Recommended Taxi Driver who knows the location:
Marco Zelaya, cell phone: 793-99289.
Marco is an old friend who shuttled me all over town as we figured out this process… if you’re even the slightest bit unsure, hire him! He’s worth the extra few dollars!

Rita was waiting at the office. We drove to Immigration. Her contact was most decidedly not available. They have lost my passport entirely.

Essentially, I have no passport but I am in a foreign country.

Immigration is indicating that they understand that I legally hired someone to do my paperwork and that that person did not do said paperwork. Everyone is in a quandary: I have no passport and no visa, Rita has to pay approx. $2000+ out of her pocket to recoup losses, and the immigration office cannot verify when I entered the country of Bolivia in order to properly fine Rita. Score.

We are going back tomorrow morning and will be accompanied by the regional American Consul who will attempt to buy me more time while the U.S. provides me with a new passport.

But no jail. Theoretically.

Our lack of enthusiasm combined with our insufficient ID inspired the two officers to morph into four as they led us deeper into the terminal.

“Where are your passports?”

“Where are you from?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Why are you in Bolivia?”

I answered their questions. I asked to be able to look for my father, who was somewhere in the bus terminal looking for us. This was ignored, beyond:

“Who is your father?”

“Why is he here?”

I rattled off the names and identification numbers of both my parents, as well as our address. Nothing. I told them repeatedly, “I LIVE in Cochabamba. This is my home. My address is…!” They ignored me.

Two or three other officers walked up behind us. Katherine and I were surrounded.

They handed me a paper to sign.

“What is this?”

“It says that we have your documents.”

“What happens if I sign it?”

“You can walk normally ['caminar normal'] until Monday morning when you show us your other documents. Then you can have these back.”

We stalled, trying to get  more answers from them. Nothing. Just old questions.

“How long have you been in Bolivia?”

Answering their questions had thus far done nothing, so I tried, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand much Spanish.”

The lead officer snorted. He told the others, “They have no papers. They’re Illegal.”

“What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Nothing. Sign the paper.”

Katherine pointed out that all they’d be getting was her photocopy and my driver’s license if we signed.

I asked again, “What happens if we sign this?”

“You may go and walk away normally and we keep your documents until Monday.”

“Fine!” I scribbled a signature angrily and tore off the top copy – my copy – and reached out to hand them back their copy and pen. “You may have them!”

“YOU cannot tear it! You cannot have it!” A woman ripped all copies and the pen from my hands. The man added, “You are going to the office.” They began to lead us away.

“You told me that if I signed that then I could walk away.”

“You yelled.”

“I did not yell. I am tired. You told me that if I signed then I could walk normally.”

“You are going to the immigration office.”

“Where is the office?”

“Here.”

“The office is here? Where here?”

“Here.”

We were, by then, at a back door to the outside of the terminal. Police were waiting.

“You said it was here. Why are we outside?”

The military police took control of us. A female police officer was pushing my right shoulder, leading me towards an unmarked SUV. Katherine was behind us, also being led forward.

“What is this car?”

“Get in,” she said.

“Where are we going?”

“To the office.”

“They told me we could go if I signed a paper. I signed the paper. Then they told me I had to go to the office and that the office is here. Now we are leaving? To where?”

“The office. Get in the car.”

Katherine saw Dad’s car in the parking lot and pointed it out to me. I tried to get the police to talk to him.

“Look! That is my father’s car. He is inside and he will be worried. Please let’s find him inside and ask him about this.”

“You can call him at the office. GET IN THE CAR.”

As I got into the car I responded firmly, “This is not safe.”

They laughed.

We were pushed, albeit gently, into the back of the unmarked SUV. They drove us to the office located on El Prado. During the drive, one of the men in the front made a phone call, in which he said, “We have them. Six gringas from Chile.” Katherine and I were the only two gringas in the car. We were led inside and quizzed again. They called my mother at home and allowed me to talk to her. I filled her in and told her that we’d need legal help.

After a bit, one of the immigration officers stood in front of us, leaned back against the wall, and asked, “Are you more tranquil now?”

“I was tranquil, and I am still tranquil. I was and am confused. They said if I signed the paper I could walk normally. They said the office was there. These things did not happen.”

He chuckled and shrugged, “Sometimes they miscommunicate the full process.”

I asked him what would next happen. He stated that, “You will show us your documents. Or, we can hold you for eight hours. Then you will go to jail.”

He was standing below a poster which portrayed notable victims of racism in Bolivian history. My white skin could sympathize with the darker tones of the photographed victims of Bolivia’s past.

Katherine and I waited in the hall of the office until someone arrived. A dear friend of the family, who happens to be – without exaggeration – the world’s leading expert on Bolivian law, entered the building. He walked straight into the office and conversed with the inspector. He apparently had us released into his parole custody, and he then delivered us back to my home.

This is where we stand:
Katherine and I must be at the immigration office at 8:30 Monday morning. Katherine will show her passport, establishing herself as a legal tourist, and will be absolutely fine. For her this is a mere formality and her parole will be lifted. No problems, no records, absolutely no worries!

My situation is more complicated.

