return leg, I nearly freeze admiring the snow-topped black peaks.
At Chukiagillo, the woman and kids get off and who should take their vacant seat if not the faithful Gila. He receives the packet glumly, attempts no smalltalk until we reach Villa Fatima but remarks as he’s rising, “Just testing your nerve. It’s only flour.”
“Great, I was thinking of baking bread tonight. You can give it me back,” but he’s scuttled away, clutching his prize.




Chapter 31
Weigh Too Much

Had I been nabbed during the supposed coke-run, I tremble to think of the consequences. But in springing the surprises, Yod did reduce anxiety to a minimum. The build-up to this evaluation, however, has been excruciating. No-one likes to be judged and I’m all too aware how weightlessly I’ve been floating around this job, zero gravitas.
The evaluators met the bosses yesterday, since when Edmundo has called in sick and Osvaldo, all fidgety twitch, is upstairs reprinting reams of bogus reports. The Copcap groups, on the other hand, have reacted with indifference, arranging neither meetings to impress the visitors nor field trips to entertain them. Well, in these uncertain times, travel is hardly recommendable; roads in the altiplano block and unblock. Even so.
The evaluators are not a couple. Poala, an Abba clone with implanted Wagnerian genes, is an utterly capable, ice-cool blonde who wears a power suit and claims she’s Finnish. Wim, tall, angly, Dutch, has the beard and leather elbow patches to prove he’s an academic. Today Poala is elsewhere, thank goodness. Wim’s at the long table, scribbling in his notepad.
I'm ashamed. Here in the abandoned great hall of the people, the beer stains and unwashed tea mugs look squalid. A musty odour abides from the millucha, and though Miguel is swabbing the floor, he declines to touch the cobwebs around the dusty windows. Some busy rooms do retain their grandeur when empty; in others, the energy escapes through cracks and dissension.
I quite like Wim; the guy’s upbeat in an abstract way, though lacking a personal touch and his Spanish is nonexistent. So I can’t argue when Teofila, whom the directorio have sent as their sole representative, requests, “Please, Jaime, you deal with him.”
“No hay problema. By the way, these jumpers you’ve brought, they’re great. The trees and sunset go really well together."
“Thanks. It’s a design your friend Sandy suggested. Not that el señor evaluador was interested when I showed him. Well, I’m going to brew some coffee. See if you can discover what he’s thinking.”
The trouble is Wim waffles. It might help if I had a glossary for his techno-spiel. You know the stuff, enterprise development and community outreach, program cycle management and credit methodology implementation. But I don’t share his enthusiasms, so the conversation has turned rather one-sided.
I want to tell him that decoding Copcap is easy, way too simple for intellectuals like you. Listen pal, this is the truth: cooperation, creates dependency. The money we receive binds us. Our projects favour the relatively wealthy while ignoring those in need (Faustino’s cholic bull and Alberto’s watchtower come to mind). As for capacitation, useless without genuine political change. Such are the areas I want to discuss, but he won’t respond.
“You have read my report, Wim?”
“I’m sorry, my colleague took it with her,” he says strenuously wiping a pair of oval glasses and reverting to jargon, impregnable within his razor-wire parameters and fortified frameworks.
But, at least he's different from the school inspectors who used to sit hostilely, critically, observing my classes. This evaluator is distant but dotty. Maybe I should cross-examine him.
“Who do you work for, Wim?”
“Oh,” he says, almost emerging from cover, “I’m employed by various processing entities.” That would be sausage production or meatpacking?
Retreat to the kitchen where Teofila is resplendent in her pink blouse,rose embroidered white shawl and thick folds of deep-green velvet skirt. How can the guy prefer to sit by an empty table and write?
“What’s going on, Teofila? I thought we’d arranged a project commission session for today.”
“Everything is suspended, Jaime, until the asamblea. The groups are deciding on their strategy.” Ominous without conveying much.
A Hornblower metaphor pops into my head. The good ship Copcap is floundering, the captain sick with scurvy, first mate up on the bridge rewriting the log, mutinous crew missing, just when inspectors from the Admiralty have come aboard. We’re drifting rudderless, mainsail ripped and flapping free, no-one left to sew its seams, so it seems.
“Fine. And what am I meant to do with our guest for the remainder of the day?”
We peep through the door. Wim, resting a reinforced elbow on the grand table, is deep in thought.
“Fresh air,” suggests Teofila. “Take him out. You could walk over to the clinic. The doctor’s starting his vaccination campaign this week..” Oh my God. The jewel in the crown. One mother and both her kids queuing hours to be insulted and jabbed by an incompetent doctor and - Vanesa.
“Excelente. I’ll do it.” May as well enjoy the last few days afloat.
“Take Miguelito with you,” she suggests
“OK. One moment while I check my desk.”
Gingerly upstairs, on tiptoe to the cubicles, evading Ana who’s been stalking the margins of the evaluation, desperate to influence the proceedings, but impeded by not speaking English.
Good, Miguel’s collected letters from the downtown post office (one can hardly expect door-to-door mail delivery in the Alto). And see, a reply from Joanne. Miracle, an immediate, post-haste reply from my usually disorganized mother.
A month back, I sent her a postcard of the coca harvest, hunched figures delicately picking the sacred leaves, in which I offered to pay her fare out. Now a scribbled reply (not to a bank, cable Western Union), from which I deduce financial straits.
Joanne’s visit will not simplify my situation, of that there’s no doubt.
Imagine throwing firecrackers into a meditation hall.
Walkies, Wim.

The Alto intimidates our evaluator. Seeing it anew through his appalled gaze, I can sympathize; the earth pounded senseless into adobe, arrayed at right-angles to the cosmos when according to Bertie One-Stone, shaman of modern physics, even empty space is meant to be curved.
That Wim’s an enthusiatic lensman, I’ve guessed before he extracts a camera from its dust-proof case. Perhaps the activity will help accomodate the Alto to his field of vision. Myself, I don’t take photos; this writing is a snapshot.
So, he shoots intrusive pictures of stomping adobe-makers, women in hats, a kid lamenting his lost kite, meagre markets. Miguelito runs behind, apologizing to any offended bystanders. For alteños, being photographed merits full attention, a stern pose in the face of eternity. I redirect Wim to the slanting shadows, the nameless streets, the walls, stones and sky.
Impelled by curiosity and the search for a defining image, he strides on, leaving Miguel and I behind. I’m no plodder, but in the Alto rushing from anywhere to somewhere else is pointless.
Pit-stop for cigarettes and coca, Wim announcing a distaste for both stimulants, surprise, surprise. Still, I’m hoping the gritty wind has scoured some of his protective layers and we can communicate.
Just tell me how I’m doing, Wim.
“I would advise you to optimize your impact proactively.” You would?
Let’s vary the angle of enquiry.
“And what's it like working with thisPaola?”
“I have never seen that woman before. She just attached herself before we came up to the Alto. I do not think this is her profession. I am doing this all the time,” he sighs. Yes, I can imagine.
A white jeep halts, spraying pebbles like shrapnel. Ignatz, racing between masses, jumps out. The black leather-jacket asserts his political credentials (he’s now el coronelito’s representive to the Alto, no less), the flowing hair is quite poetic, his face idiotically radiant.
“You haf talked to zem?” he explodes, staring into my eyes.
“I have no influence over the groups.”
“Soon, it is very late,” he murmurs. “And I vill varn you now that some gentlemen are askink of you.”
“Who?”
“Interior Ministry,” he splutters, and lurching to the jeep, slams the door.
“What an extraordinarily strange person,” remarks Wim, recognizing this time the obvious. He’s had no warning of our local nutter; when I walk now, I instinctively choose routes that avoid the churches.
But it’s my turn to be astounded as we scamper across the loose gravel of the river bed. Yes, Miguel confirms, the building glistening yellow and blue in the distance is indeed our ramshackle clinic, freshly painted. Word of the evaluation has spread and Beto’s taking no chances.
The doctor’s freshly ironed labcoat serves to neutralize his pallor, much as the drying paintwork almost diguises the shortcomings of the project. But Beto isn’t attempting to inject any of the patients (how did he bribe them all to come?). The pencil in his hand trembles just checking their names.
It’s Vanesa who pokes methodically at the line of children and babies, and marvellous she looks in her stiff nurse’s uniform. There’s little space for manoeuvre in this room. Still, Vanesa, starched and crinkly, contrives to squeeze past me, compressed breasts lingering over the contours of my back, her loins sending a direct-current, high-voltage message. Received; over and out.
Miguelito, ogling, winks.

The exertion of the excursion has exhausted Wim, so we take the long way home on a bus that creeps to the Ceja and back in search of promising traffic jams. At the office, Teofila recommends coca tea but he needs persuading.
“This is legal, Jim?” a question I remember also asking once.
“Afraid it is, lad. Drink up. It’ll revive you.”
Paola awaits upstairs, having commandeered Edmundo’s office. Entirely at her ease behind the desk, motionless in the leather-backed swivel chair, she comes straight to the point. “The agency that employs you do not consider your reports very informative.”
Wim interrupts. “This agency, you say it’s an umbrella group.” He consults his pad. “Volunteer Organizations for International Development. I know of most world development operations, but with this one I am not acquainted.”
If the admirable Wim smells a rat, so do I, noting as I doodle, that the initials of my sponsors most reassuringly spell V-O-I-D.
“I also find it unusual,” Wim continues, “how James was recruited without any proven track record.”
“These matters can be discussed later in private,” she menaces glacially in perfectly modulated English, forgetting to fake the Scandinavian accent.
“Don’t you find this set-up absurd, Wim?” I interrupt, determined to take the chance to clear up some of the matters which have bothered me.
“That is not the problem I am identifying,” replies Wim. “I have seen much worse. At least your projects exist.” Ah yes, the horror stories - millions spent on counting flamingos, libraries for the illiterate, dead souls claiming housing benefits.
But my next outburst, “Admit it, Wim, Copcap's a farce. The funding produces absolutely nothing,” is a mistake because I sidetrack him into theory. Project money is never wasted, he meanders and continues along the lines of donors creating value by spending on capacity building initiatives. Paola reasserts control of the interview.
“I feel the problem can be redefined,” she cuts in, “by giving this young man a fresh job description.” Why am I reminded of the paint-job over at Beto’s?
“Agreed,” nods Wim. “It is my opinion that James needs a new title for the changing circumstances. I suggest, ‘Head of Oversight’.”
“A very appropriate choice of words,” coughs Paola, attempting to choke back her laughter.
I’d love to clarify their references to imminent change, but at this moment, first-secretary Pamela enters bearing a portable phone, as if it were the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter
“El capitan Ventura, para ti.”
“Meestair Estalk-hair?”
“Hello Waldo - what? - Saturday - teatime, yeah - it is very English, yes - informal OK - Achumani, no idea but I’ll find it - sure, a pleasure, I suppose.”
“You do have important friends,” remarks Poala. And how the hell would she know who Waldo is? Not just the perfection of her English; it all rings untrue.
“Do you come from Rovaniemi?” I enquire casually.
“Somewhere near there,” she lies. You see, my dear, I just happen to know the wooden city of Rovaniemi on the edge of the Arctic Circle, travelled there a few years ago during the summer vacation. There’s nowhere within a hundred miles of the place for you to live.
What put Rovaniemi into my head?
Oh yes. Last week on one of the Especial buses that commute from Villa Abdullah to the Alonso, I saw a sticker above the luggage rack. Rovaniemi it read, inevitably reminding me of Lothar.
I was hitch-hiking to all points north when I met this disconsolate German youth by the roadside. He’d been stuck three days without a lift, a victim of history’s heavy hand. The Nazis had burnt Rovaniemi as part of their scorched earth policy. Each passing motorist wanted to know where Lothar was from and he’d innocently told them.
We travelled together, Lothar and I, camped together, slept together in his one-man tent and .....
“Daydreaming, young man,” snaps Paola. “I asked you when we might expect to see your programme plan.”
That will depend, my impeccably false Finn, on how circumstances shape.


Chapter 32
The Deep South

Down, down, from the deceptively barren plain, through the circus of La Paz and down again, on narrow smooth curving graceful freeways, past the river of the dead dogs to crumbling canyons and suburban depths. Ever since the Spaniards first plundered this land, their successors have striven to corner all power. Here in the zona sur, that dream at last fulfils itself.
The elegant residential streets loop from broad avenues. I seem to have walked hours, wilting under an infrared heat, while pimply kids cruise by in their dads' air-conditioned autos the occasional SUV. High brick walls protect the modern mansions where glass and disharmony predominate at great expense, as does security.
The policeman in the green sentry box lowers the volume on his crackling, cumbia-laden radio. That I don’t carry any ID concerns him, renders him semi-alert. Now he’ll have to use the radiophone and check on this scruffy foreigner who offends the dignity of the household. Waldo had specified informal dress, but this is Achumani.
The comatose cop reluctantly scowls me through to the driveway, where a retainer is polishing the Mercedes (tinted windows, no licence plates). At its side, an immaculately clean station-wagon waits to be preened.. The house, like the neighbourhood, is charmless and pointedly big.
It’s my opinion that a mansion should be surrounded by acres of land. Yet the tiny afterthought of a garden huddles between building and wall. One Aymara gardener is watering the few sad shrubs while another shaves the miniature lawn. They sneak a peek at the unlikely guest. With or without irony, I salute a statue of the Virgin in her stone and plaster grotto.
A maid, frilly black shirt, black dress, dark stockings, spotless white apron, opens the door before I can touch the bell. She leads me through the hall to a small room, indicating a hardbacked chair. By now, I wouldn’t blink if a liveried footman appeared. How many more members of the servant underclass labour here?
Nice room, if you have a taste for the gaudy. The colonial painting of angels is an original (I’ve scraped a fingernail over the canvas), beyond the budget, one would have thought, of a minorgovernment bureaucrat. A heavy, gilt-framed mirror hangs behind the chair, though I doubt whether guilt is often experienced in this household.
Solitary, pondering. Why have I accepted this invitation into enemy territory? Out of curiosity, to spy, or am I the last of the malleable independents, however much I pretend to go my own way. And their motives? Judging from the Yod escapade, no-one invites me for my scintillating wit.
Doors are banging. Well, in this environment they thud mutedly. New guests are announced and then the summons. I enter the salon, steeling myself not to react. Waldo actually removes a hand from his trouser pocket to shake mine, the others do not. Introductions are overlooked.
The middle-aged woman, whom Waldo later refers to as his cousin, continues to sip coffee through the mask of her make-up. A vaguely familiar gentleman, wearing dark glasses in the dimmed room, is pretending to read his newspaper; he does not glance up. The handsome fellow in white slacks cradles a tennis racquet and whisky. I am not impressed by the expensive casualness of these people, nor disturbed by their rudeness.
But how might you feel if you found the Queen sitting next to you in the pub and nobody batting an eyelid? Or when you catch grandmother in bed with her gigolo?
Yes, Edmundo, propped against the fireplace, takes me off-guard. He is not sick; he’s pale, drunk and bitchy. “So, have you enjoyed plotting against me,” he slurs. “Still trying to be a hero to the natives?”
“Edmundo,” Waldo interjects, “You are making our friend feel uncomfortable.”
“Your friend, not mine. Prefers to sit in the mud with his peasant conspiratorss.”
The men are impervious, you might even say they’re shameless. They choose to pour more drinks and ignore Edmundo. But the cousin is amused; she twists her lips and screeches low like a hunting owl, then launches into the usual dumb questions - where are you from? how long have you been here? do you like this country? - before assuring me that I’ll soon marry a nice Bolivian woman.
She really must be the unexpected visitor, because the others know exactly who I am, down to the details of my bank account, friends and sexuality, I doubt not.
“And when they’ve finished using you," Edmundo resumes, "They’ll eat you. You do realize they’re cannibals?”
“A drink, young man?” enquires Waldo.
“A cup of tea, if you have one, with milk please,” which starts him reminiscing about London and the marvellous Arsenal team of the ‘70s, in florid Spanish since he won’t risk his Ingleesh in front of peers. “You recall those times we had together, eh Edmundo?” he gushes. Aha, so you two go back that far.
If the occasion is meant to intimidate me, I remain underawed. The sitting/drawing/dining/living room is a joke. As uncluttered as the start of the Boston Marathon, it carries no cultural weight for all the ersatz louis-whatnot sofas and matching chairs, family portraits, silver knick-knacks, fragile porcelain vases.
“It will not be so pleasant the next time we meet,” muses the tennis partner, curling his lips into the semblance of a smile - though these zona sur residents may boast perfect orthodoncy, they only rarely show their teeth. “In this country, we have severe penalties for sedition.” He twirls the stem of his glass the way he might carress a pair of electrodes to the testicles.
Languid mind games on a Saturday afternoon.
“A few reports, however,” he adds, “and some information on those you happen to meet in the course of your work .........”
A small plastic card is being passed round the room, inspected and returned. I receive my promised ID, valid over the next five years for all legal requirements within the republic of Bolivia, though they can’t expect me to last that long. In exchange for this admittedly useful item, I have gifted my mugshot and fingerprints to the authorities.
“Oh yes, whatever happens, do carry on,” adds public personality, whom I finally recognize as the worse-for-wear subprefect from the anniversary by the Lake, minus coke stains on the moustache. Edmundo, now slumped against the sharpish contours of the antique sofa, contributes a last stabbing gesture. “And don’t think naivety will save you this time.”
Waldo has pulled a bell-cord and the stately maid reappears. As she escorts me into the hall, I hear Edmundo muttering, to the clink of ice-cubes, “Bastard! He’ll get what he deserves.”
Young trees, weeping willows and acacia, line the paved streets. Twenty-five years ago the Alto and the South were both empty, wind-swept appendages to the city. Same age, now rungs apart on the social ladder, the downtrodden living on the heights, the upper class in the warmer regions below. Despite some attempt at landscaping, these pampered suburbs cover the dust as a finely woven rug might conceal a desert.
To the west and east, crumbly grey cliffs confine. Further south, the dirty river drops through a canyonland wilderness. North is the city which the sureños would love to supplant and, out of sight, entirely out of mind, the Alto.
They don’t need fences to protect themselves here. Three roads in and a couple of escape routes to the airport, the Irpavi regiment camped in their midst for muscle. Power and privilege encapsulated in the choicest of schools, clinics, restaurants and malls, foreigners welcome provided they service the machine. From their luxurious southern headquarters, the UN, World Bank and most NGOs struggle to eliminate the poor - sorry, that should read, eradicate poverty.
A clean-up squad in green uniform is sweeping gum and poodle-shit into black plastic bags. I’m sitting in a concrete plaza (even here parks have yet to be invented) when I spot the slowly moving, plate-sized object. A pet tortoise escapes, determined and unswerving, conscious that its freedom will bring inevitable hardship and danger. Yet on it trundles. How very Aymara.
Waldo and company assume they have created a safe haven, exclusive, defensible. But if that airport should fall, their den becomes a trap, nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.
I fancy phoning Tzipi, see if she’s free for a bout of wrest and re-creation.
Time to sharpen my wits.



