Right, so, yesterday I went with a Monkey Bread. Sweet, gooey, etc. The monkey bread turned out reasonably in that the flavor was there but, going right back to the temperature issue, the middle was too doughy. Still, the sugary doughy results were sufficient to send the household into a carbohydrate-induced foggy haze.

I’ve had to alter the water measurements significantly… about double that of all of the recipes I’ve found online. I don’t know if this is due to the flour available here, the lack of humidity, the altitude, or a combination thereof. I just mix the lot until it looks how it’s supposed to look.

This may have something to do with my exceedingly irregular results.

Ingredients:
(note: this was to feed 7 people plus possibly a few tea-guests.)

Dough:
7 cups Flour
2 Tbsp Yeast
1 Tbsp Salt
6.5 cups Water

Cinnamon Sugar:
5 cups Sugar
4 Tbsp Cinnamon

Glazey Stuff:
1 cup Butter
Arbitrary amount of Honey

Tools:
Monster-Sized Baking Dish to hold it all (greased)
Small baking dish
1 big mixing bowl
1 medium mixing bowl

I mixed the dry dough ingredients – flour, yeast, and salt – together in the big mixing bowl. and, um, I do mean big. Thanksgiving Turkey Big. Texas Big.

I then mixed in the water 1 cup at a time until the dough was sufficiently fluid. Very sticky and gooey. Mine is much clumpier than the recipes I’ve found for this dough mix tend to indicate online. It’d be smoother if I were using a mixer, but that would involve tracking down a transformer to ensure I don’t burn out my mother’s American current KitchenAid.

The dough was then left to rise for an hour. I covered it with a well-floured cloth (handful of flour on the cloth, rubbed the flour in, lightly shook off the flour) during that time.

After an hour, the dough had risen significantly. Bubbles were evident on top. Incidentally, this dough works as any general extra-yeasty bread dough. I’ve added more flour to make it bake like a normal bread, kept it flat and baked it in olive oil for a crispy rich bread, etc.

Meanwhile, the sugar and cinnamon were mixed in the medium sized bowl. Very cinnamon heavy. The monster-sized (still thinking Texas Big) baking dish was thoroughly greased with shortening and then floured.

I took fist-sized dollops of the dough and rolled/tossed/shook it in the cinnasugar mix until thoroughly coated. Those dollops were laid out comfortably in the baking dish until the dish bottom was covered. Poured butter and drizzled honey on top. I then layered more dollops on top, added butter and honey. I kept layering until I ran out of feasible space in the dish. Extra butter and honey on top with the remaining cinnasugar.

The monkey bread went on the top rack in the oven. Again, I live in crazy-high Cochabamba, Bolivia, South America, so I filled a small baking dish with water and put it on the bottom rack. That helps keep the oven humid. Or it would, were the air not so dry that it sucks every bit of moisture out of everything. Y’know.

Baked it for 30-45 minutes-ish at I-Haven’t-the-Foggiest temperature. It just looked right. With the unevenness of our oven, I should have turned it at least halfway through the process.

and, of course, the finished Monkey Bread of sugary foggy brains.

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.

Issues:

• The Anti-Evo region is in violent protest, possibly even secession.
• They’re not doing it intelligently – so they have made enemies of Brazil and Argentina.
• MAS (Pro-Evo, simplistically) is possibly inciting further violence.
• Evo might send in military troops.
• Chavez has stated that if Evo is deposed, he will send in Venezuelan troops.
• Brazil and Argentina are siding with Evo because the opposition have shut down vital natural gas exports to those nations.
• Brazil is preparing an evacuation for its citizens.
• Bolivia and the United States have expelled each others’ diplomatic teams. Venezuela has expelled the U.S. ambassador as well.
• The U.S. embassy is closed over the weekend for “training”.
• The DEA has been expelled from the country-side.
• It’s possible that the DEA will leave entirely.

The DEA is the only official evac option we have. If they leave, so does our protected evac. The State Department have already stated that no evacs will be conducted here. We, and the other gringos here, will be on our own.

Evacuation requires:

• Spending $10,000-20,000 to go… nowhere. Maybe the US, maybe Brazil (temporarily), maybe Paraguay. Unknown.
• Putting our dogs to sleep.
• Losing our home, vehicle, and any property not taken with us.
• Possibly not being allowed to return to Bolivia.
• If we’re gone for more than 90 days, then my family’s 4-year visa process to earn permanent visas will have to be completely restarted, which is a loss of over $7,000.

All of which would probably be for nothing. Cochabamba doesn’t usually get hit with the violence. What we are definitely going to experience, and are already experiencing, is transportation and food shortages.