I have no passport to show, because Rita the Travel Agent has it. Dad and I went to Rita’s office on Saturday. She has promised to be available at her office at 8:00 in order to be picked up by us to go with us to immigration at 8:30. She absolutely must be there. If she skips out then a plan is in place to solve the situation. Our legal adviser, bless him, is positive that he can transfer my parole custody over to my father and can prevent me from going to jail. What happens Monday hinges largely on whatever Rita does – whether she appears, whether she still has my documentation after lying to me for nearly two years… and whether she has been behaving legally.

The questions for Monday are how much money I will have to pay the government of Bolivia – for her failure to procure me a legal visa – and whether I can stay in Bolivia at all.

The primary goal, of course, is to stay out of jail and, as Katherine puts it, refrain from becoming someone’s buttmonkey.

But I’d really like to stay in Bolivia, too, thank you.

Side note: all of this drama has been murder on my work – on which I WAS ahead of schedule! I’m madly trying to get everything finished and submitted on time with class deadlines. There will likely be a delay before I get to update the results of Monday morning, and delays will not mean that I’m a jail-stuck buttmonkey. Schoolwork is the priority, writing-wise.

When this is true in the context of day-to-day personal narrative (um, blogging), it usually means the storyteller doesn’t have time to build up to the punchline.

I get punched in the line Monday morning at 8:00, so I’ll skip ahead to the end and start blathering about my excellentfantasticinterestinghilarious-and-vomitous trip with Katherine through Western Bolivia later this week.

I’m on parole.

Theoretically, I could be in a Bolivian jail tomorrow evening.

The story is a bit spoiled by noting that jail is entirely unlikely, I realize, but the note is nonetheless fair.

Katherine and I took a double-decker bus from La Paz to Cochabamba on Friday night, leaving 10:30pm and arriving 6:00am. We arrived in Cochabamba about 15 minutes early, hopped down from the bus, collected our gear from below, and headed into the bus terminal to look for my father who was set to pick us up.

Twenty  feet into the terminal, Katherine was confronted by two individuals asking for her identification. I was about ten feet behind, so I caught up to them and asked what was up. They were from Immigration Control and insisted on documentation. We handed over a photocopy of Katherine’s passport and my U.S. Missouri Driver’s License. We left Katherine’s physical passport at our house in Cochabamba so as to not risk it getting stolen on the road.

My passport, however, is somewhere in the bowels of the red tape tangle of Bolivia. I have not seen my passport since November 2007.

I arrived in Bolivia in February 2007 when no significant immigration limitations were placed on American tourists. An American could enter the country without a visa and have 90 days, renewable up to 180 days, to hang out. Dandy! At the 90 day mark I had determined that I would be in Bolivia for about a year so I went to a local travel agency to start the process of a visa. I went to the agency to whom practically all of the local gringo missionaries are recommended because they have this little lady, Rita, who just whizzes people right through the system of endless paperwork. Hand over your cash and your passport, and she handles the rest. Just a few months later you have a shiny new ID card and a sticker in your passport.

My passport and cash, therefore, went into Rita’s hands. Several months later when I needed a quick jaunt to the States for business in October 2007, I had to spend an afternoon staring at Rita’s office from outside until she was willing to get up and go do the necessary steps to retrieve my passport from the mix of tramites – paperwork! – and provide me with a slip of paper which proved that I had been in tramites in an attempt to get a visa. She did so, I went on my trip, and returned to put my passport right back into tramites just days before the Bolivian immigration laws changed.

Moving on to August 2009, she still hasn’t given me a visa. The laws have changed, things are complicated, etc etc. I haven’t minded; as long as she sorts it out in the end, the delays have afforded me time in Bolivia that I’ve been able to use for good purposes. I should have been able to go in January 2010 without any significant problems other than her putzing around with time.

Katherine and I went on our jaunt across Western Bolivia. We’d flash our photocopies of our passports when necessary or just use our U.S. driver’s licenses when someone needed a photo ID without tax or travel ties. No serious problems.

In La Paz we attempted to schedule a trip up to Lake Titicaca and Copacabana. What we learned, however, was that an immigration checkpoint has been opened on the way to Copacabana, and that the officials wouldn’t be content with our photocopies, leaving us stuck having to give outrageous cash bribes. We skipped the Lake and spent more time in La Paz instead.

Everything seemed dandy until we found ourselves faced with two immigration officers ten inches from our faces in the middle of the bus terminal back home in Cochabamba…

I went to the edge of La Cancha, 25 de Mayo and Brasil, in order to get small fireworks. I was caught at one intersection in particular for about five minutes, sitting behind a bus. After a bit I heard loud talking to my left, so I looked:

A young woman holding an infant on the sidewalk was being poked and prodded in the shoulder by an older woman wearing indigenous dress. The older woman was clearly trying to help – the girl’s baby-holding-sling was digging deep into her shoulder because her sweater had come out from the edge. The woman was trying to tweak it to fit the problem while the girl kept shrugging her off.

At first I thought that the older woman was a stranger just being very helpful, but then I noticed that the interaction was much more that of mother and daughter. The mother saw a problem and kept trying to Fix Seen Problem while the daughter very much just wanted to be Left Alone, Thank You. The scene was sweet and amusing; some interactions transcend mere culture because they are fundamentally human.