Chapter 33
Founders Keepers

Eight o’clock, morning of the asamblea. The ground floor is packed. Rigoberto’s aides have locked and chained the double entrance gates, forcing arrivals to stoop through a small opening and, once in the yard, be scutinized. This level of seriousness outstrips my ability to concentrate. I lean against the office building, observing the manoeuvres, the turbulenc and breakdown.
Delegates hassle Faustino, demanding their credentials. He spreads the lists over the grand table and, licking the point of his pencil, checks, rechecks, issuing the name-tags singly on squares of blue cardboard - number, name, group.
Outside, breakfast is being served, dry bread on a tray, sweet coffee from a steel urn. Doña lidia paces the queue, scolding those who attempt to receive double rations, though some have trekked day and night through the impassible countryside. The catering crew (orange tags for them) satart on preparing lunch; having cut inordinate quantities of onion, they turn to shelling bucketfuls of peas.
Key players prepare. Elvira stabs a calculator, Ana thumbs files, Alberto is practising the smile. And that piercing whine comes from the speakers; if I know anything about the Bolivian love of volume, proceedings are going to be transmitted live to the neighbourhood and beyond.
Doña Amalia, hawk disguised as sparrow, gauges the chaos and decides that the ground floor can no longer accomodate this crowd. She directs a squad of men to carry the vast table into the yard, but it has the proportions of a football pitch stretched some and refuses pass the office doors. Eventually the table is angled through windows. The crush eases. Faustino's problems, however, do not.
Apart from the breeze that threatens the paperwork, he's under seige from an irate young man who must be wearing his grandfather’s suit and protesting that his documentation is valid. Mates circle. Angling for a distrction, Faustino catches my eye, beckons desperately.
“Hey Jaime, you’ll need one of these.” He mops his brow and hands me a white card, badge of the non-voting participant. Raising the pencil stub, he enquires, “Bien, so how are we going to describe your functions?” More than ix months on, and the head of the directorio still isn’t too sure what I do. Ho, hum.
It’s OK. I am spritely and revitalized after hours clasped in Tzipi’s extraordinary embraces, prepared to face the day’s challenges with the long-term optimism of a mayfly.
This asamblea is the maximum authority, that’s been the mantra over the last few weeks. The ship of state sails once more, deckhands apparently in control. Socios they call themselves, associated partners, bound by a constitution and their shared responsibility. Today a dozen delegates from each group will hear the annual reports and elect a new directorio. Trouble is expected.
Over in a corner of the yard now, working my way through a pack of Astoria, offering cigarettes to the groups as they swirl and parley. A bag of coca is thrust in my hands, I chew. Someone passes a lump of lejía to activate the wad of leaves. Ignored but not shunned, I adopt a cool stance. Trouble is expected. So, if things do turn nasty, I'll quit.
Edmundo saunters in, none too visibly hung-over, and disappears up the stairs to his office. Five minutes later, Osvaldo peers distrustfully from the gateway at the multitude, tiptoes into the sudden silence.
The table, so symbolic and imposing inside, is stranded under a grey sky. Miguel has parked chairs about the yard, but the crowd prefers to form circles of standing stone, separated into their variouis allegiances.
“Five minutes,” crackles Faustino, testing the mike.
“500 years,” retorts the lad in the suit. Wisecrack or agenda?
A tagless Edmundo guides Osvaldo through the throng and settles himself confidently at one end of the table. The outgoing directorio, bunched like disciples at their last supper, instinctively look to him for guidance, an error. So begins much wrangling.
While they’re nitpicking the underbelly of the constitution, I relive my brush with Tzipi. Amid all that tough love, she was almost tender at times, admitted to admiring Waldo, warning me against him, asked insightful questions about Copcap and its characters. Israeli encounter-intelligence.
Mind you, Edmundo’s also quite zippy today. The opening address he chooses to deliver is either tactical or suicidal. “This has been one of our more successful years,” he lies, “but Copcap won’t survive without me. You lack the necessary expertise and the donors will dis...........” Hoots, hissing, clacking, bursts of angry Aymara, calls for order. Mayhem drowns his best efforts at insult. Edmundo sits down, seemingly quite pleased.
Osvaldo survives a little longer in the dry-lane of facts and figures, until a gathering stillness alerts both to the danger. Edmundo rises dramatically, toppling his chair, managing a “How dare you!” before being grabbed. But the ritual ejection is suspended once Rigoberto remembers the car-keys.
“My own personal vehicle,” shouts Edmundo, roused by the prospect of losing property. He glances up and down the street for support. From upper floor windows, the neighbours are enjoying the show.
“A donation,” insists the tall, poncho-clad figure.
“A gift,” the fat man in the suit claims. In the jostling, his cellphone clatters to the pavement. Can’t bend, not with that bulging midriff, would hardly do to kneel before his accusers. So 'Lee Harvey' Osvaldo offers his services and is pushed to the ground, from where he musters a defiant, self-pitying stare. Stones are hurled at the retreating pair.
Ana lasts a full minute, is then marched to her office, minus the shoulder-bag whose contents lie scattered on the table for inspection. Fuera bloodsuckers, extortionists, intermediaries, the delegates shout - out, out! Meanwhile, Faustino and Alberto, have vanished (I'll refrain from saying ‘been disappeared’), taken ill, taken prisoner, who knows?
The skittling of the staff is such a fearsome, inconceivable, absorbing spectacle that I fail to consider how I'll face the wrath myself. Not that I’m nerveless, simply unnerved.
It’s live-wire Julio, blossoming from boy to leader, who first utters the word ‘intervención’, thereby defining the situation. “Yes,” he declaims, “we founded this association for ourselves and we’re taking it back.” Intervenir - intervenir, the crowd clamours - takeover, takeover. “We allowed others in and they cheated us.” Applause rattles like boulders along a flooded river.
I kind of doubt Julio’s creation myth, having always assumed that Edmundo started the organization, but the next speakers tend to confirm it. A glance at our standard, the one we so proudly carried to that demonstration, (yellow lettering on maroon cloth - Copcap fundada 1992) - reveals nothing.
Meanwhile, the darkening sky rumbles. Intermittent showers which have been falling unnoticed, turn persistent. Pools of water threaten the cables. Let’s move indoors, a show of hands - agreed. More radically, Elvira proposes abandoning the grand table to its fate, for practical reasons (space and effort required) and a symbolic one (equality).
The delegates lay ponchos and blankets on the cold cement floor, instinctively forming a circle, squat, then take stock, marvel - at which point someone notes my presence. I should speak before the surprise dissolves, words might defuse their antagonism, but words also complicate.
Elvira strides to centre-ring and punctures the suspense; “Oh Jaime, we forgot about you," she explains. "I suppose we don’t really consider you one of the staff.” Now, do I take that as a compliment or not? Let's just say I’ve cultivated harmless behaviour.
The disaffection is muted out of respect for the Treasurer, though I do catch the word q’ara being spat, Quechua/Aymara for honky, paleface, whiteboy. Fair enough, I’ll accept early retirement. Then Alejandro stands and delivers in Aymara, and by the time he sits down, the men are breathing fiercely and the women shake their heads, whether in denial, disbelief or wonder, I can’t tell.
Alejandro, cultural purist, medicine man, conspirator and prankster, switches to Spanish for my benefit. “Joven, if you are permitted to stay, how might you help us?” It’d be nice to report that a moment of skull-wrenching awareness gives me an oversight into the flow of events. Instead, feet glued to the ground, I stammer, “You’re taking over Copcap.....”
“It was always ours,” growls the crowd.
“Perdon, then you’re retaking the association, and don’t want professional help.” True, true, they shout. I continue, “In which case, we need,” (the shift to the encompassing ‘we’ being my only inspiration), “we need aims, plans, we have to organize. If you do accept me, I promise to prepare, what do you call them, er, seminars, courses, cursillos.” The last one strikes home; “Cursillos, cursillos,” they chant.
In a most spendidly enigmatic tone, Alejandro discloses, “There is something you must teach us, Jaime. What it is, at this moment neither you nor I know.”
I’m not entirely flattered by the general acclamation, nor fooled by their construct-a-destiny game. This is an example of modern string theory; no favours without strings attached. Am I paranoid, or am I being set-up?
I tell the assembly, “A great honour…….. gracias.”
Berta, the inquisitioner, murmurs, “Qué mierda, letting outsiders wash our dirty linen.” We all hear her and some nod in agreement. As well to be reminded that sufferance is wafer-thin and could easily culminate in James the amateur messiah one rainy easter weekend.
And on we roll towards the official intervention.
But shaping the future requires a history. Elvira claps twice for attention and begins: “Some of you members who have joined recently maybe think this is a mutual society, a means of protecting ourselves and our families against hard times, a way to make money. But when Don Francisco,” (who?) “ first taught us to organize, he made us respect the values at the core of our society.”
“Viva el commandante - viva la revolución,” the hall explodes and I’m unplugged, disconnected, Dr. Watson hoodwinked by the obvious.
“Yes,” she continues, “In accepting outside help, we emasculated our movement, allowed it to be infiltrated. At last, today, we have ejected the manipulators. We reclaim our heritage and return to the vision of our founder and leader, Francisco Choque. Wherever you are, comandante, we follow your example.”
Shouts ring out, “Viva el comandante Pancho! Viva la revolución!”
The penny drops. No wonder Ana found her subordinate position so humiliating.
Lidia, bulking huge, Amalia, tiny and vibrant, proceed to explain those sections of the statutes pertaining to the rights of the socios. Intervention can be achieved by a simple vote, nothing further is required since the assamblea is supreme. Strange that Edmundo and Osvaldo should have allowed it to remain so.
The vote to intervene is unanimous, the consequences veiled.
Nourishment first. At such crucial moments, any mama (except my Joanne) would say, first eat. Matters need to be chewed over. Noodles and mince stew piled high, a hot sauce, spoons scraping metal dishes clean, washed down with succulent fruit - oranges, lime, mango. I distribute more Astoria to accompany the coca.
After lunch, fever grips, we unsully, a new broom sweeps. The first casualities are the damned clocks that Osvaldo installed to promote efficiency. Those still functioning, we silence and cart into the rainswept yard to be dumped under the nylon sheets that wrap the once great table.
Eager hands strip the walls of posters, memos, bulletin-boards, photo-displays, copro-babble. Finally, all the offices, including my cubby-hole, are locked and sealed as if plague-ridden. Year Zero is upon us.
Stockholders eject management. Now what? At two-thirty we recovene, the discussion centring on who’s to run the show. Should successors be nominated for the vacant positions?
“No,” exhorts Julio. “the danger is of duplicating past errors. We can simply elect a new directorio as the statutes provide, and there’s our management team without creating another elite.” Once again Julio provides the decisive contribution. He deserves the cheers.
In Bolivia, voting is compulsorary at national and local level. Failure to do so punishable, unlike in the States where you have to plead for the electorate to turn out, then litigate to discover the result. Here, the shakier the structure, the more sacred the right. Elections are a rite.
Being a true democrat, I’ve never voted in my life. So when I’m chosen to observe this election, I need to be instructed on such basics as nominating candidates and the inking of forefingers. To think, despite the skullduggery and repression which have always disgraced Bolivian political life, electoral expertise is maintained and treasured at grass-roots level.
I’m impressed and wary. Copcap is a prize worth capturing, amply funded, able to convene a thousand productive members, owner of this 3-storey building and more. The groups are rivals, as the anniversary clearly showed. But, if this morning was dark and disruptive, the afternoon is a fine example of mathematical chaos, flowing and creative, patterns crystallizing from the source. The shifting alliances express freedom.
Alberto’s companions refuse to participate until their leader reappears; Faustino’s disown him. Others want to bar any person who’s served before. Al revés, say the knitters, right now experience counts. Julio resolves the bickering by suggesting that any nomination can be vetoed by a majority of the assembly.
Alberto emerges from a corner to mocking cheers and laughter.
Given the political situation, some people do not want the publicity, Rigoberto for one. Declining to stand, he invokes the struggle that may anyday overwhelm our little plans, alongside which we are shadowboxing. “And yet,” he storms, “there is no separation. Comrade Pancho intended this organization to work as a model. Our founder had to retire, the dream was thwarted. But now, on a larger scale, we are very close to success. Vote with your head but also with your heart.”
While Miguel and I cross to prepare the deposito, they begin rechecking credentials and challenging nominations. The yard is awash in pale sunlight. Edmundo’s car has been moved inside and parked next to the upended table. Both incongruous objects squat amid the rainwater puddles like polaroid snaps of beached whales.
We unlock the store-room, push sacks to one side, erect two voting booths, station the ballot boxes within them, ready the voting-papers and inkpot, wait. With all due seriousness, let sport commence.
The electors exercise their right to vote in a trancelike silence. Levity on my part is slapped down immediately. On re-entry to the hall, holding the boxes high, I’m met by the wholesome, organic odour of over a hundred bodies, an authentic human smell, comforting like beer factory malt or the embrace of one’s own bedding, in contrast to the jasmine aftershave and peppermint lozenges of Achumani.
Voting slips are counted on the floor, in plain sight. The victors stand in line preparing to take the oath of office. Elvira, Lidia, Amalia, bowlers in hand, hands on chest - president, secretary and treasurer in that order. Another five women, including my staunch ally Teofila and the nosey Berta, also wait for Rigoberto to administer the oath in Aymara.
You’d see these women in the market, some in traditional dress, the rest in hand-me-downs, note their lined faces, work-raw hands, swollen legs and you’d guess their fate is debt, a brutal husband, poor health and early death. If you were from the bourgeous brigade, you dismiss the women as irrelevant. But I am frankly zapped by these mothers of the intervention.
The elected men are interesting too. Alejandro, secretary of culture, brewer of heady potions. The spaced out kid in his grandpa’s suit also makes the grade. And Julio, whom I never realized was a socio until today. He sits next to me as we chew coca, finally reconciled, a brother not a potential lover. “Shouldn’t we consider altering the name of the association?” he asks, continuing to point us in the right direction. “Copcap is tainted. I venture to suggest Machaq Q”antati, the new dawn.”
“Or Pachakuti,” adds Alejandro, carefully recounting the Aymara concept of cyclical time and the importance of the returning eras. I love this; shackles off, sharing a chew, on the hunt for liberation. English volunteer, out of his depths and swimming strongly.
Elvira interrupts Alejandro apologetically, explaining that all the documents are registered in the old name. Our hands are tied, a change would risk us losing everything. As if to parody her point, the sound of an insistent thumping carries in.
We troop en masse to the yard. Amalia opens the small door of the metallic gates to reveal Edmundo accompanied by a ponderous policeman who is swaddled in fur-collared green coat, green cape and clumping boots caked in mud. Looks like he’s migrated recently from Patagonia.
“This caballero claims that his vehicle is wrongfully impounded here by yourselves. Which being the case, I would ask you to return the aforementioned car,” and he brandishes a crumpled paper. They talk like cops in any language, don't they?
Fortunately, the double garage doors are chained from the inside, whereabouts of key distinctly unknown, so we can afford to laugh at the absurdity of his request. And I guffaw with the rest of them.
Had I known that Sgt. N. Huanca (yes, it is pronounced ‘wanker’) would be my arresting officer and unwitting saviour, I might have treated the poor guy with more consideration.



