In spite of the rally's remote location in the poorest country in South America, it's all made possible through a great love of the sport.

The motorbikes came on the backs of pickup trucks, towed behind taxis, and ridden from towns and villages both nearby and far away. From rattling, rusting Honda 125s that wouldn't be allowed on the road in any Western country to gleaming KTM 450s that would be the envy of serious motocross riders all over the world, they arrived in the hundreds. The small town of Comarapa in Bolivia's central highlands filled with their smoke and noise, with the smell of gasoline and engine oil, with riders, spectators, dust, beer cans, and cigarette butts, as over 200 competitors converged for the start of the 11th annual Rally de Motociclismo, Bolivia's national motocross rally.

I happened to be at the rally, held on the 5th and 6th of November, 2011, purely by chance. The day before the start of the race I was hitchhiking unsuccessfully west from Santa Cruz on Bolivia's desolate Highway 4—much more hiking than hitching, you could say—when a beat-up Toyota Corolla finally stopped. It was going my way, so before I knew it I was crammed in the back seat next to a guy wearing no trousers, chewing coca leaves, passing around a bottle of rum, and sharing bad Bolivian cigarettes. ""We're on our way to a motorbike rally tomorrow,"" the three occupants managed to tell me in Spanglish. Why of course I'd like to join you, mis amigos! So we sped towards Comarapa, past the dusty villages and the old donkeys, as the sun set over the Bolivian Andes and turned the towering cacti a brilliant gold.

After I presented myself at the starting line as a journalist from Australia, I rode with the rally organisers to the town of Chilon, where they would be setting up the finish line at the end of the second leg. From the back of the pickup truck I had a view of the harsh landscape the competitors would be facing: a cactus-dotted desert, rising in every direction into isolated mountains as it baked under a relentless, inescapable, blistering sun. Daunting as it may have seemed, the landscape is just one reason why this rally is the best in Bolivia, organiser Grover Vargas Párraga told me. Párraga, in his second year as organiser of the event, said that you can find everything on the 250-kilometre, six-leg route. ""There is a huge change in elevation over the 250 kilometres, from 1,800 metres to over 3,000 metres,"" he said. ""The highest point, through Siberia on the second leg of the race, is usually cold and very foggy, while at lower altitudes it can get extremely hot."" Having both bitumen and dirt tracks to ride on, rivers and bike-sized potholes to navigate, and stray dogs, goats, and over-eager spectators to dodge, this rally certainly provided its fair share of unusual challenges.

Faced with such a gruelling rally course, it's no surprise that, out of the 219 competitors that started in the four categories this year, less than 150 crossed the finish line on the second and final day. When one also considers that the competitors ranged from first-time entrants to the top riders in Bolivia, from age 16 to well into their thirties and forties, and that bikes in such various states of repair were ridden, the numbers make even more sense. But Párraga says that as the event receives more publicity both nationally and internationally, there's hope for an even greater number and variety of competitors. ""Last year we had only one woman enter, this year we had two, and next year we hope for many more,"" he said. ""As the rally becomes more widely known, hopefully we can have more competitors and open more categories in the race.""

As we travelled from town to town setting up start and finish lines, I noticed how the rally breathed life into otherwise quiet, poorer parts of the region, into towns and villages that would usually have little attraction to tourists or visitors. Hotels filled with people, bars and restaurants stayed open late into the night, and dusty streets turned into vibrant markets selling local fruit wines and liquors, honey, and hand-woven fabrics. Locals set up barbeques in the town squares and sold street food, and bands played traditional music as spectators flocked in to cheer on the riders. ""This is one of the great things about this race,"" the organisers told me. ""The small towns help with money, prizes, or meals for the people working at the race, and in return they get in influx of people who stay in their hotels, spend money, and boost the local economy. It's really a win-win situation.""