The women were accompanied by a man the approximate age of the mother, and I presume that he was the husband/father. He kept staring at me in my car a few feet away. I wasn’t staring back, but I did look at them repeatedly over the course of the couple minutes it took them to rearrange themselves. I was enjoying the scene, and not much else was in my vicinity except the back of a big, ugly city bus right in front of me. I had my Friendly Face on; it’s the sort of non-committal but genuine face that people use when eye contact is made with strangers in the States. The Friendly Face is very much a cultural face, I think. I don’t see it often here in Bolivia.

The man said something that included “encantada”, or enchanted. His tone was not, however, thrilled. I wasn’t paying much attention. He said it again, and I looked at them. They were all staring at me! He was clearly angry, the daughter was wide-eyed and baffled, and the mother was stern.

“Pardon?” I asked.

He shook his fist at me.

I repeated, “Pardon?”

“Why are you so amused? Why do you smile because she has a problem with her clothes and baby? [insert another couple of very angry, loudly yelled sentences that I didn't catch in time]”

Naturally, this is just when traffic began to move. Also naturally, I didn’t have a clue how to phrase a response.

I had to move slowly forward with traffic, but I leaned out my window and gestured as my pidgin Spanish came out something like, “I don’t have a problem with you all! I only have happy for you! Only happy!”

Oh yeah. I’m articulate. The Spanish profs should be proud.

The daughter stayed wide-eyed, the mother looked wounded, and he was doing some combination of a grumble-snarl (grarl?). It took them another 30 seconds for them to walk past me again. My mind was working on the double, trying somehow to scrounge up the words:

“Your interactions make me happy!” Right. That sounds like a superior gringa response.

“I just think your family is sweet!” How can I explain that to someone who is snarling at me?

“You’re just like every other family in the world!” Um. That’ll be less offensive to him, sure.

None of this came out, though, when they walked past. They were ignoring me staunchly, although he was still muttering. I desperately tried to come up with some non-offensive, politically correct way of saying,

“Hi! I was people watching! You were two feet away from me! I have much respect for you and other members in your communities here in Cochabamba. Your family is adorable because you’re just like everyone else in the world, not that you should be unlike anyone else, and not that you’re trivialized or belittled in any way by my observation, it’s just humbling to see that everyone is so inherently alike while being so unique, and, and, and…”

It can’t be done. Especially not to someone intent on taking offense at a small, idiotic thing by which no condescension or rudeness was intended. Especially not with my linguistic skills. Especially not in a 15 second snippet with them on foot and me in car.

Minutes later, I realized what more completely I wanted to express.

“Get over it! I took joy in your family’s expression of care, love, and help for one another. You’re in public! Cope! Would you rather that I were as vitriolic and hateful as you? Wouldn’t your life be happier, fundamentally better, if you lived in a community that was accustomed to smiling and enjoying one another instead of assuming that others are mocking?”

Strangely, that much more direct approach could actually be said here. I didn’t, of course, and couldn’t even if I had been willing.

Just one more man convinced that there’s another ugly, mocking gringa in town… and all because that’s what he wanted and expected to see.

I have seen racism in Cochabamba, albeit rarely. I’ve seen it on three sides of the community:

The middle-class Bolivian pushing the indigenous woman aside like trash (a few times).

The gringo missionaries telling racist jokes, using racist language, and/or being generally racist pigs (three families/individuals, although one family has since left country).

The indigenous Bolivian treating gringos or more urban Bolivians with scorn.

Frankly, though, I haven’t seen it often. Cochabamba isn’t like that. Even if that man has experienced the hate of others, he has no excuse to assume that it is the norm.

There are moments when I long to be back in some parts of the States, in an environment which is comfortable. A cultural environment where smiling at others and greeting strangers kindly, or stopping to have a chat or help someone rearrange a heavy, awkward bundle is the norm, not the aberration. I have those moments of homesickness, but then I snap back to the present and am more determined to smile even more openly and to greet strangers more assuredly.

I am an American Gringa. Face it, I will foist my culture upon you:

I will smile and wish you a good morning.

Beware.

The woman in question bemoans the loss of her microwave, her bread maker, her coffee maker, her electric scales… and even her food processor. Apparently she’s reliving the very early ’70s, since they were certainly available later in the decade. But, then, this was pre-Thatcher Britain, and people still ate twigs.

I’ve lived in Bolivia for two years. I cook two meals a day in a world without the benefit of a microwave or prepared goods. Macaroni and Cheese in boxes is considered a serious splurge in our Bolivian household (it does, after all, cost more than making a beef roast stew).

She babbles on about how dreadfully difficult, how mindnumbingly time-consuming, it all is. To listen to her, cooking from scratch would seem to be a miserable all-day task.

She’s right, in a sense. Everything does take longer. The way she whines, however, sounds as if she spent hours slaving away each day for a week only to collapse at the table in exhaustion. Comparing her tales with reality, I can only conclude that she’s just lousy at it.

Bolivia lacks easy fast food, and what exists is just as expensive as it is in the United States. How can one casually go to the one Burger King in town when it costs just as much as going to El Porton, the nicest steakhouse in the city? Processed greasy fast hamburger or Argentine steak? Dilemma.

We do have a microwave and it has worked for a collective six months of the twenty-six months I’ve been here. The microwave has one teensy problem: plug it into the wall and it burns out.

