The waiting game
It's mid-afternoon now, and the city is relatively quiet. Few cars are making their way up Avenida Arce toward the Prado, seemingly ashamed to be out in public. Primarily radio taxis and trufis with the occasional private car, I'm counting four to five a minute, virutally nothing on one of La Paz's busier arteries.
With the exception of the state network, Siete Dias, local cable television has returned to premium programming -- novelas, toons and the Super Safari cash giveaway show -- to salvage what they can of advertising dollars. A respite, perhaps, for many ciudanos, though outside my window comes the intermittent thud of dynamite from the direction of Plaza Murrillo.
Word is that Congress won't be meeting until around 6 pm this evening to cast their fateful votes on President Mesa's resignation. The Constitution has already decided that Hormando Vaca Diez, wealthy rancher from the lowlands and president of the Senate, will assume the vacant office if the resignation is ratified... and there is little expectation that it won't be.
This creates a conundrum, however... for the worse. The frog-mouthed Cow Ten, who could easily be mistaken for the 1970's television detective, Frank Cannon, has political capital, but his popular support among the constituency is next to nil. A member of MIR, he resembles nothing of the leftist, Christian Democrat students who founded the party in 1971, now little more than an Orwellian political machine; and, he may be the exact opposite of those who are fighting for change: the poor, highland campesinos (the broader coalition with whom they are aligned, notwithstanding).
Little wonder that most, including Mr. Mesa, fear a class, if not civil, war should Hormando take the presidency. In fact, Mr. Mesa has openly begged Hormando to resign and avoid an imminent collision which might well take this country over the edge. But, Bolivian politics has always been about power. There is no reason to believe Detective Cannon will turn in his badge and gun this close to his quarry. He's reaching for his prize and he has enough stooges in his corner to back him no matter the consequences.
And, so, we wait for word from Sucre. Each moment an hour, each hour a century. And, we hope. For the best. Expecting the worst.
At least the sun has reappeared.
With the exception of the state network, Siete Dias, local cable television has returned to premium programming -- novelas, toons and the Super Safari cash giveaway show -- to salvage what they can of advertising dollars. A respite, perhaps, for many ciudanos, though outside my window comes the intermittent thud of dynamite from the direction of Plaza Murrillo.
Word is that Congress won't be meeting until around 6 pm this evening to cast their fateful votes on President Mesa's resignation. The Constitution has already decided that Hormando Vaca Diez, wealthy rancher from the lowlands and president of the Senate, will assume the vacant office if the resignation is ratified... and there is little expectation that it won't be.
This creates a conundrum, however... for the worse. The frog-mouthed Cow Ten, who could easily be mistaken for the 1970's television detective, Frank Cannon, has political capital, but his popular support among the constituency is next to nil. A member of MIR, he resembles nothing of the leftist, Christian Democrat students who founded the party in 1971, now little more than an Orwellian political machine; and, he may be the exact opposite of those who are fighting for change: the poor, highland campesinos (the broader coalition with whom they are aligned, notwithstanding).
Little wonder that most, including Mr. Mesa, fear a class, if not civil, war should Hormando take the presidency. In fact, Mr. Mesa has openly begged Hormando to resign and avoid an imminent collision which might well take this country over the edge. But, Bolivian politics has always been about power. There is no reason to believe Detective Cannon will turn in his badge and gun this close to his quarry. He's reaching for his prize and he has enough stooges in his corner to back him no matter the consequences.
And, so, we wait for word from Sucre. Each moment an hour, each hour a century. And, we hope. For the best. Expecting the worst.
At least the sun has reappeared.
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