What struck me the most about Bolivia's Rally de Motociclismo, however, wasn't the beautiful landscape or the incredible rally course. It wasn't the transformation of small towns into places crowded with food stalls and markets, or the images of exhausts tied on to ageing motorbikes with rope and string, of hasty repairs made on the side of a dusty track. What struck me was how, in spite of the rally's remote location in the poorest country in South America, it was all made possible through a great love of the sport. Whether it was hundreds of competitors travelling from all over the country—and even the USA and Europe, Párraga told me—to compete for a maximum prize of 2,500 bolivianos (or approximately AU$350 and US$360); or whole families of spectators lining the track, climbing on top of boulders, and seeking shade under trees to watch the riders pass; or the more than 30 volunteers, including the directors of the rally, who squeezed into overcrowded taxis and endured freezing rain in the back of pipickup trucks just to get to the end of the leg, this rally wasn't made possible by huge corporate sponsorship or international interest, but by the determination of those involved.

And so, as I drank and danced and talked with the winners after the finish in Comarapa, they seemed remarkably uninterested in the money and trophies they would receive. Instead, they spoke of Bolivian motocross becoming more popular internationally, and of the Rally de Motociclismo hopefully attracting more competitors, spectators, and media coverage in the years to come. ""I don't care about winning or losing, or about prizes,"" one competitor told me. ""But I would do almost anything to tell the world about Bolivian motocross.""

A group of Bolivia's disabled population has been exposed to a totally unique experience in which heavy medication has been replaced with stimulation and motivation. This distinctive space, a multisensory project run by Para Los Niños (PLN) at a residential centre for disabled people in La Paz, is the first and only treatment of its kind in a state-run home in Bolivia. The concept of multi-sensory treatment, which originated in Holland, is something that is widely used in Europe. It currently seems unlikely, however, that it is something that will be adopted into standard health practice in Bolivia.

At the time of writing this article, groups of disabled Bolivians from all over the country are staging a protest in the capital, La Paz. In many ways, their story is one that is defined by movement: by their march across the country towards the presidential palace; by the greater social and political movement for disabled rights; and indeed, for many, by a lifetime of limited mobility imposed upon them by their disabilities. This complex tale of protest has as its base one fundamental driving force: the desire amongst the people for a better standard of living. Anybody who has interacted with much of Bolivia's disabled population cannot fail to notice, however, the disparity between such aspirations and the day to day reality that they face. The use of innovative treatment such as is used by PLN is undoubtedly progressive. Sadly, the Instituto Departmental de Adaptación Infantil (IDAI) is the only government funded home that boasts these kinds of facilities. Further to this, everything that goes on inside the five treatment rooms is privately financed. Project founder, Siobhan Farrelly believes that work such as that done by PLN should be ""encouraged by the government to ensure there are more services to enable the disabled of Bolivia to achieve personal goals at all levels no matter what type of disability they live with.""

The treatment area, funded through sources in Ireland and Sweden, sees over seventy residents from the IDAI regularly get treated according to a specific programme, which is based on their personal needs. The therapy aims to reduce frustrations amongst the residents of the home and provide spaces within which they can find new ways of expressing themselves. Each of the different rooms boast colored lights, musical instruments, textured walls and a ball pool, amongst other things, designed to make the resident more aware of themselves and their surroundings.

This colorful project appropriately encapsulates the key problems faced by disabled people in Bolivia: it encourages freedom of expression and movement, yet is only able to serve a very small number of people. At a wider level, the basic needs of the disabled population have not been sufficiently addressed, and this is only underscored by the current protests. In addition, local Andean topography provides a natural hurdle to freedom of mobility. Bolivia's capital city La Paz, nestled in the Andes at 3,352 metres, can be particularly restrictive for those with certain physical disabilities. Steep inclines, busy streets and inaccessible buildings are all part of the fabric of the city. Without a full time assistant it is arguably near impossible to navigate the streets here. Farrelly and those at PLN believe that ""Bolivia is ready to look at the needs of disabled people differently."" Clearly the drive for greater disabled rights has been set in motion; the question remains as to whether the government will respond to the movement in the coming months and years.

Fulbito in Bolivia and South America

In Bolivia there is no such thing as a ""No Ball Games"" sign. Consequently, Bolivian windows are criss-crossed by enrejados, preventing both burglars and footballs from breaking and entering. But these balls are not from ordinary football games. For reasons of financial and organizational economy, many a Bolivian child defaults not to football, but to the lesser-known fulbito.