In fairness, we do also have a food processor and a Kitchenaid stand mixer. Each appliance saves at least fifteen minutes off each major project. This is necessary when one has to cook two separate entrees at each meal to cover the needs of eight people, three of whom have violent allergies to the key elements which make food Taste Good.

We do not, though, have a bread maker or an ice cream maker… and I fail to see the use for electric scales in day to day cooking. Or Thanksgivings, for that matter.

We buy sandwich bread, but we bake regularly regardless. Then we’ve the cookies. Why would we buy cookies from the store when we can bake them for half the price? Our Bolivian grocery bills are already the equal of our American grocery bills, thanks to Bolivia’s political mis-leadership.

And yet… unlike the Daily Fail’s frazzled idiot-cook, I still manage to get around town, take grad courses, and, in the case of this past Tuesday, watch seven episodes of Buffy.

I’d like to see the article’s author dropped into my great-grandmother’s world of 1930s-40s coal mining West Virginia. A special room meant for keeping hand-salted meats stored away for the winter, endless days spent canning vegetables in glass jars…

… but, then the universe would collapse in one great big collective whine.

Christianity stands in direct connection with the covenants between God and humanity. Accordingly, Christians must study the history of God’s relationship with man and the principles He has communicated.

The Abrahamic Covenant became an unconditional promise of God’s ultimate fulfillment of His promises to Abraham and his descendents. The Mosaic Law was a complement to the Abrahamic Covenant in that while the Abrahamic Covenant ensured a relationship between God and the Israelites, the Mosaic Law provided the route to the present enjoyment of that relationship. The Law was not a route to salvation, which instead was strictly based on faith, but was a grant of access to the immediate provision of God’s grace and blessings. The Law provided the specific details of how the Covenant would best operate amongst the Israelites, and it was specific to their particular covenant with God. The Law also served as the most efficient tool by which the Israelites would serve as a missionary presence amongst humanity by calling the Israelites to adhere to a very different set of life functions and principles.

The law displayed God meeting the Israelites at their level and raising them up to a reasonably higher degree. The law gave their relationship with God a depth and substance. They could learn through the implementation of the law to recognize and fear God’s holiness and moral perfection. The law demanded of them that their relationship with God be exclusive. They had to meet God on His terms and worship Him properly without engaging in the degradation present in pagan forms of worship. The law demanded that they live in sexual and moral purity. Through the law God taught them elements of true justice which could be implemented in practical ways, and similarly God taught them practical methods and sound principles for caring for the poor and the needy. The Mosaic Law was specific both in its provision of practical details and in its application within the context of the Abrahamic Covenant.

Christians do not operate under the Abrahamic Covenant, although it holds profound impact in our understanding of God. Our relationship with God is made in new terms through His provision of Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Accordingly, we are not under the Mosaic law. Romans 6:14 makes this clear in that we “are not under law but under grace” (NKJV) and Hebrews 7:12 refers to a “change of the law”. The law remains relevant for us, however. In Christ we are given a “perfect law of liberty” (James 1:25) and we are to “establish the law” of Christ (Romans 3:31). Rather than pulling a detailed set of casuistic laws from the Mosaic Covenant, we are to implemant Godly behavior in our lives through principles of His morality.

The gleaning of principles from the Mosaic Law which can and should then be applied to modern life can best be accomplished through the methodology of principalism. This methodology is consistent in its consideration of the Bible, does not depend on arbitrary extra-biblical determinations, reflects the literary and historical contexts of the Bible, is highly conscious of the theological context of the Bible, and corresponds with New Testament teachings.

Principalism consists of five key steps. The meaning of the Old Testament law must be identified as understood by the initial audience. The initial audience must be differentiated from modern believers. Universal principles should be drawn from the text. Universal principles are understood to be reflected directly in the text, timeless in their nature, systematically compatible with biblical theology, not culturally based, and relevant to both Old Testament and New Testament readers. Those universal principles should then be correlated with New Testament teaching. The universal principles are thus modified in such a manner that they can be applied to modern life.

Starting in January, we will be using the Wise Guys program. It invites kids to learn principles and verses and apply them in their daily lives each week. Different activities let them earn Wise Guys currency with which they can purchase items from the Wise Guys store. Handy!

For now, though, I’m working with basic crafts, games, movies (Veggie Tales!), and memorization activities. That’ll get us through the holiday season while we translate Wise Guys into Spanish. Wednesday is mostly in English, because our crowd is a mixture of gringos and Spanish-speakers who want to learn/practice/improve their English. Still, I’m not about to bring a bunch of children in a room and jabber at them in an unknown language! By incorporating English elements we can supplement the English they learn in their schools and help them with their early language acquisition.

Tonight was a success; the kids had fun and the grownups liked seeing the kids have a good time.

Juan, the drunk driver, had swept the side of his car into a tree by the road.

He was driving so fast that he had enough momentum to go forward into a little parking lot off the street and swerve hard left. He crossed the raised cement and grass divider between the east and west bound lanes, and drove head-on into our secondary gate. The owner of the house had previously installed a cement block to prevent cars from entering that driveway because it’s too steep for anything but a Range Rover. That cement block prevented the vehicle from entering our garage. Having crashed into our gate, he reversed and drove off.

