I'm hotter than the sun.
Like walking on burning coals with your head in an oven and a hot water bottle strapped to your face.
I've just arrived in a place called Rurrenabaque in the Bolivian jungle and it's steaming. I thought yesterday's sun was bad, at the football in La Paz, but this is something else.
Anyway, this post isn't about Rurrenabaque. It's about my last few days in La Paz - and very good they were too. If you hate sport, you might as well shut down your browser and go and make a cup of tea. Or watch '80s music videos on YouTube. Your choice.
If you like sport, you would have liked to have been in La Paz this weekend.
As mentioned in a previous post, my old friend Kass runs a bar in La Paz called Oliver's Travels. I have been hanging out there a lot, meeting loads of great people, eating pie and mash, and joining in with a couple of excursions that he'd organised.
The first, on Friday night, was to a boxing match.
I've never been to a fight before - if you discount a couple of post-pub tete-a-tetes in the kebab house when I was younger (don't ask, mum). So this would be another first for me, in a trip full of firsts.
The fight was between Bolivia's best welterweight and his Argentinian challenger. In true Don King style (ie, hyping the fight to ridiculous extremes), the poster proclaimed both fighters to be the Campeon of Latin America.
How that's possible I don't know - but we all love a bit of showing off when it comes to boxing, and it was clear that this would be a proper match-up.
The venue was the Coliseum arena in the centre of the city - only five minutes walk from Kass's bar.
10 of us gathered there early in the evening, where I bumped into some gap yearers that I'd previously met in Huacachina. Kass had four more tickets to shift, so four of the girls from the gap year group took them.
With the party swelled to an impressive 14, we walked the two blocks to the venue and found our way to our ringside seats.
It was an impressive setting. The ring look brand new, and wouldn't have been out of place in a Vegas hotel for a heavyweight world title fight.
The judges sat opposite us and banked high in a circle above the ring were a thousand-or-so locals - paying 30 Bolivianos for the cheap seats, rather than the 80 we paid to sit ringside.
Straight away we were 'entertained' by the first of four amateur fights. These contests all pitched a teenage fighter from a La Paz boxing club against a challenger from elsewhere.
In what would become a common theme throughout the night, the La Paz fighter was awarded the victory by thebiased neutral judges.
The amateurs wore head guards - as they do in the Olympics - but it was still quite a sight to see two 15-year-olds trying to knock each other's heads off.
Meanwhile, at ringside 14 gringos were trying to find a way round the alcohol ban. First of all, a couple of our party went and bought a bottle of vodka from a shop outside. Some more went and bought some Sprites and Cokes and we did the mixing trick under our seats.
Later on, slightly more inebriated, some of the party began to push the boundaries by openly swilling two-litre Coke bottles - which weren't on sale inside. They were duly confiscated by a security guard sporting the most outrageous mullet since Chris Waddle in his prime.
Back in the ring, and the hours ticked by with more punches and dodgy judging. At around 11.30pm we finally made it to the undercard fight ahead of the main event.
It was between a Bolivian - nicknamed El Terrible (which we thought was quite amusing) - and a challenger from god knows where. El Terrible wasn't much better than his nickname suggested, but still won the fight.
Knock me down with a feather.
And so, beyond the witching hour and with the crowd getting slightly restless, we arrived at the biggest fight since Ali v Frazier (well, the biggest fight between a Bolivian and an Argentinian in La Paz's Coliseum. I'm just trying my best to build the tension).
However, before I go on I need to mention the army.
Above us, to our right, sat about 200 green-clad army personnel. And their brass band. All evening they had been providing the sideshow to what was happening in the ring.
They were obviously on a much-needed night away from the barracks and were determined to enjoy themselves. And then some.
As the band played, Bolivia's finest servicemen and women sung along, waved yellow and green balloons, and pogo-ed around in the stand. It was a great sight.
Their best moment came at about 1am when about fifty of them burst through the door from the dressing rooms to the arena. They accompanied the Bolivian Campeon into the ring, jogging at unison with each other in perfect military precision. I loved it.
At this time, Kass and I had left our seats and were standing just behind the Bolivian's corner. Kass even managed to high-five the Bolivian's coach as the fighters entered the ring. Now that's probably not something you could do in Vegas.
