Walk of Life

I´ve reserved today to see how hard the Bolivians celebrate Independence Day. I understand the President has flown in and the parades that began yesterday will be in full swing today.

After some heavy blogging, I´m half way up a tree watching the procession of marching Bolivians. It´s not a strictly regimented or visually impressive affair, more of a walk than a march. The march features school kids of all ages, the ambulance service, firemen, and so on. Dotted around the square are the well-armed Bolivian police force Delta. The Bolvian President is happy in open view from the balcony of some regal building. Personally, I would prefer to hear a reading of Bill Pullman´s powerful and inspiring Independence Day speech.

I find a few of the girls and guys from my hostel, and the girls are quite insistent that we hit the Chocolate Festival. I agree on the basis, that we´ll follow it with the Chorizo festival. In addition to a full size chocolate horse, we find a crowd around a two by one metre pool of chocolate on the floor. As I´m trying to understand the significance of the pool, and Bolivan man comes running in from behind a pillar, stage right, and runs across the top of the pool. The chocolate holds his weight as he sets his foot down on it and pushes off again. I want to walk on chocolate. Much of the Bolivian crowd and tourists question how this is possible and don´t dare to try. Fred Dinenage, Gail Porter, Gareth and I, on the other hand, understand the liquid and solidifying properties of corn flour. With a fair run up, I come off the otherside, with only a little chocolate up on my right shoe.

After a long disorganised queue, I´m bothered to discover that the Bolivians have a lot to learn from Uruguay in the field of sausage making. In addition to the sausages, I spend a little while with the excited crowd as they enjoy the synchronicity of outfits and dance moves of a badly cheesy Bolivian boyband. The stage of this festival is the Recoleta, one of the highest points in the lumpy city, already twenty-seven-thousand feet above sea level. There´s a far and wide view of the cities clay roofs and the baron mountains beyond.

At nine o´clock, I´m still waiting for one of these Bolivians to pull an explosive city-wide party out of hat. Nothing ever comes.