It’s barely my second day in La Paz and my priorities have become ap- parent: mustering enough oxygen to find my way around, and simply surviving the shooting ranges that are paceño zebra-crossings, which may as well not be there. To get from my accommodation to anywhere of note I have to take my life into my hands at least three times, and as a tall blond gringo it’s Christmas come early for the trufi and micro drivers who see this is as a perfect opportunity for some target practice. With survival in mind, and the fact that I was still desperately trying to feign perfectly good health in the face of altitude-induced dizziness, head-aches, total loss of appetite and exhaustion after any kind of exercise, I had given little thought to my work commitments and the artistic theme of the September issue. Keen to impress on my first day at the Bolivian Express, I nodded enthusiastically at the opportunity to write an article on Bolivian artistry whilst privately feeling at a complete loss as to where to even begin. I took a gentle meander through the Sopocachi streets in an attempt to conjure up some inspiration.

It transpired that I needn’t have worried, as before as I could say Mamani Mamani I stumbled into a completely open and free art exhibition a few footsteps away from the Sopocachi district. The small gallery (which featured such classics as ‘tree stump made into a face’) couldn’t have been more inconspicuously-placed, and yet it was a perfect introduction to contemporary art in La Paz. I recommend you begin here, too (gallery of the Academia Nacional de Bellas Artes “Hernando Síles”, calle Salinas). My Lonely Planet reliably informed me that the next most obvious place to continue my artistic quest would be the Museo Nacional de Arte, situated just off the plaza Murillo and widely regarded as the centre of Bolivia’s artistic high culture. Feeling the need to get my 10bs worth I decided to apply myself to the task in hand, and actually read the pamphlet which accompanied my ticket. I first scanned the up- per floors of numerous paintings by anonymous artists (understandably so given the dubious facial characteristics in some of the works) before heading down to check out the heavily- hyped Marina Nuñez del Prado exhibition. I was most impressed. Her sculptures were a far cry from the frightened-looking fish with the dodgy eye in the Sopocachi exhibition, and yet the links were there for even my untrained eye to see: it was easy to appreciate the celebration of indigenous Bolivian women and culture in her work, characteristic of the indigenismo movement. Even the highly vigilant security guard, keen to catch any misdemeanour, took time out from his busy post to proudly describe the sculpture of the Andean woman before me.

The museum – both the building and the works inside – was undoubtedly a good starting point to gain some artistic bearings in La Paz, but perhaps the walk back from the Plaza Murillo best encapsulates why La Paz is such a melting pot of artistic activity. Murals line the streets, art exhibitions spring out from nowhere, restaurants with enthusiastic owners are deco- rated from front to back with paintings and murals alike. Even students patrol the streets with their work in an attempt to make a quick buck and spread the word of their talents. Namás Té (Zoilo Flores, 1334) or Etno Café (calle Jaén, 722), for example, offer more than just good food and drink: an eclectic variety of paintings can be found herein, of the Illimani mountain in particular. You really don’t need any artistic background or knowledge to appreciate what La Paz has to offer, and whilst the museums offer an insight into Bolivian art past and present, the best examples are perhaps found out and about in the city itself - which is itself a post- modern masterpiece of sorts.

The Malabaristas are not to be found labouring discontentedly behind a substandard bar. No, they ply the traffic lights of La Paz, entertaining the motorists with all sorts of mischievous antics, from juggling knives, balls and dancing with poi (rope with light material attached to either end) to riding unicycles. The traffic light’s sudden switch to red is their ‘curtain up’, their moment to manically dash into the middle of the road like a crowd of bouncy, impudent children. In a flash they have hailed us from atop their unicycle, thrown ten thousand knives into the air (and caught them all), and before we know it are smilingly at the car window, hands outstretched for a monetary reward. An astounding routine, and completed so smoothly it seems all too easy.

We’re lucky enough to meet two of them in the Plaza Avaroa: Carlos, 34, from Columbia, and his girlfriend Michelle, 24, from Austria. Just as Carlos’ broad smile erupts through his thick beard, his curly hair permanently puffs out from beneath his hat. Michelle, meanwhile, sports elegant dreadlocks and three face piercings. As they spend most of their time outside they both wear warm and comfort- able clothes. We invite them to one of the local bars to have a beer and a chat.

Carlos and Michelle met in Venezuela, where they started performing tigether. They’ve performed their way around South America for seven months and now they’re in La Paz, moving on in a few weeks before Michelle returns to Austria in January, where she will continue her studies in agriculture. “My parents don’t know I’m doing this,” she explains, “be- cause they wouldn’t approve.” Carlos, on the other hand, worked as a craftsman before he became a travelling juggler, his profession for the last four years. The balls he uses are made of plastic and are filled with alpiste; they’re quite worn and have been repaired numerous times with duct tape.

“I was nervous the first few times I performed because I wasn’t very experienced,” he tells us. “I didn’t really connect with the audience or have fun with them, which obviously makes it more difficult. Interacting with the audience is very important when it comes to entertainment.” At the start of any performance Michelle feels a little nervous, as she explains: “I never know how people will react when I’m performing my show, which involves dancing with the poi I bought in Austria. On top of that, I’m not from South America so the cultural difference makes me feel a little bit insecure too”.