The winner of the fight would go on to challenge for the South American title decider, so it was a big deal in these parts. There were TV crews, journos and other hangers-on.
I hoped to see some celebrities in the front row, but perhaps George Clooney, Raquel Welch and co were busy.
The fight itself was unfortunately a bit of a let-down. The Argentinian, a tall wiry bloke with more muscle definition than a 1980 Arnold Schwarzenegger, obviously hadn't read the script and was giving as good as he got against the stocky little Bolivian.
After 10 rounds of a fairly bruising, but unfortunately knock out-less contest, we awaited the judges decision.
At this point we had several of the army guys behind us...
...so I think we all hoped for a home victory.
In the most predictable result of the year, the Bolivian was given the win by those oh-so impartial judges.
FIX!
But it was the right result for the crowd, the TV crews, the journos and the army guys. Everyone was happily congratulating the bloodied victor - even us.
I have history with encroaching on sporting playing fields - that I won't go into here - but seeing Kass and a couple of the other guys climbing into the ring, I couldn't resist.
Several of us climbed in, had cameras thrust into our faces as we chanted the Bo-Li-Vi-A! song that had been sung throughout the night. One of our party looked like Mick Jagger, which a particular journalist thought highly amusing.
The journo was a good bloke, and we even ended up doing comedy sparring with him as the cameras rolled:
I've got no idea if they used any of the footage - probably not - but it was funny to be in the ring at the end of this important showdown, bouncing around and congratulating the winning fighter and his team.
He was led out of the arena by more jubilant army folks - everyone happy with a good night's work. Even if it was rigged.
The following day, Saturday, was spent watching Premier League football on TV and visiting the ever-improving Nicola in hospital.
I enjoy my trips down the clinic to see her - a 30 minute walk there and a 45 minute walk back (because of the hill). She's understandably going a bit stir-crazy with only the same four walls - and Friends repeats on TV - to entertain her. But she's remaining positive and hopefully the weekend, and her expected release, will be here before she knows it.
On Saturday night I met a couple of people in Oliver's Travels - an English guy called Ben and a Bolivian guy called Oko.
Oko, who is probably about 50 but said he was ten years younger, was what we like to refer to as 'a character'.
He has dual nationality with Norway - after marrying a Norwegian - but still has a place in La Paz and was back there on holiday.
I wanted a proper Saturday night out in La Paz, so the three of us teamed up to do just that. We went to a bar down the road - managed by the Mick Jagger lookalike - before going to a club later on.
In the club Oko was dancing like he was 20, rather than 40 (or 50), and we had a good time meeting lots of locals and sampling the Cuba Libres. The club was designed to look like an underground cave, and had a blood-red DJ booth guarded by chicken wire. As you do:
After a late finish, I had a late start the next day.
And what did I decide to do? Yep, go to Oliver's Travels and watch more football. And why not. I am on holiday after all.
We watched Liverpool fluke a draw at Arsenal on one TV, and Stoke smash Bolton 5-0 in the FA Cup semi-final on the other. Mopping up my hangover with one of the best breakfast baguettes known to man, it was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
The previous day I had bumped into a couple I'd first met in Copacabana (Dave and Kim), who offered me a spare match ticket they had for the big La Paz football derby that was happening on Sunday afternoon.
Ever since I checked the football fixtures a week before, I had my eye on this game. It was La Paz's two biggest teams - Bolivar versus The Strongest.
Kass is a Strongest fan (as well as supporting Villa back home) and had also bought lots of tickets which he sold to the various punters in the bar.
Before we set off en masse for the 4pm kick-off, Dave disappeared for a minute and came back looking like this:
He's been to lots of games during his travels down South America and always dresses as Spider-Man for the match. The poor guy was sweating like a pig in the afternoon sun, but he kept it on all day.
He wasn't the only one sweating in the 30C+ heat. After a quick change of clothes I set off for the match with the rest of the group.
The stadium is right in the city centre so it only took us 10 minutes to get there. With the sun out, the yellow and blue shirts intermingling, and an impressive stadium on the horizon - it was a good walk up.
We got there just before kick-off, and I bought a flimsy cardboard cap to cover my peeling nose from the sun. Even though the two teams share the same stadium, it was officially a home game for Bolivar.
I was sitting in the Curva Sur - which was the end with The Strongest's fans in. The away end. Their hardcore support were stood in the lower tier, and I found a spot in the tier above.