No gasoline exists in the city. We’ve got 3/4 of a tank in the minivan. Most of the taxis here, luckily, operate off of natural gas. As of yesterday morning that was still available. No beef is being imported. One store received beef by plane yesterday, and we purchased about twenty kilos at a 420% rise above usual costs. These are both very survivable problems.

Our problem, here, is that the cost (practical more than money… God always provides the money when necessary, we’ve seen that time and again) for the safety of leaving for a little while is possibly our entire ministry and life here. Do we bank on safety and lose everything (plus putting down the dogs), or do we hunker down in faith? Further, in which area does God want us to have faith – our safety (if we stay) or the preservation of our ministry (if we go)?

One element for prayer is that we’ll work out some solution for my passport. I don’t have it – it’s in La Paz, Evo capital. If we go, then the embassy will have to get an emergency passport to me. If we don’t go, then it’s not a problem. If I take it out now, we risk my having to spend an addition $250 to restart my student visa. On a gamble.

We will evacuate if:

• Physical danger exists.
• We are unable to obtain basic food or water.
• We are expelled by Bolivian government.
• We are ordered out by the US government.

But like I said. Right now, all is well, and that probably will not change for Cochabamba city.

Yesterday’s election was a curious affair. The day was quite and calm. The evening, though, was a race of numbers in the news. Jim Shultz, a political blogger (strong left bias) based here in Cochabamba, has a good run-down of the election numbers released by the media last night.

I’ve not found out how these numbers that were released were formed. I’m assuming exit polls; but while those are more or less reliable in the States, I see far less credibility for them here. The polling location near us is a government civil registration office a block down the street (one block west of Plaza Cala Cala). The entrance was guarded by approximately 25 armed (by Bolivian standards – the ammo doesn’t always match the weapon) police in a 50 foot radius. More trucks and cars with police were at the near intersections. Directly in front of the doors throughout the voter registration period during the week, but not during the actual vote-taking yesterday, campesinos held a sit-in/sleep-in. The environment was not dangerous, but I would not think it conducive to an honest exit-poll environment which would not share the anonymity of the official ballot.

Regardless of how the estimates were generated and how accurate they are, the world heard that Evo had an overwhelming majority (between 60-68% depending on the paper/blog) and that three governors, La Paz, Oruro, and Cochabamba, were deposed. Cochabamba’s governor is the only one of the three who is refusing to acknowledge the validity of the election.

As of 10:00am this morning according to Los Tiempos, a local newspaper, only 23% of the nation’s votes and 12% of Cochabamba’s votes have been officially calculated. With those calculations, Evo, the president has 52% sanction to remain in office, and Manfred, the governor of Cochabamba, has 55% sanction to remain in office. We’ll see how those numbers stand when all is said and done.

For Cochabamba this week, however, the real numbers may not matter too much.  Everyone heard last night that a) Manfred lost, and b) Manfred is ignoring it. The pro-Evo contingent sees this as an opportunity to champion democracy. The moderates will advocate political action. The more enthusiastic… well…

At the moment, large numbers of cocaleros are marching from the Chapare into Cochabamba and are scheduled to arrive today. We’ve no idea where the goal is. If a direct and possibly violent protest is intended, then the plan will probably be to head for the government offices at Plaza Principal as happened in January 2007. If a strictly peaceful protest is intended, then I’d bet on a repeat of the May 2008 march down Blanco Galindo (the equivalent to a freeway).

If Evo is wise, he’ll try to maintain the flashy international support that a Yes Stay In Office election result provides, and choose the peaceful protest. Evo is consistently not wise, however. Mind you, Manfred shares this particular lack of political wisdom.

So. Peace or Violence? Bolivia is batty, after all, so it’s anyone’s guess.

Keep in mind one of my curious third-world quirks. This is Bolivia, yet somehow even though I’m surrounded by Latina Barbies with extremely glittery layers of makeup, I only usually bother with ironing and makeup for business meetings and special events. I’ve used starch perhaps twice in the past year… when I was an intern/PA/student in the States I could easily go through a can or two of spray starch each month. I did my nails (bitten as they were) even when I knew I was going to work just to soak my fingers in mud to wash and register artifacts at the archaeology lab. On this sunny Tuesday in Bolivia, though, I actually decided to dress up my face a tad since I usually go in and they are looking down at my untouched skin. I was even up an extra hour or two earlier than necessary. I was having a good morning.

I appeared at the office at 9:30am and found the reception area packed. Stuffed with people. No seating available. Hardly any standing room.

The receptionist let me in with, “The doctor isn’t in here yet.”

