Hiatus Day

From the strong-chinned investment banker (just finished ¨Bonfire of the Vanities¨) down to the salt of the earth, we humans are very similar. We eat a few meals, go to work, sleep away a third of the day, and if someone trips, you ask if they´re hurt and lend a hand up. Bolivians are no different, even more cordial that I anticipated. (Shorter than I expected, too. My offer at a pick-up game of basketball, billed as Muggsy Bogues vs. Izak the Goliath, still stands.) There´s fewer hassles than other Latin American countries: A soliciting vendor understands ´no thanks´ means just that. There hasn´t been any burgeoning prices contrived on account of my paler skin; I´ve even hung back at a hamburger stand only to hear a local get an identical price. No one is out to hang you up by your ankles to see what comes out. There is of course litter but what seems to be a concerted effort to consolidate that litter. Bolivia also has one the highest proportional native populations. A proud symbol displaying lineage is, get this, a hat -- and, yes, I´ll come forthright with it, I fancy myself a hat person. The men have your regular Fifties Era ¨Honey, I´m home!¨ Sinatra hat. The women are far more perplexing. Their keen derby-style bowlers (like Charlie Chaplain) seem to balance at the absolute precipice without ever shifting no matter how quickly they move nor tumbling off no matter how strong the wind. With no special clips, I just don´t understand it. Yup, not too different -- except Sunday. Bustling markets and noisy thruways cease. The sidewalks are barren. Only the churches shudder with activity. Welcome to Catholic Contry. I´ve met countless people who clock in a dozen hours a day, six times a week but no one -- not one -- that works all seven. Unless you plan to run willynilly through the deserted streets, it´s arduous to get anything done.