Coup de tat

“Have you heard?”

No, I hadn’t. Largely because I’d just returned from the street - itself being a heavy sign-post of what was to come - and majorily because not ten minutes had passed since an armoured personnel carrier had deigned to forgo kerbside parking for kurb-mounted door-barging. Let’s hope the dear general had insurance.

Honestly I just thought Bolivians love a protest and a fiesta, anything and everything to escape the drudgery of scraping an existence in this landlocked, inhospitably, yet variously-climated country. And maybe that’s true. Or maybe something was building.

A bare few days had passed since the marking of Saint John’s, or San Juan as he’s known in Hispanoaméric. That in itself had taken me surprise. I once lived in Barcelona, capital of yellow-ribboned independence-seeking Catalonia, a fact of which I’m mildly embarrassed for my failing to stick at it (the job) and failing to embrace its vibrancy. It didn’t help that I lived on a crazy busy intersection and, what with the Catalans predisposition to disregard the sono-sensitivities of average man, I suffered. The single-glazed, paint-crumbled casement windows acted as an amp atop the toots, hoots and drunkards below. Not to omit mention of the screaming toddlers, cajoling grannies, and heavy-rumbling rubbish trucks.

Sant Joan’s turns Barcelona into a war zone. Some friends were down at the beach. I just had to negotiate Basra at sunset. Exiting the apartment I took a left to head south-west past Sagrada Familia and soon witnessed mothers huddled over short-fused rockets loosely slammed home in precariously-teetering 2L Coke bottles, children held by hands that would soon be van Gough’d in the name of God-knows-what (though he’s your Saint, sonny). I can’t recall if I made it so far as the sea wall. Down there you find the nicknamed “Twin Towers”, a moniker that couldn’t have been more apt on that Mordor’d night.

Sunday night I reached Konani, a truck-stop hell hole of a peculiarly perpendicularly-oriented, single-strip town on the highway between Oruro and La Paz. I settled into my prison cell above a shop and didn’t sleep as fire-crackers were let fly. Realisation came later.

Clearly a wealth of La Paz residents had overstocked their pyrotechnics, because roughly ten minutes after being made aware that a putsch was underway such whoosh-crackle bangs started up. The hostel telly informed that “the Army” had taken Plaza Murillo, the home of gov.bo. It’d turn out to be one of the weakest coup d'état attempts ever, and the most ill-advised political move since President Macron’s… shhhh

But was it all a show?

I wanted a curry. After a diet of fried chicken and duo, even tri-carb on occasion - fries, rice and pasta - I desperately desired change, to Glaswegian-curried chicken and carb - rice, naan and chapati.

Let’s sort a timeline, seek some stringency and set the Beeb’s record straight. As soon as I knew I whacked a message in the fat, yet-to-be-booted-from WhatsApp group, “Bolivia - Word is military coup just started. If anyone knows more please share.” That was at 16:50 local time. At 17:01 I write, “Curry tonight? Free fireworks on show.” At this juncture others chime in either re curry or re coup, occasionally intersecting. Curry interest established, Clément and I go for a stroll to check in on the evening’s other activity.

What do we see? The streets are emptier, the traffic significantly reduced, metallic shutters drawn down over shop fronts and there are queues outside every bank. Maybe an exchange rate dive will favour a dinner at the gastronomic Gustu later in the week? (Sadly this has been dashed, but it’s still incredible value.)

17:33 and Alice from the chat updates, “The tanks just left, people shout against the army and try to break through the barricade to get to the place Morrillo [sic] and they are getting evacuated with gaz [sic]…”

And that’s what we found. A flash in the pan. A coup de tat by a recently-axed general.

A presidential play for popularity? Plausible.

And just a whiff of tear gas to tickle the nostrils at 3,600m.

(The curry was good, thanks for asking. The Frenchman enjoyed the Glaswegian dish.)