Cochabamba...

Coca leaves leave a bitter aftertaste. You are supposed to let them sit in your mouth, chewing once in a while, and letting your saliva do all the work. There is a certain something about Bolivia that has always amazed me. I guess it has to do with the fact that almost no one talks about the country, if not to say that it's the second poorest in Latin America, so for me its richness becomes a surprise. It's 1:00 am and Gaby and I are at the hotel room still working on contracts that will need to be signed by the 36 radio stations we are working with at the training. We can hear the music coming from the conference room as the participants are holding their own party, drinking Singhani from Camargo and listening to Chicha and other rythms that I can hardly recognize. "Afro Bolivia!" I distinguish a line from one of the songs I know, and I can imagine the dancers pretending to be sharpening machetes as they dance in circles. Evo Morales met with the newly elected officials from across the country at our hotel yesterday. He looks and dresses like any other Aymara. "I hope you haven't invited Evo to show up at our training," Lourdes aksed me, "fellow participants from the lowlands will be very upset if he comes. We don't like him in the East." He didn't.
Gaby and I are tired, but I know that as soon as we turn off the lights mosquitoes will start buzzing, making it hard to fall asleep.