Paddy has decided to move on as he’s already been in La Paz a few days longer than myself. he’s booked a night bus to Sucre, which was my original plan, if I hadn’t left my new boots on the damn bus. The office is closed, so I have to wait another day to see if there are still honest people in the world. In the meantime I shall be attending one of Bolivia’s more unusual tourist attractions. Cholita Wrestling.
Certain women in Bolivia have a very unique style. They are usually of very heavy build, wearing long (and wide) pleated skirts, with a shawl, two long braided plats of black hair and a type of bowler hat which seems to magically sit on top of their heads. I have yet to find the opportune moment to request a picture, but rest assured dear readers, you will be the first to hear of it when I do. Now imagine, if you will, these big mamas fighting it out in a wrestling ring, WWF style. What could possible be more entertaining than that, other than a man eating his own head? It costs about 7 quid for a ticket for three hours of girl on girl action. I can’t honestly think of a better way to spend a Sunday night.
Nor can the rest of the hostel crowd, who have taken to the ring side in force, and once again little Israel has monopolised all the best seats. I genuinely can’t believe how many of them are traveling. There must be nobody left in their home country! We’ve been told not to throw anything at the fighters, but this doesn’t stop them pelting the entertainment with anything they can get their hands on, bottles, plastic cups, popcorn, cigarettes. It almost spoils an enjoyable evening. Ignorance personified.
As luck would have it my camera battery runs dry after taking a couple of early snaps. I’m pretty pissed off about this, as it’s the second time it’s happened with my small compact, especially as the action starts getting crazy. It’s utterly hilarious, complete with appalling acting, terrible stage fighting and horrendous consumes. I’m sure there’s only about four ‘wrestlers’ doing it, rotating new outfits. The main event however, is when the women take to the ring. Hell hath no fury like a women scorned. It’s about to get messy. The shit got real.
And so they tear at it, throwing each other all over the ring. One fighter is launched into the crowd, dress and braided hair flying. It’s all very tongue in cheek, as is the case with this terrible ‘sport’, but it certainly is an entertaining way to pass the time. I’ve bought a couple of camp wrestling masks for some stupid pictures during my travels. I’d imagine they’re going to get some decent use at the salt flats. Either that or when I rob a bank.
As I get back on the bus to a jittering excited crowd, I realise I’m falling into a people hating phase. I go through them every so often on this journey, primarily because there is some total planks out there who I just have no time for. I’m seething in my seat back to town as I listen to the utter shite being spouted around the vehicle, the same ol’ same ol’ drivel I hear every day. It usually involves guys chatting up girls, where are you from, how long have you been traveling, let’s take lots of coke, it’s time to get really pissed, where are you going next, oh my friend is doing that, I’ve done that already, oh that was really good (when it wasn’t) and other such mind numbing tedium. I’d happily exit the bus and toss in a grenade.
I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone by the time I get back to the hostel and I sink into faffing mode with ease and comfort. Save watching fat women pretend to beat the crap out of each other it’s been a dull sort of day. I’m looking forward to leaving La Paz and it’s pissed up coke fiend hostel dwellers. Memories of Machu Picchu still fresh, I yearn for another life-affirming trek into the wilderness. It’s time to move on.
Smack my bitch up
Paddy has decided to move on as he’s already been in La Paz a few days longer than myself. he’s booked a night bus to Sucre, which was my original plan, if I hadn’t left my new boots on the damn bus. The office is closed, so I have to wait another day to see if there are still honest people in the world. In the meantime I shall be attending one of Bolivia’s more unusual tourist attractions. Cholita Wrestling.
Certain women in Bolivia have a very unique style. They are usually of very heavy build, wearing long (and wide) pleated skirts, with a shawl, two long braided plats of black hair and a type of bowler hat which seems to magically sit on top of their heads. I have yet to find the opportune moment to request a picture, but rest assured dear readers, you will be the first to hear of it when I do. Now imagine, if you will, these big mamas fighting it out in a wrestling ring, WWF style. What could possible be more entertaining than that, other than a man eating his own head? It costs about 7 quid for a ticket for three hours of girl on girl action. I can’t honestly think of a better way to spend a Sunday night.
Nor can the rest of the hostel crowd, who have taken to the ring side in force, and once again little Israel has monopolised all the best seats. I genuinely can’t believe how many of them are traveling. There must be nobody left in their home country! We’ve been told not to throw anything at the fighters, but this doesn’t stop them pelting the entertainment with anything they can get their hands on, bottles, plastic cups, popcorn, cigarettes. It almost spoils an enjoyable evening. Ignorance personified.
As luck would have it my camera battery runs dry after taking a couple of early snaps. I’m pretty pissed off about this, as it’s the second time it’s happened with my small compact, especially as the action starts getting crazy. It’s utterly hilarious, complete with appalling acting, terrible stage fighting and horrendous consumes. I’m sure there’s only about four ‘wrestlers’ doing it, rotating new outfits. The main event however, is when the women take to the ring. Hell hath no fury like a women scorned. It’s about to get messy. The shit got real.
And so they tear at it, throwing each other all over the ring. One fighter is launched into the crowd, dress and braided hair flying. It’s all very tongue in cheek, as is the case with this terrible ‘sport’, but it certainly is an entertaining way to pass the time. I’ve bought a couple of camp wrestling masks for some stupid pictures during my travels. I’d imagine they’re going to get some decent use at the salt flats. Either that or when I rob a bank.
As I get back on the bus to a jittering excited crowd, I realise I’m falling into a people hating phase. I go through them every so often on this journey, primarily because there is some total planks out there who I just have no time for. I’m seething in my seat back to town as I listen to the utter shite being spouted around the vehicle, the same ol’ same ol’ drivel I hear every day. It usually involves guys chatting up girls, where are you from, how long have you been traveling, let’s take lots of coke, it’s time to get really pissed, where are you going next, oh my friend is doing that, I’ve done that already, oh that was really good (when it wasn’t) and other such mind numbing tedium. I’d happily exit the bus and toss in a grenade.
I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone by the time I get back to the hostel and I sink into faffing mode with ease and comfort. Save watching fat women pretend to beat the crap out of each other it’s been a dull sort of day. I’m looking forward to leaving La Paz and it’s pissed up coke fiend hostel dwellers. Memories of Machu Picchu still fresh, I yearn for another life-affirming trek into the wilderness. It’s time to move on.