To be clear: this man was drunk; he was driving on one of the busiest streets in the city; he rammed a tree; he almost rammed a hardware store, he almost rammed two houses, he crossed four lanes of traffic, crashed into our gate, and drove across two sidewalks where people, including children, frequently walk. The sidewalks where he hit were empty, but this was extremely unusual – we usually have people of all ages walking on those sidewalks. Where he crashed is a part of the sidewalk where my brothers will usually walk down to the bakery for fresh morning bread. Only coincidence prevented him from killing people in his drunken rampage.

7:50am
Nicholas found Juan and his wrecked car on a little dead-end street behind our block. Dad reached it before me, and as I went to meet him a crowd of witnesses followed behind. In that moment I felt very strangely Firth-like (not something I would normally say. The video cuts out some of the crowd-following sequence.) as the gringa with a crowd of “What’s going on? Looks like a good show!” Bolivians in tow.

At the top of the hill and around the corner sat two vehicles: Juan’s and that of a Radio Movil taxi. We really have no solid idea as to why the taxi was present. As far as we could tell, his car was not damaged and none of the witnesses to the accident had observed his involvement. We do know that Juan paid him 250 Bolivianos in cash ($35.71) to absolve his guilt from something or another. Mom thinks that the taxista was blackmailing Juan. The taxi attempted to leave, and I asked him to stay and wait for the police. He refused. As he was leaving I took his photo, which made him extremely angry.

“Why would you take my photo? This is not my fault! I have nothing in this!”

“Why did he pay you 250Bs?”

“I have nothing in this! You do not need my photo!”

As he said all of this, he loomed closer and closer, which prompted my father to get between us. The taxista had clearly been drinking as his breath stank of it and his eyes were more red than white. He did eventually leave.

Juan also attempted to leave.

Lorien: “No, we all have to wait here.”

Juan: “But I’ll pay for the gate! I will! But I have to go.”

“No. The police are on their way. We will all wait here for them”

“Please, I need to leave. I will pay you!”

“No. Wait here.”

He motioned put his keys in the ignition – I attempted to grab them, but missed. That rather annoyed my father (“That’s my job.”). Meanwhile, when Juan opened his driver-side door… out tumbled an empty beer can. He hurriedly stuffed it into his pants pocket.

We spent the next hour waiting for the police to arrive, and trying to keep Juan from running.

The witnesses were fantastic. The entire experience was country justice at its finest. The people, a combination of curious witnesses and our neighbors, were lined up along the side of the road which had a steep hill down to a bike path.

For the first ten minutes or so my father and I were very conscious of needing to maintain the support of the people. Juan was a crook – no question. The people of Cochabamba are just astoundingly good-hearted. However! The reality of the situation was also that a a big, scary gringo (Dad!) was glaring down at an increasingly pathetic young Bolivian. The loving spirit of Cochabambinos will usually side with the underdog, and specifically with the Bolivian underdog, even to the detriment of justice. This is understandable, but sometimes delicate. When my father verbally defended my mother from a man who physically assaulted my mother, our neighbors sided against us – and they did so by saying that we were foreign, etc. Again, understandable, but frustrating.

Frankly, too, it took a good ten to fifteen minutes for the group to accept that we weren’t going to beat up pathetic little Juan. We just wanted him to wait for the police. They were watching both Juan and us with eagle eyes, waiting to see who was going to be worse.

Juan: “Please. Please. Let me leave. I’ll fix your gate.”

Lorien: “No, you must wait. We are all waiting. You need to wait.”

“I can’t be here!”

“You must. We know the law of Cochabamba, and you have to wait here.”

One of the men concurred, “Listen. They’re foreigners. They know the law.”

I don’t know why a foreigner is expected to know the law, but whatever, I wasn’t going to argue.

Juan: “Please.”

Lorien: “No. It’s better for Cochabamba, it’s better for us, and it’s better for you.”

“Not for me!”

“Yes, for you. I know it’s very hard for you now, but you must learn that this behavior [ed. I actually said manner, but I didn't know how to say it properly] is not good. You need to learn, and then your life will be better.”

Mind you, in the States that patronizing crap wouldn’t fly. It’s true, and I meant it genuinely. But while in the States it wouldn’t have been… kind to say it out loud like that, here in the semi-open air of Bolivian dialogue it worked. Juan wasn’t just a kid who had made a little mistake, Juan was a young man who came very close to killing people because he a) drove while intoxicated, and b) probably stole a car. Juan didn’t buy the explanation, but the people around us saw that Dad was NOT attacking the punk, and I was speaking firmly and sweetly, while talking about the good of Cochabamba and Juan’s future. I was speaking more nicely to him than any of the people there. Go figure.

Juan didn’t want to hear it, so he turned around to walk over to my father. Now, for context: my father had already spoken to Juan in limited Spanish (“No! Wait here! No!”). He’s still learning Spanish, and because of our extremely low funding his classes have been put on hold. All Juan knew, though, was that I had been talking to him in limited and childish but essentially understandable Spanish, and that my father had used some Spanish with him as well. So he turned to my father and again began with, “Please, I cannot meet the police.”

Dad didn’t want to argue more. He crossed his arms, and in the most perfect Spanish accent of all time, “No entiendo español.”

The people cracked up. One guy doubled over and clapped his knee. Juan turned to them in frustration, and the fellow in the open shirt exclaimed, “Nope! Can’t talk to him! Just her!” and cackled.

