His family had stopped eating meat.
In the high-altitude capital of La Paz, a government six months old finds itself encircled — not only by roadblocks, but by the accumulated weight of broken expectations. President Rodrigo Paz has offered cabinet reshuffles and new councils as gestures of responsiveness, yet forty-four blockades remain standing, erected by those who believe they were handed the bill for decisions they never made. What unfolds in Bolivia is an old and recurring human story: the moment when the distance between institutional reform and lived suffering becomes too wide for words alone to bridge.
- Forty-four active roadblocks have strangled La Paz for over three weeks, cutting off food, fuel, and medicine to a city already reeling from 14% inflation and the removal of long-standing subsidies.
- An 82-year-old retiree's family has stopped eating meat; a 67-year-old bank worker buys what he can before shelves empty — the crisis is not abstract, it is measured in daily meals.
- Paz refuses to negotiate with those he calls vandals, while the COB union mobilizes a mandatory march and transport workers warn that the government should leave before blood is spilled.
- Police launched a pre-dawn operation to clear the Cochabamba highway with tear gas and arrests, only for protesters to rebuild barriers at a new location within hours, trapping vehicles in mountain passes.
- The crisis has crossed borders: Bolivia expelled Colombia's ambassador after President Petro called the unrest a 'popular insurrection,' while the U.S. publicly backed Paz — transforming a domestic rupture into a regional fault line.
Bolivia is running out of time and running out of food. President Rodrigo Paz appeared before cameras at the presidential palace for the first time in nearly a week, announcing a cabinet reshuffle and a new economic council — gestures meant to absorb the pressure of weeks of protests demanding his resignation. He had been in office six months. Even as he spoke, forty-four roadblocks remained active across the country, and La Paz was tightening around itself.
The blockades had been in place for more than three weeks, erected by indigenous farmers, transport workers, miners, and laborers who traced their hardship directly to Paz's early decision to eliminate fuel and food subsidies — a move that drained dollar reserves and sent prices spiraling. By April, inflation had reached fourteen percent. In the markets, prices climbed daily. An 82-year-old retired driver was blunt: the blockades hurt everyone, but they hurt the poor far more. His family had stopped eating meat. The government responded with an airlift from Santa Cruz and Cochabamba and announced plans for a police-escorted humanitarian corridor — an unspoken signal that force would follow if negotiation failed.
Paz drew a clear line: he would not negotiate with vandals. The Central Obrera Boliviana called a mandatory march for May twenty-first in El Alto under the banner of 'unity and struggle.' Near two hundred protesters briefly shut down the airport serving La Paz. 'If it won't leave willingly,' said one transport worker at the demonstration, 'it should leave before blood is spilled.'
The government blamed former president Evo Morales, in hiding and facing criminal charges, for orchestrating the unrest from the Chapare region. On the Cochabamba highway, police cleared a pre-dawn blockade with tear gas and arrests, removing stones, burned tires, and rubble — protesters had even dynamited a hillside to cascade rocks onto the road. Within hours, the barriers had been rebuilt at a new location. The crisis had also crossed borders: Bolivia expelled Colombia's ambassador after President Petro called the protests a 'popular insurrection,' and the U.S. issued public support for Paz.
What Paz had not answered was the fundamental question: with subsidies gone and reserves depleted, who would absorb the cost? The airlift could feed the capital for a time. Police could clear roads. But neither addressed the mathematics of scarcity or the arithmetic of anger. Bolivia was waiting to see which would break first.
Bolivia is running out of time and running out of food. President Rodrigo Paz stood before cameras at the presidential palace in La Paz for the first time in nearly a week, announcing a reshuffling of his cabinet and the creation of a new economic council—gestures meant to absorb the pressure of weeks of escalating protests demanding his resignation. He had been in office for six months. "We need to reorganize a cabinet that has the capacity to listen," he said, offering no timeline for the changes. But even as he spoke, forty-four roadblocks remained active across the country, and the capital was tightening around itself.
The blockades had been in place for more than three weeks, erected by indigenous farmers, transport workers, miners, and laborers who saw in Paz's early decisions the seeds of their own ruin. When he took office in December, he had eliminated long-standing fuel and food subsidies—a move that drained Bolivia's already depleted dollar reserves and sent prices spiraling upward. By April, inflation had reached fourteen percent year-over-year. The economy was in its worst crisis since the 1980s. Now the roads were closed, and La Paz was beginning to starve.