Chapter 34
Loose Connections

The empty diskette cases say it all. Correspondence, files, reports are missing. We have unsealed Edmundo 's office, but what do we know of the man? Why would someone from his background have taken this job? How could the ‘southerner’ stand the Alto? I can’t even imagine where he and Pamela lunched, let alone sowed their oats. Our one discovery, finding the condoms in his desk, high comedy at a low moment.
Elvira fingers the pack gingerly, passes it to Julio who (I resolve not to dwell on this) shoves it in his pocket and blushes. We stare at empty drawers and bare shelves, the walls stripped of diplomas. “How much money has he stolen?” Julio muses aloud.
“No proof,” says Elvira, shooing her little boy off the swivel chair on which he's deposited mucus stains and a banana peel. “And no way to find out.” Lidia adds.
I tell them about my visit to the south, Waldo and Edmundo linked way back to the start of the little colonel’s régime. "Funny they knew about the intervention before we’d decided ourselves,” Elvira comments. “They were keeping an eye on us, alright."
“Como sea,” whatever - shrugs Julio, “But we need to calculate the extent of the mess. Any suggestions?” So I plug in the computer, whereupon the vigilance commission members (let’s not call them vigilantes), rush in and demand that I stop.
This body, created to supervise our activities until the first directorio meeting, being selected for brawn, is none too bright. And in the interregnum, they interpret any action as untoward. To be fair, we do need bodyguards; expelled parties could attack, the police could raid us. We also need to contact our donors.
Elvira tries to reason with them. Listen lads, Edmundo 's been badmouthing the association (Wim called yesterday to warn us). We could lose our funding overnight. Grudgingly, permission is granted to download the e-mails. All the messages express hyper-cyber-concern and are in English. Don't these projects employ any Spanish speakers?
"Translate," Elvira orders.
Worse than feared.
"Reply at once," she snaps. "Inform the funders that we fired the professionals for their arrogance and incompetence. Make the new situation very clear. Tranquilo, no hay problema. But tell them the files have been stolen by the outgoing bosses. Request copies urgently."
I start at the machine again. The head of the commission, a heavy unsmiling peasant, interjects. "Don't send any messages in a foreign languge. How do we know what you're saying?"
I appreciate his anxieties, but the delay will hamstring us.
Impossible, say our protectors, crossing their arms and shaking their heads.
Julio leaves the room. Two minutes later we hear the crash of a window. Amalia runs in. "Vandals are stoning the building," she gasps. The viligantes tumble down the stairs.
"Work fast," whispers a smiling Elvira. Right, she's the elected authority.

Then we retreat downstairs. The nippy weather rules out the yard and the meeting hall is stripped, inhospitable, table still languishing outdoors. Depressing. Seated on bales of wool, drinking sweet coffee, perhaps we can avoid the void, chatting.
Julio does me the favour of relating Alejandro’s dream, the one that saved my skin (or seals my fate). “He told the asamblea he’d seen you offering coca to Pancho.” But if Aymaras dream in reverse? “He offerered no interpretation.”
“Pancho must have been incredibly young to start the association.”
“Oh he was,” says Elvira. “Straight out of the university.”
“So, what forced him to leave?”
“Well, a pair of Mormons were killed on the Avenida Buenos Aires and Pancho got blamed. It’s said he lost control of the hotheads.”
“Or provocateurs were at work,” adds Julio.
“Tambien, but Pancho had to escape and he’s stayed underground since then, doing what he does.”
“And we’re under suspicion again,” I observe.
“Oh yes, the tension's rising,” says Lidia. "I haven’t seen the country like this in years."
Miguelito's signalling from an upstairs window. Wim on the phone. How are you doing? We’re down the mineshaft without a lantern. He recommends a friend who can prise the backup memory from any computer. Perhaps you shouldn’t have written to the donors, they’re easily upset. Already are, I tell him.
The day's events are speeding up. That honking at the gates is Luis, at the wheel of the Toyota pickup, which, to our embarrassment, we’ve forgotten about. Returning the vehicle is his act of good faith and a bargaining chip. “Please, compadre,” he begs, “I have a family to support.” I’ve seen them, Lucho, and they’re not worth it.
Still, he hands over keys, insurance, copies of the ownership papers, clasps my hand clammily. Jesus, I fear he’s gonna kiss it in front of everyone. Against better judgement and instinct, I agree to intercede with Elvira, but she won’t touch the matter. “For the directorio to decide.” He slinks away.
“Talking of which,” I remark, “has anyone decided what comes first, the meeting or the cursillo?”
“I don’t think we can do anything until the directorio,” is the automatic response, but Julio’s not so sure. “The meeting’s going to be contentious, Elvira. We’ll be better off analysing without the pressure to vote.”
“Very good point,” says Lidia. “If the courses are before the meeting, we might even manage to keep the association together.” And so it is decided, just as Vanesa arrives, stiffly demanding, in her name and Beto’s, redundancy pay.
Has Bolivian labour law suddenly grown equitable? For the middle class only, Lidia explains; very few workers have the benefit of a contract. We leave Vanesa standing in the yard. This ploy of hers could prove extremely expensive, especially when repeated by Edmundo and Osvaldo.
“There must be escape clauses,” Julio speculates. “If we accuse them of fraud, dishonesty, theft, lifting documents, everything. We’ll need a good, cheap lawyer.” Yeah, as in bumping into a vegetarian shark.
Vanesa, smart brown suit and sensible shoes, insists. “This is the report the doctor promised,” she says, presenting me with a spiral folder and a significant gaze that I struggle not to prolong. “Perhaps you could flick through it now, Joven Jaime, see if it’s acceptable.” Once I‘ve read her private note clipped to page three she turns away.
The procession of litigants continues. A spritely, small figure approaches. I know him, can’t place him, until he chirps, “Padrino, no te acuerdes de mi?” The waiter from the wedding, choosing a most awkward moment to press his group’s claim for membership. I try to interest a distracted Elvira in the Diggers.
You never know how things turn out. Some of the vigilant commandos peel themselves from the wall and embrace Don Basilio. “Compañero,” they enthuse and slap the frail little man on his back, causing him to cough and gasp. The place is full of ex-miners. As I’m called towards the telephone again, I hear Elvira assuring Basilio that the directorio will attend to his request, and why not also come to the courses?
“Hey,” Wim begins, “I’ve just been communicating with functionaries of my organization.” Shit, seems that Edmundo told the European Union we’re falling apart and cannot be trusted with a quarter of a million dollars worth of new funds. Bastard! “I will endeavour to induce tranquility,” says Wim. “Go check again your e-mail. Let me know how they are responding.”
With the resolve of nervous maiden aunts, Wim. “Can you cope?” they wonder, implying we’ve been naughty, somehow broken our word. “Be advised that until further clarification, all operational financing is frozen.”
How could they be so insensitive? Having poured a decade’s worth of money down this drain, they’re running scared at the first breath of fresh air. Were it not for the Argentina game on Sunday and Vanesa’s invitation to a rendezvous, I might succumb to depression. Her note reads, ‘Tonight, seven pm, we need to talk.’

The Ceja clock is small, round and set well above the reach of thieves. Three main roads collide at its base. Raucous street vendors hawk, mini-buses vie, pedestrians swarm and shove. As a meeting place, the clock is neither relaxing nor safe.
I don’t see her until she’s upon me, the dark brown sober suit, a flash of cream underskirt, her hand on my elbow guiding us through the crush. Part of me still believes this is business, an attempt at negotiating terms, but her fingertips throb.
Away from the edge, the crowds thin. Neon videobars and discos challenge the dusk, enticing the lonely wayfarer. We turn a corner and enter the nondescript El Dorado hotel, a multi-storey cube - perhaps it has a lounge where we can discuss matters quietly. She signals to wait, approaches the pimpled clerk, slips a twenty on the desk, returns with a key. Rubbing sallow hands, the youth winks.
Our tiny room is almost saved from squalor by her dignity and the residual buzz of all those couples who, fleetingly, horizontally, have lolled within. She lays her bag on the ragged stained pink nylon bedcover, pulls me into an avalanche of avid kisses.
“Run along to the bathroom and I’ll be ready,” she breathes.
The back corridor is awash with moans and sticky endearments. I’m beginning to dig this. For my return, Vanesa lies naked, a dusky Modigliani, one arm arched behind her head, the other reaching for me, a pack of condoms (today’s theme) held between manicured fingers. “I’m a nurse,” she says, “I remember practicalities.”
Greedily she watches me undress.
She’s fuller figured than I imagined, wider hips, slacker breasts, stretch marks and surgical scars. Now, I know it’s deceitful and impure to make love whilst thinking of another partner. But I need just a flash of Tzipi flexing her predatory thighs to kickstart my reluctant member and then Vanesa can take over, draw me down into missionary, rather than submissionary, positions.
Steadily our passion swells from urgent to frantic, to bucking, wild.
“Listen,” I coo postcoitally, “Sorry if I’ve come between you and Beto.”
“No te preoccupes, mi amor, Beto’s impotent. He’s easily satisfied with small favours. What I need is a man,” she sighs, fondling. “Can we meet again next Friday? Every Friday’s fine. That’s when my boy goes to his grandmother.”
“Well, I can’t promise.”
“What’s wrong, don’t I please you? I’m yours now, Jaime.”
The problem precisely. Clingfilm. Oh don’t get weepy, please.
“Maybe if you wore your nurse’s outfit.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you liked that. Next time I will. Of course I will.”




Chapter 35
Playing at Home

“A nurse in a love hotel. C’mon kid, are you turning Japanese?”
The moment I swagger upstairs Sandy smells the scene, sniffs the secretions. “Jim, I guessed you were a pervert that first time on the bus, the bag of grass down your shorts.” She lights another incense stick.
And what turns you on, Sandy? But it’s against regulations to grill your shrink. Better to keep confessing. I tell her everything, including the Pancho link, admitting that I hid it from her and why.
“Good decision,” she says, “I’d have done the same. Don’t trust me with secrets, mate. Interesting; you’re consistently making right choices.”
“Then why am I attracting so much heat? All these things happening to me.”
“Well, one thing is your work. That place is the trap. Even so, I’m coming to believe you’re the still centre. Events shape around you. And in this country, that's probably bad news.” Chappie dog scratches on the bedroom door, enters, curls at our feet, stares into Sandy’s eyes with dumb-beast adoration.
"I need your help, Sandy. I’ve promised to give a course in five days and I haven’t the slightest idea what to teach. Stick around, give us a hand, luv,” I plead.
“Dunno, if I can stand this godforsaken place so long.”
“Sandy, I was a joy-rider before. Now I’ve got responsibilities.”.
“Don’t gloat, you creep. Smirking like a cat in a cream-jug, just ‘cos you’re an outsider and been taken in.”
Taken in? In what sense?

Since I can’t rely on Sandy’s discretion, I’m glad she and Julio don’t really share a common language. The flow of visitors has induced them to smarten up the property. With the office atmosphere so highly charged, the inner-core of the directorio prefer to relax round here and this marred house, the classic Alto brick box, is acquiring some identity and a use, out of spite I presume.
So the twin ecologists go downtown to buy a batch of seeds and tickets for tomorrow’s game against Argentina, my treat. I can afford to be generous. On returning, they don’t bother to rest, just gulp their tea and gesture over the freshly turned earth, united in energy and optimism. Soon, there are furrows. What a pair; already we possess a fenced, redug garden and the crazy paving is currently undergoing therapy.
Asunta is vexed, though. Sandy disrupts her routine, will switch off the tv, open the windows to the elements and prepare aromatic, lowfat, vegetarian grub, leftovers, if any, to Chappie. The hound’s in heaven, despite losing his pissing plot in the garden. He follows Sandy doggedly, right into the house, under the nose of Asunta who leans on her broom and wonders whether to risk a confrontation with the immodest young woman in shorts.
So, in retaliation, Asunta pretends that pile of pans and dishes is beyond her powers and I end up washing them myself. Treat the old dear with more consideration, I’ll say to Sandy; who replies, “She’s paid to clean, isn’t she? She can do it in her own time.” But the point is, I’m also confused by the new order. Like Asunta, I’m used to the grim spell this place casts. The last thing I need is a thriving dump.
I’ve yet to learn the house rules, it really does.

There’s even talk of taking Chappie to the football game - after all he dribbles, quips Sandy. In the end, it’s the three of us, an Aussie, a Brit and a Bolo, trapped in the surge at the stadium entrance. Having numbered tickets doesn’t help. Argentina and Brazil are the big teams of South America, attract sell-out crowds though they hate to play in La Paz.
It’s the altitude myth. Until Llasa heads an independent Tibet, La Paz is the highest capital in the world, if it is a capital (study in your own time the respective judicial and administrative claims of the cities of Sucre and La Paz). The Argies complain that running for 90 minutes, two miles up, is inhuman and they campaign for international football to be banned of at these heights.
The argument’s flawed. Moscow’s subzero temperatures, the steamy cauldrons of Rio and Napoli, local food, bumpy pitches, hostile crowds, all create unfair conditions for visiting teams. And yet the thin air does count.
One way to combat the problem is landing a few hours before kick-off, as soroche, altitude sickness, usually hits after twelve hours. It’s a tactic that results in disorientation and heavy defeat. The Argentinians have chosen the other method, coming a fortnight early to train and adapt. Even so, in rabid sound bites, they groan to the media at every opportunity.
Inside the ground, the fans are baying at the cowardly gauchos, cheering the valiant Bolivians. Within twenty minutes the Argentinians, who have materialized from another footballing planet, are 2-0 up and strolling. Battistuta can afford to miss a penalty. The crowd settles into practised resignation. World cup qualifier, a game that matters, we’re on the point of elimination. Tiers of tears.
The shade is already encroaching at our end of the ground, the north. Gazing around the silenced stadium, I remember the sunny southside from where, last time, we watched that Bolívar-Strongest game. I tell Sandy about meeting Waldo Ventura, then lean over her and comment, “That was some coincidence, eh Julio?”
“You believe so? Ana insisted I take you to those particular seats.”
“What! You can't be serious. You mean ....... ?”
“She’s under tremendous pressure. I wouldn’t be in her shoes.”
Traicionera. I’m stunned by the implications.
The Bolivians run, pressurize their opponents, rebound off a forest of bodies, attack again. The crowd empathizes, responds. This is how Bolivia has lost half its territories since independence - defeat in the face of overwhelming odds, the braveheart syndrome. An hopeful chanting carries us through to half-time.
“Nothing much to celebrate on the field. We could start planning the cursillo,” I say. “You’d better let me sit in the middle to translate.” But Sandy won’t swap seats, she’s determined to guard her new friend.
“C’mon Sandy, I see him in a different light now. He’s my brother.”
“Sublimation, pal.” Oh, screw your attitudes and platitudes.
“What am I meant to teach them Sandy? Tell me that, at least.”
“Uh-uh. There’s no magic key. Don’t search for the big question, look for small answers.” Right. I’ve almost visualized this when Julio yells, “Zingani juega,” catching the rumour from the crowd.
Tomás Zingani, nephew of the legendary Zingani, is coming on as a substitute. Bad boy of Bolivian soccer, the scourge of referees and coaches, exiled to the Mexico league these last years, a genius who loves to waste his talents, who can turn a game.
Immediate impact, a volleyed goal within five minutes, 1-2. The stadium considers erupting, maybe the little devil’s on song. “Diablito, diablito,” they sing, and the Bolivian team, with him as the playmaker, suddenly isn’t just jostling, it’s scheming, probing. A collective sigh as the ball whistles over the bar, a fraction from the equaliser.
Are the Argentines running out of oxygen? Julio scowls with concentration. Entirely the wrong moment to worry him about the cursillo. Inspiration will occur on the morning itself, a half-hour before we begin, fuelled by adrenalin.
I like Zingani and his shoulder-length curly black hair, an artist among the twenty-one sensible crewcuts. He darts and weaves, they chop him down. From one of those free-kicks, he bends a stunner into the top corner. 2-2, twenty minutes to go.
This is when the gauchos lose faith and lapse into stereotype, hacking, pushing, baiting, feigning injury, kicking the ball anywhere. Will we do the same when our revolution sours? Sport and politics, politics and sport. Count the votes or tally the scores, same difference. I’m uneasy in this crescendo of nationalistic madness, and join in.
We scream abuse and when our voices crack, rattle our tonsils at the retreating invadors. A winning goal is summoned. Zingani pushes through a thicket of weary defenders to complete his Mexican hat trick. 3-2.
The joy spills onto the Prado. Delirious fans scream, their faces painted in the national colours, red, yellow and green. Rockets and dancing, beer and spirits, the fiesta won’t end till dawn, if ever.
Julio excuses himself, commitments elsewhere.
Sandy heads for where the booze is flowing.
“I could do with a joint, too long without a smoke,” she shouts above the tumult. “What about that Israeli friend of yours?” Tzipi, oh I dunno.
“Why do you maintain such separate realities?”
Because, by rushing from one to the next, I can almost keep the Chinese plates spinning. What floors me is not the way you and Tzipi alternate sarcasms and ironies all evening. That’s girltalk, no man’s land. But when the bedroom door closes behind you two, and I’m left to toss the night away on this lumpy, sticky, tacky, orange sofa, yes, I am humiliated. And her excellent grass only serves to stretch the wound infinitely.