It was packed out - a local derby between two teams that sat second and third in the league table, only separated by goal difference.
My seat was in the sun, and - jeez - didn't it feel like it.
All around me people had brought umbrellas to shade themselves. Being the clever sod that I am, I didn't bring an umbrella - I brought an outfit that consisted of all black. A nice long-sleeve black top and thick black cotton shorts.
I felt like I was being fried alive, like the rat meat being sold as kebabs outside the stadium.
The first half was a non-event, which was painful watching as I stewed in the heat. And the pitch was a disgrace - all bumps and uneven grass. My back garden is in better shape.
The altitude is obviously a factor in La Paz (famously the Bolivian national team often beat 'better' opponents, like Brazil, at home) but these two teams were both from the city so should have been used to it.
But, as is becoming a theme as I travel down South America watching football, the players just didn't look paricularly fit. I'm not sure what they do in training out here, but it clearly doesn't involve running.
At half-time I went downstairs and took a breather next to the food kiosks. Escaping the sun was one of the highlights of my week.
For the second half I made my way round to a another bit of the Curva and barged my way to a solitary bit of seating high up in the stand. Ahhhh, shade.
It meant I could enjoy the second half more than the first and, just as well, as there was much more to enjoy.
We'd already had a sending-off (of a Strongest player) before the break, and then the 10-man away team went 1-0 down after some comical defending. The punters around me were not happy bunnies.
With about 10 minutes left, the ref evened things up by sending off a Bolivar player for a nothing challenge. The Strongest poured forward in search of an equaliser that would have kept them above their dreaded rivals in the league.
Unfortunately it wasn't to be, though. A ridiculous last-minute miss from their striker just compounded the misery for the fans around me.
It can be very frustrating watching some of the inept skills on display out here.
At the end of the match the majority of the crowd therefore left happy, and we were shepherded out of our section by the moody riot police:
I bumped into Kass and we walked back to the Sopacachi district together - him to go home, me to visit Nicola for the final time before my trip to the jungle.
So, biased boxing judges, ring invasions, red cards, fantastic arenas and muchas drama. Definitely one of my best sporting weekends of the trip so far.
Like walking on burning coals with your head in an oven and a hot water bottle strapped to your face.
I've just arrived in a place called Rurrenabaque in the Bolivian jungle and it's steaming. I thought yesterday's sun was bad, at the football in La Paz, but this is something else.
Anyway, this post isn't about Rurrenabaque. It's about my last few days in La Paz - and very good they were too. If you hate sport, you might as well shut down your browser and go and make a cup of tea. Or watch '80s music videos on YouTube. Your choice.
If you like sport, you would have liked to have been in La Paz this weekend.
As mentioned in a previous post, my old friend Kass runs a bar in La Paz called Oliver's Travels. I have been hanging out there a lot, meeting loads of great people, eating pie and mash, and joining in with a couple of excursions that he'd organised.
The first, on Friday night, was to a boxing match.
I've never been to a fight before - if you discount a couple of post-pub tete-a-tetes in the kebab house when I was younger (don't ask, mum). So this would be another first for me, in a trip full of firsts.
The fight was between Bolivia's best welterweight and his Argentinian challenger. In true Don King style (ie, hyping the fight to ridiculous extremes), the poster proclaimed both fighters to be the Campeon of Latin America.
How that's possible I don't know - but we all love a bit of showing off when it comes to boxing, and it was clear that this would be a proper match-up.
The venue was the Coliseum arena in the centre of the city - only five minutes walk from Kass's bar.
10 of us gathered there early in the evening, where I bumped into some gap yearers that I'd previously met in Huacachina. Kass had four more tickets to shift, so four of the girls from the gap year group took them.
With the party swelled to an impressive 14, we walked the two blocks to the venue and found our way to our ringside seats.
It was an impressive setting. The ring look brand new, and wouldn't have been out of place in a Vegas hotel for a heavyweight world title fight.
The judges sat opposite us and banked high in a circle above the ring were a thousand-or-so locals - paying 30 Bolivianos for the cheap seats, rather than the 80 we paid to sit ringside.
Straight away we were 'entertained' by the first of four amateur fights. These contests all pitched a teenage fighter from a La Paz boxing club against a challenger from elsewhere.