In the markets, prices climbed daily. Fernando Carvajal, a sixty-seven-year-old bank employee, told reporters he was buying what he could while he still could. Everything had become more expensive. Julio Pérez, eighty-two and retired from driving, was blunter: the blockades hurt everyone, but they hurt the poor far more than the rich. His family had stopped eating meat. The government responded by establishing an airlift from Santa Cruz and Cochabamba, flying in vegetables and chicken to the high-altitude capital. Officials announced plans for a humanitarian corridor—a police-escorted passage through the blockaded roads to move essential supplies. The unspoken message was clear: force would be used if negotiation failed.
Paz had drawn a line. He would not negotiate with what he called vandals, he said. For those who respected democracy, the doors remained open. But the distinction was his to make, and it was narrow. The Central Obrera Boliviana, the country's most powerful union federation, had called for a mandatory march on May twenty-first under the banner of "unity and struggle," to be held on the avenue of United Nations in El Alto. Participation, the union declared, was obligatory and could not be postponed. Near two hundred protesters had briefly shut down the airport serving La Paz, though passenger traffic continued. "This government has to go," said Romer Cahuaza, a transport worker at the demonstration. "If it won't leave willingly, it should leave before blood is spilled."
The government blamed former president Evo Morales, who was in hiding facing charges related to the alleged trafficking of a minor, for orchestrating the unrest from his stronghold in the Chapare region. Whether true or not, the accusation revealed how far the crisis had metastasized—it was no longer simply about economics or policy, but about legitimacy itself. On the Cochabamba highway, police launched a pre-dawn operation to clear the blockade, removing stones, burned tires, branches, and rubble that had been piled across the road. Protesters had even dynamited a hillside to send rocks cascading onto the pavement. Officers deployed tear gas and made arrests as demonstrators fled to higher ground. Checkpoints were established at strategic points along the route. Within hours, the blockaders had returned and reinstalled their barriers at a different location, trapping long lines of vehicles and passengers in the mountain passes.
International attention was beginning to focus on Bolivia's unraveling. U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio issued a statement on social media: the United States would not permit criminals and drug traffickers to overthrow democratically elected leaders in the hemisphere. The message was directed at Paz's government, a show of support. But it had come after Bolivia expelled Colombia's ambassador, Elizabeth García, accusing President Gustavo Petro of direct interference for calling the protests a "popular insurrection." Colombia had responded in kind, recalling its own ambassador. The crisis was no longer contained within Bolivia's borders.
What Paz had not yet articulated was how cabinet changes or a new council would address the fundamental problem: the subsidies were gone, the reserves were depleted, and the people had decided they would not absorb the cost alone. The roadblocks would remain until something shifted—either the government's policy, its personnel, or its grip on power. The airlift could feed the capital for a time. The police could clear roads. But neither addressed the mathematics of scarcity or the arithmetic of anger. Bolivia was waiting to see which would break first.
Citações Notáveis
We need to reorganize a cabinet that has the capacity to listen.— President Rodrigo Paz
This government has to go. If it won't leave willingly, it should leave before blood is spilled.— Romer Cahuaza, transport worker at airport protest
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did Paz eliminate the subsidies if he knew it would trigger this kind of response?
Because the reserves were already gone. He inherited an economy that had been spending money it didn't have for years. At some point, the math catches up with you. The choice wasn't between keeping subsidies and removing them—it was between removing them now or watching the currency collapse entirely.
But couldn't he have phased them out more gradually, or protected certain groups?
Maybe. But gradual change doesn't feel like change to people who are hungry. And protecting some groups means deciding which ones, which creates a different kind of anger. He chose speed and universality. It was a gamble that the pain would be temporary and that people would accept it as necessary. He was wrong about the second part.
What does Morales have to do with this? Is he actually organizing the protests?
That's what Paz claims. Morales is in hiding, so he can't defend himself or confirm it. What matters is that people believe it's possible—that there's a figure with enough credibility and organization to coordinate something this large. Whether he's actually pulling strings or just a convenient villain, the effect is the same: it makes the government look like it's fighting a conspiracy rather than responding to genuine grievance.
The U.S. backing Paz—does that help or hurt him?
In the short term, it signals that he won't be abandoned internationally. In the long term, it can look like proof that he's serving foreign interests rather than Bolivian ones. That's the trap of international support during a domestic crisis. It can delegitimize you faster than it stabilizes you.
What happens if the police can't keep the roads open?
Then the airlift becomes the only supply line, and La Paz becomes a city under siege. That's when you start seeing real desperation—not just anger, but the kind of hunger that makes people do things they wouldn't otherwise do. That's when governments fall.
Is there any scenario where Paz survives this?
Only if something changes in the next few weeks. Either the blockaders fracture and lose momentum, or the government finds a way to address the underlying economic problem, or both. The cabinet reshuffle is a signal that he's listening, but signals don't feed people. He's buying time, not solving the problem.