I landed in Santa Cruz in June 1984 during an attempted coup. The plane landed and they brought a ladder, not stairs, to the side of the plane and told everyone they would get their bags to them as soon as possible. We weren't 200 feet away and the plane was already taxiing to take flight. We ran with our heads down and low; military and police were not on-site yet, but everyone was just screaming "get down, get down."
I suspect because Santa Cruz is the sister capital to La Paz, where all the action was happening, when we got to the village I was staying at, we filled every bowl, cup, pot, and dish with water. We then sat very quietly for two days in a locked house. This was all quite the excitement for a young man arriving alone in a country without being able to speak the language, nor did my hosts speak English. The event passed quickly, though, and the towns rejoiced.
I still think of my first crush, Maria. I was 13 years old and fearless then. I could only imagine how my parents felt not being able to receive a phone call that I landed and, of course, news on TV of a coup. Five weeks later I left and have always regretted not returning.