In what would become a common theme throughout the night, the La Paz fighter was awarded the victory by the
The amateurs wore head guards - as they do in the Olympics - but it was still quite a sight to see two 15-year-olds trying to knock each other's heads off.
Meanwhile, at ringside 14 gringos were trying to find a way round the alcohol ban. First of all, a couple of our party went and bought a bottle of vodka from a shop outside. Some more went and bought some Sprites and Cokes and we did the mixing trick under our seats.
Later on, slightly more inebriated, some of the party began to push the boundaries by openly swilling two-litre Coke bottles - which weren't on sale inside. They were duly confiscated by a security guard sporting the most outrageous mullet since Chris Waddle in his prime.
Back in the ring, and the hours ticked by with more punches and dodgy judging. At around 11.30pm we finally made it to the undercard fight ahead of the main event.
It was between a Bolivian - nicknamed El Terrible (which we thought was quite amusing) - and a challenger from god knows where. El Terrible wasn't much better than his nickname suggested, but still won the fight.
Knock me down with a feather.
And so, beyond the witching hour and with the crowd getting slightly restless, we arrived at the biggest fight since Ali v Frazier (well, the biggest fight between a Bolivian and an Argentinian in La Paz's Coliseum. I'm just trying my best to build the tension).
However, before I go on I need to mention the army.
Above us, to our right, sat about 200 green-clad army personnel. And their brass band. All evening they had been providing the sideshow to what was happening in the ring.
They were obviously on a much-needed night away from the barracks and were determined to enjoy themselves. And then some.
As the band played, Bolivia's finest servicemen and women sung along, waved yellow and green balloons, and pogo-ed around in the stand. It was a great sight.
Their best moment came at about 1am when about fifty of them burst through the door from the dressing rooms to the arena. They accompanied the Bolivian Campeon into the ring, jogging at unison with each other in perfect military precision. I loved it.
At this time, Kass and I had left our seats and were standing just behind the Bolivian's corner. Kass even managed to high-five the Bolivian's coach as the fighters entered the ring. Now that's probably not something you could do in Vegas.
The winner of the fight would go on to challenge for the South American title decider, so it was a big deal in these parts. There were TV crews, journos and other hangers-on.
I hoped to see some celebrities in the front row, but perhaps George Clooney, Raquel Welch and co were busy.
The fight itself was unfortunately a bit of a let-down. The Argentinian, a tall wiry bloke with more muscle definition than a 1980 Arnold Schwarzenegger, obviously hadn't read the script and was giving as good as he got against the stocky little Bolivian.
After 10 rounds of a fairly bruising, but unfortunately knock out-less contest, we awaited the judges decision.
At this point we had several of the army guys behind us...
...so I think we all hoped for a home victory.
In the most predictable result of the year, the Bolivian was given the win by those oh-so impartial judges.
FIX!
But it was the right result for the crowd, the TV crews, the journos and the army guys. Everyone was happily congratulating the bloodied victor - even us.
I have history with encroaching on sporting playing fields - that I won't go into here - but seeing Kass and a couple of the other guys climbing into the ring, I couldn't resist.
Several of us climbed in, had cameras thrust into our faces as we chanted the Bo-Li-Vi-A! song that had been sung throughout the night. One of our party looked like Mick Jagger, which a particular journalist thought highly amusing.
The journo was a good bloke, and we even ended up doing comedy sparring with him as the cameras rolled:
I've got no idea if they used any of the footage - probably not - but it was funny to be in the ring at the end of this important showdown, bouncing around and congratulating the winning fighter and his team.
He was led out of the arena by more jubilant army folks - everyone happy with a good night's work. Even if it was rigged.
The following day, Saturday, was spent watching Premier League football on TV and visiting the ever-improving Nicola in hospital.
I enjoy my trips down the clinic to see her - a 30 minute walk there and a 45 minute walk back (because of the hill). She's understandably going a bit stir-crazy with only the same four walls - and Friends repeats on TV - to entertain her. But she's remaining positive and hopefully the weekend, and her expected release, will be here before she knows it.
On Saturday night I met a couple of people in Oliver's Travels - an English guy called Ben and a Bolivian guy called Oko.
Oko, who is probably about 50 but said he was ten years younger, was what we like to refer to as 'a character'.