Juan: “Please!”

Lorien: “No.”

Juan assessed his situation. His best bet was to jump down the hill and run down the bike path. He tried to subtly move closer to the edge of the hill. The group just as subtly inched down closer to him. My father met him at the edge, and when Juan stepped onto the hill Dad grabbed his arm:

Dad: “NO. Wait here.”

Juan stepped back up, and Dad released his arm. Juan came back to me.

“PLEASE, miss. PLEASE.”

“No. We are all waiting here.”

He got right up to me, inches from my face.

“PLEASE!”

“No, and please, I want space.”

He didn’t move.

Louder, “Space. I want more space.” I held up my hand as if I was about to push him away. “Give me more space.”

He didn’t move. Dad took a step closer. Juan didn’t notice, so I swiveled around so that the group could see the space differential. “I WANT SPACE. PLEASE.”

The men took a step closer to us, and Juan stepped back once.

I moved away so that I could observe but so that I wasn’t between him and the men. Juan turned as if he was going to just walk off. Dad stood in his way.

“Here. Take the keys. You can have the car. Just let me leave.”

He dropped the keys to the ground.

“No. Wait here.”

Dad picked up the keys anyway, although Juan tried to step on his hand. Juan decided to go sit in his car. He had another set of keys, so he was still a flight risk as far as we knew. He started gathering his things into a duffel, preparing for a run.

Dad walked over and opened the car doors. Again, the group found this hilarious. The perfect solution: we weren’t touching him, we weren’t hurting him, but he wasn’t going anywhere. They loved it.

Juan put his duffel in the trunk and went back to standing in the middle of the little road.

He pulled out his phone and pretended to have a conversation, acting all nonchalant about everything… but steadily stepping further and further up the road. Dad just went up and blocked his path. At first it was subtle. Juan would take a step forward and to the side. Dad would step back and to the side. A happy little waltz. After fifteen feet of this, the group started laughing.

One pointed at Dad and tapped his own skull, as if, “ha! clever!” Juan started freaking out and taking bigger steps. The guy in the gold shirt walked up to block the corner. I thanked him, and he nodded as he walked up to give Dad backup. I’m rather perturbed because in the video it sounds like a grassy-ass gringo accent. Sigh. Anyway, I was taping that bit because if he did run for it I wanted to have evidence of the sequence of events.

The Waltz of Dad and Juan the Drunk from Lorien Johnson on Vimeo.

Juan got ticked and gave up on that tactic.

He had already said that he didn’t have a license. Dad asked me if he had a general ID.

Lorien: “Do you have a carnet?”

Juan: “Carnet? Yes.”

Gold Shirt Guy was standing a few feet behind him, and I haven’t the foggiest idea what he mouthed in Spanish but he motioned and my brain translated it as “Get it!”

Lorien: “Can I see it?”

Juan: “My carnet?”

“Yes, can I see it?”

He pulled out and opened his wallet to display his ID in a clear plastic pocket.

Lorien: “Can I read it?”

Juan: “Read it or take it?”

I just laughed and said, “Oh, I don’t understand. Can I just read it please?”

He took it out, turned it over, and replaced it in his wallet.

Lorien: “I can’t read it in the plastic. Please?”

I held the wallet as if I was tilting the angle to read, but his grip was iron and it would’ve been a fight, so I let it go.

He put his wallet back in his pocket and backed up to stand on the edge of the hill and his escape. Dad and the men were primed to go after him.

“Please, Juan. I have your photo. I read your carnet and know your name and ID number [I didn't]. It will be much better for your life if you just wait here.”

Again, laughter. “Better for his life! hahaha!”

He rubbed his head and went to go lean against the car to think.

Eventually he climbed in.

Thomas, my brother, had gone to get soft drinks for everyone present. I passed them out to everyone, and convinced Juan to have a coke to relax, too. We were about a half hour into the process, and the police still hadn’t arrived.

Open Shirt Fellow explained, “It’s a Sunday. You have to insist.”

Mom kept calling the police, and some of the people had left to go call from their houses or to go to the courthouse down the street to try to convince the police to actually come out.

We spent the next half hour sitting around and waiting. The men circled the car to ooo and aah over the excessive damage, which also effectively kept Juan contained. I eventually went down to the house to let one of the people call Transito (I think the equivalent of the American Department of Moving Vehicles”) and report it as a stolen vehicle (which the people had decided amongst themselves that it must be). While he called and I brushed my teeth (finally! half an hour of talking in my pyjamas and unbrushed breath. Horrid!), we got the call from Dad saying that the police had finally arrived.

9:00am
I got back up the hill and talked briefly with the police. The group had dispersed quickly, and were waiting on the other side of the street in front of our house. We took the police to show them our gate. They nodded and decided to bring their jeep and Juan’s car down to the street. The police went up the hill. Juan followed them from about 40 feet behind. I was baffled by why he was left alone, so I just stayed right behind him. We’d gone halfway up the hill when the lead officer saw us and yelled at his assistants, “Why is he walking? Why did you leave him? Put him in the car!” So Juan, bless the pitiful little guy, shuffled up hill to the jeep and got in the back of his own accord.

