An American in Bolivia

   It isn't the most pain-free experience getting into Bolivia with an US Passport.  Even if your Spanish doesn't suck, you're not wanted in Bolivia, and they really don't care how much you try to speak Spanish, or the fact that  you want to be there, it really doesn't matter how much you appreciate their culture and want to experience the wonders that their country has to offer- they don't want you.
  US Citizens are the only folks in the world who have to pay to get into Bolivia, $135USD, for a five year, 90 day per year visa.  It's reciprocal, of course, but it's not my fault that the US Government makes it really hard for everyone to get into the US (of course, to be fair, it's not the average Bolivian's fault either).  Generally, US citizens, Australians and Canadians are the folks who have to pay entrance fees or get Visas, but not in Bolivia.  Here, US citizens are the only ones who have to pay when they get off the bus...  which may explain why, in the seven weeks I have been in Bolivia, I haven't encountered more than a dozen other US citizens (even though I am working in the largest hostel in Bolivia).
   So pay I did.  After all, there is too much to see and experience in South America's least developed country- the Salt Flats, Amazon, Lake Titicaca, Ruins all over...  native tribes and traditional culture that wholly (or at least mostly) leave aside and resist Western influence...
  But at every corner I meet resistance.  When checking into hostels in Sucre, Bolivia, I was constantly faced with consternation when filling out my passport and personal information- a few made negative utterances not-so-much under their breath.  Two hostels nearly turned me out- but I had a friend staying in one, and a reservation at the other, and was able to talk my way in.  In Potosi, a mining town with limited tourism, 'Fucking Grinigos' was shouted at us a number of times; once, we had a bottle thrown at our group of five, my shoulder being the unfortunate place upon which it shattered.
  Generally, I find Bolivians to be quite friendly, especially when I am able to communicate with them in Spanish.  Some places less so than others- the less tourism the less friendly.  The general feeling is that tourists bring money, and as long as they attempt to speak Spanish, and don't stay too long (90 days is the maximum anyone can get a tourist visa for), they're okay with you.  That friendliness, however, quickly changes when they learn that I'm not a Euro-gringo, I'm an American.  A typical encounter between a Bolivian and myself:  I approach someone at a market, or at the park, or in a cab, and greet them in Spanish.  We exchange pleasantries, discuss whatever brought us together, and then the conversation inevitably turns to them asking where I am from.  Now, I usually manage to avoid the answer with remarks like, 'no es importante' or 'estoy aca ahora.'  However, sometimes that isn't good enough, and then things go south- like they did one night at a club...
  After work one night a large group of us went to a club called Mongos.  When I say a large group, I mean, that around ten every evening, the staff of the hostel at which I work and the one around the corner decide where they want to go that night, and for the rest of the evening whenever a guest comes to either bar and asks 'where's the party tonight?' we have an answer.  At any rate, Mongos: mind you, this club advertises to gringos, and changes the music from traditional Bolivian music to American hip hop around three am, when we all get there.  So this surprisingly tall and attractive Bolivian man starts hitting on me, and we are speaking in Spanish for a good ten minutes, during which time he is constantly asking me where I am from, and I am giving him everything in my arsenal of deflections.   Eventually, after a concerted effort on his part, I concede and admit where I am from, at which point he turns around and walks away.  A few minutes later one hears the church bells chime three, and on cue, the music changes for the last hour of business.  I watched my would-be suitor walk out of the club at 03:01.
   When I was younger, I remember asking my sisters what it was like to be black.  After seven weeks in Bolivia and hours of tears spilt, I think I'm coming close to understanding.