Chapters 26 - 29

Alright, I know, I know, stop heckling, yes, I've already added FOUR chapters this morning so what the deuce am I doing posting yet another bunch so soon when I've hardly given our ardent readership more than a passing chance to get acquainted with the most recent material, and, what's even more important, to respond to this new reading substance with cogent, thoughtful and provocative comment, which I might then reward by giving it wider distribution, or punish by ignoring it which is a course of action, I hope you all agree, most appropriate in this setting. Furthermore, let me... (muffled sound of gag being forced, possibly into my mouth, then:

Chapter 26
A Great Future Behind Me

Most embarrassing, our sortie from the city to steal from the already deprived. The decision to wind up the poultry project is rational, inevitable, unpopular. Luis continues to stack grain-bins and incubators onto the Toyota, ignoring the irrate Laika, their rage sliding from him, mud off a toad’s belly. Our orders are to snatch chicks, feed and fence-posts too, but such a move would verge on the suicidal. Since not one member of the Commission has dared accompany Elvira and I, we’ll decide.
Children lead the cattle and sheep home through lengthening shadow. The adults stand outside the metal shed, arms folded in displeasure, their backs turned on Luis, who is desperate to escape before the nationwide roadblocks start at midnight. No such luck for us; we stay to conclude the paperwork tomorrow. Ciao compadre mio.
I step away, past the Laika church towards the hacienda, studying the strands of Rigoberto's spider-city. So few outsiders live on the altiplano. Some projects and churches may hide in the smaller towns, but Aymara history, language, custom, communal duty and pride are like the thorns round which the shared web is woven. No admittance.
The mountains are fading, night takes hold. Unless I crawl into one of the animal pens, I may soon lose some extremities to frostbite, and who could blame the Laika for leaving me here to freeze?
But this fear is a product of my ignorance, for the Aymara would never treat a guest so. The local schoolteacher, call him Ismael, escorts me down a churned path to his home. Inside, the wife prepares supper under dancing shadows that hint at tools and sacks and fleeces. A slow, dung fire is crackling, pungent as peat. The smoky room is smelly, stifling, perfect.
“How long till the roads clear?” I ask.
“It's a serious matter,” jokes Ismael. “You might have to stay a month or two and help us in the fields. Then you can learn Aymara.”
“I’ve memorized a few phrases. But when I try them out, everyone complicates the conversation.” Ismael shrugs. “Try to understand. So many outsiders despise the Aymara tongue that we tend to keep it to ourselves.”
For the next hour, he lectures me on the subtlety and the logic of the language. Verb tenses, for example; one for the personally known, another for the indirectly known, and then there’s the unknownable. “The Spanish priests were considered liars when they claimed Columbus was a great man. How could they possibly tell if they’d never met him?” Even time and space are inverted in this harsh paradise. “The future is behind us,” says Ismael, “because we cannot see it.”
I concentrate, tongue-tied, until the children arrive for supper, sniggering a little at the singular guest but soon reprimanded. Ismael gives me a bowl of noodle soup and choice gristle, side-plate of potatoes. Just in case I might confuse his teacherly knowledge with wisdom, he puts batteries in the radio and tunes to a cumbia station for my entertainment. Funny how these awful songs are so beloved of the Aymara.
The family lay fleeces and blankets on the floor and, before I can argue about displacing them from their one warm room, depart. I have the whole night to regret Julio’s pulling out of this trip at the last minute. For some reason, he's been distancing himself. The staked animals breathe deep, lowing occasionally into the darkness.
I sleep well and only wake when Ismael enters to rekindle the fire. “One question, Jaime,” he asks as he tidies the room. “What is your opinion of us? Francamente.”
Choosing the bland option, I say, “You are very organized,” which he takes as a compliment. What I mean is ‘meticulous’, his neatly pared nails, the trim way he’s folding that blanket amid all this drudgery, the 57 verbal varieties that he detailed last night for carrying objects, whether pliant or bulky, wriggling or lifeless, grasped under an arm or hip-held, there's a word for each.. In the face of such precision, we are sloppy.
I cradle my cup of herb tea for warmth, and from the doorway sniff the dew. A scent of dung and vegetation, crushed by the night's weight, is borne on the breeze. Dogs bark distantly, wildfowl fly by, the altiplano grudgingly assumes the green mantle of its short summer.
You’d think that helping Ismael unstake his animals wouldn’t present much difficulty. He slaps a heifer on the rump to set it moving, so I do the same to the next in line. The headstrong beast, resenting alien discipline, swivels and charges. Pride induces me to take a temporary stand, to be butted, and then sit. Ismael has to restrain the calf, pulling at tufts of hair where its horns have yet to grow. Kids gather to laugh and point.
No sooner do I regain my feet than a passing dog that doesn’t speak Spanish (I cry, “Roque, Roque” in vain) growls, barks, nips at my thigh, tearing my trousers, drawing blood. A crowd cheers and, far from apologizing, its owner takes the piss in Aymara - fresh merriment. ‘Ba-aa-ah’ bleats a sheep, causing me to jump.
Allowances are not made in a marginal society. The Aymara have survived Bolivian gentry, Spanish invasion, Incas, Tiwanaku empire, Chiripa, back beyond recorded time. If scorn is an effective defence and they wish to laugh at me, they may.
But when some nearby youths, seeing as I’m hobbling and hamstrung invite me to the football pitch, shouting, “Jaime, jugaremos futbol”. I retaliate with “Up yours,” in English and, scratching at the night’s flea bites, limp on to the meeting. Elvira, her shopping-bag and kid, wait alone at the chicken shed.
The Laika must be occupied elsewhere.
“What about closing the project?”
“You didn’t follow the meeting yesterday?” In Aymara - no. "The hens and equipment are now community property."
“So why have we stayed over?”
When she replies, "To coordinate the roadblocks and marches, of course," I understand a series of related points. Despatching Luis was intentional, he’s been given no chance to eavesdrop, Ana’s opinion of my compadre is widespread, Elvira is a lynchpin of the movement.
We discover the men on the bridge by the river. They form a tight semi-circle and are discussing, I don’t know what, vehemently. Linguistically lost, trapped fifty miles from el Alto among amicably hostile peasants, I feel very vulnerable. Don’t be deceived by the red and yellow ponchos they wear, splashing colour on the drab plain; these folk are as soft as flowering cacti.
Decisions taken, preparations commence. Grunting and groaning, the Laika roll huge river-rocks up an improvised ramp onto their ancient truck, which sags but holds. To be on your own, with no direction home, Laika rolling stone. Twenty men (not a woman in sight) clamber aboard, armed with clubs, whips and slings. They signal for Elvira and I to join them. Rigoberto (hi pal) hands me a poncho and a multicoloured hat. “Stand in the middle and try not to be spotted.”
An hour into the journey, the truck halts and we all jump down.
"Come and view one of the glories of our past," calls Rigoberto.
I see a bumpy field enclosed by a wire fence. Closer up, it's apparent that enormous blocks of stone litter the ground, a giants' playground. We file in. Some of the blocks are incised with the double Andean cross, most are rectangular and plain, all are straight, not just straight but millimetre-perfect. Awesome; how'd they do that, given the tools available at that time? Mind you, any culture that exults in such regularity doesn't necessarily get my vote.
"The ruins of Tiwanaku," says Ismael and the other men sigh respectfully.
What happened to it?
"Latest research suggests a thirty-year drought around 1200," Ismael informs, "Causing the Tiwanakans to lose their authority and the empire to fall. The top layer of that pyramid," (you mean the crumpled hill?) "is full of human sacrifices."
Rigoberto shows me an artist's re-creation of the site at the local museum. Low, smooth, paved forecourts, open distances between the temples. It's fascist architecture, an affront to humanity, designed to make a person feel insignificant. Rigo and Ismael, you're not seriously claiming Tiwanaku as your inheritance? This is the work of slave-drivers, of Others, and it was evil, can't you tell?
We reboard the truck. If they are disappointed by my reaction, I myself am suddenly apprehensive, pondering sacrifices and the Andean double-cross.
At the next checkpoint, the toll collectors have been replaced by jostling peasants, who whistle and jeer at us threateningly before they recognize Rigoberto. The road is blocked. A driver mad enough to attempt to force this barrier would have to negotiate a hundred metres of jagged rocks, then take on our boulders, now levered off the truck. Only tanks could crash through, should the army have any.
Among the trapped vehicles, I’m glad to note, are a World Bank jeep and a UN execu-mobil. Their occupants eye us with suspicion - quite rightly. The Laika truck has positioned itself on the La Paz side of the roadblock, ready to ferry rural shock-troops to the city. I wave farewell to the stranded consultants and technicians.
We’re careful to stop at the last curve before the outskirts of the Alto, dismount and join the stream of travellers on foot. I’m even given a bundle to carry over my shoulder for disguise. We easily evade the police and military presence. The comrades all shake my hand. “Suerte, Wiracocha,” they say, as if I’d some mission to complete.
Transport is suspended throughout the Alto too, so instead of making for the Ceja and doubling back, like one would normally do in a bus, Elvira, child and I leave the road, walk the short cut over Rio Seco. The river is not entirely dry. Trickles of brown sediment meander past the gravel gatherers, at work despite the strike call. The city has ways of dividing its citizens.
“Elvira,” I ask, “ Qué pasa? Is Copcap falling apart?”
“No, getting ever stronger. Didn’t you smell the smoke from the millucha?”
“Yes and I felt a weird atmosphere on Monday morning.”
“Usually, a guilty person gets sick or dies after the ceremony. This time I do believe.........”
An landing airliner drowns her thoughts. I toy with the idea of visiting the so-called health centre (in a purely professional capacity, you understand), but doubt whether Vanesa will have managed to reach work today.
“............ and Ana is too closely watched to be of any use.”
What?




Chapter 27
We Do

Time and again, I play to my invisible audience, the paIs back at the pub. Hey guys, I’m crowing, look, check this, can you believe what I’m up to now? They nod, smile, pass a chunk of euro-hash under the table, order the next round, toast the absent Jim Stalker.
Then comes the day of the wedding and this not-so-entirely harmless fantasy folds. I'm at HQ Villa Abdullah, within spittle range of the spluttering Ignatz, in this tent-shaped church, rain tattooing on the metallic big top. Bo-o-o-o-ring, groan my mates and tune out in disgust.
But the priest, beguiled by his role, has forgotten we're acting. He stops carressing the guitar and starts to crucify some youngsters for the offence of chatting during the performance. His voice shifts from sonorous to grating to strident. Lucky I made that five-minute appearance at last night’s brainwashing session (enough to have my name ticked by the short-sighted catechist), otherwise I'd be in trouble too.
Changing to tyranically benevolent, Ignatz next delivers a homily on the duties of the modern Catholic couple. Have you guessed? Husband sets out to work each morning, wife tends the house, awaiting her man’s return, meal ready. Still, I have to admit the priest’s efficient, marrying three couples at a time, knotting each in a golden chain (an intriguing form of bondage) before blessing and releasing them with a lukewarm warning not to drunk excessively today.
My own gormless pair, Euripedes in a dark suit, the bride corseted into her wedding dress, waddle down the aisle. The organist mangles Mendelsohn. At the porch, relatives drown us in white confetti and a rain-soaked photographer peddles future memory.
“Step in compadre,” says Luis, ushering me to the white-ribboned, white minibus that trails jangling cans (painted white). Just as well Rosa warned me of my responsibility. The padrinos de civil have bought the wedding ring and dealt with the registry. I take the newlyweds on a mystery tour and let’s pretend it’s magical. Accordingly, I’ve stuffed my pockets with banknotes.
We make for Viacha, a rundown garrison town on the edge of the altiplano. On the way, we’ll pass the high-security jail of Conchocorro, residence to those ex-dictators and drug-traffickers not still in power. Doesn’t look so bleak, similar in style to my house, guards and machine-guns replacing neighbours.
I’m tempted to reconvene the doting pub audience for this scene at the toll-booth. A grinning policeman wipes gravy on the sleeve of his green uniform, minutely examines the vehicle’s documents. He wants a bribe, doesn't he?. I hand over a twenty note. “Call him Zacharias,” jokes the driver and I almost do. “Sacarías,” he explains, ‘you would grab’ in Spanish. Wow - a Bolivian pun. Achilles and consort sit impassively in the back, either they missed the joke, they don’t consider it funny, or their clothes are constricting them.
From Viacha’s main plaza, the statue of nobody notable surveys cadets picking their noses in doorways, off-duty officers revving motorbikes, a wedding party traipsing through deep mud to the one restaurant boasting lunch and platos varios.
Both waiters applaud as we burst through the saloon doors. Maria, my god-daughter, star for a day, has a little word with me, thereby spotlighting her gringo padrino for those diners who have failed to react. Next, she totters high-heeled to a table, dabbing her chemically frizzled hair, and fusses over creases in the dress. Don’t worry, darling; by the end of the day you won’t even notice the beer stains and puke.
“Stay away from the reception until three o’clock,” Luis had insisted. On the other hand, it’s tough entertaining a pair of morons, their padrinos de civil and driver. No wonder Bolivians dumb out on beer. I signal for two crates and we settle into a hazy pattern of food and drink and drink and drink, getting hazier.
Arriving at the local an hour late. Not that I’m any expert in distinguishing areas of the Alto, but it is disturbing how unrecognisable this sector is, miles from anywhere, definitely nowhere, meaning I am sequestered for the duration.
Lilac lozenges and acres of mirrors adorn yet another futile attempt at Alto architecture. Draped from columns and high across the empty hall, white toilet paper welcomes us. The local, though obviously swabbed and scrubbed for the event, resounds to sticky echoes of fiestas past.
A scattering of guests is already parked against the walls, the women spendidly garish in shawls, bowlers and gold jewelry, the men dark-suited, understated. My rented suit stands out, unsuitable, an odd fawn colour, though I’m relieved to see the men open-necked. Like me, they proudly and mistakenly claim to have no ties.
The band renders the Wedding March, then the Blue Danube, requiring us to waltz rehearsal-less. We do, like icebergs in search of a cruise liner, while family members video the shambles.
Speeches next, starting with mine. I can only surmise that hearing me stutter amuses the assembly. Meanwhile the other speakers, even taciturn Luis, launch into model toasts. Bolivians are so oratorically gifted, but I would question the content - strict separation of sex roles, no spreading secrets outside the four walls of the home, lifelong devotion, love and honour. Don't believe a word of it and neither do they.
As proved by the dj starting to play cumbia. I have heard this described as happy, slightly mindless, dance music, but grab an earful:
“Traicionera
Mereces que nadie te quiere
No vales la pena. ”
A song of desertion and blame for our happy couple.
"Traitress, undeserving of love,
You’re not worth the bother."
The guests sing along.