Back at the house, we explained the sequence of events. Dad had gone inside to print of my photos. A second police jeep arrived. A third jeep. Then a red Transito jeep. Apparently departments had not been tracking that the calls were all for the same event, or at least the sheer number of calls pressed them to show up in a group. I think we had ten or fifteen officers there at the end. They had Juan pick up the pieces to the car and wait.

My father then came out with the printouts of all of the photos. One officer just looked at them and was amazed. He took them over to the group of officers who were standing in a circle around Juan, and I’ve never seen an officer happier.

“Look at these! [flip page] Look at that! [flip] That’s his face! His face! [turned it over to show Juan] Your face! [flip] The license plates! Your plates! They have everything!” They were laughing uproariously, and as he said that last bit he clapped Juan on the back, “Pobrecito!” {poor little thing!}

Pobrecito, indeed. The officers were amazingly thrilled, because we’d essentially done most of the work for them – kept him there and taken and printed pictures of him, the other taxista, and the damage. Probably the first time in a long time that they’d walked into a situation and actually had witnesses and evidence. They just stood there laughing at the situation and at poor Juan. Juan was definitely guilty, but he just happened to be guilty in the worst possible spot in the city.

Well. I suppose he could have crashed directly into a police station or the DEA building. But, y’know.

Still, it was just so… Andy Griffith. The neighborhood rallied in the only possible justice available to them, and we kept it on a strictly peaceful level. Ordinarily a petty crime is frowned upon but earns merely a glare and a shrug. I frequently hear folks shrug in semi-apology, semi-indignation, “Eh. This is Bolivia. It happens.” This time, however, the neighborhood saw that Juan was a risk and he had carelessly and illegally endangered their families, their property, and their peace. They solved the problem. By the time the police showed up an hour after the neighborhood beginning the process, the officers were so busy being amused by the ridiculous efficiency of the entire affair that all they could do was laugh and pat the crook on the back with a jovial but sympathetic, “You’re fried, man. You’re fried.”

I adore Cochabamba. Andy Griffith Southern Justice in the morning, and at noon we left to go to the Feria de las Flores {Flower Feria}.

That’s Bolivia.

Prior to the Ambush in the Pando, Evo expelled almost all of the press. That is a significantly contributing factor as to why we have so little visible evidence and sound accounts of what really happened.

Earlier today on a radio station in Cochabamba it was announced that evidence had been found and confirmed that all individuals who fired weapons at the violent clash were Venezuelan troops. This is believable, because it is well known that the Bolivian military is fiercely uncomfortable with attacking other Bolivians. (This matches an article I saw yesterday. I’ll add a link to that here soon. Need to track it down again.)

Legal Consequences of the Pando Conflict:

After the attack in the Pando, the Pando government was disbanded and Martial Law was instigated in that department. Martial Law is limited by the current Constitution of Bolivia to last no more than 90 days. Under Martial Law, no arrests or charges can be made.

Also under the current Bolivian Constitution, no official can be arrested under any circumstances. Let’s backtrack and define this. Until relatively recently, the Constitution defined Prefects of Departments as being members of the President’s cabinet, government officials, whom the President personally selected. Under President Mesa, however, the Constitution was legally amended so that the Prefects are elected by the people of the departments. The definition of a Prefect remained the same: Prefects are government officials and members of the President’s cabinet.

Current context:

The Prefect of Pando has been detained by the national authorities under Evo’s leadership. He has not been arrested or charged. He is informally accused, but legally he is only under armed/guarded confinement. He is not at liberty to leave. When a Bolivian citizen is under confinement, the normal response is a writ of habeas corpus. He has not been arrested or charged, however, so habeas corpus does not apply. But! In situations in which a confinement has been initiated but no arrests/charges have been made, the Bolivian Constitution offers a protection: an automatic visa to leave the country.

The legal Constitution of Bolivia promises the Prefect of Pando an automatic visa to leave Bolivia. That’s Latin American legal systems at work if I’ve ever seen it. His family have today filed the case to have that visa processed.

Evo’s team is arguing that because the Prefect was in rebellion, he cannot be considered an “official of the government”. However, this doesn’t hold up legally:

• The Constitution has no provisions for situations of rebellion. That status does not legally exist.
• The Prefect was elected by the people of the Pando. Therefore, he is an official of the government of Bolivia as designated by the people of his department.
• The Prefect is legally a member of the President’s cabinet, but is not subject to the President’s selection or preference (reserved by the department, as shown in point 2). The Prefect is as much of an official of the Bolivian government as every other member of the President’s cabinet.

Unfortunately for Evo, by placing the Prefect of Pando under confinement he has given him a free exit from the country and from possible prosecution. This is what happens when people do not respect their own laws enough to know their own laws. If you make a law and/or if you claim the authority of a law, then you need to know that law and follow that law. Evo’s team does not, and that’s a significant weakness for his leadership and his factions.

Evo can continue this fight against the Prefect. Attempting to keep the Prefect in the country by denying his constitutional claim to an exit visa forces a case into constitutional courts. In Bolivia, cases can take months and sometimes years. Consitutional cases will get heard much faster than civil cases, but they can take just as long… and that’s a long time. IF this case goes before the constitutional courts, then due to its high profile the new Constitution proposed by Evo, which has not yet been approved and put into place by the people of Bolivia, cannot be approved. Evo can fight to keep the Prefect, but his Constitution will be delayed inevitably, and with it his political ideals.