“We work every day on a different schedule to get money for food and for our accommodation in hostels,” they explain. “On average we earn about 60bs an hour, although the most Carlos has ever earned is 130 Brazilian Reales (about 530bs) in an hour and a half.” The malabaristas are also at constant work to improve their skills. By keeping close contact with other performers they learn which cities are best to perform in, and what new tricks are being tried. We’re curious about where they find the time to rehearse. They tell us that they don’t get to practice much beforehand, but as soon as the light goes red it gives them a rush, like an actor acting out a soliloquy alone on stage. “Everything depends on the red light”, they say, which can last for anything from 20 seconds to 2 minutes. “To perform in a shorter period of time is more preferable”, Carlos explains, “because then the audience doesn’t get bored.”

“The audience here in La Paz is nice,” they continue. “They applaud us and appreciate our art, so it’s easier to earn money here. The people are open-minded and smile much more compared to the audience in Brazil.” The impression these people give is not of starving beggars but wandering adventurers. The hippie-lifestyle suits them: they see the world, pay their way and meet interesting people through their art. Their only responsibility is to pay for their bread and a roof for the night, usually a hostel. “The best thing about being a malabarista?” Carlos ponders, “Meeting people that appreciate us for who we are, and not just as performers.”

Arriving in El Alto or La Paz knowing some standard Spanish - be it from Spain or Latin America - may prove insufficient to communicate with many locals. Paceño Spanish has been promiscuously cohabiting with both Aymara and Quechua for cen- turies in culturally accepted ‘concu- binatos’ without ever really getting married. Hence, the Spanish spoken by many Alteños and Paceños has kept a strong indigenous pronuncia- tion, syntax and lexicon. In recent years, English has also been invited into this ménage à trois in certain circles.

Paceños are proud of the kind of Spanish they speak yet this Spanish differs from one genera- tion to another as well as between areas of La Paz: Zona Norte, Zona Central and Zona Sur. Castellano Paceño can also be divided into groups according to status, occu- pation, gender and ethnicity but it’s equally possible to cluster jargons of this city into music styles, food, sports, arts and nightlife. There is, however, and as I will go on to explain, some common ground shared by most paceñ@os.Here we go, an idiosyncratic list, in no par- ticular order.

Chupar (to binge drink), farrear (ditto), chela (beer), quivo (money), amanecerse (get drunk till dawn), amolle/vaca (contribution toward the alcohol), chaqui (La Paz’s hangover), mi ñato/a (my boy- friend/girlfriend), ¿Ubicas? (do you get it?) ¿Cachas? (ditto but blue- collar), ¡De bolas!/ de one/ A y B (get into something without further ado), sips/nops (yes/no), aps (won’t tell ya!), quete (mind your own business), normal (fine), suave (alright, cool) finde/fincho (weekend), faulazo (nasty foul - football) bombazo (mor- tally potent goal kick), chacharse (to skive), chanchullo (cheat notes for exams), chape (French kiss), tope (ditto, lips only, no tongue), prende (one-off kiss, groping optional), tire (one-night stand), ¿No ve? (innit?), o sea (like), webon/huevón (idiot), combo/combito (any hard liquor bottle and soft drink or juice mixed), pucho (cigarette), maldito (sick/cool), aflo- jar (‘to loosen’, meaning whether sb might be willing to have sex), calien- tahuevos (hussy/tease), ley (cool), de onda (cool), de la puta (cool), jodido/denso (fucked up!), viejo (mate), chango/men (bloke), cuate (friend), taxibola (leg it out of a taxi without paying) ring raja/dindon raja (to ring on someone’s doorbell and run away; no, it’s not immature in the slightest), waso (ill-mannered/ foul-mouthed), hueco/a (airhead), pichanga (very easy), duro (difficult), verga, pija, mula (drunk), condor (very drunk, as in you look like a condor when two of your mates are carrying you home, your feet drag- ging behind you with both your arms flung around their necks).

And now onto YAAA!!! Nobody seems to know where the devil YAAA!!! came out of. YAAA!!! is a La Paz phenomenon, a one-off rollicking yell uttered after an incon- gruous joke which, when joking in Paceño slang, can trigger a yaaa- loaded verbal meltdown for all par- ties involved. Creating both a vicious and virtuous circle, it becomes a verbal black hole that swallows peo- ple in with centripetal force, forcing them to yell Yaaaaaaaaaa…!!! in unison. It’s really bizarre. This yell of sorts can be used in a joke as a ba- ton in a relay race and simply means ‘I’m taking the piss/I’m kidding’ as in ‘Me han tratado de cogotear ano- che…YAAA!!!’ (‘I was almost robbed and beaten to death in a taxi last night…YAAA!!!’). The YAAA!!! usually allows the joker to laugh at his joke before the rest does, making him look ridiculously immersed in a self- deprecating soliloquy but also mak- ing it clear that he wasn’t speaking in earnest about the ridonkulous thing he said in the first place. The other Yaaa?, the quiet one, means ‘really?’ but it also has a ‘blimey!’ air.

For example: Llocalla (child in Aymara): ¿De dónde eres gringuito? (where are you from gringo?+diminutive) Gringo: London. Llocalla: Yaaa? In a future Bolivian Express issue I will take you deeper into this lexical jungle, battling with increasingly obscure Bolivian slang including Castellama, which is the Spanish spoken in El Alto and the periphery of La Paz.