Involuntarily I whisper to Luis, “Ay, this music’s terrible.” He rises and remonstrates with the dj, has the music changed. Well, that’s quite impressive, I am flattered. El padrino requires a change of music, so be it. I know the Big 'Un is guardian of the newlyweds during this reception, but hadn’t quite comprehended the scope of my power.
Huanyos take over, the swing music of the Andes, which, you’ll recall, Ana employed to save the anniversary. Elegantly snaking patterns fill the hall. The women may have an advantage with those stiff swirling dresses, but the guys also shimmy to the rhythm.
Unfortunately, we can’t enjoy this dancing for long. Every few minutes, firecrackers announce new guests. Then, bride and groom, padrinos and parents are obliged to form a reception committee by the door. We greet the newcomers, accept presents (many crates of beer, but also kitchenware and blankets), while a nephew notes the donorrs and their gifts in a school exercise book.
Then waiters converge bearing trays of lethal concoctions. A bottleful of beer in a bulbous glass (they call it the chop and its impact does resemble a karate blow), the knockout ensured by follow-up glasses of alcohol. Guests are chided to drink up fast - this fiesta has no truck with the sober.
And so, remorselessly, stupor envelops the evening. I'm obliged to sit at high table behind the fruit and the wedding cake, inseparable from my charges, observing tables tumble and women screech as their men lurch into innocuous fights. Can this can be Pancho’s constituency, the backbone of the Andean revolution? The prospects for change seem shallow and illusory tonight. Somehow, these people cut untrustworthy figures.
And that invisible public back home, they must be jeering now, reaching for the orange peel and rotten eggs before flipping to another channel. I’d leave myself, if I could.
The waiters, in their enthusiasm to pump up the madness, press drinks on the drunk, and are glancing my way. Eventually, the head waiter, under the pretext of serving me a plate of food (roast pig in spicy tomato goo), calls courteous attention to what he terms, my cara larga - my long face.
“Señor padrino,” he lectures, “For the sake of your godchildren, please, you must enjoy yourself. Understand this, happiness is an easy bubble to burst.” And I’m cast as the prick capable of ruining the party. He’s right; an undertaker can’t laugh, the clown mustn’t frown and wisdom comes from unlikely sources, from a mad bum or a zen butcher or from this stooped, toothless waiter in a grimy white jacket.
“I’m not used to so much drink,” I say. “Might I be permitted five minutes of fresh air?”
“Claro padrino, Ven nomás pues,” and he escorts me past the toilets to a back door, opening onto a street of half-constructed adobe shacks and the stink of human shit. I stride off to where the air is clearer, where I have breath-in space to appreciate the fat joint stowed in my pocket.
Soon all rancour is fumigated. Who am I to complain? Suppose we transported Luis, let’s say, to the Geordie-Sarah wedding at Glastonbury. In terms of anthropological tourism, how would he fare on a vegan diet, readings from Don Juan and Kahil Gilbran, washed down with a tab of acid instead of beer? Question of what one's used to.
The five minutes extend into thirty (maybe some think the padrino has fled), but I do return, revived and willing to accept the torture as a rite of passage and a glueing of the bonds. They’re now husband and wife, ‘esposos’ (which fittingly doubles as the word for ‘handcuffs’ in Spanish). After all this effort and noise, our not-so-young groom will hardly dare divorce his Maria. Desertion more likely, a trick practised by the majority of Alto men, (though weirdly, cumbia songs reverse this fact and accuse all women of abandono).
Talking of which, in my absence, band and dj have conspired to reinsert their dumb music into the festivities. They can’t conceive the power of the weed to sculpt the world. First one, then the other giant speaker, start to distort, mangling the lyrics, leaving the dancers a white-noise bass riff to sway to and then silence.
The party has mellowed, the cake is cut and smeared unconsciously over suits and dresses and hair. Finally, most guests turn to considering how they will reach home. Slumped forms are hoisted to their knees, the relatively capable dragging the elapsed out into the rain.
Bride and groom, changed to street clothes, cordially invite me to their minibus, but wherever we are now, they’re heading for another part of town and I don’t want to impose. I wander back to the hall, in its sudden, splendid, reeking silence now almost a temple, at the very least a drunken stupa.
“Padrino,” the thin voice cuts in from the kitchen, “you are all alone.” It’s head waiter Basilio, utterly fatigued from running the night’s exertions. “Where do you live, padrino?”
“Near Villa Adela. ”
“Then I can give you a lift, I’m going to Mercenario.” He shuffles along the deserted rooms, locking cupboards and hatches. His car is another species of battered taxi. “Bien, padrino. Ya eres Boliviano.” But I’m not Bolivian. You don’t escape from one culture (if I’ve truly banished my home audience) merely to adhere to another.
Midnight. On a single windscreen wiper, he charts a course through the storm, a seasoned mariner whose watch never ceases. “I hear you provide credit,” he pries. The nod I manage is cursory. “My family also need work.”
“We only receive organized groups," though, I have been considering that Copcap must incorporate new elements soon, otherwise we’re in danger of becoming a private club. “What type of work does your family do?”
“Oh, we’re organized, right enough. All my neighbours come from the Bolsa Negra mine,” he answers, skidding the taxi around a lump in the road, possibly a body. “So, we can always dig.”
“OK,” and jot the office number on a paper napkin. Ana may have some ideas for a group of diggers. I’m more concerned whether that smell of gasoline makes one last Astoria inadvisable.
An innocent enough conversation to land me in jail.



Chapter 28
The Maskmaskers Brawl

Ana's signaling her disdain by sitting four rows in front and gazing down at La Paz, which is, admittedly, a fascinating spectacle. The city is stirring again after a strikebound week, but our bus is almost empty, so I can move forward to chat and be rebuffed. Ana, under tension at home and hounded at work (or viceversa) but, hey, since we are obliged to work together, a little communication might help.
During the rattly bus-ride down to the city, I try once more to fathom the depths of Ana’s resentment. Her woven bag, stuffed with charts and reports, proclaims zeal. A well prepared women, maybe she considers my approach lackadaisical, a charge I neither confirm nor deny.
We started this trip today at the Alto flea-market and have cut under the motorway instead of curving round the flanks of the smooth canyon. The route plunges into the gorges and gullies to the north. From this perspective, the crater appears gouged by giant claws. I suspect Ana of awaiting the opportunity to do the same to me.
Also, it's personal. Not just jealousy of Sandy; it's my links to Pancho. I'm the upstart intruder who's deprived the firebrand of her rightful part. Well, if surveillance is as tight as Elvira suggests, she's in no position to act and who put me in contact, anyway?
The bus parks at a dusty, grey football pitch that ends at an abrupt edge. The two apprentices in overalls practise passing the ball carefully - one miscue and it’s a helluva long retrieval. All the way down to - correct me, but is that a forest, an actual swathe of green in this part of town? Cool, but Ana’s already storming along without a backward glance. Wait, damn you!
Why has she decided to accompany me today? The maskmakers bore you (they're male-dominated and commercially buoyant) and, in your opinion, Alberto's an oaf. Yet, here we are, in search of the group’s fabled new workshop, which the office rumour-mill describes as 'luxurious'.
“Leave a sign when you find the place,” I shout after her. Ana's back recedes down a steep alleyway. I think she particularly hates my jokes. Seen her laugh, plenty of times, especially while she’s working with women on practical tasks. But hers is the type of fun that draws people together whereas English humour amuses by creating distance.
“Pura Pura,” states Ana, when I do catch up, her first comment in two hours. She’s pointing down to a distant jumble of chimneys and roofs below the forest. “The old industrial area of the city,” she explains, “where the factory workers beat the army in '52.” My sources are always doing this; presenting a ragbag of historical episodes, pieces of a fascinating jigsaw that never quite fit into a coherent picture.
Likewise, as coordinator of the faltering projects, I'm consistently being excluded from meetings and denied access to data. They must have decided I operate more effectively from a state of innocence.
Five minutes away from an important, difficult encounter, Ana’s only advice is, “Be strict, don’t take any nonsense from these guys.” Concerning? “Twenty thousand dollars in credits and not a cent repaid. We’re going to confiscate their materials,” she adds severely (metaphorically?). Us and whose army? Ana, rent collector and radical, is a puzzling phenomenon.
She turns sharp left and pushes against a gate of twisted fenders marked 'Auto Repairs'. In the oil-stained yard, an ancient hound too feeble either to bark or wag, guards the heaps of junky rust. It’s the parrot on the bike that alerts the men.
They emerge from below, where an entire building hides on a ridge among the eucalyptus trees. Alberto’s watchtower, as I dub it, is an ordinary three-storey brick box in an extraordinary setting, commanding a view of the northern and eastern flanks of the city, yet invisible from street level.
We descend by ladder to the upper terrace, leaving the biker-parrot and senile dog on duty. This top floor is a wonderful setting for a workshop, above the tree-line in full sunlight. Stairs lead down to family quarters, from where domestic sounds rise, the slap of laundry, squabbling children, food preparation. A path winds away into the forest.
Alberto, master maskmaker by temperament and profession, blocks the doorway of the workshop with a benign smile. He clasps our hands enthusiastically, before presenting us to the membership and guiding us to seats of honour. “How kind of you to visit,” he says, “a privilege.” Behind such a cherubic face, any number of vices might lurk. Ana purses her lips, spreads papers over the table, studies her fingernails, then the ceiling.
The large room is airy and bright, unlike so many other Copcap workplaces that face brick walls. Individual desks are covered with chisels, brushes, paints, gluepots, moulds and the masks themselves at various stages of elaboration.
Theirs is a living art, so I’m told. These outlandish, fantastic, preposterous masks feature by the thousand in the street-dancing extravaganza of La Paz, as well as in the fiestas which define community calendars in the altiplano. While the other handicraft groups strain to sell a few sweaters and ceramics, here excess goods are shipped at the end of the year to a waiting list of clients. Once in a while, Alberto consents to a special order from abroad, for an appropriate fee.
Their success has bred suspicion in the Association, though I shouldn’t think that many of the maskmakers are wealthy. The group numbers over seventy, their prices are reasonable, raw materials expensive and competition strong. But such a steady income explains the campaign to kick them out. What advantages do they gain by belonging to Copcap? Well, credit to construct this watchtower, for one.
Ana shuffles papers, crosses, uncrosses, recrosses her legs in a display of nerves. Perhaps not; an uncharacteristic dab of powder on her puffy cheeks, that slumped posture, her badly fitting jumper and jeans, rather suggest imbalance. Poor Ana, caught between the management and grass-roots, between the revolution and micro-credit. And I sense other cross-currents though I can't put my finger on them.
She clears her throat and, let’s get this straight, deliberately confronts the maskmakers. Among the gentler accusations: exploiting fellow workers, creating a factory instead of a cooperative, forgetting their heritage. “When I helped form this group, I never imagined you’d embrace insipid capitalism Your fathers who fought in ’52, would be ashamed of you.” She studiously doesn’t single out Alberto, but he’s seated at her side, nursing an expression of aggrieved indifference.
I watch her frustrations confront the men, then subside into tears. And blow me, before anyone can respond, she ups and scarpers with her gear, leaving me to face the mess.
The roomful of men overlook my presence and set to arguing among themselves. Either Ana has tweaked an inflamed nerve (in which case she hasn’t cracked, but played an astute card) or Alberto has genially engineered this clash for his own purposes. Or they both plotted it. Or trouble has been long brewing like a staff-room cuppa tea. You see how secure my grasp on these matters is.
In fact, they do consult me once, about the difference between a credit and a loan, but I have not the slightest idea, so they return to ignoring my presence. Without understanding the conflict, I can’t find a point of entry. Anyway, my Spanish would disintegrate under pressure and be replaced by some horrible hybrid, like Margaret Thatcher hectoring in French.
Yet, residual pride, the bit that still requires me to parody the professional, is pushing me to intervene, an attempt at reconciliation for the record, because on most points the group seem agreed. The debt, they say - what debt? And I'm with them. Mario once told me that for every dollar the Japanese so charitably donate, they recover five in vehicle and machinery sales. And the British have had an unpayable national debt since Napoleonic times, the point being that it should remain unpaid. Who are we to demand kilos of flesh from these artisans?
One thing is clear, though; the maskmakers come from different stock than the alteños. Racially similar, but these are the urban cholos, who've strayed from their roots. Once the vanguard of a near-miss revolution, they are now self-centred, soft-centred. They could prove useful to Pancho at a pinch, but the artisans of Villa Victoria cannot be counted on.
Money, ownership, control, is their concern right now. Should the group abandon Copcap at the annual assembly in a month’s time? And Alberto, draping himself in his silkiest smile and a mantle of reason, is whipping these differences into a fight. The opposition is centred around an undistinguished, roly-poly, little man, who ever so gently dissects the record of Alberto's term in office.
I’ve visited a range of truly humble rooms in the last six months. Everywhere, the occupants respect their space, binding the wormeaten benchs, taping broken windowpanes. On the top floor of Alberto’s watchtower, the newness and cost make the workshop worth destroying.
A bar-room brawl breaks out, bare-knuckle fighting not sparring. Calculated mind you; as far as possible, the masks and materials are exempted from the fray. It’s an action-movie matinée, lacking only the popcorn. But then a window smashes and someone yells “Extranjero fuera,” foreigner out. Albert has already disappeared and, yes, the tide of violence is washing my way.
Bastard, he’s fled through the scrapyard, pulling the ladder up after him! I can see one end sticking over, too high to reach. Soon the men will pour from the workshop and I’ll be trapped on the terrace. I race down the stairs, intending to escape through the forest.
Past the women (family, clan, servants?) who are ladling soup into bowls. And if they’re shocked at the sight of a panicked gringo waving as he flashes by, I’d like to see their faces when, presently, they carry lunch up.
Down beyond the kitchen, stacks of refuse rot on the track to the woods. I light an Astoria, ready to run should anyone pursue me, but it appears that I’m not the target of the anger. No sounds of battle encroach to this level.
Now that the adrenalin surge is ebbing, annoyance kicks in. At myself, for mismanaging the situation (there should always be a salvaging ploy) and at the maskmakers for misdirecting their energy so absurdly. The urban cholos will never again unite in struggle, for all the traditions they maintain. With their contraband markets and stores, they are bourgeois.
And while we’re on the subject of innocence, let me quote Julio. According to him, the topography of La Paz is explained by the fact that the altiplano was once completely covered by water. Then a mountain-sized plug collapsed at a point above where I’m standing. Yes, look up and from this angle, you can picture it. A thousand cubic kilometers of water per second, or something inconceivably thereabouts, ripping and gouging through, and the Chukiago crater was created.
Of course, Julio advanced this theory in the days when we used to talk. I fear that my cautious advances may have scared him off. He’s taken to wearing long-sleeved shirts and loose trousers. He avoids being alone in my presence. When operating on fantasy mode, I assume this is a final resistance before the dam of his repressed desires bursts open.
Well, enough pining, forest ahead. Odd that I’ve never come across this place. You’d think the locals would use it as a park or a resource, yet it seems quite deserted. The city’s below, an assortment of cubes and boxes splayed about the canyon. See, there’s a path cutting through and I should emerge at Pura Pura. Good route, this.
But, what a grudging apology for a green area, a pack of greedy eucalyptus and ungainly, threadbare pine, cocktail sticks with attached fuzz. And that’s an offal stench coming off. Why does human excrement smell so bad?
In we go, my antenna bristling.
Used toilet paper litters the sandy path. From a hollow over to the left, a whisp of smoke curls. Although the trees are evenly spaced, the wood is dark and dreary. I’m drawn to that patch of blue there, not flowers nor fungus, what is it? My daft urge to investigate.
A small dog yaps wildly and three men appear out of the makeshift tent, running towards me. All have knives. I’m so surprised that I don’t move. The tall man with scarred cheeks positions himself between me and the path. Forest folk, brigands, I think, Robin Hood taking from the rich - which, by their definition, means me.
“Buenas dias caballero, bienvenido,” smirks the spokesman. So, I’m the horseman again, dismounted and defenceless this time. He extends a grubby hand, palm upwards. “A few bolivianos to spare?” I should explain here that the man’s referring to money, not his countrymen, the same principle the French use when they count francs. “Don’t have any,” I protest, though truth is I’ve plenty, but no small change. Fine, let the mugging commence.
Except this is a very courteous affair, involving, first, an invitation to share his woman (for a small fee), but when she pokes her pitted face out from behind the blue plastic, I scrap all notions of loitering within tent. The tall one then offers, at knifepoint, a half-litre bottle with a jagged neck. The colourless, odourless liquid might be stale water until it explodes in my mouth. Germs obviously not being a problem, I take another swig.
When I regain consciousness, I find myself by a pond. No, I exaggerate, by a pool of brackish sludge that bubbles and burps. The sun is still high but I’m shivering in my underwear. At least the outlaws have left an alternate outfit, filthy torn jeans and an unravelling sweater of seasick green, fair trade. Barefoot, scrambling through weeds, down scree, clutching at branches, I nurse the rope burn around my neck
Weird. Despite my situation, all I can focus on is Ana’s game. How she trapped me into coming, screwed the meeting and then dumped me in this shit. Like a mouse on a treadmill, I clatter the words of that cumbia song round my pounding head. “Traicionera, mentirosa, engañosa.” - traitress, liar, twister. Wonderfully easy to transfer blame, so reassuring and utterly compulsive. At this rate, I might yet become a cumbia fan.
The railway track leads to the station, deserted for the past few years. Sold to the Chileans and then abandoned by them - another brilliant move to revive the national economy. But its emptiness is convenient now, as I sit in the gutted Victorian waiting room amid dust and cobwebs, weighing my options.
Which are few.
Not a cent, sorry, not a boliviano, to hand. Too far to walk home, I’m weakened, don’t know anyone in town - apart from Tzipi.
You’ve gotta be kidding.