Ouch.

International Support and the Limits thereof:

We keep hearing about the overwhelming solidarity of the continent, represented now by UNASUR and the OAS, for Evo Morales. That may well be an exagerration, and the inclusion of international authorities may prove to be Evo’s political downfall.

Evo set the schedule for negotiating with the opposition leaders in Bolivia. He picked the dates. At the last minute, Evo attempted to change the negotiations for one day earlier than planned. This would have caused the opposition leaders to be unprepared. UNASUR and OAS said, emphatically, “No.” The schedule had been set, it was not appropriate to change it.

August Referendum – Bogus?

In addition, the international agencies are going through the election results from August with a fine-tooth comb. They are being extremely strict. Under these strict counting procedures, Evo’s “mandate” is adding up to be approximately 32% – that is 35% lower than the 67% claimed by the Bolivian government. A more moderate counting which allows for a reasonable amount of casual error suggests that Evo would have earned the necessary 52% to stay in office, but only just, and certainly not a 2/3 mandate.

A more obvious limitation to the security of the election, especially valuable for those of us who are distrustful of even third-party agencies counting votes (it’s scary, when you think about how easily shaded our counting systems are, regardless of nation!), is that in a normal election every polling location is monitored by a representative of every single party in the election. In those situations, if any of those representatives point out a possible problem, then the whole polling table in question is shut down! In August, however, the referendum did not involve specific parties and a selection between candidates – it was a simple Yes / No vote. Representatives from multiple parties were not present at the polling places, thus eliminating one of the more significant protections of the electoral system in Bolivia.

The international agencies are going through the records and finding thousands upon thousands of voters listed as “Mama AAA”, “Papa BBB”, and so on – clearly fraudulent names. Reports are also being submitted of citizens who appeared at their polling location to vote but were informed that someone had already voted that day in their name! Awkward. Now, be rational, guys. In the United States of America wwe have elections upon which the entire world looks because our elections affect the entire world… and yet, we still have dead guys voting in Chicago. Election fraud in Bolivia? Believable.

The Compromise:

UNASUR and the OAS, however, are not demanding that the August election be thrown out. They’re going much deeper than that. Now that they’ve been invited in, they’re staying. Evo’s “mandate” will stand, but on their conditions. UNASUR and the OAS are demanding that all voters re-register. From now all, every voter must present their carnet (ID) and give their thumbprint in order to vote. That data will correspond with the data in the brand new voter registration database.

The rest of the continent really doesn’t want to deal with a country firing its legally and constitutionally elected President – and Evo’s presidential election was legal and valid. But forcing a just and accountable system of voter registration? That could solve a ton of future headaches.

The Bolivian Economy:

Bolivia’s national bank has been deliberately suppressing the U.S. Dollar. We’ve all seen this. When the dollar was going down, so did the exchange rate – obviously! When the dollar went back up, however, the exchange rate did not rise in turn… it even went down further. The Bolivian economy is still too tied to the dollar to play these games, and games they are. The economy is in a mess!

Worse still is that Evo was depending on high oil prices, circa $140/barrel, to pay for several of his major projects. He banked on being able to sell Bolivian oil for those prices. Unfortunately for him, oil has dropped back down to circa $100/barrel.

People aren’t exactly thrilled about all of this.

Evo’s Path to Success:

Please note: the following is not my idea! This, too, is coming from the brilliant legal advisor. He’s thought of two very simple and, shockingly, obvious answers to almost all of Evo’s problems.

First, regardless of which option he selects, he needs to give the opposition what they want. All of it. Halt the new Constitution. Give them “autonomy”. Stop interfering with revenues. All of it.

Then, he has two strategic options:

• One month prior to the next election, Evo could resign as president of Bolivia. His vice president would become president. Evo would be legally free to run for re-election.
• Alternatively, he could have made all of his concessions to the opposition conditional on an amendment to the current Constitution which would allow him to run for re-election. That’s it.

Why would these work? Because people are dead tired of the conflict. The opposition will not ever be thrilled with Evo, MAS, or any other socialist regime. They will be content, however, if they are given what they want – and that’s a return to normal without the demands of the new Constitution, the stolen revenues, etc. The moderates within Bolivia (who likely outnumber either faction) and the international community will praise Evo for his compassion, his wisdom, and his commitment to peace. His popularity will skyrocket. Due to the new voter registration systems, there would be no reasonable question of the validity of his election and democratic mandate. He would be elected by a huge majority, and he would have the political backing in his second term to force through the new Constitution (or at the very least a slightly milder version) without significant problem.

The strategy is brilliant. Appease the opposition. Get legally re-elected under the current legal system. Earn the love and respect of millions. THEN drive in the nails of reforms. The problem with all of this, though, is that it interferes with pride. Evo is far too proud to make the temporary, and frankly superficial, concessions. He’ll never do it.

So what will happen instead? Evo cannot take Sant Cruz and cause it to fall as it did Pando. The new Constitution will probably fail. Evo will stay in office, but he won’t be re-elected. He’ll be done, nothing foundational will be solved, and both sides – the indigenous people who experience discrimination and cultural abuse, and the property-owners who have to battle to keep their rights – will continue to suffer. A very boring, but very predictable, stalemate.