He has dual nationality with Norway - after marrying a Norwegian - but still has a place in La Paz and was back there on holiday.
I wanted a proper Saturday night out in La Paz, so the three of us teamed up to do just that. We went to a bar down the road - managed by the Mick Jagger lookalike - before going to a club later on.
In the club Oko was dancing like he was 20, rather than 40 (or 50), and we had a good time meeting lots of locals and sampling the Cuba Libres. The club was designed to look like an underground cave, and had a blood-red DJ booth guarded by chicken wire. As you do:
After a late finish, I had a late start the next day.
And what did I decide to do? Yep, go to Oliver's Travels and watch more football. And why not. I am on holiday after all.
We watched Liverpool fluke a draw at Arsenal on one TV, and Stoke smash Bolton 5-0 in the FA Cup semi-final on the other. Mopping up my hangover with one of the best breakfast baguettes known to man, it was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
The previous day I had bumped into a couple I'd first met in Copacabana (Dave and Kim), who offered me a spare match ticket they had for the big La Paz football derby that was happening on Sunday afternoon.
Ever since I checked the football fixtures a week before, I had my eye on this game. It was La Paz's two biggest teams - Bolivar versus The Strongest.
Kass is a Strongest fan (as well as supporting Villa back home) and had also bought lots of tickets which he sold to the various punters in the bar.
Before we set off en masse for the 4pm kick-off, Dave disappeared for a minute and came back looking like this:
He's been to lots of games during his travels down South America and always dresses as Spider-Man for the match. The poor guy was sweating like a pig in the afternoon sun, but he kept it on all day.
He wasn't the only one sweating in the 30C+ heat. After a quick change of clothes I set off for the match with the rest of the group.
The stadium is right in the city centre so it only took us 10 minutes to get there. With the sun out, the yellow and blue shirts intermingling, and an impressive stadium on the horizon - it was a good walk up.
We got there just before kick-off, and I bought a flimsy cardboard cap to cover my peeling nose from the sun. Even though the two teams share the same stadium, it was officially a home game for Bolivar.
I was sitting in the Curva Sur - which was the end with The Strongest's fans in. The away end. Their hardcore support were stood in the lower tier, and I found a spot in the tier above.
It was packed out - a local derby between two teams that sat second and third in the league table, only separated by goal difference.
My seat was in the sun, and - jeez - didn't it feel like it.
All around me people had brought umbrellas to shade themselves. Being the clever sod that I am, I didn't bring an umbrella - I brought an outfit that consisted of all black. A nice long-sleeve black top and thick black cotton shorts.
I felt like I was being fried alive, like the rat meat being sold as kebabs outside the stadium.
The first half was a non-event, which was painful watching as I stewed in the heat. And the pitch was a disgrace - all bumps and uneven grass. My back garden is in better shape.
The altitude is obviously a factor in La Paz (famously the Bolivian national team often beat 'better' opponents, like Brazil, at home) but these two teams were both from the city so should have been used to it.
But, as is becoming a theme as I travel down South America watching football, the players just didn't look paricularly fit. I'm not sure what they do in training out here, but it clearly doesn't involve running.
At half-time I went downstairs and took a breather next to the food kiosks. Escaping the sun was one of the highlights of my week.
For the second half I made my way round to a another bit of the Curva and barged my way to a solitary bit of seating high up in the stand. Ahhhh, shade.
It meant I could enjoy the second half more than the first and, just as well, as there was much more to enjoy.
We'd already had a sending-off (of a Strongest player) before the break, and then the 10-man away team went 1-0 down after some comical defending. The punters around me were not happy bunnies.
With about 10 minutes left, the ref evened things up by sending off a Bolivar player for a nothing challenge. The Strongest poured forward in search of an equaliser that would have kept them above their dreaded rivals in the league.
Unfortunately it wasn't to be, though. A ridiculous last-minute miss from their striker just compounded the misery for the fans around me.
It can be very frustrating watching some of the inept skills on display out here.
At the end of the match the majority of the crowd therefore left happy, and we were shepherded out of our section by the moody riot police:
I bumped into Kass and we walked back to the Sopacachi district together - him to go home, me to visit Nicola for the final time before my trip to the jungle.
So, biased boxing judges, ring invasions, red cards, fantastic arenas and muchas drama. Definitely one of my best sporting weekends of the trip so far.