Chapter 29
On the Art of not Dodging the Avoidable


Ding-dong, short, long, short, beep - beep - bip - bip - beep. Dammit, can’t remember the code that gains entry to the Israelis’ pad. And while I’d be glad to postpone facing Tzipi, reactions from people around town suggest I’m in need of immediate assistance.
The sight of a barefoot, destitute gringo clearly undermines the locals. Those whom I’ve asked for help, recoil, tut and spit, flatten themselves against doorways, make the sign of the cross. Actually, I could become quite proficient at this panhandling business. But the blisters indicate I have no sole for such a barefoot life.
In the half-light of the hallway, I don’t recognize the man who opens the door, nor he me. Then something about the hunched body, the claws doubling as hands, those bulgy eyes that stare and suddenly blink. Gotcha! It’s Yod’s unlikely Cuban partner, lizard-man, the Havana Gila. He lets me in.
Upstairs, some effort has been made to massage the chaos. The living-room is cleanish almost and, remarkably, a scent of grass does not hang in the air. Yod, seated on a full rucksack, is conducting a meeting. Glancing up, he cries, “British” with irony and some warmth. His clientele, Israeli refugees from el Lobo, a couple of European girls too, concentrate on packing supplies into a crate. No sign of Tzipi, so I can shirk the unpalatable a while longer.
Taking his own time, Yod finishes compiling a list before he comments on my appearance. “My friend, this is your punk fashion?” Gila snorts with delight, swivels his head round the room to ensure that the Yod squad are suitably amused. I set to explaining how I mugged myself.
“An idiot, just like Tzipi says. She’s told me all about you.” I bet she has. Nevertheless, Yod goes into the bedroom and returns with a pile of clothes. Fear of the gal hasn’t cured my desire, I can tell that when trying on her bright blue parachute-silk pantaloons. The kit also includes one lurid, throbbing Hawaian shirt, subtle as a day-glow sunset, plus an orange hat and broken leather sandals. Yod has a wicked sense of humour.
Over strong coffee, I listen in. The trip commences this weekend, two nights on the riverbank, three in dankest jungle, hammocks, bearers, snakes, spiders, alligators, malaria provided. One of the British girls is describing the state of her stools (runny and unpredictable) - she wants out of the adventure. But you agreed. Well, I didn’t realize how bad my guts were getting.
The Gila whispers to Yod, whose eyebrows dance.
“Whas-yer-name, you travelled much in Bolivia?”
“Been to Coroico once.”
Yod, in a fantastically fluid motion so very reminiscent of his girlfriend, springs to his feet and swaggers over. “Then come with us to Rurrenabaque.”
Tempting, but I’ve lot to do, evaluators arriving, groups falling apart.
“I can see you need a break. You’re working too hard, man, and there’s spare place in the jeep.”
No time, I’m afraid.
“Never be afraid. One day, two days. You can take a weekend, can’t you? We normally charge $50 a day. To you, it’s free. Trip of a lifetime. What more do you want? I like you. Coming?”
Yes indeed, irresistible offer, thank you. Any kindness is a bonus these days.
“Good. We leave Saturday, five in the morning, from here.”
Yod and the Gila exchange winks.


La Paz is so archetypically third world. Outside the apartment, a gang of five workmen hammer and chisel at the cement pavement, arduously revealing the course of a rusty pipe. The busy junction is cordoned off, stalled traffic paws and brays. Later the show will move to the next corner.
And that beggar woman in front of a bank which is surely going to collapse within the year to the enrichment of its off-shore stockholders. At least in the Alto, we all wallow in the same muck. Really, I lose altitude each time I come down to this city.
I’m walking through the town centre like a psychedelic parrot, more than ever pissed off at my misadventures. Tuesday, this has to be Tuesday. Oh fancy that, the Immigration Ministry is open late. I could trump the day’s disasters with a little visit to register the loss of my ID. It usually helps to dress sombrely, but right now I couldn’t give a flying fuck. We’ll just see what effect these clothes have.
And, no joke, I have lost an important document - the visiting card that Waldo Ventura gave me at the football game. The one time I used it, the guy claiming he was a plainclothes policeman, saluted and walked away fast. Now my little talisman has vanished in Pura Pura forest and I’m going to denounce this robbery to the Man himself.
Striding boldly into the lobby, as inconspicuous as a model horse within the walls of Troy, and as harmless, I hope. Even at this hour, queues snake around arches, officials stamp papers with a flourish, money changes hands and heads are turning as I mount the stairs.
Shirtsleeved lady cop, uniform hung over a filing cabinet, ignores me while she paints her lips, gazing into a handheld mirror. When I bluster, she acts superior, then aggressive and finally tries to fob me off onto the Tourist Police, whoever they might be. In this costume, I may look a fool but I’m not a tourist, dear.
She’s about to press an emergency button to summon help (I can see her finger sliding under the table), when I happen to mention that I’ve lost something belonging to my friend Waldo Ventura. Her startled whisper echoes along the ranks of desks - el capitan Ventura, su amigo del capitan es. “One moment,” and she retires to the office.
Picking up her mirror, I am blinded by my reflection.
“The Captain no longer works here but he’s requested me to attend to your case in any way that I can.” She assumes my passport has been stolen, though it’s safe at home. But the staff all agree that I do need a functional, pocket ID and, with a flurry of goodwill, photograph and fingerprint me. Is this a good idea?
“Please come and collect your card next week, sir,” and I suspect she also wants to salute, checking herself only because my outfit is so frankly ludicrous. “El Capitán would like to remind you that you promised to visit him and his family.” This last message is far beyond her comprehension, (in her experience, dignity and respect come clothed in suits). Must be like bowing to an ape. However, discipline overriding incredulity, she will file the incident under national security and forget it.
But I remember the yellow and black markings of the Strongest football team and wonder if, by this one capricious act, I’ve disturbed a wasp’s nest.
So what other goofy gaffe can I add to Tuesday’s woes?

On the bus to Mario’s, it does occur to me that entering his building in this garish plumage might be uncool. His appalled face confirms my stupidity. To compound the error, a clutch of conspirators is crowded into the small single room.
Rigoberto sits spectrally upright on a hard chair, medicine-man Alejandro is preparing a potion on the gas-ring. “Waliki,” says the latter, Aymara for good. “ Though I didn’t expect you to turn up looking like an election pamphlet.” Orange and blue apparently correspond to the colours of a particularly corrupt political party.
“He’s attempting to be clandestine,” cracks Rigoberto.
The condor and the fox totally unsurprised by my sudden arrival.
“You knew I was coming,” I blurt out.
“We read the coca,” the lanky man admits.
“.........And then summoned you here,” concludes Alejandro, chuckling. The revelation seriously freaks me, the more so since I cannot decide which man is playing Don Juan and which Don Genaro. On cue, my stomach aches below the navel and I’m drenched in sweat.
“I was just preparing this for you,” the curandero says, passing me the hot drink. “Now listen, carefully.”
But I don’t recall a word of what they say, the drink perhaps, or hypnosis of some kind, though an impression does remain of tall tales. Charred herbs smoulder in a dish. I stand ready to leave, cleansed and spritely, suddenly aware of the absurdity of Yod’s outfit. From a trunk, Mario hands me his second-best overcoat, completing the day’s wardrobe.
The emperor has new clothes.

Chapter 22-25

AYAYAYAYAY! Mi hermana esta reading esto and she didn't even realize I was writing these incredibly witty introductory commuents. Auweiayay. Wie konnte sowas geschehn? Aaanyway, this is like the warm-up act. The great artist is about to come on stage and I have your attention for a few brief moments to impress you with my inimitable wit, grab my fifteen seconds' worth, get you on the mood and get the hell off. Without further ado, Ladies and Gentlemen, all the way from La Paz, Bolivia, the greatest (... fill in the blank ...) in the world.... MISTER.....BO......NESTOOOOOO! (wild tumultous, applause, please.)



Chapter 22
Round Squares

Resulting in a bout of the flu, locally termed gripe and certainly I’m griping. Everything aches, even my hair. Asunta, delighted at having a bed-bound patient, brings platefuls of greasy eggs which will, at least, plug my bowels so I don’t have to crawl to the toilet.
This is no quiet refuge. Three mornings a week, evenings too, Ignatz broadcasts an hour of recorded bells, then breaks into his holy karaoke. I swear, the faster his flock abandons those candy-floss temples, the more strident he grows. And when Ignatz desists, the neighbours start on cumbias. To get silence, I have to keep my tapes playing.
Dylan drifts through tendrils of fever: ‘Someone says you’re in the wrong place my friend, you’ll have to leave.’ A message from my childhood, visions of rolling papers, sleeping bags and bodies, resurfacing now in this brick hole where nothing will occur until the end of time.
Asleep, I keep dreaming that I’ve woken.
Fever throbbing, lapse and relapse.
Asunta, feigning deafness and senility, potters off, piss-pot in hand. Oy, my spider appears to have disappeared. She swept it away, I know she did, though I’ve told her never to clean up here. And leave that towel! I may need to wank.
No excuses; this is my longest sexless spell since I was 14, when Joanne found Carol drinking slops in a pub (for the unitiated, that’s filling a pint-glass with leftover beers), and brought her to the nest. The range of migrant visitors was one advantage of our chaotic household. Not that Joanne procured me partners, but she often spent nights elsewhere and never asked questions. Mum’s the word.
Joanne slept with Carol a few times, but soon lost interest. I had to know about those adult bumpings and heavings in the night and Carol needed an aikido partner, her martial artistry leading inevitably to sex.

That I eventually rebelled against my upbringing infuriates Joanne. Her son in a boring job, contriving to be normal, leaving the commune in Bilbao, he buries his creativity in a classroom. “I point to distant horizons,” she complained, “and you swim to the nearest desert island.” Nice turn of phrase.
Aldous Huxley rightly dubbed Proust ‘the invalid in the bathtub’, wallowing in accumulated grime, sponging himself with the suds of all his previous washdays.
Memory, confusion, desire.
A week in bed and the silt does surface. Cum, scum.
Fade to Proustian echoes.

Convalescent sits near ex-garden. Hard labour has not transformed this yard into an oasis, though some weeds do manage to sprout through the cement pathway. Wrapped in a shawl, I’m reading “Chaos Theory; an Introduction”. Joanne’s huge collection of books and records, shoplifted or permanently borrowed from friends, served as refuge when weirdness intruded. Pick up a volume, pump up the volume, withdraw. The reading habit remains
I found this tome on the second-hand bookstalls in La Paz, somewhat heavy-going for an invalid, but fascinating nonetheless. Except that chaos, is the wrong word, implying disorder and disharmony, as in this house and yard, as in all my jobs or relationships. But the book is really about flow, currents, smoke, swarming insects, lichen on rocks, the breeze at play in a cornfield. Look at the scudding clouds; unpredictable and yet any child can draw a cloud shape.
And any child could predict stormy weather ahead. In my pocket, Pancho’s message beats, cryptic, latent. Should I burn it, eat it, shred it? Assuming the note’s his and not from Pamela. Ha! There’s a thought, but she’d never stray to badlands of la Garita.
Julio glides into the yard. He’s dragging his own cloud-cover, despite the brilliant light provided by a slanting sun. “I thought you’d look after your trees. Three of them outside have been snapped.” Don’t get mad at me, Julio. If only you knew how glad I am to see you. Spill out your toubles.
Oh! The office hass got to him. Thes state tevelision channel is beaming prime-time clips of the unruly peasants of Kolapata, while Channel 13 showcases the drunken sub-prefect. Edmundo storming, Osvaldo coldly flaying, mutual recrimination is rampant at Copcap headquarters. “Rumour has it, you’re conveniently suffering the longest hangover in history,” Julio taunts.
Then, relenting, he remarks, “You are very pale,” and massages my upper back, threading his thumbs over the nicotine-scarred lungs. Julio must feel the energy we generate at every touch, though I don’t know what it signifies to him. All Bolivian kids, walking the streets arm draped over shoulder, mere comrades apparently. Innocence or disguise? The other temptation is to tell him of Pancho’s note. Quick, think of a distraction.
On the miserable sum I pay her (less than a hundredth of my allowance), Asunta is founding a zoo, her substitute family. There’s a scruffy mongrel pup, Chappie, who’s excavated under the makeshift garden fence, allowing. the hen and chicks to scrabble among the remaining lettuces. Letting in the hen.
So I tell Julio, “Watch this”, and play Dylan’s ‘Lay Lady Lay’. The hen, attracted by the rabbinic whine, sways in front of the radio like a belly-dancer. But the joke’s in English and neither translates nor impresses.
After such an effort, I collapse and he bears me, stair by stair, up to the bedroom, wipes my forehead with the towel (the one that would prove incriminating if forensically tested), closes the curtains and casts this enigmatic comment at me. “You need a girlfriend,” which reverberates in the naked, darkening room. A warning to go straight? No, I interpret it as an invitation - with a girlfriend for cover, we are free.




In spite of the headache, I’ve decided to keep the appointment at la Garita. Soon my destiny will be forged, whether in the ense of shaping or counterfeiting, time will tell. In my weakened state, I’m content to stumble aboard the sun-drenched Especial. And soon I’m asleep.
Down already. My intention is to climb to today’s appointment, square by square. In a city without parks, parking lots and rubbish tips are the open spaces, and the one green areais the pitch of the football stadium. But these plazas have presence, though many are no more than traffic islands. People meet in the squares.
I’ll start at the shapeless Perez, the popular end of the city centre, take in the Alonso, a square square and then to the circular plaza Kennedy, which honours this popular Bolivian folk-figure with a statueless plinth, the result of a dynamite attack. From the Eguino I could walk straight up, but my batteries are fading.
I stagger onto an equally infirm bus that takes the slope at a wide angle, emerging on the great BA, la Avenida Buenos Aires, broad, busy, impersonal, fully meriting the status of avenue. And if a few more trees might add distinction, the telephone cables and bar-signs form an adequate canopy.
But, a short hop away, at La Garita, I feel uncomfortable in a way that I never have in the Alto. Dusk deepens, the yellow gleam of streetlamps accentuating the shadowplay and shady deals. An entirely suitable site for acts of political seduction.
A strange species of square this one, elliptical on an inclined plane and so steep that one climbs rather than crosses it. The steps join a central stairway, stained red from blood or paint, which an elderly man in overalls is tenaciously hosing. Still, the stench of urine is overpowering. At the top of the stairs, either side, bulk two cement tombs, one stencilled ‘Police Holding Cells #3’, the other ‘Neighbourhood Centre’.
I sit on a drying step. Next to me a tree droops, trapped behind railings so that it can’t escape. Roaring traffic circles, and once grand buildings (this was the main route to the Ceja until the motorway) now stare with indifference on the scene below, the wheels, the deals, the stealing and the teeming - chaos for beginners.
Headlights jitter and glare.
“Bien pues, you made it.” A phlegmy voice startles me out of my skin.
The thick glasses identify Mario in long overcoat, woollen scarf and angled hat.
“No hables, it’s not safe here. Just follow me. ” And he crosses in front of the police cells, over the road to the Ciné Monumental Roxy now showing ‘Way Out West - Part Two’ and ‘Golden Eye - Part One’. Shaky, weakened, I am monumentally unprepared for this encounter.
Couples and loners are queuing in a foyer of glorious decrepitude.. Mice scuttle between velvet drapes and columns of flaking gold paint. Chrome fittings dangle. This picture palace is disintegrating.
“Buy two tickets for the stalls,” Mario commands, no longer vague but myopically alert. The crisp banknote, recently issued and worth the paper it’s printed on these neo-liberal days, seems futuristic in this mildewed flea-pit.
To my surprise, a poster is advertising ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid’, one of Joanne’s all-time favorites. She played the Dylan soundtrack so often that the album contained more scratches than music.
I walk over to the uniformed usher, point to the poster and ask for confirmation. Mario blinks disapprovingly, we are trying to stay inconspicuous. I get what deserve, a precise and baffling reply. “Si señor, es la misma pelicula con diferentes actores.” – yes sir, it’s the same movie with different actors. A scowling Mario nudges me through the dusty drapes.
We take a seat by a side door. Certainly a different movie, must have been the only Western poster they had. How disappointing. The day’s exertions tell and I’m soon asleep, waking somewhere in the next film, in time to see the husky enemy agent squeeze an admiral to death between her admirable thighs. Engrossing. She’s in a sauna, repeating the manoeuvre on Bond, when Mario suddenly hisses, “Vamonos.” Three of us vanish through the emergency exit.