Ah. That’s not unusual, but the crowd in waiting was. “How long do you think it will take for her to arrive?”, I asked.

Pause. “Half hour?” The uncertainty was clear. In Cochabamba, the default wait time when something isn’t certain is 15 minutes. To be told that it might be another half hour is… well, that’s the day planner’s kiss of death.

“Is there a better day instead?”

“You’d like a new appointment?”

“Yes, please.” My mood was too pleasant to waste on a cramped reception area where I could wait for an hour or three.

We rescheduled for Thursday morning, 9:00am, the first appointment of the day.

Thursday morning was far less perky. I settled for the bare minimum of effort. Clean clothes, brushed hair, non-stinky showered self… a dentist who is late really doesn’t deserve makeup, I reasoned. Even so, she was late again! She arrived at 9:10 and our appointment began at 9:20. Dental work didn’t begin for minutes after that. First, she had to bicker.

“You weren’t here on Tuesday!”

“No, Doctor, I was here on Tuesday. You weren’t.”

“But you left!”

“Yes… I left because you were not here for our appointment!”

“I was here!”

“Not at 9:30!”

“When I arrived they said your car had just left!”

“Yes… your receptionist said you might be another half hour. So I made a new appointment.”

“You left! We had an appointment! Why did you leave?”

“Because you weren’t here for the appointment! I don’t have enough free time to wait that long!”

“You should not leave when we have an appointment.”

I was completely baffled by why this was a problem. She wasn’t there! There wasn’t even room to wait! Then, for the new appointment, she was late again! I couldn’t even begin to wrap my brain around this failure of logic, and my Spanish certainly wasn’t able to cope. I just stared up at her. She evidently understood that I wasn’t getting it, so she repeated:

“You left!”

“You WERE NOT HERE!”

Culture clash. Perhaps when our sessions are over in October or November I’ll gift her with an alarm clock. Only when I needn’t see her again, mind you. She settled her frustration with me on Thursday by yanking my teeth more forcefully than ever for a solid fifteen minutes.

Reasons for Loving this Story:

• The Queen is familiar with the TARDIS!
• I wonder if she knows that in the Doctor’s universe, Queen Victoria was infected by a werewolf, and that the trait has been passed on genetically to her descendants – Elizabeth II included?
• Two other English monarchs, Elizabeth I and Victoria, have exiled the Doctor from England and have threatened him with death. I now very much want to see Helen Mirren as Elizabeth II meeting and conflicting with the Doctor. I can’t think of many other things that I want to see quite as badly on television. Even better, we’ve not yet seen what the Doctor does to annoy Elizabeth I. Elizabeth II could travel to the 16th century in the TARDIS! Mirren could play them both again! What a treat it’d be!

That’s a statement that’ll get me running down the stairs. After, of course, I ask whether or not it’s yet been killed. “Not until we’ve got photographic evidence!”, Nicholas replied.

The spider didn’t quite have a Union Jack plastered across its bum, but I can see just what Nicholas was going on about:

Google says that it’s a type of Redback spider, which is related to the Brown and Black Widows. Highly venomous, with bites ranging from mild to death (without antivenom). Only the females bite, and based on size (inch? inch and a half?) this was definitely a female. The kids say that although this is the first of the British-Butt Spiders they’ve seen, we do have many, many of the more traditional single-stripe redbacks.

Charming!

Much hullabaloo has been made of the Queen’s recent visit to the United States. As I think her quite fabulous and have confidence in the uniquely American bend to British-rooted traditions, I am enjoying the hullabaloo. Especially this little bit:

Apparently President Bush (#2) came quite close to implying that Her Majesty Elizabeth II had visited America 200 years ago. This is a simple enough verbal error, and his method of making up the matter was perfectly American: he winked at the Queen of the United Kingdom.

Naturally, Her Majesty responded in a manner perfectly British: she glared at the President of the United States.

He responded with an apologetic remark to the crowd, declaring that she had given him “a look that only a mother could give a child.”

She smiled serenely, and all was well.

2) The Churchill-esque Astronomer

Somehow in the mix of a radio interview, Sir Patrick Moore was turned to the topic of the modern BBC. Naturally, it’s “terrible”. Even more naturally, it’s the fault of the women. Hee!  “The trouble is that the BBC is now run by women and it shows – soap operas, cooking, quizzes, kitchen-sink plays.”

Sir Patrick does, however, make a slight intellectual allowance for the soap opera epidemic: “I suppose it’s true to life. But so is diarrhea – and I don’t want to see that on television.”