Known as Futsal (fútbol de salón) in Uruguay, Paraguay, Argentina, Colombia and Venezuela, and as fulbito in Peru and Bolivia (fútbol cinco or calcio de cinco apply as well) the game was invented in Uruguay in 1930, when the country hosted the first FIFA World Cup. The international community was living out its first global football fever, an entertaining distraction from the world economic crisis. On the streets of Uruguay, children took to improvising football games under whatever circumstances they could. One day, watching a small football game played on a Montevideo basketball court, the imagination of a local PE teacher was set alight. He realised that these improvised games could become a legitimate form of football with rules of its own. And so Uruguayan ""futsal"" was born. It soon expanded to other countries. The first rulebook of ""futebol do salão"" appeared in 1956 in urbanised Sao Paolo. Brazil was eager to secure a champion title for the new game, and in 1982 hosted and won the first Futsal World Cup. The second FIFUSA world cup was held in Spain, and the Brazilians retained their champion status.

The game is not very different to football. It is played by two teams composed of 5 players, on a court a third the size of a football pitch. A game is divided into two twentyminute periods. This compact football demands a faster pace; fewer, shorter and quicker passes, as well as, most importantly, a greater dexterity to dodge, weave and dummy the opponents. In a nutshell: more technique, creativity and improvisation. The ball tends to be played with at ground level. Above-waist passes are the exception and not the rule, especially because the ball, despite being smaller than a football, is slightly heavier and bounces less. The use of either concrete or wooden floors means that specialised sports gear, such as cachos, are not necessary. The reduced size of the court allows it to take place in a more urban setting. This last factor alone has allowed the spread of fulbito.

Very few schools in Bolivia can afford the expense or space for an official 120 x 90 m football pitch. Instead they install canchas polifuncionales, also to be found in many parks and plazas. Although canchas are primarily designed for volleyball or basketball games, in practice, fulbito is played on them far more frequently. In absence of any court at all, partidos de fulbito will be improvised on streets or on any patch of land, whilst keeping the rules of the game. In the mornings at break in schools, paralelos play against one another, at midday albañiles play it after their lunch, in the afternoons and evenings, everyone from cholitas to the utmost unprecedented school dropouts, young single parents, unemployed, k'olos, lustrabotas, cleferos, borrachitos and maleantes enjoy the game. In short, football is a privilege compared to fulbito. Even though football is more successful in the public eye, socio-economic factors, namely infrastructure, tell a different story about which sport Bolivians play more and are better at.

In 1965 a South American federation was established and organised futsal championships. Bolivia hosted one of these events in the year 2000 and came out subcampeón. In the semifinals it beat Russia 8–2 and passed onto the final with Colombia, who had defeated the Argentineans. The Colombians only won the final match in penalties (3–1). Despite the near world champion title for the Bolivians, fulbito hasn't gained the visibility and popularity football has. In addition, FIFA, FIFUSA and the AMF gone down a bumpy managerial road in which football always was their main agenda and futsal was on the back burner. Hence Bolivians have hitherto had patchy knowledge about fulbito narrative. Its players' names resound much weaker than football's ""stars"". Albeit Bolivians play fulbito more often and are better at it than at football, it is the game on the big pitch that has been cannonised. Even in face of defeat, pride and hope in la selección nacional has been prevalent. But times are changing. In 2013, Colombia will take the first step to officially recognise fulbito at the World Games in Cali.

In Bolivia meanwhile, fulbito, football and even futbolín tables are not only ubiquitous but synonymous. Little attention is paid to fulbito as a sport because most players don't understand it as a separate ability to football. Nevertheless, a specialised skill it undoubtedly is. Countries that play fulbito or futsal generally play a more skilled football game, often referred to as ""Joga Bonito"". The Brazilians are a prime example of sportsmen whose technical expertise in football is outstanding, and this feature of their game is often attributed to their childhood futsal games. The nimble and precise movement necessitated by futsal has turned it into a kindergarten for future top-level Joga bonito football players. Perhaps that is the reason why it is so little spoken of or recognised. South American champions, proud of their football prowess, don't want to give the game away.