I have no sense of direction, so doubling back along dim alleys to confuse me is quite pointless. Through mud and mire, pretending to cover a fair distance, before we approach a green door (why not?) and enter a cobbled yard. The sound of traffic nearby carries plainly.
The owner of the api joint, surely a comrade, transfers his customers to an outside kiosk and closes the wooden doors behind us. We are served the thick, hot, sweet, purple, cornmeal api drink, then mine host retires. Pancho removes the ski-mask that makes him look so clandestine and loosens his jacket.
The man’s a plain speaker, thank goodness, but it’s still like tuning into the middle of a three-hour talk. “There is an Andean pattern of trading. Foreign economic models won’t work for us.”
To test his temper, I mention my stroll around la Garita, all those Chinese pencils, saucepans, plates, clothes, microwaves, computers. Floated in container-ships over the Pacific, hardly Andean commerce. The people aren’t going to rise, not while they have a throwaway, consumer society to entertain them.
Politely, emphatically Pancho states, “We don’t reject property rights or commerce. Indigenenous structures will be modernised.” I’m wondering if he always talks like a pamphlet, when he taps a finger on the plastic tablecloth and hooks mmy attention: “We demand sovereignty. The altiolano is ours, you know The Alto is ours, too.”
Stillness, intensity, purpose. Steam rising from our glasses of api, the oil-lamps flickering. We could be travellers at a medieval tavern, but for the Saturday night traffic an adobe width away.
I light my Astoria. Polishing his spectacles, Mario begins telling the story of Ché’s last smoke. Pancho resumes; “The Alto is an extension of the countryside and these are our folk,” he says matter of fact. “We can take the city anytime.”
I’m striving to maintain a cynical distance from this monologue, but the probing brown eyes, compel. He hasn’t made an offer yet, simply that inclusive, seductive ‘we’.
Let’s get this straight; we, that is the Aymara, and the Quechua, and I........ “Pancho, if the uprising is indigenous, what’s my role? Che, the outsider didn’t exactly achieve anything.”
“Your support will be useful, of course it will.” Pancho nods to Mario.
“We’re going to block all access to the countryside, take the Alto and starve the city,” says the old-timer, froth forming on his lips, api spilling onto the plastic tablecloth. An oil-lamp splutters agreement. “Don’t forget, elecricity and water supplies pass through the Alto. And they’ve a million people to feed downtown.”
Sounds logical, crazy, doomed. But why are you telling me? Think I’m a paragon of trustworthiness?
Pancho raises a forefinger, his gaze stretching beyond this fetid room to prophetic infinities. “The airport’s the key. Once the bastards in the zona sur can’t fly away to Miami, they’re trapped.”
“But, Pancho,” I interrupt, “next to the airport is an air-force base and there are two other garrisons in the Alto.”
“The army conscripts are either countryfolk or alteños. They’ll change sides, the middle-level officers too when they see what’s happening. An alliance campesino-militar, that’s our goal.”
The braveheart syndrome, I suspect, one more heroic defeat to blur the line between hope and illusion. Locked in a cubby-hole, unable to show his face on the street, does Sr. Clandestino feel the pulse of the times or is he raving?
Pancho regards me coolly. “So, we can count on you?” My trembling could herald the return of the flu, or perhaps it simply reflects the absurdity/enormity of this moment. I sneeze into his handsome aquiline face. Seduced by the off-chance of a footnote in history, I’m drifting into conspiracy. Quiet and earnest, Pancho is arming a mad venture into which I will fit like a square peg in a black hole.
Surely now’s the time to say, I’m not a politico. I’m a dreamy onlooker who smokes dope.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just carry on as you are. You may never know when or how you’ve helped us.” He rises, shakes my hand, Mario orders me to wait five minutes before leaving. They’re gone. I swill the dregs of my cold drink.


Chapter 23
Pressing Engagements : part two

Mist has penetrated the city, rain threatens, the sour api aftertaste repeats in my throat, a fitting encore to that epic, corny scene. Saturday evening and I’m footloose and shackled, so I phone Tzipi but she’s out, probably holding court at El Lobo. However wobbly I feel, the need for a joint will pull me down there, if only to clear my head of the meeting.
On the Max Paredes street, the pavements are chock-a-block with seated, standing, strolling vendors. The crawling traffic belches and farts. A snatch of mystic doggerel pops into my head:
“In the bazaar they buy and sell.
Why they do it I cannot tell.
But since they persist,
They may as well.”
Sure, Pancho pins his hope on the Alto, but don’t give me that shit about Andean trading patterns. All markets are the same. And his fellow-Aymara down here in La Paz, are we going to starve them into joining the revolution?
I’m flattered that Pancho should offer me the cameo-role of concerned gringo in his B-movie, ‘Tupac Guevara Rides Again’. but he’s simplified the issues. For all the decent urban folk, it’s the rogues who prosper.
Witness: at this moment an anoraked thief is stalking the lines of stalled vehicles. There he strikes, hand poking through a bus window to snatch a bowler hat before scurrying into the sidestreet like a rat down a drain. The poor señora howls, as well she might. Those hats are expensive - and personal; the indignity of another woman wearing it.
I’m privileged. Simple for me to step from street-stress to el Lobo, where Bolivia, if it exists at all, is an exotic backdrop. Israeli travellers cram the café but Tzipi’s radar gaze fixes on me immediately. With a gesture, she parts the sea of bodies and saunters this way.
“So long I’m waiting for you.” A short squall of Hebrew persuades two compatriots, deep in conversation and a beer, to vacate their seats. Impressive.
“I want to hear all your news,” she demands.
Unwisely I reveal that I’ve just been meeting some friends and then get flustered when she asks who.
“Nevermind. We’ll have beer,” she says and with a flick of the wrist attracts the lone, harrassed waiter, reels him in across the room on an invisible line.
But the alcohol on top of the flu, the api, the monumental thrills of the day, sets my head spinning. I barely manage to reach the toilets and even then have to hammer on the door first and argue with some idiot inside, just to vomit acceptably near the bowl.
“C’mon, I’ll take you home, you’re a real mess.”
In a reversal of Julio’s heroics, she guides me down the stairs, halts a cab, bundles me in. The radio’s playing some forgotten song. I hang out of the window, spewing. Zippety-do-da, Tzipi today, my dream scenario and I’m miles away.
The little I see of the living room, before the next surge of gorge hits, confirms that the apartment remains a squalid mess, even without Yod and his Cuban side-kick Clothes and mugs and ashtrays and magazines litter the floor, two or three large cushions serving as stepping-stones. Mama Rosa would not approve of such housekeeping.
Tzipi leads me to bed in a dark, stagnant room (Carlo’s?), promising to return later with tea and a joint. It’s all I can do to undress and flop under the covers before blacking out. I assume it’s a feverish dream that she gives a blow-job during the night; for when I reach out, no naked form is curled beside me.


“If you want morning coffee, come and get it.”
In Yod’s room, the curtains drawn tight against the morning sun, Tzipi is seated at a computer. She smiles, motions me closer. She turns, offers her face for a kiss. I peck at her cheek, she switches to full lip contact. Squinting over her shoulder at the e-mails, this apology for a he-male blushes.
“Good, so you’re feeling a little better.” Slightly roused, and curious about last night, unwilling to enquire. “Yod is very concerned about your health.” Meaning, she’s in contact with him at his jungle eco-lodge, and he’s informed of my visit. High technology for a bunch of backpackers.
“I’m OK, thanks.”
“Good, because I really want to hear all about those mysterious friends you met last night,” she purrs like we’re sitting in an espresso bar discussing recent bar-mitzvahs. “I’ve finished here. Let’s have a joint over breakfast.”
She strides gracefully into the living room. Her pantaloons of blue parachute silk cling far too alluringly for this hour of the day, her sleeveless vest is short and tight. I sigh and follow obediently.
The floor has been partially cleared of refuse. Each to our cushion, cross-legged. I lean against the orange sofa, fondling a cup of excellent coffee. She’s rolling a joint, composed, ramrod stiff - I’m getting that way too. Her quizzical glances unnerve, so I whip out a cigarette and launch into Mario’s Astoria tale.
Che, wounded, captured, spent the last night of his life on the mud floor of schoolhouse in La Higuera village. The jubilant army officers retired to await orders and, leaving a conscript on guard duty. Che had finished or lost his tobacco and the soldier, who smoked Astoria, the cheapest and the best, gave his prisoner a handful of the cigarettes, which Ché crumpled, stuffing them into his pipe.
“So, Che’s last smoke was Astoria.”
“How very interesting that these friends of yours discuss Che in such detail.” Oops! She sucks on the joint as if it were that famous pipeful, meditates a while, hands it to me. “And strange that you don’t remember their names.”
“Well, I only just met them.” Silence.
“And what did you do with them last night?”
Talk, anything to divert this weird insistence. “We went to the movies.” I tell her about the confusion over the western and that spy film, the scissoring agent.
She interrupts me. “And how did this Bond girl grip?”
“Like we’re sitting - straight on.”
“Ah. That is not the way. Put your cup down. I will show you,” and before I can take evasive action, she’s beside me and has wrapped her legs around my stomach in a wrestler’s grip. Below soft skin, ridges of thigh muscle ripple and tense. The hold tightens.
“This is not the way either,” she explains.
“Really,” I gasp, quite proud that by holding my breath in, I can just resist.
“Yes, but here’s a trick. If I let go,” the air escapes involuntarily and before I can take another breath in she’s reapplied the pressure, harder, a cute form of suffocation. I’m blacking out.
“Yod would like to know who your friends are,” she says straddling me now, “And you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
Still imagining my latest pratfall is a lark, I try, “What a delicious torturer you are.” But whereas Carol’s displays of aikido were all balance and flow, Tzipi’s is not playful. She’s slid sideways on, her knees at one kidney tucked into the corner of the rib-cage. Meanwhile, my right arm is twisted and locked to the verge of pain.
“This is really the scissors,” she exclaims and squeezs those knees, “Now talk.”
When I regain consciousness, we’re both naked. She is riding the most prolonged, most exorbitant erection of my life. Who knows what secrets I have blurted out. My word is my bondage, I’ll be bound.
One last comment as she’s dressing. “It’s good you finally met Pancho.”
I really wish they wouldn’t keep saying that.




Chapter 24
All Sorts’ Eve

“What a first degree wanker you are, Jim.”
Sandy has returned, hair cropped and streamlined, beaming energy after a successful guerilla bungee-jumping expedition. “Yeah, I found this bridge over an amazing canyon. But don’t sidetrack me now we’re discussing your male fantasies. And the worst part is how you enjoyed the whole episode.”
Upstairs at sunset hour, liberally sharing her grass and scorn, while the adobe turns orange, the brickwork bloody. “Your life has to change right now, and we’ll start with this damn bedroom. Go get lost for a while.”
I descend to Asunta’s new fiefdom of blaring tv and radio. Though she sleeps in the understairs cupboard, the old dear has claimed thewhole ground floor. She’s preparing an evening meal we won’t eat; Sandy’s vegetarian, I’m queasy. Glancing at the ceiling, Asunta enquires, “Tu amiga, what’s she up to?”
“Just rearranging my room.”
“Well, as long as nothing’s scratched. El licensiado would be most annoyed,” she comments (nothing upsets her more that the threat of Edmundo’s displeasure), then resumes charring onions in a gallon of fat.
When I venture up, Sandy’s transformed the bedroom by some sleight of feng-shui. Looks like she’s shifted the walls. Bedframe, desk and chair rug have vanished. The mattress is at an odd angle on the floor. “What splinters? Toughen up, Jim.” A blanket covers the window above which the spider once span. It’s going to be dark.
“Why look out if there’s no view?”
“Just that I could do with some daylight.”
“Fine. We’ll make another window up here, a circular one. Got a hammer and chisel?”
“Tomorrow, Sandy, please”
She leads me over the landing to her room. “This is your meditation space.” In the corner, on a batik scarf, rest an incense holder, a crystal, a mottled rock. She’s radiant, full lotus under the simple altar. “Faces east. Sit here fifteen minutes every morning to clear that crap from your head.”
“Let’s roll a spliff and you can hit me with more psychology.”
She laughs, “Hit’s the word, isn’t it Jim. You’re a masochist as well as supreme wanker. I wanna hear more about this Carol.”
“Well, I owe her a lot. I mean, she saved me from being a nerd. There I was in a backward mill-town, all clogs and booze, the hippy kid, a complete outsider. Imagine, I listened to Zappa and read books, apart from having this outrageous mum who collected weirdos. It kind of counted for something when I arrived at school reeking of sex.”
“I bet this is your safety-net, how you always tell the tale.”
“No, look, sure, perhaps I was a bit young, but Carol wasn’t much older. Talented too. She was writing a rock-opera on the Ancient Mariner. ‘We were the first that ever burst into that silent sea.’ That’s the chorus I remember. Never seen a production, mind you. Wonder what happened to it.”
“Don’t worry, you’re still wearing the albatross around your neck, pal. And all that aikido bit, seems to have left you twisted. That’s why you fell for the Israeli girl’s honeytrap. Strong women and weak males, you go for them. You’ve no willpower. They pull you in.”
“ Julio’s not weak..”
“Not physically. But you see him as inferior because he’s Bolivian. That’s your subtle racism, said yourself that his views are dumb. From a cool height you really look down on Bolivians, don’t you?” Not on Panch, I don’t. But I haven’t said a word to Sandy about him, though I almost trust her. It’s just hat such an intriguing story she’d have to spread along the gringo trail.
“And the gay trip?”
“Ah, that started with creepy Dennis, another of mum’s prize finds.”
We are getting closer to where maggots crawl, I’m sure we are, when there’s a commotion outside. Tyres skid, stones clatter against the metal street-door, and Chappie, apprentice guard-dog, howls warning and welcome.
“Odd - I almost never have callers.” But a fair crowd is now coughing and shuffling downstairs. Sandy shrugs, gestures me away. “Your scene. I’ll meditate till you return.”
Downstairs, Asunta has turned off the tv. This could be serious.
Luis, fulfilling his pledge to visit, introduces a familyful - his greyhound lean wife in pollera and bowler, a son, the son’s wife, their three children. He smiles widely, revealing isolated teeth. Asunta, expectant as a first-night audience, has changed into her vicuña shawl for the occasion. She’s knows what’s up.
As the visitors compose themselves and the sofa groans with delight, Luis’ smalltalk floats like rocks. What a nice house - wrong, but Sandy’s working on correcting the vibes. Unseasonably warm weather - wouldn’t know. The national soccer team lost again - so, losers lose, what’s new?
The son is a younger version of his father, soft and amorphous, same toady smile, though he has gold-edged teeth and an ample, dimpled wife. His kids, aged ten to three, sit squeezed, rigid and silent, on one armchair. They’re so frightened, not even their legs swing. Maybe they’ve been told, “If you don’t behave the gringo will sell you abroad,” a control ploy I often hear mothers use on the buses.
The minutes stretch excruciatingly. I light a cigarette to disguise the smell of grass wafting down the stairs, send Asunta to make tea (treating her at last as a servant), and wonder what this invasion portends.
Hands on knees, the adults stare at me, while the kids only dare concentrate on the floor. Finally, Luis clears his throat. “Querido Jaime,” he begins, “in consideration of the great respect in which I hold you, I have come to beg one small favour.” Doesn’t sound promising, might be money. Another gob of phlegm circlulates in his mouth. The Copcap designers forgot the spittoon.
“My son is getting married soon and we are searching for a padrino.” Godfather! Oh God, new territory.
“I’ve no idea what that entails, Luis.”
“Nothing to it. You simply have to be present.” Not so much a lie, more, partial truth. There’s a lot more to being a padrino, but I don’t know yet and Asunta, basking in the reflected spotlight like she’s met royalty, isn’t letting on.
Not to excuse my weakness, but you know how dope spreads sentimental manure by the truckload. Even as I mumble, “OK, I’ll do it,” Sandy’s verdict echoes, “Pull you in, they pull you in.”
The guests exhale collectively. Luis and son march out, and I think, well, that didn’t hurt too much. But soon they’ve returned hauling sacks of potatoes, peas, beans, corn. Then they lay the carcass of a gently bleeding sheep at my feet, and two crates of beer (that’s twenty-four bottles, ye gods). Asunta orchestrates fervent embraces, after which the another round of silence looms.
Luis manages “Bien, compadre,” and rubs his hands together speculatively. Etiquette probably requires I seal our new relationship with a similar comment, but, way too late, doubts are arising, cold feet march brainwards. Luis, unattached to the Copcap groups or management, expressing no opinion in the office or on the road, to whom I may have spoken thirty words in nearly these months, has coralled me into a false intimacy.
And as for the son, whose name I don’t recall despite being introduced fifteeen minutes ago (it’s something classical - Oedipus, Plato or Dionisio), how can he can be in urgent need of a wedding with those growing kids?
Sandy appears in shorts. The sound of beer bottles popping has vanquished that of one hand clapping. She whoops delightedly and is dragged centre-stage by Luis’s wife who’s marvelling at the sudden appearance of a godmother for the big day. Fortunately, Sandy doesn’t have enough Spanish to know what they’re planning, or she’d leave. That Aussie capacity to party anytime, anywhere, indefinitely, carries us into the night.
And for a while the booze does animate our company. Luis remembers his rural childhood, even converses in Aymara with Asunta, until his city-bred wife’s flat, bilious stare dissolves the sparkle. The son, a blob of scant intelligence, leers at Sandy’s bronzed legs.
I’m mightily tired of these guests long before they depart. At two of the morning, Asunta is huddled on the floor, blissfully asleep. The wives can handle their liquor, drinking from a calm, deep well and Sandy bubbles, an emeritus professor of fizzie-ology. But Luis is weeping and sweating, the man lacks teeth, and my new godson, Archimedes or whatever, is slurring idiocies in my face.
It’s the Parthian shot that defeats, always. As the family, carrying the kids, stagger to the car, Luis shouts back, “Don’t forget, compadre, you’ll need to take courses with Padre Ignacio.”
Hell’s bells! “When’s the wedding?”
“Not till next Saturday.”