Japan has the most strict form of gun control that exists in the “democratic” portion of the world. This is an example of how the law-abiding populace is not effectively protected by gun control, because criminals will find alternative routes to reaching their chosen goal.

Meanwhile, yes, gun crime is low in Japan. This is what is sacrificed (quotes from Dave Kopel’s article in the Asia-Pacific Law Review, 1993):

In practice, the special law for weapons searches is not necessary, since the police routinely search at will. They ask suspicious characters to show them what is in their purse or sack.[34] In the rare cases where a policeman’s search (for a gun or any other contraband) is ruled illegal, it hardly matters; the Japanese courts permit the use of illegally seized evidence.[35]

[...]

‘Home visit is one of the most important duties of officers assigned to police…’ explains the Japanese National Police Agency. In twice-a-year visit, officers fill out Residence Information Cards about who lives where and which family member to contact in case of emergency, what relation people in the house have to each other, what kind of work they do, if they work late, and what kind of cars they own.[37] The police also check on all gun licensees, to make sure that no gun has been stolen or misused, that the gun is securely stored, and that the licensees are emotionally stable.[38]

[...]

After the arrest, a suspect may be detained without bail for up to 28 days before the prosecutor brings the suspect before a judge.[42] Even after the 28 day period is completed, detention in a Japanese police station may continue on a variety of pretexts, such as preventing the defendant from destroying evidence. Rearrest on another charge, bekken taihö, is a common police tactic for starting the suspect on another 28 day interrogation process. ‘Rearrest’ may (p.30)occur while the suspect is still being held at the police station on the first charge. Some defendants may be held for several months without ever being brought before a judge.[43] Courts approve 99.5 per cent of prosecutors’ requests for detentions.[44]

Criminal defense lawyers are the only people allowed to visit a suspect in custody, and those meetings are strictly limited.Even that access will be denied if it hampers the police investigation. While under detention, suspects can be interrogated 12 hours a day, allowed to bathe only every fifth day, and may be prohibited from standing up, lying down, or leaning against the wall of their jail cells.[45][46] Amnesty International calls the Japanese police custody system a ‘flagrant violation of United Nations human rights principles’. In the months while a suspect is held prisoner, the defense counsel may see his or her client for one to five meetings lasting about 15 minutes each.

The confession rate is 95 per cent.[47] As a Tokyo police sergeant observes, ‘It is no use to protest against power’.[48]The Tokyo Bar Association states that the police routinely ‘engage in torture or illegal treatment’. The Tokyo Bar is particularly critical of the judiciary for its near-total disinterest in coercion during the confession process. ‘Even in cases where suspects claimed to have been tortured and their bodies bore physical traces to back their claims, courts have still accepted their confessions’.[49] Suspects are not allowed to read confessions before they sign them, and suspects commonly complain that their confession was altered after signature. The police use confession as their main investigative technique, and when that fails, they can become frustrated and angry.

In Japan, the legal system is, in effect, an omnipotent and unitary state authority. All law enforcement administrators in Japan are appointed by the National Police Agency and receive their funding from the NPA. Hence, the police are insulated from complaints from politicians or other citizens.[50] There is hardly any check on the power of the state, save its own conscience.

In 1981, the D.C. Appellate Court ruled in Warren v. District of Columbia, 444 A.2d, that “a government and its agents are under no general duty to provide public services, such as police protection, to any particular individual citizen.” The story is as follows: in 1975 two men broke into a house shared by three female roommates and a child. Two of the women hid on the roof and called the police. The police arrived and knocked on the front door, but when no one answered they left. The women called the police again and were told that help was on the way. The women on the roof were caught when they shouted to who they thought were the returned police – but the slip of paper on which the women’s request was made was lost in the shuffle, and the police did not arrive. The women were raped and beaten for fourteen hours.

In Warren, the women contacted the police for help. Help was not provided. The Court ruled then, as it had ruled before, that police cannot be held accountable to individuals. The practical scope of such a responsibility is impossible. Further, if such a responsibility were to be acknowledged, a later step would be to sue individual police officers for crimes that criminals commit against victims. That situation would be ridiculous and impossible to manage. The Court was right. We cannot demand such coverage from government and government-provided security forces.

Nonetheless, we Americans are told two conflicting policies: we really shouldn’t try to protect ourselves, but the police aren’t really responsible for our safety. Society and government cannot have it both ways!

Therefore, individuals must be allowed to protect themselves. The alternative is to sacrifice nearly all other due process rights, as is done in Japan. Even when such sacrifices of human rights are made, however, the murder of Mayor Ito of Nagasaki proves that the system is insufficient to protect the most basic right: that of the pursuit of life.