Cholita wrestling, La Paz, Bolivia

Everywhere you go in La Paz you see Cholas and the younger Cholitas. Traditionally dressed Bolivian women with long black plaits down their backs, the strangely incongruous bowler hat, overly layered skirts to give the impression of very wide hips, modest flat shoes and buttoned up blouses or cardigans and the brightly coloured aguago (the woven fabric back sling) filled and knotted across their shoulders. They outnumber the occasional modern, westernly clad Bolivians by a long way.

At first I wonder if they only dress this way for the tourists (something which  we have found is definitely true in Cusco), but this impression is very quickly dissolved by how commonplace they are. They man every stall and shop, they sell freshly squeezed orange juice from carts, they sit with their knitting and looming in every step and bench. We soon learn that the difference between these women in La Paz and the other women who dress as we dress, is not one of choice or taste. They are, in fact a different race. They are the, sadly poorer indigenous peoples of Bolivia, whereas the others are the lighter skinned descendants of the colonial Spanish, and those of mixed decent. 

Fascinated by these women, how could we turn down the opportunity to go and watch "Cholita Wrestling" one evening?

We were picked up from the hostel and jammed into a tiny mini bus with barely enough leg room for my short little pegs, let alone George's. We stop at various hotels and more slightly trepidatious tourists squeeze on board. We then make the 45 minute drive up out of the bowl from which La Paz spills and into 'El Alto' - the poorer satellite City and into the otherwise tourist free streets. Along the way we are handed our tickets, which included two tear-off tickets for the bathroom, one for a snack and drink and one for a "souvenir". 

We arrive at what can only be described as an empty warehouse. Giving each other dubious looks, we filed inside to discover a cold, concrete floored, metal ceilinged space with a traditional wrestling ring in the center. Surrounding it on three sides were neat rows of neon orange chairs. To one side was the booth where one can buy your snacks and souvenirs. We chose our seats (which we were told are VIP, the alternative being concrete steps at one side of the space, where the locals sat) and I went to use the first of my prescribed bathroom visits. It was one of the worst bathrooms I experienced in Bolivia, and that's saying something. On the way back I picked up my drink, a small plastic bag full of popcorn, which I salted myself and my SOUVENIR. My choices were a keyring, a postcard or a small painted terracotta model of a cholita. I made the correct choice and re-joined George. 

What followed in the next hour and a half I will never forget. The fights were introduced over the speakers in a Spanish version of the traditional WWF build up style. The competitors entered through a curtain to the side and for the first fight it was two skinny boys and two hulking men dressed like Mexican wrestlers. The style was that of the typical wrestling show - big, showy, fake collisions and impacts with pretty impressive gymnastics and lots of drama. Of course, the underdogs won. Then, finally, what we had all been waiting for - the cholita fights. As they were introduced, they shimmied out in full dress, full of attitude, like the female, Bolivian version of the Rock. They climbed into the ring, ceremoniously removed their spangly earrings, bowler hats and shawls. Then, then fought. And my did they fight. Not just the stage punches and body slams (forgive the lack of technical terms; George recognised a fair amount from the American TV shows, but I'm afraid I did not), but also plait pulling, water stolen from the audience and spat in each other's faces and at one point a cholita thrown bodily into the laps of the audience. And the DRAMA! We had extreme rivalries, injured refs, fake refs and of course lots of the underdog rising to win. It was hilarious and bizarre and fantastic and I won 2 Bolivianos off George in bets.

What added to the strangeness was that the cholitas who had finished their fights came out to watch, and brought their tiny children with them. One little girl was put down the row from us and watched, weeping like only a tired child can, and yet with her face pressed so far between the bars that she was at risk of getting her head stuck. This was more dangerous than it sounds, as the metal fence was simply a series of meter long sections strung together and placed in an arc and had a habit of toppling into our shins. When one wrestler fell against the section in front of us, all we tourists shot our hands out in unison to catch it before it knee-capped us. 

By the end of the night we were giggly with the ridiculousness of it all, but also impressed with the strangely professional nature of this off-the-beat tourist attraction. I had my photo taken with them and we went and found our bus. On the way out we were handed a hand-typed, capitalised, mostly punctuation-free leaflet, advertising 'FREE FREEFREE!' tours of La Paz's prison from someone called 'Magic Mike', an ex-con. He gave us his 'what's up' number. Twice. And then was on our bus home and gave us a speech about his tour and explained "Why 'Magic Mike'? Because I have the magic". He encouraged us all to come and find him in the square, where he waits every day from 3.Unfortunately we didn't have the time to fit it in.