By noon, realizing that Asunta isn’t going to furnish any practical information on the duties of a padrino, we decide to consult Doña Rosa. On the way, I again try to convince Sandy of the Alto’s marvellous, organic unity. “I once shot this slow-motion documentary of a life in a termite colony,” she replies. “Up to a point it was interesting, but no reason to become a termite.”
She’s only relents when a dozen big dogs trap us in a narrow street. “Rocky, Rocky, Rocky,” I intone, raising right hand high. The pack parts and lets us through. San Roque, patron saint of dogs, I explain. “Doña Rosa taught me the trick. I’m sure she’ll impress you.”
But we find her stooping to sweep the stoop, red-eyed as ourselves, though not from all-night dnnking. Rosa’s trembling, should send us packing, but her innate hospitality propels us inside, where kids are cowering and the teenagers scowl at smashed windows.
“You may as well know,” says Rosa, “Viviana’s pregnant. And this is her father’s response to the news.” She points to the wreckage. His wife, bathing her face under the standpipe, displays extensive bruising. Inside one of the rooms, a girl is wailing rhythmically, softly.
My pal, the nephew, comes reluctantly over to shake hands, in his belt a unsheathed commando knife. I introduce Sandy, explain the situation to her, watch her expression change from horror to outrage.
And it’s not just the edgy lull that’s making the yard unnaturally quiet. The dogs? “Goni and Bobby?” I ask, fearing the worse when the smaller kids start crying. “Thieves killed them last week, ” laments Rosa, “Threw poisoned meat over the wall before breaking in. We all slept through it.”
At least, we’ve avoided Diego on the rampage for his daughter’s honour. Drowning his sorrows in a bar probably, listening to cumbias that will convince him how women always destroy a man’s tranquility.
“I’d rather he was here,” roars Sandy. “I’d give him a piece of the action.” Rosa dismisses my translation with a shake of her head and invites us in for tea. As we enter her room, unknown faces peer from behind a door. “We’ve taken in lodgers,” she explains defensively. “Money’s tight.” Call it dope prescience, but I don’t dig these newcomers.
It’s hard communicating with Rosa today, like wading through thick fluid. When she notes how stoned we are, I explain our condition as chaki, a hangover from Luis’ visit and recount the deal. The clock ticks, Rosa tut-tuts, but his naming me padrino hardly surprise her.
“Lot of people in the mines used to do that. Pick foreign managers and engineers, thinking they’d get favours that way. Tempting but it’s the worst possible choice. Ser padrino, madrina, compadre, comadre es para la vida.” A lifelong link. “Couple of years and the foreigners have gone. You’ll do the same, Jaime.”
“OK, but what are my duties?”
“Not too much. The ring’s bought, the reception’s already arranged. You have to accompany the couple and greet the guests. You’re there for the future, to solve their problems.” Financial? “Not always.”
“And Ignacio’s courses?”
Shouts in the yard, a slamming of doors, exclamations, explanations, Ana marches in. “Don’t bother introducing me to your compañera,” she sneers, the choice of word implying sexual relations. She storms out. I’ve forgotten what jealousy does to a gal. Sandy, pure soul, registers nothing of the drama she’s caused, assuming that Ana’s reacted to Diego’s behaviour.
“Please excuse her,” says Rosa, “She’s upset. We all are,” and pours more tea. “The courses before the wedding are obligatory, Jaime You’ll have to attend them. But I can’t understand why Luis did this now. Tonight is Todos Santos and it’s the wrong time to conduct any personal business. He should have waited.”
“What’s she saying,” asks Sandy. I tell her. “Yeah? The day of the dead - all souls? Ask Rosa what goes on here.”
Rosa does better, takes us to the room she’s cleared for her aunt. “For three years after the death we prepare a meal on Todos Santos. The family welcomes the soul and serves it food and drink. The next day we’ll accompany her back to cemetery.” On the table, a black-bordered photo of a stern lady dominates the shrine. Piled around her are bread, pastries, fruit, alcohol, coca and cigarettes. Benches line three sides of the otherwise empty room. Rosa may have recently joined the adventists, but customs prevail.
“Freaky,” declares Sandy.
“You’re welcome to stay if you wish. We’ll be up all night.” Thank you, no; the scene is fraught, smouldering, lacks only Diego’s return to reignite. And if he doesn’t show, the women may well quarrel among themselves, if only to assure Auntie she’s back. One trusts Pancho has not based the rational, lofty, Andean republic on his family’s example.
Leaving the dearly departed, we depart.

Later, much later, Sandy insists on a walk. Drizzle strengthening to rain hasn’t deflected the dead, who guided by the uncanny flute music, home in. The darkness is filled with strangers in the night, spirits in the sky and, strangely, laughter in the rain.
“So much death within the last three years,” Sandy sighs, observing the kids move from house to house, filling their sacks with bread in return for prayers.
Doors stand open. We enter a few places, mumble our hare krishnas and hare potters before the shrine, chew coca and smoke a while, always welcomed, never staying long. The party atmosphere is studiously maintained by the living; they are not mourners but survivors, celebrating a visit from the deceased. What shocks us most are the photos of young adults and children.
“Shit,” says Sandy, “The spirits really are everywhere. Halloween without disguises and it’s giving me the goosebumps. You think they’re grateful for the summons?”
“Dunno about the grateful dead, but I hope no-one forgets to coax them back tomorrow. Fancy going to the boneyard?”
“I’m out of here first thing,” she says, resuming our intermittent argument. “These customs are quaint, I’ll give you that, but crowds and buildings bore me.”
“Well, what else do you expect of a city, Sandy?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t gripe. Three in the morning and the place is crawling with the living and the dead. But I’m soaked to the skin. Home, please, if we can find it.”
In the yard Chappie greets us whining, then bolts under the sofa since he can’t now get under my bed, anywhere away from the souls straying overhead. I carry tea upstairs to where Sandy is rolling the restorative joint.
“Everything’s messed up in your beloved Alto, Jim. That’s why you fit in so well. Take Rosa - I like her, but that household, really man.”
“Oh, that reminds me. She says, Luis should have chosen a couple. Would you consider accompanying me to the wedding?”
“Go to hell, you creep!” yells Sandy. “The way you allow things to happen is so bogus.” She grabs her sleeping-bag and escapes over the corridor to the meditation room. I lay on my mattress, listening to flutes wailing at the macabre banquets.




Chapter 25
Coping With Crap

The atmosphere's changed since that anniversary. El directorio met last week, inviting no outsiders, issuing no statements. On the top floor, the bosses are isolated and scheming, while below clusters of socios mill. It’s the national mood; sporadic roadblocks, marches in the cities, stones, teargas, broken windows, cracked skulls, the odd death.
At this moment I’m attending a joint session of the Project and Social committees, but my thoughts are on the recent batch of letters from home. Sarah reports that she’s suffering. Geordie’s living upstairs with Leo and she doesn’t have to add a comment on who brought the boy to the house. C'mon Sarah, an artist can usually convert the pain into gain.
The other correspondent is Joanne, thanking me for such an amusing series of letters. You’ve quite sold Bolivia to me, she enthuses (funny, I thought there was nothing left to ransack after the privatisations), and now, dearest son, since you’re a millionaire in local currency, send me a ticket and I’ll come over. An unsettling prospect.
Foolish to daydream on commission time. Around the grand table, attention has focused on Ana and it’s getting personal. As a staff member, however low on the salary scale, she's open to accusations of earning at the socios’ expense. Even Elvira is under attack, and the treasurer only receives a viático, daily expenses. The two are parrying inquiries about their finances.
Our committee bays for blood, victims hunting culprits when the real issue is the projects. All at once the meeting turns its jaws towards me. “How much do you pocket, Jaime?” asks a squat city-woman dressed in mourning. Oops - my diplomatic immunity blown.
“Err - I don’t receive a wage. I’m a volunteer, remember?” That touch of aggresssion at the end results from embarrassment. I’ve no desire to admit before this comisión that my thousand dollar a month allowance, not counting health insurance, housing, travel, dope-fund, etc.
She’s persistent though, a regular pitbull. “The volunteer organization obviously pays you something.”
“Yes,” (thank you Joanne for this timely inspiration), “But I’m sending the money to my mother.” Ah, what a good boy!
And little Doña Amalia, head of this Project Committee, completes the rescue. “It’s none of our concern, Doña Berta. Whatever he’s paid is entirely independent of the Copcap budget. He’s not taking it off us.”
“But the rest of the staff are,” gnashes Berta, and two dozen committee members grunt approval. They are not being greedy; all around them, money grows on trees, out of reach, no ladders provided. The tv trumpets, ‘Bolivia, economic miracle, darling of the IMF ', so why are times hard? Of course these decent men and women are angry. They've wasted a day surveying the credits that have indebted them.
I attempt to sidetrack the aggro, reminding them of the evaluation team on the way. “We have to straighten out these projects before it arrives.”
“And what do they want with us?” grumbles Berta.
“Merely to see how their money’s been spent.”
An old timer in a shiny suit raises a grizzled hand. “La palabra. For our information, could you tell us where the money comes from?” Huh, sometimes only the bluntest of questions is sufficiently acute.
A list of donors, the Swedish Ecclesiastical Council, European Union, German Fair Trading Group, doesn’t satisfy him. “No, what I’m asking is, how did these people make that money?”
Good point. Can’t imagine the churches passing a bucket round their congregations for the half-kroners - has to be from property or investments. As for the EU, cash doesn’t exist in that figure-juggling euro-wonderland; their charity is discounted against rebates to the artichoke farmers of the Dordogne. And the Germans, well, they sell hand-knitted sweaters at luxury prices to assuage their endless guilt. It’s difficult to explain the set-up but I try.
“If that’s the case,” comments Elvira entering the debate at last, “I don’t see why they require us to balance our books at all. None of them produce a thing. They should just give us the money and let us use it as we see fit.” Applause, banging on table, whistles, order sheets thrown to the air - the usual democratic decorum.
“Fair enough,” I admit, “We'll make a list of our needs.” Interesting, for when one does abandon the repayment game, what emerges is the next generation - we want nurseries, a youth club, computer services and internet training. The rural groups add legal advice, land titles are hot. And everyone demands a mobile health programme to replace the degenerate Dr. Beto.
“Entonces, de acuerdo. Agreed. Jaime will take these proposals directly to the evaluators when they arrive,” commands Elvira, “and not a word to those upstairs,” which lands me in a conflict of interests. But duplicity suits the conspirator, doesn’t it? It's training.
“One more point,” says Amalia. “The directorio have entrusred us to correct the bad atmosphere in our association. As you may know, the first step is a Mass to be conducted by Padre Ignacio later today.” Wha-a-a-t! The crazed crooner in my own backyard? “But we must also decide between a coca-reading or a millucha.”
At this last word, the members grimace. “I propose that the coca is sufficient,” says Elvira, but she’s outvoted. Leyendo la coca is soothsaying on a par with consulting the I Ching (the leaves have light and dark green sides), yet the commision has opted for the other, far heavier ceremony, even I hesitate to name it twice in one page, that serves to fix blame and invoke punishment.
The craggy old-timer is a practitioner. He’ll undertake the ritual over the weekend, but first the building must be emptied of people and cleansed. He names a ridiculously high fee that no-one dares dispute (despite the financial quibbling of the last five hours). The meeting dissolves with a shudder.
Ana, determined to counterattack after the harrassment she’s endured, intercepts me before I can reach the stairs. Within general hearing, she hisses, “You should know that your new compadre Luis is a spy.” What a wonderful day this is turning into.
An hour to prepare for the conference upstairs and decide on tactics before facing Osvaldo, but I’d require more than a lifetime to reconcile the socios' demands with his designs. Maybe I should burst into his office and ask what this farcical association is meant to achieve, but he’ll just brush me aside with talk of alleviating poverty through credit and work opportunities, the usual fossilized dung, pure Copcap copro-crap.
When we do meet, he’s closer to delirium, rambling about peasant insurgencies, the crisis at this office (you’ve had a very negative effect here, young man), and the Director's high blood pressure. That one’s true; the last glimpse I caught of Edmundo, he was looking puffy.
Not that Osvaldo's so great himself. I wonder about the tightening of skin on his skull, and whether he’s acquired that nervous tic from the wall-clocks which have all recently stopped. When an orderly man cracks, mind the gaps.
“A quarter of a million dollars hangs on the evaluators' visit,” he whispers (wouldn't do for the plebs to overhear). “I’m relying on you to convince the groups not to complain.” Might as well ask me to empty the lake with a teaspoon. “The team's a Finnish couple who don’t speak any Spanish.” Fabulous, a pair of functionally illiterate snoopers parachuting in. “If you give a good impression, perhaps we’ll pull through,” he confides, no longer deeming my influence quite so negative. Then he twitches twice.
I excuse myself to mingle in the knots of socios. They talk to me, friendly enough yet guarded, returning to Aymara amongst themselves, a language at which I’ve made no progress.
Suddenly, the ground floor has emptied. In the yard, an indignant Ignatz is berating his flock. “Christ lies bleeding because you haven’t baptized your children or sanctified the union of man and woman. You wretches don’t even come to mass on Sundays.” He’s shouting at these hardened folk around whose susceptibilities even Edmundo and Osvaldo tiptoe. And the nonsense he’s spouting in no way relates to their problems.
Bossy, bullying Ignatz, taking advantage of the people’s deep spirituality. Fondling his guitar the way I’d treasure that first cigarette of the day, he begins the ritual. Illogically, they respond with respect, almost affection, chanting the responses.
I can guess why. According to Elvira, 20 years ago, this man stood against the dictator Garcia Meza’s police force. The Alto was desolate plain then. First settlers had built rude adobe walls, single rooms, no electricity or water. In all that emptiness, the police were instructed to snatch the land for their own families. And those days, challenging authority was tantamount to a single ticket to the torture cells.
“If you arrest them, you take me too,” Ignatz had said, so the police did. The next day he brought the settlers home, triumphant. He was a righter of wrongs then, now reduced to peddling mass, baptism and marriage - form without content.
Well, James. This is an opportunity to negotiate over those damned courses. If you can get dispensation from the man himself ................
“Excuse me, padre, I need to talk to you.”
“Yes, my son,” he archly responds, stamping hierarchy on our coversation.
“I’m going to be a padrino de matrimonio and these courses...........”
“Are absolutely necessary to comprehend the significance of holy matrimony.”
“I have studied religions, padre."
“But have you ever studied the truth?” Ever the Christian, he’s nailed me. I can’t recall encountering much truth.
“Come to the church on Friday night to prepare yourself.” Unnecessary, thanks, I’m an adept at blundering blind into situations. But the steel frames of his eyeglasses glint with a cold, merciless light. Divining some hesitation, he joins today’s queue to influence Jaime, switching to English for greater intimacy.
“Violence is coming and violence is wrong. I vant you to calm zese radical elements.” Since I don’t react, he perseveres. “Christ lived for love.”
“And died,” I reply.
“And vas riborn,” he counters.
“Yeah, padre, big changes do happen. Sometimes, they’re very necessary. Join us” I’ve trumped him, so he reverts to manic street blackmailer.
“You vill kum Friday or zat couple vill not be marry.”

Footnote:
His smug authority-trip rubs me the wrong way. I can’t head home; without Sandy, the place is unbearable. Furious at myself, furious at the priest, I storm along the main avenue like a contortionist on speed, anguishing over the skills I’m going to need to balance all these conflicting claims.
Hunk, honk. Hunk, honk. The asthmatic horn fails at first to engage my attention. “Oye, Jaime! Anyone home?” Dr. Beto waves from what might be an ancient taxi, except that he’s driving, erratically it has to be said. “Over here,” signals Vanesa from the passenger seat. “Come for a ride,” she says. “We’re going out to eat.”
They take me to a dingy restaurant near the Ceja that specializes in plates of sheep’s head and rice. The pair spoon out brains enthusiastically, urge an eyeball or two on me. Doc won't spoil the feast by discussing work. “Fine, fine, couldn’t be better.”
He’s unaware of Vanesa playing footsie under the narrow table. She's massaging my calf. By the time the poor sheep has been truly picked over and sucked clean, the crotch of her snug jeans is tight against my knee. What am I supposed to do - withdraw, shame her? She’d denounce me for harrassment. Our eyes meet. Shit, another invitation to a sexual encounter when what I really need is a relationship. Sandy’s gonna murder me.
Why don't they just stick an ad in the paper?
‘Organ grinder seeks monkey.’